Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp (13 page)

3:45 p.m. I’m a nervous wreck. I stayed home and hid out in the cave all day. Nothing to keep my mind off my troubles except snooping through Paul and Lacey’s personal stuff. Lacey’s on the pill (no condoms for lucky Paul), her reading tastes run to boring hair styling magazines, and she owes nearly $12,000 on her credit cards. Paul’s few possessions (mostly clothes and music scores) wouldn’t fill one suitcase. The guy sure travels light. I found an intriguing photo of Paul as a kid pushing a cute toddler in a stroller. This was written in green ink on the back: “Paul and Sheridan at Oroville Dam.” Sheeni’s real name is Sheridan! What a revelation
to discover that one is passionately in love with a person named Sheridan who once toured dams in a pink sunsuit and bonnet. But how come My Love doesn’t go by the name Sherry?

5:15 p.m. No answer at Fuzzy’s house. Damn. I tried not to imagine zealous detectives working him over with rubber hoses. As an experiment in masochism I punched in Carlotta’s old number. The man of the house answered.

“Hi, Trent,” I found myself saying.

“Hi, Nick,” he replied calmly.

“I’m surprised you recognize my voice.”

“How could I ever forget it?”

I had no idea what to say next.

“How’s it going with you, Trent?”

“Not bad. Thanks for the thousand bucks.”

“It was an anonymous gift, Trent. It may not have come from me. How’s Apurva?”

“She’s a bit disturbed by your duplicity, Nick. You really are quite a remarkable liar.”

“Well, I do what it takes to get by. Are you getting a divorce?”

No answer.

“Sorry if that was too personal a question.”

Still no reply.

“Uh, how’s the poetry going, Trent? Written any new poems?”

“Nick, I realize, of course, that all of your actions toward us were undertaken with a malevolent intent, but I would just like to say one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Thank you.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I’m very happy to be married to Apurva—despite all the grief of the past few days. It’s brought us immeasurably closer. Inexplicably, we owe our happiness to you, Nick Twisp.”

“Why thanks, Trent,” I replied, sincerely touched. “It’s very big of you to admit that.”

“And I’d just like to say one more thing, Nick.”

“Yes, Trent?”

“I hope the cops nail your sorry butt. And throw you in jail for a long, long time.” Click.

Guess the guy’s still pissed I turned down his invitation to the Christmas dance.

10:45 p.m. Bravely defying parental strictures, My Love sneaked out of her house and called me at last.

“Sheeni! Did you tell the cops I’m hiding out at your brother’s?”

“Of course not, Nickie. I divulged as little as possible. Father was there the whole time as my lawyer. The cops were tiresomely persistent, but I merely stated that I became aware of Carlotta’s true identity after Vijay revealed to me that Nick Twisp knew about Apurva’s wedding, which only Carlotta had attended. I said I had no idea where you’d gone. My parents aren’t buying any of that, but they don’t want me to get in too much trouble as an accessory to your many and diverse crimes. Nickie, they’ve slashed my allowance! And grounded me for months!”

I tried to sound sympathetic. “Uh, that’s a shame, darling. What else did the cops ask you?”

“Well, they pestered me about Carlotta’s house and who I saw there and who your friends were. Oh, and they were very interested in knowing what you’d been living on—especially this obnoxious cop from Oakland.”

“That would be Lance, my demonic stepfather. What did you say?”

“I said I heard that you’d been playing the stock market.”

“Quick thinking, darling. Did the cops tell you how they got wise to me?” I told her about Mario’s decision to remain clammed.

My Love sounded stunned. “Nickie, why didn’t you call Mario in the first place?”

“I didn’t see the point. From the way my sister talked, it sounded like he’d already squealed. And squealing seemed just like something Mario would do. Besides, I was afraid the cops might be setting a trap for me by monitoring his phone line.”

“Oh, Nickie, this is awful!”

An appalling realization dawned.

“Sheeni! It was you!”

“Nickie, I was petrified! And it was my birthday. I thought surely on my birthday my parents would have to extend at least a measure of leniency. I mean, what better day to make a ghastly confession—especially with the authorities apparently closing in.”

“Oh, Sheeni, you didn’t …”

“I’m sorry, Nickie. Can you ever forgive me?”

“I, I suppose it’s not really your fault. I’ll just have to murder my sister’s boyfriend. He knew on Friday, but never bothered to tell me.”

“Nickie, I have to go. If my parents discover my absence, their acharnement will be insuppressible.”

“Sheeni, I love you!”

“Nickie, I … I …”

My heart leaped. “Yes, Sherry, darling?”

“Never call me that name! I hate it!” Click.

A bewildering response, but at least one mystery is resolved. Do you suppose under similar circumstances I might have ratted on Sheeni? I’ve been considering that question from every angle, and I keep coming to the same conclusion: Not in ten million years.

WEDNESDAY, March 17 — Connie took me out for breakfast at a place in West Hollywood that was famous for its pancake portraits of the stars. I had a full stack of Meryl Streeps; Connie
nibbled her one piece of unbuttered toast while I filled her in on yesterday’s conversation with Paulo’s sister.

“I’m glad to see evidence of such ruthlessness in a Saunders,” she commented. “It’s very reassuring. I was beginning to worry that my children with Paulo might come out too serene for their own good.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

“Nick, sweetie, your Sheeni dimed you to the cops to keep your money.”

“She did no such thing. She merely confessed to her parents and they called the police.”

“It amounts to the same thing. Did she say anything about giving your money back?”

“Er, no. The conversation was necessarily abbreviated.”

10:05 a.m. WE’VE BEEN RAIDED BY THE COPS! I had my stuff ready and was waiting by the pool when Connie came flying down the path in a state of semi-undressed panic.

“Two cop cars, Nick! They just pulled into the drive. Quick, you’ve got to hide!”

I darted toward the cave, but Connie grabbed me by my shirt.

“Not in the cabana, Nick! It’s too well known. Didn’t you see it last summer in Architectural Digest? Here!”

She pushed me into the hot tub, told me to duck, and swiveled the rock-cover closed. I was plunged into an all-encompassing steamy darkness. The heat was so overwhelming I couldn’t sense if I was entirely underwater. Holding my breath, I whirled around in panic. A tiny pinpoint of sunlight. In its faint glow I could see that beneath the tight-sealing cover was an airspace of several inches. Holding my nose above the scalding water, I took a deep breath as heavy footsteps approached. Muffled male voices. I strained to make out the words, but could only distinguish Connie saying, “Do you handsome fellows have a warrant?”

My heart was pounding, sweat was pouring off my body, but I fought to slow my breathing—I knew that tiny pocket of air could not last long. The insistent heat was unbearable. I felt like a lobster in a pot. Too hot, too hot, too hot—every nerve-ending in my body was telegraphing madly to my brain. I tried to think cool thoughts: ice cream, iced tea, cold showers, frozen shoes, numb toes, Mississippi snowstorms, my father’s heart. Minutes, hours went by. Each passing second felt like the last that could be endured. Where was Connie?! Had she forgotten me?! I grew light-headed from the bad air. I knew if I fainted I was done for. I tried to wedge my fingers between the cover and the tub rim for support, but the seal was too tight. Bad air, bad air, bad air—my heaving lungs cried out. Too hot, too hot, too hot. Then a wet shroud of sweltering blackness descended over me.

I came to with the sun in my eyes and something sharp poking me in the back. Sheeni was kissing me. Only it wasn’t Sheeni, it was someone else and she wasn’t exactly kissing me, she doing something annoying like attempting to blow air into my mouth. I wished she would stop and also stop leaning on me because it just made the rough rocks under my back hurt even more. I pushed her away and struggled to sit up.

“Nick! You’re alive!” exclaimed Connie.

“No thanks to you,” I muttered, rolling over and expelling several hundred gallons of brackish water.

I knew I would never get in another hot tub. And I seriously doubted if I could ever bring myself to venture anywhere near a bathtub.

12:20 p.m. Los Angeles bus station. Waiting for the bus to San Diego. Things are seriously fucked up. It would have been far less complicated for me simply to have drowned. Turns out the cops weren’t looking for me. They nailed Paul this morning in West L.A. for marijuana possession and were raiding his pad to search for Incriminating Evidence. The cops seized my backpack! They
poked through my pack, found my $3,000 in emergency road cash, and decided it was drug money. They were going to grab my laptop too, but Connie said it was hers. I guess she couldn’t claim the backpack since she doesn’t wear boy’s underwear.

So now I’m on the run again with just the clothes on my back. Fortunately, I was wearing my money belt, which turns out to be not quite as waterproof as advertised. I now have $17,700 in soggy hundreds, plus a sodden wallet stuffed with sopping fake documentation.

4:47 p.m. On the bus to Ensenada. I’m now in Mexico! I can sort of relax now, assuming you can ever do that in a Third World country. When I reached San Diego, I switched to the Tijuana Trolley for the ride to the border. I admit I was pretty nervous walking through the gate into Mexico, but no one even asked for my ID. You can waltz right into their country and the Mexicans don’t even raise an eyebrow! Of course, we gringos stick out like a sore thumb, so it’s not like they have a hard time keeping an eye on us.

At the Tijuana bus station I swapped one of my soggy hundreds for a big wad of colorful pesos, and bought a first-class ticket to Ensenada. They have different bus classes down here because theirs is not an egalitarian society, and people of means do not wish to ride with the chickens and the bleating goats. Fortunately, the ticket seller spoke English and understood where I wanted to go. I studied Spanish briefly in the seventh grade due to a scheduling snafu, but all I remember is buenas tardes—and I’m not sure what part of the day you’re supposed to say that.

Famous alcoholic fiction writers of the past often journeyed south of the border to soak up local color and get wasted. I’m trying to emulate them and be open to new experiences for my art. My initial impressions of Mexico: lots of dust, not many trees, and are the janitors all out on strike or what? No daycare for peasant toddlers down here. The streets are jammed with
brown-skinned tots hustling gum to the tourists. I now have about a six-month supply.

9:15 p.m. As instructed by Connie, I’m now holed up in the Christina Hotel, a modest cinder-block structure in the southern part of Ensenada, one block up from the main road that runs along the harbor (no view though). The Spanish lady (Christina?) in the office wasn’t too thrilled about renting a room to someone my age with no luggage and a hunted look in his eyes, but I flashed my fake ID and some real pesos. My room’s not bad, except that when I walked in, it smelled like somebody had been having enthusiastic intercourse on the creaky double bed about two minutes before I arrived. I opened some windows to air things out. I have a chair, a wooden table, a small rug on the brown vinyl floor, a TV that mostly works (bad color), a bathroom with rusty metal shower, and the world’s smallest kitchenette. The little refrigerator in there runs constantly and sounds like a military helicopter with a bum muffler. It looks like it hasn’t been defrosted since way before I was born. I opened a cupboard door under the sink and a gang of tough-looking cockroaches looked up expectantly. I gave them some previously chewed gum to work on in hopes they’ll stay put.

After stashing my laptop under the bed, I had a fish taco dinner at a cantina around the corner—all washed down with some strong Mexican beer. Good news—the legal age for drinking down here is 18. It was all I could do to swig down one whole bottle and stagger back to my hotel. I can’t believe people drink that stuff by the case.

Ensenada is crawling with blue-haired gringos living it up on their Social Security, so English is spoken widely. The town is bigger than I’d been expecting: a bustling city squeezed between brown scrub-covered mountains and a curving blue bay. A nice place to visit, but would you really want to get a face-lift here?

Now I know how Trent felt before his wedding in Mississippi.
This entire dubious enterprise is taking on a pronounced air of unreality. You meet a girl in a trailer park, and nine months later you’re hiding out under an assumed name in a foreign country and waiting to get your face carved up like a slab of meat. How did I ever let Connie talk me into this wacky scheme? What if the doctor botches the operation and I wind up grossly disfigured?

“Scarface Dillinger,” they might call me.

With a hideous mug and a moniker like that, I might have to think seriously about making a sincere commitment to a life of crime.

THURSDAY, March 18 — My little refrigerator has been defrosted. I had to unplug it last night to get some rest. Now my kitchenette is a swamp. Oh well, I’m not planning on doing any lavish entertaining here anyway. I had breakfast at a ritzy eatery overlooking the fishing wharf, then exchanged more dollars and bought a long-distance phone card and some T-shirts, underwear, and toiletries at a tourist store. I found a pay phone and called Connie, who was sounding major stressed.

“Were you able to bail out Paul?”

“Not yet, Nick. There have been some unforeseen complications.”

“Like what?” I asked. “What’s the big deal about a marijuana rap?”

“Well, it’s no big deal if they catch you with a few ounces, but Paulo had a whole gym bag full of it.”