Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp Read online

  “Sorry about your mother, Rick,” whispered Connie, watching my operation with interest.

  “She should be OK,” I replied. “If they put Lance on the stand, no jury in the world would convict her—even if he is a cop.”

  I then replaced the check, resealed the envelope, and handed it back to my accomplice in crime. Sneaky, I admit, but let us not forget whose money I was embezzling.

  Five minutes later. Another bad shock. It just occurred to me that the moisture on the envelope flap I licked was Sheeni’s own microbe-laden saliva!

  1:22 p.m. No ill-effects as of yet. We are once again hurtling south into deepest, darkest Mexico on a broad four-lane highway. Small sun-baked villages every now and then. A few moments ago Mrs. K ordered Dogo to bring our massive rig to an emergency halt so we could all troop out to view a tall roadside cactus in bloom. Miraculously, it had gathered enough sustenance from its arid surroundings to produce a credible simulation of a made-in-China red plastic flower. To help the cause, Vronski and Anna peed on its trunk.

  2:50 p.m. I just took the invalid her afternoon tea. My Love was sitting up in the berth and listening to her Walkman. Projecting as much indifference as Rick S. Hunter could muster, I dumped her teacup on the table, sneered, and turned to leave. My Love stopped the tape and removed her headphones.

  “Rick, don’t you love the Borodin string quartets?”

  I paused with my hand on the door handle. Given Nick Twisp’s uniquely retro musical tastes, I knew I would have to trod carefully around this topic.

  “I prefer the Young Dickheads,” I lied.

  My Love moved aside on the berth in a gesture clearly inviting me to take a seat next to her. I did so warily while maintaining as aloof a posture as possible.

  “Really, Rick? What songs by them do you like?”

  Land-mine dead ahead.

  “Oh, I like them all. What was that phone call you got this morning?”

  “Alarming news, Rick. My friend Nick’s mother has shot her husband. His sister called me in a state. He’s the boy who’s running from the police.”

  “Sounds like a pretty crazy family.”

  “I’m afraid they could all benefit from psychological intervention—especially Nick.”

  I didn’t point out that lately her family had been running up nearly as impressive an arrest record as mine.

  “Yeah,” I grunted. “Sounds like you’re well rid of that guy.”

  “I think so sometimes.”

  “Only sometimes, Sheeni?”

  “It’s complicated, Rick. Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “I get my quota.”

  Sheeni was close and getting closer. I recognized that subtle tensing of her disarming lips. If she imagined I was going to subject Rick S. Hunter’s immune system to any more of her microbes, she was out of her …

  We kissed, but only for ten minutes or so. I then ripped my lips from hers, twisted them into a sneer, and lurched for the door.

  9:12 p.m. All the way south through the sprawling state capital of Hermosillo and beyond I struggled to compose a letter to my mother. I wonder how many cases of paralyzing writer’s block are attributable to parents? What does one say to a close maternal relative who is facing prosecution for shooting a despised stepfather? Sorry your aim was off? Too bad you didn’t get a chance for a second shot? Better luck next time? All I could think to write was I hoped she was feeling OK about the attempted homicide and wasn’t looking to go into marriage counseling later with her intended victim. I put in a few good words for her previous boyfriend, tall Wally Rumpkin, and said I hoped this episode had given her a new appreciation for the kinds of extreme steps people like her and her elder son were sometimes forced to take in desperate circumstances. I closed by saying I hoped little Noel would be able to visit her often in prison, even if her other son couldn’t make it. All in all, a fairly inspiring missive that someday may prove a controversial highlight of the Collected Letters of Rick S. Hunter. I addressed the envelope to Mom’s house, and to throw off the cops I wrote as return address the Chihuahua Lovers of Mexico, Sonora State Branch.

  We reached Guaymas on the coast by late afternoon. Lots of high-rise hotels amid verdant tropical gardens, but none of the area campgrounds met Mrs. K’s demanding standards. So we camped right on the beach in a blue-water cove a few miles south of town in the shadow of jagged Mt. Teta Kawi. No hookups, but we’re making do with the Plock’s marine batteries, propane supplies, diesel generator (to power the vital air conditioning), and 300-gallon fresh water tank. The satellite TV reception is flawless, but Mrs. K’s and Connie’s cellular phones are now beyond the range of civilization. Looks like we’ll be roughing it.

  Dogo had a few stiff margaritas to relax from the road grind, then grilled a freshly purchased swordfish over a pit Bondo dug in the beach. We sat on the warm sand and stuffed ourselves as an orange and pink sun settled gingerly into the cobalt waters of the Sea of Cortez. Sheeni’s mother smacked her lips and said my virgin mai-tais were by far the best she’d ever had. Despite my standoffish vibes, My Love parked herself right next to me. I ignored her as much as was humanly possible.

  FRIDAY, April 2 — Another killer hot day. Somehow Guaymas contrives to be both desert-like and humid. It was already warm when Dogo and I rolled out of our adjoining berths in the luggage basement. He set up the curtain around the Plock’s outdoor shower, then stripped down to his well-ornamented buff for bathing. Sneaking a peek, I spotted an eagle, a wigwam, and what looked like a 1932 Ford coupe, but nothing resembling a riveted U-boat periscope. Drying off after my shower, I had to clutch my admiral’s uniform to my still-moist torso when My Love suddenly bounded out the door in the same purple bikini that had proved so wrenching to my nervous system last summer at Clear Lake.

  “Come on, Rick,” she called, “let’s go for a swim.”

  “Already took one,” I lied. “Have to squeeze Mrs. K’s orange juice.”

  I wanted to squeeze something, but it wasn’t a member of the citrus family.

  The main topic of conversation at breakfast was Nick Twisp’s homicidal mother. Looks like My Love spilled the beans. Few particulars of the case were known, but that didn’t stop Sheeni’s mother from launching another vituperative obloquy on The Menace of the Twisps. It was all I could do to restrain François from pissing in her oatmeal. It didn’t help that whenever Dogo joined in the discussion he referred to my erstwhile family as “them Twirps.”

  In the middle of the meal someone knocked on the door, triggering a frenzy of high-pitched dog yapping. I opened the door. An exasperated backpacker from down the beach asked if we could please switch off our “noisy generator.”

  “I wish I could, honey,” replied Mrs. K, “but I have to keep my little dogs cool.”

  “There’s nothing worse than a hot Chihuahua,” I told the red-faced man. “Care for a cappuccino? I’ve got the steam up in the espresso maker.”

  He muttered something about “damn despoilers of the planet” and stomped off.

  12:20 p.m. After Bondo finished his scullery chores, My Love threw an extra-large Chihuahua T-shirt over her now-dry bikini, and we sneaked away from the campsite. To avoid issues of grounding, she wisely avoided seeking her parents’ permission for our excursion. Despite my eremitical vibes, Sheeni entwined her familiar warm digits in mine. We made our way to the highway and caught the rickety local bus into town. In the midmorning heat Guaymas smelled strongly of rotting fish. In case its involvement in that industry wasn’t apparent enough, the city fathers had seen fit to erect something called “Monumento al Pescador,” an enormous statue of a heroic peasant wrestling a giant fish.

  We strolled along the harbor, then My Love asked to be excused and ducked into a farmacia. I watched from the busy entrance as she made an alarming purchase from the anticoncepcionismo aisle. Did she imagine we were going to rent a cheap hotel room for the afternoon? A marvelous idea, but only if they offer total blackout conditions in their rooms.


  Sure enough, halfway down the next block, she steered me into a hotel. We strolled across the dim cool lobby and toward an adjoining cantina.

  “Shall we have a soda, Rick?” proposed My Love. “You look like you’re about to faint in that heavy coat.”

  “OK,” I grunted.

  We ordered tall mango concoctions from the attractive waitress, then Sheeni excused herself to go the restroom. A few minutes later she returned—a dazzling smile illuminating her face.

  “You look pleased with yourself,” I growled.

  “I am, Rick. Very pleased indeed. Look!”

  She handed me a small rectangle of plastic-encased cardboard.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “It’s a pregnancy test, Rick. See, I passed.”

  “You mean you’re pregnant!” I exclaimed.

  “No, silly. It means I’m not. See, the little window didn’t turn pink.”

  “You thought you were expecting a baby?” I asked, still dazed.

  “Much worse than that, Rick,” she replied. “I feared I was expecting a Twisp. My friend Nick took advantage of me last month in a moment of emotional vulnerability. I’m underage, so it’s technically statutory rape.”

  I gulped. “But you’re OK, right?”

  “Uh-huh. I was a few days late and feeling pretty strange. The vomiting worried me too. But my periods can be somewhat irregular. I’ve skipped whole months before.”

  “Sheeni, you’ve got to be careful about these things. Guys aren’t programmed to act responsibly. They’ll always take advantage of you if they can.”

  “Rick, you sound just like my mother. And besides, Nick never impressed me as a likely candidate for reproductive success.”

  Mildly offended, I reached for the check and my arm knocked the cardboard rectangle off the table. I bent over to pick it up and experienced a massive scrotal spasm.

  THE DAMN WINDOW HAD TURNED PINK!

  If my genes were thrilled, they were keeping it to themselves. The rest of me felt violently ill. Fighting panic, I eased the telltale test into a pocket of my coat.

  “Rick, you’re white as a sheet.”

  “Excuse me … got to …”

  I fled to the restroom and expelled my breakfast in fiery waves. After the final harrowing heave, I ripped the test cardboard into a hundred pieces and flushed the whole disgusting mess of my life down the toilet.

  When I returned to our table, Sheeni was looking for something.

  “Nickie, I’ve lost my test.”

  Another jolt.

  “What did you call me?” I demanded.

  “Rick, of course. Have you seen my test?”

  “Uh, the waitress must have taken it when she cleared the table. Let’s go.”

  As we were exiting the hotel, My Love suddenly gripped my arm and pulled me back under the portico. Across the broad avenida Sheeni’s father was walking arm-in-arm with Mrs. K.

  “Maybe they’re just being politely friendly,” I gasped.

  We watched dumbfounded as the chummy couple disappeared into the hotel across the street.

  “Hypocrisy, Rick,” announced Sheeni. “It’s rearing its very ugly head.”

  3:20 p.m. After a downsized lunch (the two absentees were “shopping in town,” blithely explained Sheeni’s jilted mother), I took the dogs for an abbreviated walk to save them from heatstroke, then sought the younger Krusinowski’s counsel under a swaying palm tree. I slathered suntan lotion on Connie’s bare back as My Love frolicked in the waves across the cove with Dogo. No T.E. from this sensual operation; today’s events may have rendered me impotent for life.

  “I thought I saw those two making eyes over the bridge table,” Connie commented after I had related the shocking events of the morning. “Not someone I would have chosen, but I’ve noticed that women seem much less discriminating after age fifty. Menopause must be even more depressing than I thought. There was a time my mother would have laughed in that priggish windbag’s face. Mr. Saunders’s attraction to Rita is more understandable. How would you like to face his bedmate every night?”

  I shuddered. Could darling Sheeni ever get that old and repulsive?

  “What am I going to do about Sheeni?” I wailed.

  “Fifteen and expecting,” sighed Connie. “I’m sure that wasn’t in her plans.”

  “She thinks she’s not pregnant,” I pointed out.

  “Well, that can’t last, Rick. From what my girlfriends tell me, pregnancy has a way of making itself known to the victim. When she finds out, I imagine her first impulse will be to lash out at the guy responsible.”

  “What if I offered to marry her?”

  “I can’t begin to tell you how fast you’d be behind bars.”

  More emotional turmoil; I felt my wizened tool wither even further in my pants.

  “Then what should I do?”

  “Absolutely nothing, Rick. Just go on playing it cool. I like the way your body language has improved.”

  “But what about poor Sheeni?”

  “She should be fine, assuming she keeps her parents in the dark. Thanks to you, Rick, she can afford the best abortion money can buy.”

  “But I thought we could get married. Sheeni could have our baby. We could keep it around for a few months to get emotionally bonded, then send it to boarding school. It wouldn’t be that inconvenient.”

  “Bad idea, Rick. You’re not ready for parenthood.”

  “Who is, Connie?”

  “Hardly anyone, Rick, though I hope to nail handsome Paulo very soon.”

  I looked up and gazed longingly at My Love. I didn’t like the boisterous way our tattooed chauffeur was flinging her across the waves in her condition.

  “Connie, I saw no evidence of a submarine periscope or simulated rivets on Dogo’s repulsive body.”

  “I suppose not, Rick. But then you can’t believe everything people tell you on April Fools’ Day.”

  7:05 p.m. In the late afternoon the lovebirds returned from town lugging groceries and acting as if nothing had happened. I find it interesting that it’s not just teenagers who have to sneak around and pretend to be indifferent to sex. After an extended cocktail hour, Dogo prepared another fabulous barbecue on the beach. My Love made a face as I served her a genuinely virginal mai-tai. I figured I should give the kid a break, since it was probably still hung over from the benders of the previous days.

  As I sat on the sand and ate my spit-roasted chicken I glanced over at My Love’s slender abdomen. Somewhere in there a tiny zygote was struggling into existence. It was facing some tough odds, what with having a load of Twisp chromosomes in its DNA and a host who would not be pleased to learn of its presence. I wondered if I should be rooting for it. Did this overcrowded planet really need one more human being? And what kind of inhospitable world would it face if it did make it to birth? Ultimately, I knew, its fate was up to Sheeni to decide, but I couldn’t help feeling sad.

  10:45 p.m. The moon was almost full. I was sitting under a palm tree and thinking morose thoughts to the drone of the generator when My Love sauntered over and kicked off her sandals.

  “Mind if I join you, Rick?”

  “It’s a public beach,” I grunted.

  Sheeni sat down, leaned back against the tree, and languidly adjusted her bikini top. She reached over and sprinkled a handful of white sand on my uniform trousers.

  “Warm night,” she said. “How can you stand being in that coat?”

  “Moon rays. Bad for you.”

  “Phhhh. I’ve decided you’re ashamed of your body.”

  “Could be. My motorcycle crash was pretty bad.”

  “What happened, Rick?”

  “I blew a head gasket at 110 miles per hour. The bike wiped out. The doctors said I would never walk again. Showed those suckers.”

  “Do you have terrible scars?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I wouldn’t mind, Rick.”

  “So you say. Mind if I ask you a question? What would you
have done if your test today had turned out the other way?”

  “Oh, God, Rick. I don’t know. It’s too frightening to think about.”

  “Would you have married the guy?”

  “I don’t even know where he is.”

  “Do you … love him?”

  “What does love mean, Rick? That word is so overused it’s lost all meaning. Nick was always telling me he loved me. OK, fine. How did that make me feel? Like a very clinging boy was trying to adhere himself to me—like lichen to a tree.”

  “You didn’t like him at all?” I asked, alarmed.

  “I’m not saying that. He had a way of growing on a person. But I slept with him mostly to sleep with him.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I mean I had sex with him to spend the night with him. I don’t think people are made to sleep alone. If I had a daughter, I’d say no sex until you’re 16, but you can sleep with your boyfriend every night.”

  “That might be pleasant for her, Sheeni, but I don’t think the guy would be getting much rest.”

  “It must be weird being a boy, Rick. Having this appendage that you feel compelled to stick in other people.”

  “It keeps the species going.”

  “I suppose. Do you like me, Rick?”

  “You’re OK, I guess.”

  “I could sneak out tonight. We could meet in the little boat car.”

  “Maybe,” I yawned. “I’ll see if I feel like it.”

  SATURDAY, April 3 — Needless to say, I felt like it. Sheeni, still garbed in her purple bikini, was waiting in the back seat when I arrived in full uniform. We lay back together in the cramped seat; moonlight streaming in through the portholes bathed her enticing curves in a silvery aura. Freed from microbial fears, my massive lips went immediately to work. My Love placed my hand on her yielding breasts, then brushed her fingers along the bulge in my trousers. My interval of impotence had abruptly terminated. I pushed up her bikini top and fondled a familiar nipple, taking care not to dip too deeply into Nick Twisp’s repertoire of exclusive love caresses. Eventually, our lips parted.