Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp (22 page)

Joanie gave me Noel to hold while she ate her eggs. What an ungainly package: incessant squirming, foul discharges from every orifice, and you have to hold up his drooping head or it will fall right off. They should pass these things around in high-school health class, if they really want to scare kids into using protection.

Joanie is worried who’ll take the kid if Mom gets sent to prison.

“Can’t you just toss him in the crib with Tyler?” I asked.

“It’s a big responsibility, Nick. I don’t know how I’ll manage as it is as a single mother.”

“What about Dr. Dingy? And please call me Rick.”

“It’s Dindy, Rick. I’m afraid Philip was a mistake—a bad one. Being away from him this week has helped me see that. He conducts life like a scientific experiment—with every aspect under his personal control. I practically have to ask permission to blow my nose.”

“You’re going to break up with the creep?”

“I think so. I might as well for all the help he’ll be. His wife got a very good lawyer. All he has left out of his university salary is a little pocket money. I’ve been supporting the guy!”

My sister was now batting zero for 312 in boyfriends. She sighed, nibbled her bacon, and studied me. Uh-oh, I could feel her sensitive antennas probing into my psyche. I strove for obtuseness in thought and demeanor.

“That girlfriend of yours is pregnant,” she announced at last.

“Er, what makes you say that?” I demanded.

“Oh God, Nick! That is all we need!”

“It’s all under control,” I lied, “and please call me Rick.”

6:30 p.m. On the bus to Ukiah. I had to get out of Oakland fast. There was a disastrous incident involving my brother. Joanie invited me to go with her to visit Mom, but I opted to remain behind and provide vital childcare. Big mistake. All was fine until little Noel woke up from his nap and starting wailing. You didn’t have to be a bloodhound to detect the aroma emanating from his pants. I was all for letting him marinate, but Twisps are nothing if not persistent.

So I found the jumbo box of diapers and read the instructions on the back. It sounded fairly basic. I grabbed the kid, placed him on the changing table, and removed his soiled nappy. Too gross for words. I reeled from the noxious olfactory assault, greatly amusing its creator. I wiped off his messy bum and privates as best I could. You definitely could tell the kid was a Twisp. I wondered if it was supposed to be that small or if something had gone awry during the circumcision. I was maneuvering the fresh diaper under him when, boom, he wiggled away from me. I DROPPED MY BABY BROTHER ON THE FLOOR!

He landed with a sickening thud. Nightmarish infant screaming, so at least the impact wasn’t fatal. Somehow I got his caterwauling, flailing little body back on the table and checked for broken bones. No obvious breaks, but the back of his skull felt a little squishy. Part of his brain may have turned to mush! Eventually, I got him quieted down and re-diapered. In my panic
I wondered if there were any quick home intelligence tests for infants. I switched on the TV and put his face right up to the screen. He didn’t seem that interested, even when I changed the channel to a kiddies show—a bad sign, I think. More guilt for Rick. My only brother may grow up retarded because of me. He may have to look to sheltered workshops for career opportunities. Thank goodness it wasn’t my own gifted child I fumbled. I don’t care how committed Sheeni is to equal rights. She’s doing all the diaper-changing in our household!

THURSDAY, April 8 — I hope my brother lived through the night. I wish I were a sociopath like François. Having a conscience really puts a dent in one’s enjoyment of life. I spent the night in a “budget” motel on Ukiah’s main drag that was no nicer than the Christina Hotel and about five times pricier. So the first order of the day is to find someplace cheap to live. I’m willing to consider anything that’s not an actual drainage culvert.

I had breakfast at my favorite donut shop downtown in hopes that Sheeni might drop by on her way to school. No such luck. I did see fat Dwayne Crampton ride by on my Italian mountain bike. His mother must have grabbed it in lieu of that last paycheck I owed her for slave maid service. I ate my usual assortment and read the local paper, which was nicely devoid of Nick Twisp manhunt news. I checked the classified ads. The least expensive apartment, listed at $575 per month, was available only to “employed adults with references.” That leaves me out in the cold.

7:15 p.m. I’m writing this in my new apartment. A real-estate agent might even call it a penthouse, since it’s situated on the uppermost floor of the two-story commercial block that houses the donut shop. Believe it or not, my window opens directly on the exhaust vent above the donut fryer—suffusing my abode with wonderful sugary smells and a fair amount of grease.

As I was leaving the donut shop this morning, I spotted a
faded “rooms for rent” sign in the window of the jewelry store next door. Old Mr. Szwejk, the jeweler and building owner, was skeptical of Rick S. Hunter’s fitness as a tenant, but he found my cash persuasive. The rent is $108 per week; I paid for four weeks in advance.

I have two small rooms and a tiny half bath in what were once commercial offices. The businessmen all moved on to greener pastures long ago, making way for the retired, the deranged, and the generally down and out. Half-wall partitions of varnished blond oak are topped by large fixed panels of a ribbed smoked glass. All the office glass along the corridors has been painted over on the inside with a yellowing paint, rendering it opaque and blocking light to the murky hallways. Neatly painted on my door, made of the same pale wood and ribbed glass, is the name: “Julius T. Marvin, Insurance Broker.”

My “furnished” rooms are eclectically decorated with what appear to be discards swiped from the curb on neighborhood cleanup days. No bed either. The purple vinyl sofa, scarred by numerous cigarettes and something with sharp claws, opens up to make a lumpy bed. I have dragged it from the room facing the back alley to the cave-like interior room. I also have a small metal table, some mismatched chairs, a dark oak dresser with scaly mirror, two battered lamps, a wardrobe closet with peeling veneer, and a circa-1950s enameled metal cabinet kitchenette, complete with sink, two-burner range, compact refrigerator, cupboard, and two musty drawers.

The rusty claw-foot bathtub (no shower) is down the hall in its own dank closet. Some of my fellow tenants have not been good citizens about cleaning up after their baths, but Mr. Szwejk said at these rates “maid service” was “out of the question.” Even if they hadn’t been such slobs, I wouldn’t have stepped in that tub on a bet.

All in all, my new home is a big comedown from Granny DeFalco’s
snug bungalow, but it’s better than nothing and you can’t beat the convenient central location. Maybe I can find something nicer if Joanie comes through with some cash or I pry my Wart Watch windfall loose from My Love.

After moving in, I rented a post office box for mail deliveries, called up to arrange for phone service, secured a new library card, and dropped over $80 at a nearby thrift shop loading up on sheets, blankets, towels, kitchen stuff, and Rick S. Hunter’s none-too-fashionable school wardrobe. It was a pain being Carlotta, but at least she was equipped with every garment a chick could want. And sliding off her pantyhose was always good for a cheap thrill. Not to mention her bra.

FRIDAY, April 9 — I enrolled again today at Redwood High. This was my first matriculation as a junior, my second as a male, and my third as an entirely different person. That must be some sort of California high-school record. No sign of Miss Pomdreck, my aged guidance counselor. Today’s enrollment was processed by Miss Drelfleur, a severe-looking older woman with blotchy skin and ratty hair teased into a gray tumbleweed.

“I thought Miss Pomdreck was in charge of new students,” I said.

Miss Drelfleur studied my application form and forged transcript. “Miss Pomdreck is no longer employed by this district.”

“Oh,” I said with a sinking feeling. “Did she retire?”

“You might call it that. So you were a student at John Wayne High School. Where’s that?”

“In Orange County, down south. We were the Fighting Green Berets.”

“Well, now you’re a Marauding Beaver. I hope you can make the transition. Why is it you’re 18, but only a junior?”

“Uh, I was sick when I was 10 and missed a year of school.
They thought it was Lou Gehrig’s disease, but it turned out to be Babe Ruth’s disease. That’s why I’m kind of short for my age.”

“I see. Well, Rick, you have good grades, but I have to tell you most of our tracked classes are full now.”

“I understand, Miss Drelfleur. I’ll take what’s available.”

She gave me a printout of my schedule (wood technology II, boys’ gym, California problems, computer lab, lunch, study hall, life skills, and driver’s education), and assigned me locker 859, recently evacuated by problem student Carlotta Ulansky. The interior of my former locker revealed traces of a suspicious white powder. The cops must have been dusting it for my prints!

By then first period was over, so I went straight to gym class, where most of my fellow juniors were 17 and outweighed me by at least 30 pounds. Today’s activity was basketball for aggressors, and I almost got the ball once. Lots of nude towel-snapping afterwards in the locker room by hairy-chested guys with large flopping penises. I hope Rick S. Hunter looks like that in a few years. As you might expect, most of the horseplay was directed at the new guy. All in all, I think I prefer girls’ gym.

Needless to say, I kept my eyes peeled in the hallways for Sheeni, but I saw no sign of her. And vile Vijay dined alone at lunch, which led me to conclude My Love was absent today from school. I hope she hasn’t had a scorpion venom relapse. I’m dying to phone her, but I know what Connie would say to that idea.

Trent, I noted with interest, no longer eats lunch with his swim-team buddies. Instead, he and Apurva occupy prestigious seats at a table reserved for Redwood High’s Cutest Couples. Speaking of which, Candy Pringle once again may have severed relations with Bruno Modjaleski. I spotted her snacking lightly with her fellow cheerleaders, while the disgraced quarterback kept a low profile at the same socially second-string table as Fuzzy DeFalco, believe it or not.

I’ve decided it’s too risky to reveal Rick S. Hunter’s former identity to my best pal. Fuzzy’s pretty dependable, but few kids can stand up indefinitely to brutal police interrogation. Besides, he now may be under the impression I owe him some money. On my way to life skills class, I spotted him nuzzling Lana at her locker. She was wearing a new outfit and looking not unfetching. I’d pay somewhere in the low one figure to know what base my pal has landed on with her.

Despite my having rocketed ahead two academic years, school was predictably tedious until last period, when I piled into a big Chevy sedan with Mr. Nurlpradt and three other juniors, one of whom was studious newlywed Apurva Preston. Since I was the newest and greenest driver’s ed student (despite my forged license), I got to go first. We cruised around quiet residential streets (past My Love’s own house!), and I made all my turns, dodged all oncoming cars, and ran over zero pedestrians. Those sexy automobile commercials don’t lie. What a sense of power and freedom—even with Mr. Nurlpradt’s cautious foot ever poised over the auxiliary brake pedal.

I managed to exchange a few pleasant words with Apurva. She was looking very fine, but perhaps a trifle troubled? I must get to the bottom of things. Not easy, since I am once again a total stranger in school, a dreary role that still rates just slightly worse than terrorist hostage.

SATURDAY, April 10 — My second night in my new home. Good thing I’m a sound sleeper. Some of our hard-of-hearing tenants like to turn their TVs up LOUD. And bikers on high-revving Harleys enjoy roaring up and down our alley at two in the morning. I think that may be when the bars close.

I met my neighbor across the corridor, who turned out to be Ida, the elderly lunch-counter waitress at Flampert’s Variety Store.
Considering the tips Carlotta used to leave her, I can see why she has to live here. She said hello while strolling back from the bathtub in a plaid robe I recognized as a $12.95 Flampert’s Original. She addressed me as “Mr. Marvin,” and said she hoped I would prove a better neighbor than the previous Mr. Marvin, who was always going off her medication with disruptive results.

Apparently there is a tradition among the tenants of referring to each other by the names on their doors. Ida herself is identified on her door as “Walter M. Whatley, Certified Public Account,” so she is addressed as Mr. Whatley, though some long-term tenants call her Walt. Me, I’m happy I didn’t wind up in the office of “Evelyn O. Selzer, Stenographer and Typist.” Those rooms are currently occupied by a retired sawmill hand and his illegal cat.

4:40 p.m. Back from Radio Shack, where I purchased their cheapest combined telephone/answering machine. I plugged it in, discovered my phone jack was now working, and made my inaugural call to Connie Krusinowski, who was lounging in the hot tub with Lacey.

“Is she wearing a bathing suit?” I asked.

“Yeah, not that I noticed.”

“Are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Can you talk freely?”

“I hardly think so, Roger.”

“Have there been any developments, Connie?”

“Yes, a promising one.”

“Does it concern your father?”

“Mostly the other one.”

“Lacey?”

“No, the other one.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes, Roger, Mother’s gone to our house in Palm Springs.”

“She moved out?”

“Yes, took the dogs with her. And Dogo too. I think she may be staying there for some time.”

“She found out about Lacey?”

“Yes, Roger, Benecia’s a gem.”

“Your housekeeper spilled the beans?”

“Uh-huh, good help can be expensive.”

“Oh, your mother bribed her. So how’s your father taking it?”

“Lovely, just lovely. And there’s so much to do, day and night.”

“He and Lacey are constantly going at it?”

“That’s so true, Roger. And how are things with you?”