Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp Page 17

  “She’s got her pride, I suppose.”

  “Why shouldn’t she? She’s one in a million.”

  “Better than that, bub. Our Lacey’s one in a billion!”

  OK, I’m trying to figure this out. Let’s assume I marry Sheeni. If Paul marries Connie, she becomes my sister-in-law. If Lacey weds Mr. K, she becomes Paul’s stepmother-in-law and Connie’s stepmother. Also my stepmother-in-law, though I doubt that would restrain François. If Mrs. K marries Sheeni’s father, she becomes her daughter’s stepmother-in-law, my stepmother-in-law as well (achieving parity with Lacey), and some sort of weird in-law to her first husband. Any way you look at it, I end up surrounded by millionaire relatives. And blissfully united to the ultimate Trophy Wife, who comes to the marriage bed already loaded with my money.

  2:24 p.m. Connie was so pleased by my conjugal machinations, she took me out to breakfast again in West Hollywood. I ordered a full-stack of blueberry Bette Midlers; Connie tried the John Travolta waffles with pork sausage sideburns. Almost too realistic to eat. Afterwards, she drove me all the way out to East L.A. to pick up Rick S. Hunter’s new identity cards. Mr. Castillo marveled at my latest transformation.

  “A very professional job, Mr. Hunter,” he said, admiring my face. “Very nice work. Most people play with the cards life deals them, but you’re a man who makes up his own rules.”

  “I’m hoping to hold on to these cards for a while though,” I admitted, counting out three more $100 bills from my meager stash.

  Not only did Mr. Castillo provide my latest set of documents (complete with forged high-school transcript) for half price, he said that when I’m ready to apply for college he can supply me with perfect SAT test scores—double 800s on my verbal and math. Although I’d like to think Rick S. Hunter could score that well on his own, it’s nice to have insurance just to be assured of attending the same rigorously elite college as My Love.

  It occurred to me as I was admiring my latest driver’s license that all my life Nick Twisp has been receiving “don’t exist” messages. And now, through the miracle of modern surgical and counterfeiting techniques, he no longer exists. Yet I have achieved a successful integration of these messages without resorting to the conventional recourse of suicide. You might say I’ve disappeared, but still I live. Even better, the waitress at the restaurant this morning actually flirted with me. What a revelation: Rick S. Hunter is attractive to women. Eat your heart out Trent Preston!

  6:05 p.m. I desperately wanted to call Sheeni, but Connie advised me to play it cool. Instead, she suggested we visit the other Saunders sibling. The county jail facility sprawled across a treeless suburban tract like everyone’s worst nightmare of junior high school—enlarged about ten times and surrounded by parallel rows of razor wire. It even smelled like junior high. I was pretty nervous about subjecting myself to such a concentration of law enforcement, but Connie thought it would be a good test of my new IDs. My faith in Mr. Castillo’s art was vindicated. Rick S. Hunter’s driver’s license was examined at least a half dozen times and no one batted an eyelash. As we trooped down grim corridors and waited in line at metal detectors, I prayed to whichever indifferent gods watch over me to let me stay out of places like this.

  I felt I blended in well with the other visitors, but my exotically garbed companion attracted many curious stares. Her hair had been styled in improbable upsweeps and she had removed her contacts (Paul prefers her eyes in their natural Polish state).

  The visiting room was something of a disappointment. No dividing wall of bulletproof glass with greasy handsets dangling on short armored cords. No forbidding iron bars. Not even a steel mesh barrier to keep the lawbreakers separated from the law-abiding. It was just a large cheerless room furnished with banged-up tables and metal folding chairs. Lots of screaming kids chasing around and not paying much attention to Dad. The nervous atmosphere of forced sociability reminded me of hospital or funeral-parlor visiting hours—except the bored attendants here were heavily armed.

  Paul looked sharp in his crisp orange jumpsuit. He gave Connie a friendly kiss on the lips and shook my hand. All through the visit he held Connie’s hand, which could have been just a show of good fellowship, except (as Connie pointed out during an exhaustive deconstruction of the visit on the drive back to Bel Air) he only held her hand and not mine. And when we were leaving, he kissed her good-bye and not me. Thank goodness for that.

  Introductions were not required. Paul winked and said it was a pleasure to meet Rick S. Hunter. He said he thought Jean-Paul Belmondo was a good choice to impress diehard Francophiles.

  “Well, he’s doing fairly well so far,” I admitted.

  I asked Paul how a fellow with his street smarts and foresight could get nailed by the police. He shrugged and said these things happen. He said he was meeting some interesting guys in jail and had been invited to join a small R&B group. Real instruments weren’t allowed in prison, so they improvised. Paul was learning to play the tissue paper and comb.

  Connie told him he might be getting a niece or nephew for Christmas this year, but probably not to count on it. Paul smiled and asked Rick S. Hunter what he thought of that development. I said I thought it was extremely dire, but I was more than willing to do the honorable thing.

  “That might have to take place over my mother’s dead body,” he pointed out.

  “Yeah, probably your father’s too,” I conceded. “And maybe even your sister’s.”

  “I can tell you what my mother wants,” said Paul. “She called me yesterday. She wants me to undergo a religious conversion, get married to someone other than Lacey, find a high-paying job, and adopt Sheeni’s baby. What do you think of that?”

  “No problem, honey,” replied Connie, squeezing his hand. “Except we might have to fake the religious stuff.”

  I only smiled. Sure I like Connie and Paul, but they may not be first on my list of potential foster parents. Kids only get one shot at childhood. If it’s not too much to ask, I think the next generation of Twisps should be raised by normal parents for a change.

  TUESDAY, April 6 — On the bus to Oakland. Although adapting well to the challenging Bel Air lifestyle, I decided Rick S. Hunter should be getting on with his life. After a libido-inflaming farewell hug from Lacey, I went out to breakfast with Connie, who then dropped me off at the bus station. I said good-bye to my ally in amours at the curb, greatly impressing the assembled panhandlers. Connie gave me my second electrifying hug of the day, a semi-smoldering kiss on the lips, and the number of her most private cellular phone (she has three of varying exclusiveness). We have promised to keep each other fully informed on all developments.

  I just counted my anorexic wad: fifty-nine $100 bills in my money belt, plus $42 in my wallet. And no more Connie to chauffeur me around for free and pick up the tab for my meals. Back to life at the margins. Good for my art, I suppose, assuming Rick S. Hunter opts to specialize in gritty novels of working-class privation, relieved only by spectacular sex.

  8:45 p.m. I slept most of the way up through the Central Valley. I can’t believe people actually live there. Aren’t they bored silly by pool-table-flat terrain sectioned into endless fields of anonymous plant life? I prefer vibrant, urban Oakland, even if it does have a high crime rate. Another expensive cab ride up to Oakland’s exclusive hill district brought me to my mother’s new home: a two-story Brown Shingle purchased with my inheritance from the late Bertha Ulansky. Not in the same league as the Krusinowskis’ imposing mansion, but it was a big step up from Nick Twisp’s humble origins down in the flats.

  Fortunately, the lady of the house was still behind bars. When my sister opened the big oak door, I sucked in my lips, smiled, and said, “Hi, Joanie. Guess who had expensive Mexican plastic surgery?” She stared open-mouthed at my retooled visage. Yes, the handsome stranger on the porch was her long-lost brother.

  “Well, it’s an improvement,” she said at last, “I guess.”

  Good thing the Twisps are so undemonstrative. H
ad I been tempted to hug my sister, I would have been blocked several feet from my target by her grossly distended abdomen. We shook hands instead.

  “Yeah, I’m pregnant,” she admitted, showing me into the living room—a gracefully proportioned room savaged by Mom’s shabby old flatlands furniture. And where was Jerry’s dead Chevy?

  “What are you in your 13th month?” I asked.

  “I was fine until I came up here, Nick. Being around little Noel has made Tyler balloon in size. I feel like a blimp.”

  Could it be that My Love’s lithe form will be so misshapen in a few months? The thought made me shudder.

  “You’ve named it Tyler?”

  “Uh-huh. We know it’s going to be a boy. He’s due at the end of May. Nick, want to see your brother?”

  “Is it compulsory? And please call me Rick.”

  It was. Joanie took me upstairs to the lavishly furnished nursery. Noel Lance Wescott was lying in his crib and picking his nose. He took one look at me and started to howl. Joanie picked him up and he copped a nice feel. He was a Twisp all right. He even looked like Dad. I pointed this out to my sister when Noel’s 200-decibel screeching at last subsided.

  “I finally got the whole story from Mom in jail,” Joanie replied. “When Dad was still living in Marin, she went over one weekend to hound him for your child-support payment. He opened a bottle of wine, they wound up in bed, and she never even got the check.”

  “But they’ve hated each other for years.”

  “I thought so too, Rick, but I guess there was some kind of spark left.”

  Little Noel is a real Twisp. That is such a shock. And so gross.

  WEDNESDAY, April 7 — I spent the night in the guest room, grabbing a few snatches of sleep here and there in between violent Noel outbursts. I can’t believe someone hasn’t made a fortune building soundproof isolation chambers for screaming infants. Just how is a person supposed to cope? Joanie thinks Noel has regressed because he misses his mom. That hardly seems possible, but I suppose he hasn’t known the woman for long.

  Speaking of Mom’s male offspring, I’ve search all through the house without discovering a single Nick Twisp item. Not even a spare sock to add to my skimpy pack. I’ve been completely expunged from my maternal home. Good thing Nick is no longer with us to receive these gratuitous “don’t exist” messages.

  Joanie stuck a bottle in Noel’s face so we could converse over breakfast. Sheeni’s check arrived on Monday. Joanie immediately deposited it in a laid-back bank in Berkeley in a new account she opened under an assumed name. The bad news is it might take a week or more to clear. Meanwhile, Mom continues to chill in the slammer. The worse news is they want to use another big chunk of my $60,000 to hire a lawyer. I suggested Joanie find someone offering budget rates. Perhaps a student attorney whose legal training is still fresh in their mind. Besides, those kids have to start their careers somewhere.

  Lance remains in the hospital, but is now out of intensive care. No, Joanie hasn’t visited him, but she did send him a card. Reconstruction surgery starts this week. I say why bother? Better yet, perhaps they could minimize costs and fuss by altering him into a Lancette.

  Joanie gave me Noel to hold while she ate her eggs. What an ungainly package: incessant squirming, foul discharges from every orifice, and you have to hold up his drooping head or it will fall right off. They should pass these things around in high-school health class, if they really want to scare kids into using protection.

  Joanie is worried who’ll take the kid if Mom gets sent to prison.

  “Can’t you just toss him in the crib with Tyler?” I asked.

  “It’s a big responsibility, Nick. I don’t know how I’ll manage as it is as a single mother.”

  “What about Dr. Dingy? And please call me Rick.”

  “It’s Dindy, Rick. I’m afraid Philip was a mistake—a bad one. Being away from him this week has helped me see that. He conducts life like a scientific experiment—with every aspect under his personal control. I practically have to ask permission to blow my nose.”

  “You’re going to break up with the creep?”

  “I think so. I might as well for all the help he’ll be. His wife got a very good lawyer. All he has left out of his university salary is a little pocket money. I’ve been supporting the guy!”

  My sister was now batting zero for 312 in boyfriends. She sighed, nibbled her bacon, and studied me. Uh-oh, I could feel her sensitive antennas probing into my psyche. I strove for obtuseness in thought and demeanor.

  “That girlfriend of yours is pregnant,” she announced at last.

  “Er, what makes you say that?” I demanded.

  “Oh God, Nick! That is all we need!”

  “It’s all under control,” I lied, “and please call me Rick.”

  6:30 p.m. On the bus to Ukiah. I had to get out of Oakland fast. There was a disastrous incident involving my brother. Joanie invited me to go with her to visit Mom, but I opted to remain behind and provide vital childcare. Big mistake. All was fine until little Noel woke up from his nap and starting wailing. You didn’t have to be a bloodhound to detect the aroma emanating from his pants. I was all for letting him marinate, but Twisps are nothing if not persistent.

  So I found the jumbo box of diapers and read the instructions on the back. It sounded fairly basic. I grabbed the kid, placed him on the changing table, and removed his soiled nappy. Too gross for words. I reeled from the noxious olfactory assault, greatly amusing its creator. I wiped off his messy bum and privates as best I could. You definitely could tell the kid was a Twisp. I wondered if it was supposed to be that small or if something had gone awry during the circumcision. I was maneuvering the fresh diaper under him when, boom, he wiggled away from me. I DROPPED MY BABY BROTHER ON THE FLOOR!

  He landed with a sickening thud. Nightmarish infant screaming, so at least the impact wasn’t fatal. Somehow I got his caterwauling, flailing little body back on the table and checked for broken bones. No obvious breaks, but the back of his skull felt a little squishy. Part of his brain may have turned to mush! Eventually, I got him quieted down and re-diapered. In my panic I wondered if there were any quick home intelligence tests for infants. I switched on the TV and put his face right up to the screen. He didn’t seem that interested, even when I changed the channel to a kiddies show—a bad sign, I think. More guilt for Rick. My only brother may grow up retarded because of me. He may have to look to sheltered workshops for career opportunities. Thank goodness it wasn’t my own gifted child I fumbled. I don’t care how committed Sheeni is to equal rights. She’s doing all the diaper-changing in our household!

  THURSDAY, April 8 — I hope my brother lived through the night. I wish I were a sociopath like François. Having a conscience really puts a dent in one’s enjoyment of life. I spent the night in a “budget” motel on Ukiah’s main drag that was no nicer than the Christina Hotel and about five times pricier. So the first order of the day is to find someplace cheap to live. I’m willing to consider anything that’s not an actual drainage culvert.

  I had breakfast at my favorite donut shop downtown in hopes that Sheeni might drop by on her way to school. No such luck. I did see fat Dwayne Crampton ride by on my Italian mountain bike. His mother must have grabbed it in lieu of that last paycheck I owed her for slave maid service. I ate my usual assortment and read the local paper, which was nicely devoid of Nick Twisp manhunt news. I checked the classified ads. The least expensive apartment, listed at $575 per month, was available only to “employed adults with references.” That leaves me out in the cold.

  7:15 p.m. I’m writing this in my new apartment. A real-estate agent might even call it a penthouse, since it’s situated on the uppermost floor of the two-story commercial block that houses the donut shop. Believe it or not, my window opens directly on the exhaust vent above the donut fryer—suffusing my abode with wonderful sugary smells and a fair amount of grease.

  As I was leaving the donut shop this morning, I spotted a faded �
�rooms for rent” sign in the window of the jewelry store next door. Old Mr. Szwejk, the jeweler and building owner, was skeptical of Rick S. Hunter’s fitness as a tenant, but he found my cash persuasive. The rent is $108 per week; I paid for four weeks in advance.

  I have two small rooms and a tiny half bath in what were once commercial offices. The businessmen all moved on to greener pastures long ago, making way for the retired, the deranged, and the generally down and out. Half-wall partitions of varnished blond oak are topped by large fixed panels of a ribbed smoked glass. All the office glass along the corridors has been painted over on the inside with a yellowing paint, rendering it opaque and blocking light to the murky hallways. Neatly painted on my door, made of the same pale wood and ribbed glass, is the name: “Julius T. Marvin, Insurance Broker.”

  My “furnished” rooms are eclectically decorated with what appear to be discards swiped from the curb on neighborhood cleanup days. No bed either. The purple vinyl sofa, scarred by numerous cigarettes and something with sharp claws, opens up to make a lumpy bed. I have dragged it from the room facing the back alley to the cave-like interior room. I also have a small metal table, some mismatched chairs, a dark oak dresser with scaly mirror, two battered lamps, a wardrobe closet with peeling veneer, and a circa-1950s enameled metal cabinet kitchenette, complete with sink, two-burner range, compact refrigerator, cupboard, and two musty drawers.

  The rusty claw-foot bathtub (no shower) is down the hall in its own dank closet. Some of my fellow tenants have not been good citizens about cleaning up after their baths, but Mr. Szwejk said at these rates “maid service” was “out of the question.” Even if they hadn’t been such slobs, I wouldn’t have stepped in that tub on a bet.

  All in all, my new home is a big comedown from Granny DeFalco’s snug bungalow, but it’s better than nothing and you can’t beat the convenient central location. Maybe I can find something nicer if Joanie comes through with some cash or I pry my Wart Watch windfall loose from My Love.