Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp (25 page)

“I suppose not, Rick. My Trent is very idealistic. I know he’ll be a wonderful father. Of course, it’s a great inconvenience having our first child so soon. We were very careful too.”

More guilt for Rick. OK, I admit sabotaging those condoms was hitting below the belt.

“Apurva, I think this will turn out to be a positive experience for you both. Sheeni’s cruel falsehood has opened Trent’s eyes to the true nature of his former love. No affection can survive such a deception, especially one calculated to inflict so much pain. And you have witnessed another confirmation of your husband’s essentially noble, if not always practical, character.”

“That is very reassuring, Rick. You have given me new insight into my husband’s mind. How can I ever thank you?”

“Just stay married,” I replied, paying the check and leaving a not ungenerous tip for Mr. Whatley. “That’s all the thanks I need.”

I don’t care what Connie says. I want Trent either dead or matrimonially cemented to a woman who’s going to fight for him tooth and nail.

THURSDAY, April 15 — One good thing about being a fugitive from justice, you don’t have to bother with filing an income
tax return. Uncle Sam may be the sole interested party this year not grabbing a slice of my dwindling estate.

I had a nasty scare this morning when Sheeni and I came back to my place after first period. My Love opened her purse and pulled out a menacing revolver.

“OK, traitor,” she said, pointing the gun at me, “what the hell were you doing talking to Apurva yesterday in Flampert’s?”

I stared at the lethal-looking gun barrel and instinctively raised my hands. “It was just a friendly chat, Sheeni. We’re in driver’s ed together. We were discussing parking!”

“Yeah, I know the kind of parking you’re interested in. I ought to plug your perfidious gizzard. And there’s the little matter of Sonya. You’ve taken your last phone call from that dame, you, you chubby chaser.”

“Sheeni, be reasonable,” I implored. “Is that thing loaded?”

“You’re damn right it’s loaded. I’m going to make you crawl. Down on your knees, lover boy.”

My heart pounding, my scrotum quivering, I sank down on my knees. “Sheeni, darling, what’s come over you?”

My Love smiled slyly and lowered the revolver. “You must have a guilty conscience, Rick. I was only fooling.”

I collapsed on the floor, but not from laughter. “Sheeni, that wasn’t funny. Where did you get that gun?”

“I stole it from my father’s dresser drawer.”

“You brought a loaded gun to school this morning?” I asked, incredulous.

“Sure, Rick. Doesn’t everyone? I brought my camera too. I want to take your picture.”

Still shaking, I crawled up off the floor, and Sheeni handed me the gun. Its blue-steeled mass felt impressively weighty in my hand. “Is it really loaded?” I asked.

“I think so, Rick. There seem to be brass bullet-like items in
the cylinder. You might want to keep your finger off the trigger. I’m not sure if the safety’s on or off.”

My Love snapped a half-dozen photos of me holding the gun in the same sexually suggestive manner as Jean-Paul Belmondo’s famous pose on her beloved “Breathless” poster. I complied because helping a loved one fulfill a long-standing girlish fantasy can only strengthen the bonds between you. When Sheeni put away her camera, she refused to take back the gun.

“You keep it, Rick,” she insisted. “If it’s in my house, I know I’ll wind up using it on my parents or myself.”

“But what am I supposed to do with it?”

“Hide it somewhere. I don’t care. So what besides parking were you discussing with Apurva?”

“How did you know about that?”

“I talked to Vijay. He’s the only person my mother lets me take phone calls from—except for Trent, who never calls. Vijay saw you two together. Is she going to leave Trent?”

“Certainly not. Indians don’t believe in divorce. And why do you care?”

“Why do you care, Rick, why I care?”

“Why do you care, Sheeni, why I care why you care?”

“I give up, Rick. Let’s go in that other room and turn out the lights.”

We did just that. It’s even better following a severe jolt to the nervous system. I suppose the body must crave unbridled sexual release after dangerous gunplay.

After lunch, Sheeni left for school and I hurried to the post office, where I found a yellow slip in my box advising that a package had arrived. After an interminable wait in line, I retrieved my precious package and brought it back to my apartment, where I closed my ratty curtains and counted out the great wads of twenties, fifties, and hundreds. I came up with the same total three times:
$13,750. Just as I feared, my chiseler sister had shortchanged me. Someday I’d like to meet a Twisp I could trust.

I now had nearly $18,000 in cash in an apartment with dubious neighbors and a flimsy 1940s lock on the door. Thinking it over, I decided to rent a safe-deposit box—in a different bank from my previous one. The closest bank on my block did rent safe-deposit boxes, but only to account holders. So I grudgingly opened a checking account with $1,000 and stashed $15,000 in cold cash in my new safe-deposit box. The balance I’m hiding in the sofa with Sheeni’s gun for emergencies. I’ve figured out how to set the safety so it won’t go off and kill me if I roll over too hard in bed.

More parallel parking in driver’s ed. I did a little better, but my heart still wasn’t in it. Who cares how close you come to the curb, if you’re just going to die making that next terrifying left turn? At least Apurva seemed in much better spirits. Her husband wants to meet me! She invited me to dinner next Monday in Carlotta’s very own house; I accepted with alacrity.

When I got back from school, my phone was ringing. It was Connie Krusinowski driving home from college on a jammed L.A. freeway.

“I thought you never went to class, Connie?”

“I do occasionally, Rick. You can’t really appreciate Spring Break unless you follow it up with at least one boring day of school. So what’s been happening, guy?”

Connie thought it was great for my image that I was taking another girl to the dance, even if my date did have serious weight issues.

“I’m sure it’s helping you appear to Sheeni to be The Person She Wants But Cannot Have,” Connie said.

“But she’s having me every day,” I pointed out. “She had me three times this morning in just about every way imaginable.”

“Reality doesn’t matter, Rick. It’s the impression that counts.
How are you staying in touch with Sheeni at nights and on weekends?”

“We’re not, Connie. Her mother won’t let her talk on the phone—at least not to me.”

“But you’ve given her a secret cellular phone, right?”

“Uh, no.”

“Rick, you’re the guy here. Yours is the technologically oriented sex. I shouldn’t have to point out these obvious steps to you.”

“Sorry, Connie. I’ll get right on it. How’s it going on your end?”

It was only going so-so. Connie was pleased that guilt-wracked Lacey has yet to visit Paul in jail, but her dad got a bad scare from his lawyers on the potential division of assets that a divorce would entail. And paying his taxes this week hasn’t left him in a very amorous mood.

“I can see Daddy needs help over the brink,” Connie confided. “I’ll have to work on getting Rita to file. It would help if things were going better with her and Paulo’s father. Rick, you’ve got to get him to call my mother in Palm Springs.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” I demanded.

“You’ll think of something, Rick. I’m counting on you!”

9:25 p.m. Feeling semi-affluent, I had another lonely dinner for one at the Golden Carp. Steve the waiter had no illusions this time. He shuffled over to my table with weary disinterest and took my order as if I had insulted his ancestors. Somehow, it was all very reassuring. In an world of tumult and confusion, Steve’s surly indifference is the immutable bedrock upon which I anchor my tenuous grip on reality.

FRIDAY, April 16 — Before I left for school I phoned the law office of Sheeni’s father. As I had hoped, his efficient legal secretary answered.

“Elwyn Saunders, Esquire, please,” I said in Rick S. Hunter’s haughtiest falsetto.

“I’m sorry,” she replied, “Mr. Saunders doesn’t get in until after 9:30. Would you like to leave a message?”

I requested that he call Mrs. Rita Krusinowski in Palm Springs at the number Connie had given me, adding, “Please inform him that I’ve left my husband.”

“Mr. Saunders doesn’t normally handle divorces,” she pointed out.

“Young woman, I don’t care for your impertinent presumption!” Click.

Well, I’ve done my best to supply the connection. It’s up to those two to rekindle the magic.

By now desperate for a shower (even if it did entail running a gauntlet of rowdy towel-snappers following 40 minutes of vicious basketball), I informed My Love I wasn’t available for class cutting until after second period. I met her in a still-damp state at the Beaver Lodge cafe, where Sheeni sipped her virgin latte and complained her passport still hadn’t arrived. Her spirits improved when I suggested a shopping expedition for his and her cellular phones.

We strolled to the local cellular and pager store, where I blew over $600 on tiny folding phones, spare batteries, service charges, activation fees, roaming options, extended warranties, and other miscellaneous telecommunications gougings. I was hoping My Love would chip in from her sizeable fortune, but she explained that she had only $12 in ready cash. Both phones were activated on the spot in my name, and both bills will be sent to you know who. At least they started us off with 500 “free” minutes.

Her shopping bug stimulated, Sheeni volunteered to help me look for a suit to wear to the dance tomorrow. As I was budgeting no more than $20 for the complete ensemble, we confined our search to Ukiah’s fashionable thrift shops. My Love prefers the more upscale Cancer Society shop, where it seemed to me that you risked contracting a terminal case just breathing in all those
stale and sickly odors. We searched through the racks of expired cancer-victim suits, but everything was sized for men with big appetites and unhealthy diets. Despairing, My Love asked an elderly clerk if they had any suits that would fit me. The woman removed her old-lady glasses and checked me out.

“Hmmm, he looks like a 36-short. We did get one in yesterday in that size, but it’s rather unusual. It’s still being priced. I’ll see if I can locate it.”

A minute later the clerk returned with a “rather unusual” suit made of some kind of crinkled leather. It wasn’t tailored from large hides, but had been sewn together from many small, irregularly shaped pieces—all in varying shades of blue, ranging from a pallid turquoise to a bold indigo. The lining was a tasteful flaming orange color.

“Rather striking, Rick,” commented My Love. “Don’t you think?”

“What on earth is it?” I exclaimed.

“It’s eelskin,” explained the clerk. “Too bad the label’s been cut out. The ladies in the back think it might be by some famous designer. I’m sure it was quite expensive when new.”

“Try it on, Rick,” urged Sheeni. “This I have to see.”

The suit fit as if it had been personally tailored for Rick S. Hunter. Sheeni thought the rakish cut was very flattering and added inches to my height. She said the lines obviously were Parisian inspired. My Love quickly picked out a coordinating pale yellow shirt, wide paisley tie, brown shoes, and matching brown fedora hat. She even chipped in her last ten-dollar bill when the total soared to over $40.

“You don’t think the suit’s a little loud?” I asked as we were leaving the shop with my purchases.

“We were very lucky to get it, Rick,” she replied. “And such a good buy too.”

The suit may have been, but I was still leery of those used
shoes. I just hope the previous owner hadn’t died from cancer of the feet.

Alas, no lovemaking today; My Love had to hurry back to school to take an English test. I stopped at a florist shop and ordered a budget corsage, then went home, chatted up Mr. Whatley as she got ready for work, and fixed a lonely lunch for one. As I sat down to eat, something non-scrotal vibrated in my pants. I took out my tiny pocket phone.

“Hello?” I said.

“Rick, is that you?”

My Love and I were communicating totally without wires.

“Where are you, Sheeni?”

“In the cafeteria. I think your friend Sonya is looking for you. Would you like me to give her a message?”

“Tell her I’m reserving all the dreamiest slow dances with her tomorrow night.”

“You’re such a slimeball, Rick.”

“I can’t help it, Sheeni. It’s my French blood.”

“Do you like me, Rick?”

“You’re OK.”

“You’re OK too. ’Bye, darling.”

“Good-bye, Sheeni.”

Sheeni called me darling! But dare Rick S. Hunter employ a similar term of endearment with her? I must ask Connie if and when such flagrant exhibitions of affection would be permissible.

10:15 p.m. My Love called me three times tonight on her new phone. To avoid detection, she locks herself in her bathroom and turns on the shower. Now her parents are worried she’s developing a cleanliness fetish. Is their repentant daughter trying to wash away her sins, they wonder? Sheeni experienced fresh passport disappointments this afternoon, but I assured her you can’t expect
neck-snapping celerity from the U.S. Government, even if you did specify expedited service.

“I wish we could spend the night together,” she remarked during our last conversation.

“That would be nice.”

“You could try sneaking into my house, Rick. I could leave the side door unlocked.”

“And what if your parents discovered us together?”

“You could escape while Father was searching for his gun.”

“We better not do anything suspicious, Sheeni. It’s best to be patient.”

“This time next week, Rick, we may be in Paris.”

“Yes, Sheeni, that’s quite probable,” I lied.

“I think you should know, Rick, the Parisian girls are likely to go wild over you. Jean-Paul Belmondo is like a god to the French.”

“I’m prepared for that eventuality.”

“I hope superstardom doesn’t go to your head, Rick.”