Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp (16 page)

“I wish I knew,” I muttered.

“Don’t growl at me, young man,” she replied. “Connie, your friend sounds like an elephant in heat.”

“His lips are still a little swollen, Rita,” Connie replied. “That’s to be expected. Rick has agreed to work as cabin boy. But everyone has to keep totally mum about his operation. And he won’t take less than $800 a week.”

“What impertinence!” exclaimed Mrs. Krusinowski. “You’ll take $700 a week and like it. Dogo, get that boy his uniform and show him how to make a proper margarita.”

“Sure thing, Mrs. K,” the tattooed man grunted in a deep, blue-collar twang.

He chugged his drink, passed the snarling Chihuahua to Connie, and led me back downstairs. I couldn’t help but stare at his stump, which was tattooed with a bloody dagger and the words “Hell’s First Installment.” A vividly mottled snake tattoo coiled around his other arm, ducked beneath his “Biggest Little Dog in
the World” Chihuahua T-shirt, and wrapped its other end around his neck—the tip of its snake tail just tickling his left earlobe in which a large gold ring dangled.

“Dogo Dimondo,” he said, extending his left hand.

I fumbled to shake it. “Rick S. Hunter. What happened to your hand?”

“Hydraulic press,” he replied, searching through large drawers under the mahogany chart table. He pulled out a wrinkled navy-blue uniform that looked like something an admiral of the fleet would wear to a Presidential inauguration. I had never seen so many brass buttons. “Too bad, Rick. Looks like it’s your size. She tried to get me into it, but I lucked out. My shoulders were too damn big.”

7:40 p.m. I look ridiculous in my scratchy uniform, but for $700 a week I’m willing to indulge the fancies of the ruling class. Connie’s mother now addresses her two crew members as Dogo and Tojo (short for Admiral Tojo). She explained that she has given me an Asian name to assist my emotional recovery from “your surgical disappointments.”

Besides being the chief mechanic, navigator, and driver, Dogo is also an expert cook. The way he slams saucepans around in the lavishly equipped galley, it’s hard to believe he’s doing it all with one hand. The man does amazing things with baby mussels and unsalted butter. I assisted with the dinner preparations by making the salad and keeping the blenders whirling. I served up an avalanche of margaritas, diverting some of the pale green froth into my own glass for quality-control purposes. Much tastier and more festive than swallowing pills. Perhaps I’m destined for celebrity alcoholism after all.

Connie addresses her mother by her first name. That usually implies some heavy emotional gravy over the dam. I notice they don’t have much to say to each other, but no bloody flare-ups as with my mother and Joanie. Maybe rich people don’t feel as
much need to scream at each other. Connie’s mother is a nut for embroidery; all the walls are jammed with expensively matted and framed scenes done in tiny cross-stitches. Many of them, I’ve noticed, involve painfully cute gamboling Chihuahuas.

9:40 p.m. Guess who got stuck with the washing up? Oh well, all I had to do was stack things in the commercial-grade dishwasher and push a button. So while my companions were up on the roof-deck enjoying the balmy moonlight, I snooped through the rest of the ship. Super posh. In the aft is the Krusinowski master stateroom with its vast built-in mahogany bed and palatial marble-and-mirrored bathroom. Forward of that is Connie’s compact but opulent stateroom, then another bathroom done in blue and white tile, then the galley, and main salon. No sign of quarters for the crew. I hope this means what I think it means.

11:15 p.m. It did—partly. When I returned from walking Anna and Vronski, Captain Krusinowski and her first mate were nowhere to be seen. I turned the dogs over to Connie, who put them to bed in their own climate-controlled kennel across the corridor from her cabin (I had assumed it was a closet), then retreated to her room. Unfortunately, a lonely single bed had been made up for the cabin boy on one of the built-in settees in the main salon. I switched off the light, stripped off my uniform, and climbed into bed. A few minutes later Connie slipped out of her cabin. As she made her way forward, I was surprised to discern my visitor was wearing hardly anything worth mentioning.

“Rick, I’ve been thinking about your lips,” she whispered, kneeling beside my settee.

Instant killer T.E.

“Yes, Connie. And I yours!”

“Would you mind kissing me?”

“Not at all!”

Connie leaned forward, I reared up. We met lip-first in the gloom. After a too-short interval, we parted.

“They’re very nice, Rick. What a fool I’ve been.”

“Oh, Connie!”

“Yes, I should have asked Dr. Rudolpho for bigger lips.”

I put my arms around her bare shoulders and pulled her toward me for a second helping.

“Rick, what are you doing?”

“Making love to you, my darling,” purred François.

“Forget it, guy,” she said, unpeeling my arms. “Remember, we always want what we cannot have.”

Damn!

MONDAY, March 29 — I was wrong, diary. With the possible exception of Anna and Vronski, everyone passed a celibate night. Dogo Dimondo, I discovered, sleeps in a spartan bunk down below in the luggage basement. Barely three feet of headroom and only accessible from the outside. He and I showered (not together) in the campground restroom, while the ladies performed their morning ablutions in the Plock’s sumptuous facilities. I successfully shaved my new face. Noticeably less facial puffiness, and the bruises have almost entirely disappeared. Maybe a slight diminution of the lips as well. I love studying my new self in the mirror. Nothing like some expensive plastic surgery to turn a guy into a total narcissist. Well, it keeps me occupied for hours, and as hobbies go it’s pretty inexpensive. Some of our fellow campers seem impressed by my new uniform. Several served up crisp salutes as Dogo and I walked back along the beach with our towels.

Dogo made breakfast; I manned the espresso machine. We sat around the mahogany table in our suede-covered captain’s chairs and read the English-language Ensenada paper, while Anna skirmished with Vronski for a lamb bone and Connie checked out the satellite reception on the wide-screen, high-definition television that lowers from the ceiling at the push of a button. This lifestyle I could get used to.

Mrs. K studied me over her newspaper. “Tojo, you remind me of someone. Connie, who does he look like?”

Connie glanced over. Her eyes this morning were the same lapis lazuli as her mother’s. “I don’t know, Rita … maybe a white Nat ‘King’ Cole.”

“Nah, that’s not it,” said her mother. “It’ll come to me. I’ve seen that face before. And don’t curl your lip at me, young man.”

I wasn’t curling my lip. I was trying to suck them in.

11:35 a.m. After breakfast Connie drove me into town in the Plock II. We located a passport photographer’s studio on the main drag. There I obtained two instant color photos of my new face. These I’ve airmailed to Mr. Castillo with a request for a new set of Rick S. Hunter identification papers. I also asked for a forged honor-student academic transcript for my next tenuous venture back into public high school. As down-payment I enclosed two $100 bills from my dwindling stash. (Alas, my money belt is now barely noticeable under my clothes.) I promised to pay the balance when I drop by to pick them up.

I’m hoping Mr. Castillo finds it in his heart to give me a frequent-customer discount. These constant identity changes are a big financial drain. At Connie’s suggestion I’ve ditched Nick S. Dillinger’s driver’s license, Social Security card, and passport—retaining only his picture-less birth certificate as an emergency ID to get back across the border.

On the way back I asked Connie if her father would be joining us.

“Well, he’s supposed to, Rick. My parents usually try to plan some sort of boring family trip for my spring break. But things are going so well with him and Lacey, I’m hoping he’ll find a way to cancel.”

“Won’t your mother be angry?”

“I suppose so. But she can always go back to working on
Dogo. She’s been flirting with him for years. He lost his hand in Daddy’s factory, and Rita’s been trying to reassure him that he’s still a complete man. I think she wants to sleep with him to atone for all the guilt she feels.”

“Maybe I should cut myself on your blender, Connie. How would that make you feel about me?”

“Depends on what you slice off, guy.”

2:15 p.m. Mrs. K had some sort of disturbing phone conversation with her husband and is totally pissed. I can only assume he’s been delayed because Lacey is finding him improbably fascinating. Of course, she has a history of falling for older men (my father being a recent gross example). After lunch Mrs. K sent Dogo in the Plock II up to San Diego to pick up some guests at the airport. I gather they were invited by Mr. K without consulting his wife. I hope she doesn’t plan on bunking them in the salon with me.

Mrs. K and Connie are taking the dogs for a walk. The cabin boy was left behind to perform slave laundry duty. (I found a large stainless-steel washer and dryer stacked in a closet next to the galley pantry.) Oh well, at least I get the thrill of handling Connie’s bras and panties, if not their actual contents. Dogo’s underwear I’m finding somewhat less stimulating.

8:40 p.m. Amazing news, diary. When Dogo returned from the airport in the Plock II, who should ease his ungainly, seersucker-clad bulk out the passenger-side door but Sheeni’s beetle-browed father! Followed by her 5,000-year-old mother (in shorts!) and then My One and Only Love herself, looking profoundly depressed. My heart seized as Connie made the introductions, but Sheeni listlessly shook Rick S. Hunter’s clammy hand without any sign of recognition. Nor apparently did her parents realize they were once again in the presence of alleged agent-of-Satan Nick Twisp.

I was thankful then for Tojo’s ill-fitting uniform. The face and voice were different, but under my clothes lurks the same dreary
body Sheeni knew all too well. Until I’m reassured I can trust My Love, I’ll have to keep it and all of its parts well-screened from her view.

Mr. and Mrs. Saunders have been assigned Connie’s cabin; she and My Love are to share the salon; I’ve been bounced downstairs to bunk with Dogo in the luggage basement. While Connie showed My Love the sights of the campground, I sneaked my laptop down to my glorified slave kennel, then hustled over to the park restroom for a quick mirror fix. I smoothed down my hair and anxiously practiced holding in my lips. The facial bruising was barely noticeable and my chin zit was under control—which was more than I could say for my nervous system.

Mrs. K tried her best to be hospitable, but the presence of two teetotaling fundamentalists and their sullen underage daughter put something of a crimp in the cocktail hour. The regulars sipped their margaritas, the guests slurped down virgin mai-tais. These, as prepared by the cabin boy, were not as chastely rum-free as the term “virgin” might imply. Still, no one complained. By the time Dojo got around to tossing that first great lump of butter into his saucepan, virtually everyone was in a holiday mood. The addition of guests, however, necessitated a new formality in dining. Only five places were set at the mahogany table. Dogo cooked, I served. Later, the domestic staff supped separately on the leftovers.

Mrs. K and Mr. Saunders did most of the work in keeping the dinner conversation going; My Love seemed oddly subdued—refusing even to look at her parents. Sheeni’s father profusely thanked Mrs. K for helping rescue their “profligate son” from a “disastrous misstep.” Sheeni’s mother politely thanked her for allowing them to share once again in such “Sybaritic luxuries.” Connie asked Sheeni about Ukiah and school, but received only monosyllabic replies. Could My Love actually be preoccupied with worry over me?

“Tojo, step here into the light,” commanded Mrs. K as I was
refilling the coffee cups from a silver pot. “Now tell me, who does this young man look like?”

I blushed and sucked in my lips as everyone looked up to scrutinize my remodeled face.

“He’s a very presentable-looking boy,” remarked Sheeni’s mother, “for a person of obvious mixed ancestry.”

“He looks a little like a client I once defended on a child molestation charge,” commented Mr. Saunders.

“I’ll tell you who he looks like,” said Sheeni, glancing shyly up at me. “He looks like Jean-Paul Belmondo.”

“You mean that French actor?” asked Connie.

“That’s it!” exclaimed Mrs. K. “That’s the name I was trying to think of. He’s the spitting image.”

I hope you like it, Sheeni. As usual, darling, I did it all for you.

TUESDAY, March 30 — No word yet from the tardy Mr. K. Until that lusty magnate decides whether to join us, the Plock remains aground on this sunny, south-of-the-border bayside sand dune. Oh well, I consider it a great stroke of fortune just to be aboard the same grandiose land yacht as My Love, even if so far she hasn’t uttered three sentences to mysterious cabin boy Rick S. Hunter. At least today her spirits seem slightly revived. As you can imagine, it’s a constant struggle not to take my pouting darling in my arms and smother her with wild Belmondoesque kisses. Last night was slow torture knowing My Love was reclining in an undiaphanous nightgown just a few feet above my own feverish body. The fact that I was wedged like a sardine next to Dogo Dimondo didn’t help matters. I felt the strongest compulsion to attend to a private matter, but had to lie there like a lump in my coffin-sized bed while the surf rolled in romantically just a few yards away.

Anna and Vronski are exhibiting a strong dislike for Sheeni’s
mother. Whenever she approaches, they make an ostentatious show of running and hiding. I feel exactly the same way. She’s the only Plock passenger still addressing me as “Tojo.” Everyone else seems to be following Mrs. K’s lead in calling me “Bondo.” At breakfast, whenever I felt an urge to slide a poached egg down her collar or spill coffee in her lap, I kept reminding myself that she’s the grandmother of my future children. It’s a good thing for her I never had a vasectomy.

2:28 p.m. I just had a long, disquieting conversation with My Love. While I was hitching up the Chihuahuas for their post-lunch constitution, Sheeni inquired if she could accompany us.