Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (56 page)

This was my opportunity. “Speaking of marketing, Kimberly,” I said, “I was wondering if you would be interested in renting me your couch. Say between the hours of 11
P.M
. and 8
A.M.?”

“For what purpose?” she asked, brazenly helping herself to the last piece of my pie.

I reminded myself that Republicans always expect to receive the largest slice of the pie. “I thought I might sleep on it,” I said. “The wear and tear should be minimal. I only weigh 132 pounds.”

“How much are you prepared to pay?” she asked, pushing up her glasses. She wears expensive tortoiseshell glasses that lend a false front of aristocratic intelligence to her sparkling blue eyes.

“How about a dollar a night?”

Kimberly frowned. “I couldn’t possibly let it go that low, Nick. I think $5 a night is closer to the market rate.”

We settled on $3 a night, with the stipulation that at all times I was to maintain at least one layer of bedsheet between my actual body and the leased upholstery. Joanie distractedly agreed to lend me (at no charge) the specified linen. The deal done, I paid Kimberly for five nights in advance. She happily pocketed the greenbacks and retreated to her bedroom, leaving me to do the washing-up.

And she thinks she’s a skilled negotiator. Hell, even on my limited income, to escape that punishing carpet I’d have gone as high as $10 a night. Maybe more.

10:15
P.M
. Someone just buzzed from the lobby, and Joanie told them over the intercom “to take a flying fucking leap off the Santa Monica Pier.” I think they went away.

11:30
P.M
. Mario just slipped in for his nightly you know what.

“Hi, Mario,” I said.

“Oh, hi, Nick. You allowed on that couch?”

“Kimberly leased it to me,” I replied.

“Yeah, I’ll bet she did,” he said, blinking and checking his watches. “Damn, I’m late.” He turned and slipped silently into his mistress’s bedroom.

I’m beginning to experience couch renter’s remorse. Besides offering all the support of a melted marshmallow, Kimberly’s sofa is at least a half foot shorter than my body.

MONDAY, November 24
— I’m growing a mustache. I haven’t shaved since Thursday and a darkening shadow is closing over my upper lip. I am
hoping it will make me appear old enough to be legally exempt from all compulsory school attendance laws.

I have decided to take a brief sabbatical from my education while I try to sort out the debris of my life. In my present emotional state I feel I would be ill-advised to venture into a third second-rate public school this term. Besides, I just read in the
Los Angeles Times
that the city’s teachers are agitating for a strike. It sounds like the schools are in even more chaos than usual. Fortunately, Joanie always hated school and is unlikely to insist that I knuckle under soon to its tyranny.

I rode the bus into Santa Monica for some emergency wardrobe shopping. On the downtown mall, workmen were stringing Christmas tinsel and lights on the lamp poles, lending a festive touch to the scene. After salivating over the latest laptops in a computer store, I located a thrift store on Lincoln Boulevard having a gala post-Thanksgiving sale. I bought six changes of used underwear, eight pairs of mostly matching socks (no holes), two pairs of jeans, five shirts, a pair of almost new running shoes, and a somewhat scratched Ravi Shamar album. The total came to $46.12, and the nice old lady at the cash register knocked off the sales tax when François told her he was homeless. Next, I went to a discount drugstore and bought a toothbrush (I’d been using Joanie’s), razor (ditto), deodorant, foot powder, notebook (for my,
groan
, handwritten journal), acne salve, and three-pack of condoms (just in case something comes up). The bill came to $21.08. Boy, have I learned my lesson. In the future I shall always keep a packed suitcase in reserve for emergencies. I believe every teen would be wise to take this precaution.

When I got back to the condo (deserted), I changed out of my crusty clothes (what a relief!), and checked out Kimberly’s messy bedroom. On the unpainted pine desk were piles of boring marketing textbooks and an old IBM PC (not even an XT, talk about Stone Age computing). I discovered more of interest in the drawer of her nightstand: a box of Sheiks, three copies of
Playgirl
(well thumbed), and a large battery-powered vibrator (smelling faintly of you know what).

I checked out the guys in
Playgirl
. “Not such a big deal,” muttered François. I did not point out that these fellows, unlike my alter ego, were all in a state of repose. I found Kimberly’s bankbook in a bureau drawer under a pair of red lace panties. I gasped when I read her savings balance. Even though she is presently sitting on interest-earning cash reserves of $48,729.71, Kimberly finds it necessary to charge me $3 a night to sleep on her crummy sofa. To repay her for her compassion, I found a pin and poked a tiny hole through each foil condom package. I also unscrewed the vibrator and shorted out the batteries. Thus commences every Republican’s worst dread: class warfare.

TUESDAY, November 25
— This morning as Joanie was getting ready to leave for her flight-hostessing duties, our cop-cohabitating mother called. I listened in on the extension in the living room.

“Joanie, why didn’t you return my calls?” demanded Mom.

“Sorry, Mother. Things have been hectic here.”

“Your brother will be the death of me. He’s disappeared! And those impossible people at the Indian Consulate are so rude. Worse, your father and I may be sued by the insurance companies for the Berkeley fire damages.”

“I’m sorry, Mother. How can I help you?”

“Joanie dear, can you use your free travel privileges to fly to Bombay and look for Nick?”

“What!” exclaimed Joanie.

“He hasn’t shown up at that school in Pune.” (Mom pronounced it Punee, rhymes with funny.) “I asked Lance, but he refuses to go. He says good riddance to bad rubbish.”

I like you too Lance!

“How do you know Nick’s in India?” asked Joanie. “He might be, be… still in California somewhere.”

“No, he went through customs in Bombay. I did find that out. They recorded his passport number when they issued him a visa.”

“Well, Mother, I can’t go to India. I… I don’t have the time. Nick will be all right. I’m sure he’ll get in touch with you soon.”

“Joanie, he’s your only brother!”

“I’m sorry, Mother. Don’t worry about Nick. I’m late for work. I have to hang up now.”

“OK, I guess I’ll just have to go to India myself,” declared Mom.

“Mother!” exclaimed Joanie. “You can’t possibly undertake a strenuous journey in your condition—at your age. You need to rest.”

“There’s no one else, Joanie.”

“Mother, don’t do anything at the moment. Promise me you won’t. I’m sure Nick will contact you soon. Very soon!”

“Well, all right,” Mom said weakly. “I’ll wait a little bit. I should never have let him go live with his deadbeat father. He tried to poison some innocent girl in Santa Cruz. And it was Nick who broke into my house and wrote that horrible message on the mirror. Lance feels he should be institutionalized—until the age of 24 at least. I’m inclined to agree. What do you think, Joanie?”

“Nick’s just… just misguided, Mother. He’s had a difficult emotional time with the… the divorce and all.”

“Oh, I suppose it’s all my fault!” screamed Mom. “It’s always the parents’ fault!”

Wow, she’s finally beginning to see the light.

“Mother, don’t worry. Nick will contact you soon. I have to go. Goodbye.”

Joanie walked out of the bedroom and glared at me. “You call Mother today!”

“OK,” I said nonchalantly. “I was going to anyway.”

Joanie picked up her airline coat and travel bag. She looked surprisingly attractive in her trim blue uniform. Expertly applied makeup had camouflaged the dark circles under her eyes.

“I’ll be back Friday night,” she said. “Try not to get into any more trouble.”

“OK.”

“If a man named Philip Dindy calls for me, you can tell him I do not wish to speak to him. Ever again. And tell him he can stop worrying, I’m not going to say anything to his wife.”

“Say anything about what?” I asked.

“None of your business, smart guy.” She opened the door, then stopped. “Do you have any money?”

“About $10,” I lied.

Joanie opened her purse and fished out two twenties. “This is all I can afford. You’re not my responsibility, Nick.”

“Thanks, Joanie,” I said gratefully. “Sorry to be a burden. Have a nice trip.”

“Goodbye, Nick. Oh, and stay out of my bedroom. I know how much you like to snoop.”

“I do not,” I said, offended.

Wow, three days of total freedom on someone else’s money! I wonder if I should unleash François to put the moves on Kimberly?

11:00
A.M
. When I returned from donut gorging, my cute Republican roommate had left for school. “Well, let’s get this over with,” I said to François. I put my Ravi Shamar record on the stereo and dialed Mom’s number in Oakland. She answered on the second ring.

“Nick! Is that you?”

“It’s me, Mom.”

“Where are you!?”

“I’m in India, Mom. I’m calling international long distance.”

“Nick, you come home right this minute!”

“Sorry, Mom. I think it would be better for everyone if I stayed here for a while. I’m sorry I caused you so much grief.”

“Where are you, Nick? How are you living?”

“Don’t worry, Mom. Everything’s working out. I got a job with a nice family as a math tutor.”

“What family? Where?” she demanded.

“I can’t tell you that, Mom, but they’re really nice and rich. It’s a wealthy businessman. I met him on the plane. We had a nice long talk. His kids were all flunking algebra, so he invited me to come and live in his mansion and give them private lessons. It’s great. I even have my own servant, Ravi. No, thanks, Ravi, I don’t care for any more samosas right now.”

“Nick, are you lying to me?”

“No, Mom. Honest. I’m really happy. And safe. I’m learning how to play the sitar. My instructor is here now warming up for my lesson. The father says he’s going to send me to a good private school to become an educated gentleman. They really like me here.”

“How old are the children?” she demanded. “Are they boys or girls?”

“Uh, both. There are lots of them. About 12, I’d say. All ages.”

“Does the man have a wife?” she asked suspiciously. “He isn’t … he isn’t …”

“No, Mom. He’s married. In fact he has three wives. They get along fine, though. Well, Mom, these international calls cost 95 rupees a minute.”

“Nickie, what’s your address? How can I write to you? What’s the phone number there?”

“Sorry, Mom. It would be better if I called you. Don’t worry, I’ll phone as often as I can.”

“Nickie, wash all your food before you eat it. They’ve got terrible diseases there. If you get sick, call me right away.”

“OK, Mom. Don’t worry about me. Say hi to Lance for me. And happy birthday.”

“Nickie,” said Mom, starting to blubber, “you remembered.”

“Bye, Mom.”
Click
.

“She bought it,” said François.

“Hook, line, and sinker,” I replied.

1:20
P.M
. A knock on the door startled me as I snooped through Joanie’s bank statements. Her finances, alas, are in as wretched a condition as her personal life. Quickly, I closed the drawer, walked silently over to the door, and peered out through the peephole viewer. In the fluorescent-lit hallway a 105-year-old woman leaned heavily on an aluminum walker. Cautiously, I opened the door a crack.

“Yes?” I said.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“I’m, uh, François, I mean Frank Dillinger,” I replied, remembering not to give my real name. “A friend of Joanie’s. Who are you?”

“I’m Bertha Ulansky from across the hall. I’m ready for my videos.” Despite her great age, her face was elaborately made up. Thin eyebrows had been penciled in, and black mascara, applied thickly to her false eyelashes, fell like polluted snow on her rouged cheeks.

I was confused. “Excuse me?”

“My videos. My videos,” she insisted. “Joan always goes and gets my videos for me. I got my list ready.”

“Uh, Joanie isn’t here right now. She’s gone to work, Mrs. Ulansky.”

“It’s Miss Ulansky, young man,” she huffed. “I never took my late husband’s name—for professional reasons.” The old lady looked down at my feet. “Are your legs broken?”

“Er, no,” I admitted.

“Then get a move on it, Frank. You gotta get there before two to get the senior citizen discount!”

4:10 P.M. When I returned from the video store, my elderly neighbor invited me in to watch the film with her. Believe it or not, my sister lives right across the hall from an actual retired movie actress. Miss Ulansky starred as a professional extra in over 400 films, starting as a floozie in
Morocco
in 1930.

Today’s film was
You Were Never Lovelier
, a 1942 musical starring Fred Astaire, Rita Hayworth, and Bertha Ulansky as a sybarite partygoer. Miss Ulansky pushed the freeze-frame button on her remote control when she made her grand entrance.

“See, there I am in the crepe de Chine ball gown back by the potted palm,” she said proudly.

“Miss Ulansky, you were very pretty,” I commented.

“No, I wasn’t,” she said matter-of-factly, pushing the play button. “I had a nice ordinary face. They didn’t want the girls or the fellas to be too good-looking. ’Cause naturally they didn’t want the extras upstaging the stars. Watch, though, I’m a pretty fair dancer. That’s a fox trot. Bill Seiter had us do 14 takes of that scene. Boy, were my feet killing me.”

She sighed when “The End” appeared on the screen. “I always liked that picture,” she said, pushing the rewind button. “Course, Jerome Kern never wrote a bad song.”

“What was Fred Astaire like?” I asked. “He’s one of my favorite movie stars.”

“I like Fred,” she replied pensively. “Not funny either, if you catch my drift. Not, at least, that I ever heard. Now that’s a rarity in his profession. Course, his toupee is pretty obvious. And he is very short.”