Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (7 page)

“Oh yeah!” I leaped at her and wrestled for a kiss. As she squirmed in my arms, my hand grasped the soft roundness of a breast. She laughed and pushed me away.

“Off, off, Sir Vomit! Away with thy gastric breath!”

I desisted and lay back on the warm sand. Sheeni leaned over and dribbled sand on my chest. “Say, where were you anyway?” I demanded. “We said five minutes to six.”

“Women are always discreetly late. It’s expected of us.”

“Swell. And the punctual guy fries in the chair for rape.”

“Don’t complain. At least you got to shower with a naked woman.” Sheeni smiled slyly and leaned closer, pressing her warm breast into mine. Grains of white sand clung like sugar to her tanned shoulders.

“Yeah, that’s true,” I said. “Better Mrs. Clarkelson than Rev. Knuddlesdopper. But I wish it was you.”

“Me too,” Sheeni said.

This time, she let me kiss her.

We spent the rest of the morning on the beach. Sheeni went in the water for a swim, then came out—shivering, nipples tantalizingly erect under the purple spandex—to towel off in the warm sun. She told me more about her life. She has one sibling—a much older brother named Paul, who, in between sampling advanced psychedelics, plays jazz trumpet. He called once about six years ago to request they send his high school lifeguard certificate to a post office box in Winnemucca, Nevada. “An arid region,” remarked Sheeni, “not known for its water sports.” That’s the last they’ve heard from him.

Despite Sheeni’s brilliant mind, she attends public school. Every kid in Ukiah does. She’s known Trent since she was in kindergarten and he was a glamorous first-grader. They’ve always been smarter than everyone else in their school (especially the teachers), and therefore have had to deal with much resentment and jealousy. That’s one of the bonds that unite them. (But not, I hope, for long!) Trent has it a bit easier since he can use sports to prove he’s still one of the guys. But since developing beauty to match her brains, Sheeni has had to cope with outright overt hostility.

“Sometimes I wish I were plain and dull,” lamented the ravishing intellectual.

“So do I,” I said.

“But, honey, you are,” she teased.

To make her retract that slur, I had to resort to hand-to-hand (and hand-to-other-places) combat.

Later in the afternoon we drove around the lake with Jerry and the Corn Dog Queen in the slab-sided Lincoln. Exiting the trailer park, we passed Mrs. Clarkelson watering the petunia bed (shaped like a cross) in front of the cement-block church. She peered at me with fierce suspicion, so I crossed my eyes and probed for a booger. Beside me in the back seat, Sheeni bit her hand to stifle hysterics. Mom told me to “take my finger out of my nose and act my age.”

Sheeni didn’t seem to mind the wind tunnel. She tied a scarf around her chestnut locks and sat back in the breeze, casually resting a hand on the inside
of my thigh. As we rounded a curve at 60, she reached over, yanked the sunglasses off my nose, and tossed them over her shoulder into the lake.

Our destination was toward Middletown, where Jerry had sniffed out a trailer for sale. The place was deep in the boonies, but after a few wrong turns on backcountry roads, we came to a tiny, run-down shack perched on stilts over a steep hillside. The dusty yard was littered with dead cars, rusty school buses, old fruit-processing machinery, and a decrepit Ferris wheel from some long-extinct midway. Residing in the rusty junk were assorted ill-kept dogs, cats, chickens, goats, and a pig or two. The squire of this manor was a toothless old geezer with the world’s largest beer gut. Jerry’s third-trimester bulge wasn’t even in the competition.

The geezer led us up a dusty track to a corrugated-iron shed. The trailer was inside. It appeared to be an RV for midgets. Over twenty feet long, it was little more than four feet high. Mom looked concerned. “Jerry, what do we do?” she whispered. “Crawl around inside on our hands and knees?”

The geezer laughed. “Watch this,” he said. He opened a small compartment above the back bumper, turned a knob, and began pumping a metal handle. With each stroke, the trailer rose a notch, until it had miraculously doubled in height. “Saves on gas,” said the geezer.

Sheeni elaborated, “The lowered profile yields reduced wind resistance on the highway.”

Jerry, I could tell, was enthralled. We all trooped through the tiny home on wheels. It was newer than “My Green Haven” but not by much. In the front was a dinette for four, then came a miniaturized kitchen, followed chastely by two single beds separated by a modesty aisle. In the tail was a compact bathroom complete with sink, marine toilet (smelling of old piss), and a shiny, stainless-steel bathtub big enough for an adult human. Mom and Sheeni exclaimed over the amenities, while Jerry—ever the shrewd bargainer—pointed out the flaws. For example, he was not happy about the twin beds.

The geezer sucked his gums. “Better, though, if you snore,” he said.

“I don’t have that problem,” countered Jerry. (What a liar!)

“Well, maybe you wet the bed.”

“Nope,” said Jerry. “Don’t do that either.”

“Well, you might someday,” said the Geezer. “When you get old. I’ve been known to dribble a drop or two. I snore now too. Never did before.”

I shuddered to contemplate what life as the geezer’s bed partner must be like. I looked over at Sheeni, who was inspecting the wardrobe closet. Yes, I could imagine honeymooning in this trailer with her—twin beds or not. I bet if we tried we could both squeeze into that cozy bathtub. I happily contemplated that scene, and had to sit down on one of the beds to conceal a sudden
T.E
.
The mattress sagged and smelled of mildew. Jerry and the geezer began their final dance.

“What’s your cash price?” asked Jerry.

“I said in the ad,” replied the old man. “Thousand dollars firm.”

“Thousand, huh?” Jerry looked dubious. “That must be with a guarantee.”

“As is, where she is,” said the geezer.

“I don’t know,” replied Jerry. “You can smell the dry rot. The roof probably needs work and I really don’t want twin beds. I couldn’t go over $800.”

The geezer pondered this bad news.

“There are mouse droppings in all the closets,” said Sheeni. “And the electrical outlets aren’t grounded.”

Jerry looked impressed by my taste in women.

The geezer cleared his throat. “I might take $950.”

“$900,” said Jerry.

“$925,” countered the geezer.

They agreed on $910. While the men counted the greenbacks and did the paperwork, Sheeni and I wandered around the junk-strewn lot, scattering the clucking chickens before us.

Sheeni knelt beside an old cardboard box. “Oh, look, Nickie!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t they cute!”

In the box were a half dozen squirming puppies. They were mostly black with a few spots of white divvied up, here and there, among them. They had short droopy ears, curled-up tails, and tiny batlike faces. The mother, lying limp in the heat nearby, appeared to be part pug. She had bulging black eyes, a pushed-in nose, and a prominent underbite. She was the second-ugliest dog I had ever seen. The father, snarling at us from the end of a rope tied to smashed pinball machine, was the ugliest.

Sheeni picked up the puppy with the most white spots. Thrilled to be singled out, he peed on her blouse. She didn’t seem to mind and let him lick her lovely mouth. “Isn’t he cute?” she said.

“He’s adorable,” I lied. I made a mental note not to kiss her again until she had brushed and gargled.

“I wonder if they’re for sale,” Sheeni said. “Do you suppose?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” I said. “But will your parents let you have a dog?”

“Of course,” said Sheeni, “they love animals.”

The geezer priced the dog at an exorbitant $10. This was more than Sheeni and I had between us. Brokenhearted, close to tears, she clutched the
puppy to her breast. This was too much for the geezer. He studied her chest awhile, then said she could take the puppy for free. (Very close to the dog’s actual value, I thought.)

Sheeni was overjoyed. For a moment I feared she was actually going to kiss the old geezer. More than mouthwash would be required to slay those cooties. Instead, Sheeni smooched her puppy, whom she promptly named Albert (pronounced “Al-bare”), after the existentially deceased French writer Albert Camus.

Albert could tell he was moving up in the world and seemed pleased to be turning his back, at last, on his sordid origins. He looked over to make sure his brothers and sisters could see him seated in a Lincoln Continental convertible. Fortunately for his self-esteem, we were not hauling the trailer that afternoon. Jerry planned to return for his prize tomorrow after getting a hitch welded to the Lincoln. So, for the drive home, Albert sat proudly on Sheeni’s lap, hopping down only once to take a dump on the white carpet. Jerry was incensed, but Sheeni put her charm in overdrive and appeased him with the promise that Nick would “clean up every last morsel.”

Protesting vehemently, I forgot to dodge when she moved in and planted a wet one on my mouth. Yuck. The woman I love has dog breath.

Back at “My Green Haven,” Sheeni hopped out of the car and was off with her dog like she’d been shot from a gun. Jerry examined the fecal matter on his carpet and gave me ten minutes either to remove it completely or “take a slug to the head from a .357.” I went to work with paper towels, cold water, and detergent. As I was bent over my labors, the always suspicious Mrs. Clarkelson walked by to snoop. I drooled, chuckled to myself, and playfully tossed a dog turd in her direction. She screamed and jumped back. This brought out Mom to investigate. Mrs. Clarkelson, red-faced, said to Mom, “Look into your soul, sinner. And you will see why God punished you with this child.”

“Up yours, bitch,” replied Mom with cogent succinctness.

Too shocked to reply, Mrs. Clarkelson stormed off.

“What did you say to that woman?” Mom demanded.

I felt a discreet lie was called for here. “She asked me if you and Jerry were married,” I said. “I told her it was none of her business.”

“Good for you, Nick,” said Mom. “The nerve of these people!”

8:30
P.M
. Sheeni and I are sitting at the little green table on the patio catching up on our journals. Albert is asleep at Sheeni’s feet. After a tumultuous struggle, Sheeni persuaded her parents to let her keep him—even though her mother declared he has “the face of Beelzebub.” (She’s right.) But Sheeni had to agree to attend church “no fewer than two times per week.” She was not
happy about being forced into this concession, but felt, on balance, that Albert was worth it. “Besides,” she said, “I can always use the exercise.”

I am amazed at the affection Sheeni lavishes on that smelly, repugnant beast. If only she were so attentively loving with me. Now I have the egregious Trent to be jealous of, plus a dog. Falling in love has certainly not improved my peace of mind.

10:30
P.M
. Sheeni gave me a long, deep good-night kiss in the dark and let me put my hand under her bra. I cannot begin to describe the tactile pleasures of her nakedness: the soft round fullness, the smooth warm flesh, the firmness of the erect nipple under my busy thumb, the intoxicating girl aromas. Tomorrow I go for third base.

When I came into the trailer (after waiting for my throbbing T.E. to subside), I discovered a stain on my jeans. No, lower. The jealous Albert had peed on my leg.

THURSDAY, August 23
— I awoke to a dreadful thought. This was my last full day with Sheeni. Tomorrow we return to Oakland. How can I exist without her! Soon, she’ll be back in Trent’s tanned, muscular arms, feeling the press of his manly physique against her delicate body. This thought is pure, physical torture for me. I will have to kill Trent and accept the consequences. I can see no other alternative. I wonder if Jerry really has a .357. What if it’s not loaded? Can 14-year-olds legally buy bullets? probably they can. Thank God for the NRA!

My homicidal ruminations were interrupted by a knock on the door. I put on my robe and opened it. There in the early-morning sunshine—panic-stricken, eyes red from crying—stood my beloved. Now the hour was at hand for young Sydney Carton to perform a noble deed for the woman he loves.

Sheeni told me the whole ugly story as we walked to the donut shop. She had retired to her tiny second-story bedroom with Albert curled up in her arms. (Oh, lucky Albert!) During the night, while she slept, dreaming her sweet girlish dreams, he had slipped downstairs for some after-hours puppy mischief. When Sheeni’s parents woke this morning, they came into the living room to find the treasured family Bible (actually the paperback vacation-home copy) shredded all over the floor. Even then, the godless canine was masticating through the last of Corinthians. For Mrs. Saunders, this singular act of desecration confirmed Albert’s diabolical origins. He has been banished, and none of Sheeni’s entreaties or cajoleries could overturn the parental edict. Albert has been temporarily imprisoned in their patio storage shed until his fate can be decided.

“What am I going to do?” implored Sheeni, biting into a powdered donut. I liked the way the sugar dust clung to her upper lip.

I chewed my maple bar and considered her options. “Let’s get married,” I said. “Albert can come live with us.”

“Oh, Nickie, be serious!”

I was never more serious in my life. But I could see Sheeni wasn’t quite ready to follow in Millie Filbert’s matrimonial footsteps. A pity!

Then I recognized the signs: Sheeni was preparing to put her massive charm in overdrive. I braced for the onslaught.

“Nickie, honey,” she purred, “why don’t you take Albert. He could be our love child.”

“No way,” I said.

Tears welled up in Sheeni’s beautiful blue eyes. “At least you could consider it, honey. For me. I never asked you for anything before.”

I considered it. On the one hand was a dumb, smelly, ugly dog who had already proven he could be trouble. On the other hand, keeping him with me would provide a concrete (well, at least a canine) link with Sheeni. Then I had one of those sudden flashes of inspiration that come only once or twice in a lifetime. Albert was a bargaining chip sent from heaven. (Or perhaps from hell?)