Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp Page 10

  • • •

  MONDAY, March 15 — The Ides of March (whatever that means) and My Love’s fifteenth birthday. Just think, this is the second year of her life in which she has had the pleasure of knowing me. Ours is now a passion with history and depth. If she comes to her senses and we get married this year, she’ll be a spry and shapely 65 when we celebrate our Golden Wedding anniversary. By then science will have tinkered around with human genes so we won’t be wrinkled and decrepit. I may be making love to Sheeni at the age of 200! Every 50 years we’ll have to invite our prestigious friends over for a really big anniversary bash.

  To celebrate this momentous day, I decided to defy Connie’s alpha-dog dad and share a hot tub again with his nubile daughter. Sheeni, I wish it was your own naked body beside me in the bubbling foam.

  “You’re still not thinking of me as a sister,” commented Connie, observing my underwater promontories. Both eyes were sparkling blue; her accent was taking the morning off.

  “It’s just that I’ve never seen a blue-eyed Asian before.”

  “Damn, I forgot my contacts again. I’m always doing that. It drives the Chinese guys wild at the CIA.”

  Connie is not a spy. She’s a sometime student at the California Institute of the Arts. Not to worry. The fellow student she pays to take detailed lecture notes and write her term papers never misses a class.

  “Did I tell you I was thinking of becoming a Negro?” I asked.

  “No, Nick, you didn’t,” she replied, glancing down. “And I’m not sure you’re equipped for the job.”

  I decided to overlook that slur against my manhood.

  “I’ve been discussing it with Paul and Lacey. It looks like it’s my only option if I want to go back and be with Sheeni.”

  “She has a thing for black guys?”

  “No, but I can’t go back as a woman again. And I can’t think of any other disguise that would fool people. Lacey’s offered to dye my hair and give me a permanent. Paul says I can darken my skin by soaking in a bath of walnut husks.”

  “Nick, there’s more to being black than being brown.”

  “I know, Connie, but I did grow up in Oakland. I can sound black. I spent years listening to rap.”

  “When did you ever listen to rap?”

  “Constantly. It was always being blasted out of passing cars.”

  “I thought so. It’s a good thing you met me, Nick. So I can save you from your own stupidity.”

  “What’s wrong with that idea?”

  “Just this: Black people are always getting stopped by the police. They’re a magnet for cops. You’d be locked up within a week.”

  Damn, she’s right.

  4:38 p.m. I know we’ve been indoctrinated to look down on high-school dropouts, but their academics-free lifestyle may be getting a bum rap. Instead of cramming my brain with arcane facts about the hydrogen atom, I spent another pleasant day driving around and cleaning pools with Paul. We shared a joint in the Hollywood Hills with a sun-loving starlet wedged into a bikini that looked like it had been made-over from a Barbie doll costume. She confided that she had spent well over $8,000 on high-visibility electrolysis—another occupation to consider if I don’t make it as an alcoholic fiction writer.

  I’m now an officially licensed 18-year-old! I am now of legal age to drive a car, vote, join the Marines, or marry the woman of my choice. What a relief to skip those middle adolescent years—a painful and confusing time, I’m told, for so many teens. Mr. Castillo did a beautiful job validating the existence and citizenship of Nick S. Dillinger. The hologram on my driver’s license is flawless. I love flipping open my wallet to gaze upon my new ID. It even has the little pink sticker in the corner advising authorities they may harvest my organs should I perish in a car wreck or (more likely) in a hail of police bullets. I feel like I’ve finally put my sordid origins behind me, having at last achieved a new, more suitable identity. I almost didn’t recognize that upbeat feeling when I pocketed my new documentation. Hey, it’s called positive self-esteem!

  6:25 p.m. Amazing news, diary! I just checked in with my sister Joanie. Mario hasn’t ratted on me to the FBI! Apparently he’s concerned that my arrest might invalidate their design copyrights on the Wart Watch and Footborghinis (still in prototype stage). Kimberly’s seen the light too. (More proof that money talks.) All this stress on my nervous system was for nothing! Joanie got the good news last Friday and left the details with Dr. Dingy to relay to me in case I called. But somehow my reprieve must have slipped her asshole boyfriend’s mind. If she ever decides to marry that turkey (assuming he divorces his present wife), she better not expect me at the wedding.

  The bad news is I have to go back to being Carlotta. And just when I thought I had donned my last unflattering brassiere. Long years of leg shaving and boner stifling may loom ahead. Too bad I tossed all her stuff out the bus window. But it may be time for a Carlotta Ulansky image makeover. Connie has offered to take me shopping tomorrow on Rodeo Drive.

  8:10 p.m. Something has gone horribly awry. I just dialed My Love to wish her happy birthday and tell her the good news. When Sheeni’s 5,000-year-old mother answered the phone, I switched to Carlotta’s bubbliest voice.

  “Hi, Mrs. Saunders. Sorry I missed church yesterday. Is Sheeni home?”

  “Liar!” she screamed. “Voice of Satan! God will strike you dead, Nick Twisp!” Click.

  The biggest earthquake yet just rumbled through my scrotum: a brutal 9.7 on the Richter scale.

  • • •

  TUESDAY, March 16 — After a miserable night, I awoke feeling like a hair ball in the hot-tub drain. It doesn’t add up. Where did I go wrong? Too on edge to eat anything. I’ve strapped on my money belt and loaded up my backpack. I am now ready for instant flight to God knows where.

  10:45 a.m. I couldn’t take the suspense any longer. I dialed Redwood High in Ukiah and asked to speak to freshman honor student Sheeni Saunders. The secretary said Sheeni couldn’t come to the phone because she had just been taken down to the Ukiah police station. More violent internal organ convulsing. I composed myself and asked to speak to Frank DeFalco instead.

  “Who is this?” demanded the secretary, suddenly suspicious.

  “Polonius DeFalco,” I replied calmly. “I wish to inform my nephew of a tragic death in the family.”

  The secretary hurried off to hunt for Fuzzy. After a nearly interminable wait, my pal came on the line.

  “Uncle Polly?”

  “Frank, it’s me, Nick. Your uncle Polly croaked, remember?”

  “Yeah, I figured it was you. Thanks a pantsful, dickhead.”

  “Frank, what’s the matter?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s the matter. The whole school knows I took a chick to the Christmas dance. How am I supposed to explain that to Lana? And guess what? Bruno Modjaleski is looking to pound your ass. I told you to back off on making out with that guy. And all the girls in Lana’s gym class are totally out for your blood. They had to bring in counselors for some of them. And Elbowgash is screaming for your scalp.”

  “Frank, how did the cops find out about me?”

  “How should I know? They raided your house early this morning. Trent and Apurva had to show them their marriage license. Boy, were those two spooked. I think Trent wants to pound your puny ass too.”

  “Have the cops talked to you?”

  “Not yet, but everyone knows I was tight with Carlotta. If they drag me downtown, dude, I’m spilling my guts.”

  “Frank, you don’t have to tell them anything.”

  “That’s what you think. My parents are going to kill me.”

  “Frank, if you say anything, I’ll have no choice but to squeal about Lana’s dad being a grower. Don’t think your girlfriend won’t know where I got the information.”

  “You’re scum, Nick. You’re total slime.”

  “I’m your best friend, Frank. We have to stick together. Don’t worry, I’ll make it all up to you.”

  “How?�
�

  “Financially, Frank. Remember, I’m loaded. If you see Sheeni, tell her to call me right away.”

  “OK, Nick,” he sighed. “See you in jail. Maybe they’ll stick us in the same cell. Right before they give you the chair!”

  Fuzzy had better keep his furry lips zipped. If he blabs to the cops that I’m responsible for the Geezer virus, Dad may be on the hook for several hundred million dollars in computer damages. And I’ll be looking at another five years in federal prison.

  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.