Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  “Wow, Lana Baldwin. I hear she’s not too bright. Even Sonya says that.”

  “Frank, do you want to discuss astrophysics or get laid?”

  “’Nough said, Carlotta.’ Nough said.”

  7:05 p.m. My father made the national news! Carlotta, Mrs. Ferguson, and Dwayne were glued to the tube as Dad was shown being dragged in front of a federal judge in San Francisco to hear the many and diverse charges against him. Bail for the alleged Geezer hacker has been set at a whopping $2 million dollars.

  “I hope when … the man gets … through forkin’ … that pile over,” commented my maid, “he still has … the $179 he … owes me … in back pay.”

  “Looks like your former employer may be cooling it in the slammer for quite a while,” noted Carlotta uneasily.

  “I always knew Nick’s pop was lots worse than mine,” said Dwayne. “That Nick had no cause to be so stuck up.”

  (For that remark Carlotta slipped the crusty spareribs pan back into the oven to blacken for an additional 45 minutes.)

  In a totally superfluous and prejudicial aside, the reporter concluded her segment by noting that the FBI also was searching for the suspect’s teenage son Nick, wanted on a host of unrelated charges. They even flashed a photo of me that was almost as unflattering as Dad’s.

  9:52 p.m. No studying tonight; I’m too much on edge to worry about the hydrogen atom.

  Apurva was even more excited than usual when she telephoned collect for her nightly check-in chat.

  “Carlotta, we saw my father on television!” she exclaimed.

  Welcome to the club, girl.

  “Really! Your father?”

  “Yes, he was being interviewed about my old friend Nick’s father. Did you know he was behind the disruptive computer mischief that allowed me to escape?”

  “Well, I know he’s been charged. So what did your father say?”

  “He said Mr. Twisp was quite the master criminal and computer whiz.”

  “But I’d heard the guy didn’t know the first thing about computers.”

  “Oh, no. Father was quite insistent on that point. He was very well spoken. I’m happy to see my disappearance is not causing him to neglect his work duties.”

  Damn. Mr. Joshi is proving to be even more of a deceitful slimeball than his son. It really is time to put some skinheads on my payroll.

  Then Apurva asked Carlotta to referee a small premarital dispute. It seems Trent has requested that she wear a sari tomorrow for their wedding, but as a modern American bride Apurva would prefer to get hitched in a dress.

  “What should I do, Carlotta?” she inquired.

  “I think you should compromise: you wear the dress and Trent can wear the sari.”

  Much laughter in Dixie. “Oh, Carlotta, you’re so amusing,” chuckled Apurva. “It’s almost like something my old friend Nick would say.”

  Time to get serious. “I think you should wear a sari, Apurva.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Trent could marry millions of girls in dresses. But you should go with what makes you special.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. All right, Carlotta, I’ll be a traditional bride. I’ll wear my best sari and all my gold jewelry.”

  Gold jewelry! Hey, why haven’t those undisclosed assets been made available for pawning?

  THURSDAY, March 4 — Wedding day at last. Or is it? The ringing telephone blasted me awake in the middle of the night.

  “My marriage!” wailed Apurva. “It’s off!”

  Rats and damnation. I rolled over and sat up.

  “What’s the matter, Apurva?” demanded Carlotta.

  “That Trent Preston! He’s a monster!”

  Why me, God? I looked at the clock. 5:37 a.m.

  “OK, Apurva, calm down. Give me some facts here. What’s going on?”

  “It happened at breakfast. Trent was looking at me peculiarly. I thought perhaps I had some grits on my face. Then he said he couldn’t marry me.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know,” she wept. “He, he said he doesn’t know me.”

  Damn. Leave it to Trent to start his wedding day with an existential crisis.

  “OK, Apurva. Let me speak to Trent.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He’s, he’s walking somewhere. I can’t marry him anyway. He doesn’t love me!”

  “OK, now don’t make any rash decisions. Stay where you are. When Trent comes back, make him stay there too. I’m on my way.”

  “You’re, you’re coming here?”

  “As fast as I can. Everything will be OK.”

  “Everything is horrible! I wish I were dead!”

  “Just sit tight, Apurva. Leave everything to me.”

  Imagining it was Trent Preston’s head, I pummeled Granny DeFalco’s old goose-down pillow. I should never have let that wishy-washy poet out of my sight!

  8:45 a.m. On the road to San Francisco airport. I’m booked on a 9:20 flight to Memphis if Bruno Modjaleski can whip his father’s big Chrysler through backed-up rush-hour traffic with sufficient terrifying recklessness to get me to the airport on time.

  “I told you we should have taken my chopper,” said Bruno, powering up the freeway shoulder at 80 miles per hour and dodging concrete abutments with just inches to spare.

  “I am not riding 150 miles on your motorcycle in the middle of winter,” replied Carlotta, her short but eventful life passing repeatedly before her eyes as she braced again and again for impact.

  Giant truck dead ahead!

  “I can’t look!” I screamed, covering my eyes.

  Violent lurch as Bruno swerved. “Relax, babe. God, you’re worse than Candy.”

  In case you’re out of the Redwood High gossip loop, Bruno recently dumped parakeet-loving Mertice Palmquist to get back together with head cheerleader (and former love) Candy Pringle. He accepted Carlotta’s offer of $100 in cash for a fast trip to S.F. because gorgeous and popular Candy is not what anyone could term a cheap date.

  10:32 a.m. Carlotta risked life and limb to reach the airport on time, only to discover that all flights had been postponed because of unsettled weather back east. Even worse, Bruno insisted on extracting another slobberingly intimate kiss as a bonus for getting Carlotta there in one piece. I really don’t see how Candy stands it.

  While chewing through an overpriced airport breakfast, I noticed that a wall-mounted TV in a bar across the corridor was carrying another news report on my father. Then they showed that same unflattering photo of me. Such high-profile media exposure is not helpful to a fugitive from the law. Realizing I had no choice, I abandoned my eggs, found a pay phone, and dialed Ukiah.

  “Good morning, Mr. Joshi. This is Nick Twisp.”

  “Nick Twisp! You dare to call me, you young scoundrel? I shall alert the FBI!”

  “Mr. Joshi, you know my father had nothing to do with that virus.”

  “It was traced to his computer.”

  “My father has zero computer knowledge. You know that.”

  “I shall testify otherwise. He deserves to go to prison. And you as well!”

  “Mr. Joshi, I know where your daughter is.”

  “Where? If you have any decency at all, you must tell me!”

  “OK, I’ll tell you where she is—as soon as I hear that my father has been released and all charges against him dropped.”

  “Why should I trust you? How can I be certain you know where she is?”

  “Right before Apurva left home she was reading The Diary of Anne Frank. She hopes your wife returned it to the library.”

  He gasped. I hung up.

  Sure, it might spring Dad from jail. Big deal. But what happens when Vijay blabs to Sheeni that Nick Twisp is involved in Apurva and Trent’s disappearance?

  2:45 p.m. Flying through wintry turbulence. When you buy an airline ticket at the last minute, you not only get to pay full fare, they sadistically assign you to a mid
dle seat. Presently Carlotta is squeezed between two businessmen, who from their size and girth might be traveling donut salesmen. The bulkier of the two is wearing a Wart Watch. My business partners (Kimberly and Mario) and I appreciate the business, but don’t adults realize they look ridiculous wearing a novelty product professionally marketed to disaffected teenagers?

  With each bounce and jolt, meaty elbows tenderize my well-bruised flesh. So much for trying to type on my laptop. In case the plane ices up and carries us all to a fiery death, let me note a few final words: Sheeni darling, I did it all for you. See you in heaven (I hope they don’t speak French). Love always, Nick.

  P.S. I sneaked a closer look at the man’s Wart Watch. It’s a goddam knock-off!

  6:30 p.m. Blizzards in Mississippi? Apparently so. I hope the boll weevils have their parkas on. Memphis was snowed-in, so our flight was diverted to Jackson. Miraculously, the plane did not crash, though I almost wish it had just to see the look of terror on my fat seatmates’ faces. Now the airline is busing us north to Tennessee in whiteout conditions on an ice-slicked Interstate. I slipped $50 to the driver to drop me off in Oxford, should we make it that far in the unrelenting storm. Carlotta needless to say had packed for the tropics. At least it’s a torrid 95 degrees in this overheated bus. I’m trying to store up excess heat in case I actually have to step out into the frigid, driving snow.

  9:10 p.m. Never have I been happier to see two silent, estranged, unmarried teens. The last four miles of the journey I made squeezed in beside the driver of one of the all-too-few snowplows in Mississippi. The good news is I have nearly regained sensation in my hands and my feet are beginning to thaw. The bad news is the motel is jammed with stranded travelers, so Carlotta will be bunking with her pals. Perhaps if Apurva ever comes out of the bathroom where she has locked herself, we can figure out the sleeping accommodations. I for one am exhausted!

  FRIDAY, March 5 — I slept as a buffer between Apurva and Trent in the king-size bed. Of course, Carlotta had to retire in her robe, wig, bra, and full makeup. My roommates were similarly well-swaddled for enforced blizzard bundling. G-spot hunting was off the agenda, though several times during the night I found myself with a fairly spectacular T.E. from sudden Apurva proximity. If I’d never met Sheeni, I’m sure I’d be panting to marry Apurva myself right now. Maybe Trent should get his thyroid checked.

  The snow finally stopped sometime during the night. When we awoke, I got my first real view of Oxford, Mississippi. The icy vista outside our window looked just like those postcards you see of wintry Vermont.

  Inside, the atmosphere was even frostier. Carlotta invited morose Trent to dine with her in the crowded motel coffee shop, while miserable Apurva drank her lonely cup of motel tea back in the room.

  “This whole trip was a mistake,” sighed Trent, neglecting his grits and ignoring our waitress’s blatant eyelash fluttering. “I should never have come here.”

  I sipped my coffee. “So what’s the problem, guy?”

  “I just don’t know this person, Carlotta. This person I’m supposed to be marrying. And she doesn’t know me. I realized it yesterday while writing a love poem.”

  Great. Trent flubs a rhyme or two so the wedding’s off.

  “Apurva and I are strangers, Carlotta.”

  “Hardly strangers, Trent.”

  “Do any of us really know anyone, Carlotta? Is there such a thing as true intimacy between people?”

  What on earth does intimacy have to do with marriage? I considered administering a vicious head-slap, but resigned myself to a philosophical debate. I dunked my donut and plowed ahead.

  “Trent, everyone has those feelings. Of course, we’re all locked inside our own skins. People who have been married for 50 years feel that way sometimes. They look across the breakfast table and suddenly wonder who the hell is that old fart?”

  “I have to feel a profound connection, Carlotta, before I can marry someone.”

  “Trent, you’re a very fortunate person. You’ve won the lottery, guy. But you can’t even see it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Trent, think of the odds of your ever meeting Apurva. She came from halfway around the world, to our small out-of-the-way town. From a totally different culture. Yet, somehow, you two made a connection. A deep and intense connection. You can’t deny that.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “And she’s a wonderful person. Intelligent and kind—she lights up every room she walks into. And she has a generous heart—full of love … unselfish love for you.”

  “Yes, I think she does love me.”

  “You’re so fortunate, Trent. You have a chance to do something truly noble.”

  “What, Carlotta?”

  “Make a difference in a person’s life. You know what will happen to Apurva if you don’t get married. She’ll be shipped back to India and get shackled to some stranger.”

  “She might be happier in the long run.”

  “You don’t believe that for a minute. That’s a coward’s voice talking. Apurva will always love you, Trent. She’s committed herself to you. That is her destiny. OK, you’re both young, but these feelings don’t change. You must do what you know is right.”

  “And what’s that, Carlotta?”

  “Make Apurva happy. Save her from the nightmare you know she faces. Do what’s honorable and right. Be a man, not a wimp.”

  Trent sighed and wiped away a tear. “OK, Carlotta. You’re right. I guess I’ll marry her.”

  I slammed down my coffee cup.

  “That’s not good enough, Trent! Apurva will never marry you if she feels you’re at all reluctant. Love is a delicate thing, Trent. You’ve injured her deeply. Now you have to win her back.”

  “I’m so mixed up, Carlotta. I’ve, I’ve been thinking of Sheeni.”

  Flushed out into the open at last!

  “OK. Well, Sheeni’s a special person too. We both know her very well. She’s quite exceptional.”

  “She is, Carlotta.”

  “But let’s face the facts here, Trent. Enduring love requires constancy. Right?”

  He stared at his plate. “Very much so.”

  “And do you believe Sheeni ever will commit her heart and soul to you?”

  “Probably not.”

  “And do you have faith in the strength and endurance of Apurva’s love for you?”

  “I’ve never doubted it for a minute. Not really.”

  “So why are we sitting here indulging in these boring head games?”

  “You’re right, Carlotta. I’m very fortunate to have Apurva in my life.”

  “Well, you don’t have her at the moment, Trent. But here’s a suggestion: I’ll stay here and order another donut. And you go back to the room and convince Apurva that you’re the luckiest guy in the world.”

  “What if she doesn’t believe me?”

  “Just turn on the charm, Trent. God knows you’ve got enough to spare.”

  10:45 a.m. The wedding is back on. Well, sort of. The happy couple is willing, but the town is virtually paralyzed under a foot of snow. Now an icy wind is blowing the stuff into impassible drifts. No one seems to possess so much as a snow shovel. Court has been canceled, but Carlotta managed to establish phone communication with a county clerk, who is trying to locate a judge. I told her it was urgent because Grandma Preston back in Cleveland was hanging on by a thread in intensive care just waiting for news of her grandson’s wedding.

  Carlotta found a deck of cards in a drawer next to the Gideon Bible. To kill time and keep Trent’s mind occupied while waiting for the clerk to phone back, we’ve been playing hearts. I love to slap the dreaded queen of spades on the bridegroom-to-be. The guy’s a terrible hearts player. It probably doesn’t help his concentration that Apurva is toying with a lock of his golden hair.

  12:20 p.m. We have a two o’clock appointment in Judge Randolph Marulle’s chambers (if we can make it there—it’s started snowing again). To prepare for the crosstown
hike, we slogged next door to a hardware store and bought their last three pairs of black rubber boots (size XXXL). The giant boots are big enough to shod a rhino, but we’ve lashed them to our calves with duct tape.

  At least the weather has resolved the bridal raiments issue. As Apurva owns no wool saris, she has bundled up in all her warmest dresses and sweaters, attractively accessorized with two pairs of jeans and the rhino boots. Examining herself despairingly in the motel-room mirror, she declared she was “the ugliest bride in history.” Trent kissed her, told her she was beautiful, and said he did not intend to spend his honeymoon nursing a wife with pneumonia. The guy sure can be charming when he wants to be.

  7:10 p.m. The deed is done. Sheeni Saunder’s childhood sweetheart is officially scratched from the dating market. I did have a bit of a scare at the beginning. Judge Randolph J. Marulle turned out to be one of those loquacious, serious-minded jurists who like to pry. The first thing he did was remark on the youthfulness of the bride and groom. Where were their parents, he wanted to know, and did “you kids” realize the seriousness of such a “momentous step” as marriage? So Carlotta took him aside, explained that the parents were at the bedside of a terminally ill grandmother, and stressed that both families wanted the baby to be born legitimate. The judge glanced at Apurva, shivering in 14 layers of clothing, and decided to get on with it.

  Carlotta gave the bride away; the beaming court clerk served as the other witness. It was all over in less than five minutes. The bride and groom whispered “I do,” 14-karat gold rings were slipped successfully on nervous fingers, the judge declared them husband and wife, lips met in a binding kiss, the clerk flashed her Polaroid camera, and Carlotta breathed an immense sigh of relief. I only hope my own wedding to Sheeni goes as smoothly.

  After the ceremony Carlotta treated the newlyweds to a festive wedding supper at Shanghai Dixie Palace, the only restaurant we could find that wasn’t shuttered in the reborn blizzard. Oh well, I like Chinese food and you can’t beat the prices. Our convivial waiter even served us a bottle of Mississippi sparkling chablis without checking our IDs. A feast to remember even if it was vegetarian, and the bill (including tip) came to less than $40.