Revoltingly Young (3 page)

“
Hell, I knew something was up,” said Stoney. “You don’t look like any Wescott I’ve ever seen. For one thing, you’re not fat.”

It was true. At family gatherings I was the one Wescott who didn’t make the floorboards creak.

THURSDAY, June 23 – My first full day as a gang member and possible Twisp. All in all not very conducive to the placidity of one’s mind. It might have been better had we just sliced each other up in that bus last night. And if I am indeed a Twisp, why have I been living for the past 15-1/2 years with Grandma Wescott? Have I no blood links at all to the Wescott family? If so, what is their interest in this errant Twisp offspring?

At least now I have a clue why my “dad” is so distant. I may not be related to the creep! Perhaps my voice reminds him more of George Twisp’s than of Nick’s. And who exactly is this George F. Twisp whose carelessness is alleged to have hurled me into this world? Tyler wasn’t much help. He’s only met his grandfather a few times and remembers him as a grouchy old guy who smelled bad. Even worse, he’s nearly bald! Now I have yet another thing to worry about.

Speaking of male hormone matters, Tyler has given up trying to tie his dick in a knot. He has the required length and competitive spirit, but is much too thick (I should have his problems). I told him if he wanted a pencil dick, he should have eaten more lead paint chips when he was a kid. As I recall, that was a favorite snack of Carlyle’s as a preschooler.

I’m at liberty to update my blog because my nephew has gone to the swim center with Stone Holt.. This is unprecedented in two ways. First, it is Stoney’s first known date with a guy (or anyone for that matter). And second, it will mark her first public appearance in a swimsuit since she acquired her dynamic curves. By the way, Tyler reports she is quite a sexy kisser. He says we may have to resume our beat-off contest if he is to resist her spectacular charms. Damn, I wish I had some of that guy’s babe magnetism. Even wannabe lesbians find him irresistible.

3:47 p.m. I just saw Uma Spurletti! She has acquired a most becoming summer glow (those Italians really know how to tan). She must not have seen me, as she crossed the street before our paths could meet. I hope my dressing entirely in brown does not cause me to blend in excessively with the desert landscape. I intended to call out a friendly greeting, but chickened out at the last moment. Although she was dressed entirely in blue, I felt no impulse to assault her (except, I fear, sexually). How odd that the mere sight of another human can be so stimulating to the nervous system.

I noticed that someone has been spray-painting “UPT” all over town. The shaky handwriting leads me to believe that it is the work of Carlyle. I suppose one should be pleased by the sudden profusion of one’s cherished gang symbols, but I’ve always found graffiti to be rather unsettling. To me it smacks of lowlifes and lawlessness. I need to remind myself that I have joined an urban street gang, not the Cub Scouts.

There’s no avoiding it: I have to get a summer job. I can’t keep sponging off Grandma–especially now that we may not even be related. But what can I do that pays well and is not entirely withering to the soul? Even the halfway decent jobs like coffee jerking at Starbucks require you to be 16.

6:12 p.m. Tyler is back from his hot date. He said Stoney created quite a stir when she emerged from the bathhouse in a fluorescent orange bikini. What little it left to the imagination all the boys by the pool clearly were willing to fill in. Jaws really dropped when she spread her towel beside Tyler’s and let him lovingly oil her up. He reports they had a “great time,” though he did have to menace a couple of local cretins for bigoted remarks. They are to meet again tonight in the bus for more lip wrestling. If I had any balls, I’d call up Uma and invite her over to make it a foursome. Alas, in that respect I do take after my erstwhile father.

FRIDAY, June 24 – I am seething with envy and jealousy. Hanging around my handsome, virile nephew does that to a guy. He nearly went all the way last night. Stoney was more than willing–she had even brought along her own condoms. But Tyler had to decline due to that dumb promise extracted by his busybody mother. So they just made do with some extremely intimate fondling. At least you can’t get a horrible disease or nine months in the maternity ward from finger fucking. But personally, I’ve yet to experience an orgasm in my finger. Still, I’m willing to start there and work my way down to the real thing. Tyler reports there’s quite a lot of territory to explore up there, especially if you have a long finger (he does). You have to locate this bumpy zone called the G-spot. That really drives them wild. I find it improbable that I ever will be faced with such a mission, but it’s good to know your targets ahead of time. Such awareness I’m sure Uma would find reassuring as she parts her shapely thighs at my approach. As if!

SATURDAY, June 25 – Stoney and I walked Tyler to the bus station for his 8:30 a.m. departure for L.A. Even at that ungodly hour, Stoney had somehow gotten it together to apply a bit of pink gloss to her smoldering lips. Not to mention what looked to my unpracticed eyes like eye mascara. No dress, of course, but she’d ditched the boots and brutally studded Harley belt. What a shame their budding relationship had to terminate so abruptly, but they’ve promised to stay in touch by e-mail. They had an impassioned clutch, then Tyler shook my hand and jumped on the bus for the long ride back to glamorous L.A. How I wish I were going with him!

After the sad departure, Stoney and I stopped by Herschon’s bakery. Over iced coffee and consoling cinnamon rolls I got the full scoop.

“
So, Stoney, it looks to me like you really like my nephew.”

“
Yeah. Tyler’s OK.”

“
Oh? Just OK? I thought you liked him–you know, as a guy.”

“
I do like him, Noel. But I’m not sure how.”

“
I’m not following you here, Stoney.”

“
It’s like this. I’m not sure if I like Tyler. Or if I just want to
be
like Tyler.”

“
Oh.” I was still confused.

“
I mean, do I want to sleep with the guy? Do I want him as a boyfriend? Or do I want to be a muscular jock with a big dick?”

“
Oh, right. I can see how you might be confused on that point.”

“
I wanted to try him on for size, but he was too chicken. I thought you guys were always ready to get laid when you got the chance.”

“
Well, I am, Stoney. Anytime you say.”

“
Now you’re starting to sound like Carlyle, Noel. Don’t be such a pig.”

Is it me or are girls always broadcasting mixed signals?

“
Sorry, Stoney. I just thought if you slept with a guy, you might have a better idea if you’re really a lesbian.”

“
Not necessarily, Noel. Lots of dykes have slept with guys. It’s a very butch thing to do–like riding motorcycles and brawling in bars.”

“
Oh, I see.”

Being a lesbian sounds even more challenging than being an impoverished and horny teenaged youth.

SUNDAY, June 26 – Today marks five weeks since I had to change my sheets in the middle of night. A new record for me. I hope this means I’ve finally turned that skanky corner. What an impediment to a satisfying love life that would be (assuming I had one). The bad news is that lately I keep waking up with my thumb in my mouth. I pray this doesn’t mean I have a deep-seated need to suck stuff (like, say, cocks, for example). All these infantile traits lingering so long has me a bit concerned. I think what I really need is a therapeutic week in bed with Uma.

That is even more remote of a fantasy now. I just received word from my blog hoster that I’m being ejected because of “obscene content.” I don’t see how Real Life Honestly Described can be deemed “obscene,” but there you have it. And there goes my dream that while Googling her name, Uma would discover my blog and realize that she and I had a Date with Destiny. Oh well, I may not be cut out for the blogging scene anyway. The only comments I was drawing sounded like they were from middle-aged perverts masquerading as ditsy 12-year-old girls.

My bankroll is down to 19 cents. Time to watch some semi-lucrative TV with Grandma.

MONDAY, June 27 – A noisy thunderstorm in the dead of night. At that first nerve-pummeling boom I nearly bit off my thumb. I may have to buy some handcuffs on Ebay and shackle myself to the bedpost at night. Be a shame if I perished in a conflagration because I couldn’t get to the key in time. I’m told these trailers can go up like aluminum-clad napalm bombs. I’ve turned a nasty corner here. My thumb is now even more chafed than my much-abused privates.

3:12 p.m. I may have a line on a job. I ran into Rot Dugan at the hardware store, where I was buying the cheapest garden gloves they carry. Rot’s real name is Jasper, for which crime he expects his parents to burn in hell for all eternity. Long ago his bright orange hair earned him the nickname Carrot, which over time got condensed to Rot. He himself is a bit condensed, being the shortest guy in our class at a non-towering 4'6" and 81 pounds. Anyway, Rot reports his dad is looking for a “house darky” for his wedding chapel hospitality staff. The Dugans reside in an imposing plantation-style mansion that used to be a funeral home until Mr. Dugan developed a life-threatening allergy to embalming fluids. So Rot’s dad cleared out the caskets and stiff clientele, and sent away for a mail-order minister’s license. Now his Dixie Belle Wedding Chapel marries people in a genteel manner recalling the days of the Old South.

“
Wouldn’t I have to be, um, black for this position?” I inquired.

“
Naw, you just have to smear on brown greasepaint and wear a kinky wig,” Rot replied. “Dad says real black people would make his customers nervous.”

Sounds like blatant discrimination to me, but I doubt if many blacks in town would be lining up for a job that lets them relive their oppressed ancestors’ pre-Civil War slavery days. Alas, financial desperation prevents me from taking a strong ethical stand against such overt racism. I said I would be over after supper tonight with my résumé (such as it is) in hand.

“
Any why, Rot, don’t you do this job?” I inquired.

“
Well I used to, Noel. But I got fired.”

“
You were fired by your own father?”

“
Yeah. Too many customers were commenting that the house darky looked just like him.”

TUESDAY, June 28 – I woke up at 1:08 a.m. last night. That’s when the fuzzy cotton thumb of my garden glove first entered my mouth. I also woke up at 2:28, 4:51, 6:17, and 8:49. The last occasion was when Grandma tugged on my toe to tell me I had a call. It was Mr. Dugan phoning to say I was hired. I thanked him and pretended to sound pleased and enthusiastic. I suspect I mostly sounded tired, groggy, and parched. Thick cotton can really soak up the moisture from a guy’s mouth.

I’m not sure about this job. Mr. Dugan impressed me as being something of a short tightwad (he’s only a few inches taller than his son and a good half-foot shorter than his matronly wife). I’m to be paid a flat $5 per function plus tips. Fairly miserable, but at least most weddings are over in under 30 minutes. The truly bad news is that 90 percent of Mr. Dugan’s trade consists of walk-ins. Therefore, I’m to be on call 24/7. Whenever Mr. Dugan rings my cell phone, I’m to drop everything and zip over on my bike (a brisk ten-minute ride). Worse, I’m expected to arrive made up and in costume. This means I’ll have to go about my daily life in blackface and dressed like a Negro house servant circa 1840: rough breeches, fitted coat with velvet collar, homespun blouse, knotted bandana for my cravat, and battered straw hat. No wristwatch, jewelry, iPod, or running shoes permitted. Sounds dreadful, but I’m in too deep now to back out; Mrs. Dugan took my measurements last night and her husband reports she is already at work altering the costume to fit. I’m to find a pair of plain brown leather shoes (style: Junior Slave), for which they will reimburse me up to the sum of $10. Looks like another trip to the Golden Eagle Thrift Shoppe. Only one question: Why me, God?

7:12 p.m. I am now an African American named Toby (Mr. Dugan thought Noel sounded too contemporary and white). On the whole, it feels a bit strange. Mrs. Dugan let the seams out as much as possible, but I still feel like a lizard about to shed its too-small skin. And this jacket doesn’t smell that good. Rot and his predecessors appear to have done a great deal of sweating in it. Grandma suggested hanging it up on the patio to air out. The wig promises to be trouble too. It’s this rubbery affair like a bathing cap, covered in a quarter inch of black nappy wool. Very sweaty on hot days, such as we are expecting for the next four or five months. The greasepaint also feels rather sweaty and greasy. I hope it doesn’t exacerbate my zit problem. At least my new (used) shoes feel pretty comfortable. Stoney and I found them in the hospice store, which suggested to her that the previous owner had keeled over in them. I hope not, but their minimal wear certainly implies that the prior occupant wasn’t up for any arduous hikes. A bargain at only $3.99, but I intend to be reimbursed for the full $10. After all, my valuable time is worth at least that much.

No more nightly sewing for me. Grandma fears the greasepaint will rub off on the festive fabrics. I am now reduced to watching TV for free.

WEDNESDAY, June 29 – Three weddings so far today. All middle-aged couples and all apparently cold sober. Fairly meager tippers–only a gratuitous $2 thus far. This was from a couple whose van broke down on Interstate 80. While waiting for their injectors to be replaced, they decided to kill some time by getting married. I suspect they’d both had some prior experiences at the matrimonial altar. I wonder if Uma and I could ever be so casual, should Our Love progress to that stage. (Hey,
somebody’s
going to marry Uma. Why shouldn’t it be me?)