Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp Read online

  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.

  “Sure,” I rumbled with forced nonchalance, handing her Anna’s leash.

  My Love was dressed in sandals, jonquil shorts, and that all-too-familiar yellow tube top that had traumatized me at Clear Lake so many months before. We strolled south along the beach toward distant rocky cliffs, where a renowned sea geyser was rumored to spout a stream of saltwater more than 60 feet into the air.

  “It must have been pretty here once,” Sheeni remarked, “before all those Americans built their tacky beach houses.”

  “Humans are such a blight,” I replied, tugging Vronski away from some drowned sea creature’s rotting corpse. “And dogs run a close second.”

  My Love chuckled. “Aren’t you hot in that coat?”

  “Not at all,” I lied. “I’m getting over a cold. That’s why my voice is a little raspy. And Mrs. K expects me to remain in uniform.”

  “Do you work for them all the time?”

  “Just on vacations. I almost didn’t make it this time on account of my motorcycle accident, but the bruises are healing nicely … Anything the matter? You’ve seemed a little, uh, withdrawn.”

  “I didn’t want to come here. My father insisted. My mother didn’t want to come either. She doesn’t approve of the Krusinowskis, as you may have surmised from her rudeness. Father insisted on accepting the invitation. He’s a lawyer and they instinctively suck up to people with money. I think he’s hoping to land some of the Krusinowskis’ legal work.”

  “Well, there are worse things than a vacation in Mexico on the beach.”

  “Not with my parents!”

  Anna paused for a leisurely postprandial dog gag and barf.

  “How are you getting on with Connie?” I asked.

  “She’s OK.”

  We resumed our walk.

  “You know she’s madly in love with your brother.”

  “So I heard. Personally, I think it’s pathetic that someone would mutilate themselves surgically to try and attract some disinterested person. Don’t you agree?”

  “Well, I’m not sure I’d call it pathetic,” I said, swallowing hard. “Perhaps more like enterprising.” I felt a change of topic was called for. “I understand, Sheeni, that you had a recent brush with the law yourself.”

  My Love gave me a quick hard look. “You seem remarkably well-informed. It was just a misunderstanding—one of many recently. Things have been very crazy lately. My brother was arrested. A close friend of mine got railroaded into a stupid marriage. Another friend had to skip town just ahead of the cops. I haven’t heard from him for two weeks.”

  “You must be worried sick,” I said hopefully.

  “Not really. He can take care of himself.”

  “You almost sound like you wouldn’t be that upset if he were arrested.”

  “Well, it might simplify matters if he were.”

  I tried not to reveal the turmoil those ominous words touched off in my heart.

  We never made it to the alleged geyser. My Love was her usual indefatigable self, but the dogs’ little pencil legs threatened to give out. We turned back.

  “I, I never heard the name Sheeni before.”

  “My real name’s Sheridan. Father’s a Civil War buff. A friend when I was little started calling me Sheeni.”

  “Oh, who was that?”

  “A boy named Trent Preston.”

  More distress for Nick. Someday I hope to uncover some aspect of My Love’s eventful life in which that deranged poet has not been intimately involved.

  4:10 p.m. When we got back, the Plock was jammed with ogling fellow campers, apparently invited over by Sheeni’s mother, much to Mrs. K’s evident annoyance. My Love retired to the roof deck with her book; Connie and I retreated to the beachside patio of the campground minimart for cold beers (Connie paid). I squeezed in juice from my little lime wedge and sucked on the brown bottle without mercy.

  “How’s it going with Paulo’s sister?” asked Connie.

  “Terrible. She wants to rat on Nick to the cops.”

  “Really? She said so?”

  “In so many words.”

  “It’s to be expected, Rick. But I can see why you’re obsessed with her. She’s a knockout. A bit on the cold side though.”

  “Sheeni’s a very warm person. She’s just pissed at her parents right now. Connie, you’ve got to help me get my money back from her.”

  “How?”

  “Tell her you spoke by phone with Nick. Tell her I said for her to write you a check for $689,000. So you can deposit it and then forward the money to me.”

  “OK, Rick. But I’ll be amazed if she goes for it.”

  I finished my beer and belched so explosively that everyone on the patio turned and stared. As if I cared.

  “What do you think of our future in-laws?”
I asked.

  “God, Rick, they suck. How did those two ever produce Paulo and Sheeni?”

  “That, Connie, is one of the great mysteries of the age. Another is why your father ever invited them here.”

  “That’s easy, Rick. It’s more proof that he ratted on Paulo. Extreme guilt is the only possible explanation. Shall we order some nachos?”

  “Connie, I thought you subsisted on one olive a day. Lately you’ve been eating like a horse.”

  “There’s no need to diet now, Rick. Poor Paulo’s in jail and Lacey’s practically out of the picture.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t turn him in yourself? Perhaps it was your body’s final desperate ploy to avoid starvation.”

  “I wish I was that devious, Rick. Maybe I should take some lessons from your girlfriend.”

  9:40 p.m. Some Plock passengers had to eat an expensive, multicourse dinner at a ritzy restaurant up in the hills. But since the Plock II runabout only seats five, the two servants got to remain behind and dine on leftovers from the back of the refrigerator. My Love, needless to say, looked enchanting dressed to go out. Bondo, with his new Gallic blood, stared brazenly at her, but she didn’t seem to notice. Connie looked inscrutably exotic in one of her many oriental-theme slinky silk frocks and new-to-me violet eye contacts. Sighing, I watched them drive away, then manufactured two stiff margaritas while Dogo dished up the leftovers. Bad news, diary. Not yet 15, I’ve already lost track of my lifetime cocktail count.

  “Dogo, how did you get to be such a great cook?” I asked, chowing down on his toothsome leftovers.

  “CIA, Rick.”

  “You were a spy! But aren’t large eye-catching tattoos somewhat counterproductive for undercover work?”