Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  “Are you going to take off that coat, Rick?” she asked. “I feel like I’m kissing a majorette.”

  Just my luck. Why couldn’t it have been a cloudy, moonless night?

  “I, I better not, Sheeni. I don’t have any condoms.”

  “I brought some, Rick. They’re top-rated by Consumer Reports.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in sex until age 16?”

  “I come from a long line of hypocrites, Rick,” she whispered, slipping off her bikini bottoms. “Let’s do it.”

  Against my better judgment, I slid a finger into the steamy recesses of her chestnut tangle. She moaned and struggled with my zipper. I pondered my dilemma. Even putting aside the T.E.-in-the-moonlight identification issue, I wasn’t sure it was medically safe for her to be doing this sort of thing in her present condition. Reluctantly, I pushed her hand away from my trousers.

  “We better not, Sheeni.”

  “Why not, Rick?”

  “Uh, the doctors say I shouldn’t use it for a while. It got pretty tore up when I hit the handlebars. They only removed the splint last week.”

  “Really? It feels OK to me.”

  “Better not chance it. Here, I’ll do you.”

  From long experience I knew exactly what was required. I did the deed; she convulsed in my arms, then lay back spent.

  “That was wonderful. What about you, Rick? Would it be jeopardizing your recovery if I stroked it lightly through your pants?”

  “Uhmm, I suppose that would be permissible. If you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Tell me if I’m hurting anything. I don’t want to apply too much pressure.”

  Her gentle touch was unimaginably exquisite; all too soon I pitched headfirst into that vaporous realm beyond reason, then reluctantly drifted back to earth. We entangled our limbs to the fullest extent possible and listened to the pulse of our hearts and the slow rhythm of our breathing. Her soft hair smelled of the sea. I buried my face in its cascading folds and kissed her neck. I wanted the night never to end.

  “This is awful, Rick,” she said, fondling one of my brass buttons. “I’m not going to see you after Sunday.”

  “That’s life, kid,” I growled.

  “Rick, do you care anything for me?”

  “Sure, I like you all right. Let’s go to sleep.”

  “I wish we weren’t so young.”

  “Go to sleep, Sheeni. Take each day as it comes. That’s my motto.”

  I wish!

  11:09 a.m. We’ve pulled up stakes and are heading back north. Mrs. K had hoped to get to the historic old mining town of Alamos (160 miles farther south), but she got Sheeni’s father instead. This morning her clandestine lover made a great show of cooing over Vronski, which I interpreted as signaling a desire to caress their mutual mistress, though I think petting Anna would have sent a less ambiguous message. Too bad for those two that privacy is in such short supply aboard the Plock. Sheeni and I could use a little of it ourselves. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice that My Love and I were yawning all through breakfast. I got about two hours sleep, and begrudge even those few minutes of unconsciousness as precious time I could have been experiencing my darling’s sweet arms. As Rick S. Hunter says, I’ll have enough time for sleep when I’m dead or incarcerated.

  My Love threw up again after breakfast, touching off another tirade by Sheeni’s mother against lax Mexican sanitation standards. Personally, I don’t see why our parasitic zygote should be expelling all that potential nourishment. Soon they were both resting peacefully in the Saunders’ cabin, allowing the cabin boy to rendezvous with Connie in her mother’s stateroom for a private chat.

  “I take it you passed a pleasant night with your friend,” said Connie.

  “Extremely. It’s uncanny, Connie. The more indifference I display toward Sheeni, the more loving she becomes.”

  “Congratulations, Rick. You have discovered the fundamental flaw in the human brain. Somehow our wires for pleasure and pain got crossed. Paulo’s never even kissed me, I’m totally miserable, and I can’t get enough of the guy. Of course, Sheeni’s hormones are in an uproar now. You may be benefiting from that as well.”

  “She’s amazingly loving. I’m almost jealous that Rick S. Hunter is having such an easy time with her.”

  “You’re marvelously neurotic, Rick. I’m impressed that you can be jealous of yourself. So did you make it with her?”

  “Everything but that. I wasn’t sure it was safe to do it—you know, considering her condition.”

  “It’s totally safe, Rick. People practically do it right in the hospital delivery room. Didn’t they cover that in your health class?”

  “They may have, Connie, but I wasn’t paying attention. I never thought it would apply to me.”

  “Well, wake up and smell the baby powder, guy. Or should I call you Dad?”

  3:45 p.m. We stopped for a quick roadside lunch in the little town of Imuris, about 20 miles south of the border. By the time I was clearing away the dishes, the entire population had gathered round to ogle the wondrous gringo RV. Dogo didn’t appreciate the fingerprints on his wax job, and blasted his diesel horn to scare off the kids as we pulled away. The plan was to cross into Arizona at Nogales. Connie could see I was getting nervous and took me aside to tell me not to worry. Easy for her to say! She wasn’t the alleged Rick S. Hunter bearing a forged birth certificate identifying him as Nick S. Dillinger.

  There was a half-mile backup of cars at the border, which afforded plenty of time for my anxiety to reach life-threatening levels as we crept along toward the crossing checkpoint. I sat on a settee next to My Love and felt my racing heart approach its RPM red-line as sweat oozed from my forehead like slime from a slug.

  “Rick, is something the matter?” inquired My Love, squeezing my hand.

  “Just a flashback to my accident,” I rumbled.

  And then the truck ahead of us pulled through the gate and it was our turn to be inspected. Dogo pressed a button to extend the front steps and opened the door. A smiling female border agent stepped aboard. I ceased breathing. Anna and Vronski barked fiercely from Connie’s lap.

  “Any fruits or vegetables?” she asked.

  “We finished the last of them for lunch,” Mrs. K lied.

  “All U.S. citizens?” the agent asked, glancing around at the passengers, one of whom I knew looked suspicious as hell.

  “Sure thing, honey,” Mrs. K replied.

  “Very nice rig!” the agent exclaimed. “OK, folks, have a nice day.”

  She stepped off, Dogo withdrew the steps and closed the door, he accelerated, and miraculously my breathing resumed. I was back in the United States and I hadn’t even been strip-searched. Boy, no wonder this country is awash in drugs. We should have loaded up the luggage basement with cocaine before crossing over.

  7:05 p.m. We’re camping outside Tucson in a ritzy RV park that has its own swimming pool, tennis club, and golf course. After you spend time in the Third World, this country seems affluent beyond belief—as if dollars were raining perpetually from the skies. After Dogo (with my help) hooked up the hoses and cables (and flushed the brimming holding tanks), Connie decided there was still enough daylight to get in nine holes of golf. As a child of wealth and privilege she plays that dumb game. Surprisingly, so does Dogo, although he has a bigger handicap than most golfers. Perhaps he swings the club with his feet.

  Sheeni’s mother went with them because she needed some air after the long journey and she enjoys driving the little carts. As a high-priced lawyer Mr. Saunders is also a golf nut, but he volunteered to stay behind and “keep our hostess company.” Sheeni was all for sticking to those two like leeches, but Mrs. K suggested “you young people” go explore the campground. As we exited the Plock, I heard the door click locked behind us.

  “If they weren’t such hypocrites,” observed My Love, taking my hand, “they could have gone in one bedroom and we could have gone in the other.”

  We explored the R
V park, set in a desert landscape that looked like the surface of the moon with cactuses. This campground was much fancier than the modest church trailer park in Clearlake where I had met The Love of My Life. We walked through the recreation hall with its pool tables, video games, and giant-screen TV. We checked out the swimming pool and adjoining hot tub, aboil with silver-haired retirees. (I refused to get within 50 feet of it.) We watched colorful leisure-wear spin in the fully equipped laundromat. We bought sodas in the park store and speculated on the lifestyles of the occupants of each RV as we strolled up and down the rows in the fading light. Every convenience was offered except a place where young people of the opposite sex could go and be alone together. Worse, the park was too public and too well-lit to make the Plock II a credible venue for such intimacies. Sheeni expressed frustration over this, but Rick S. Hunter had to pretend he didn’t care.

  “This is our last night together, you know,” she pointed out.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I replied. “I wish those golfers would get back. I’m starved.”

  9:45 p.m. Mr. Saunders splurged and took everyone out to dinner at a fancy steakhouse, not excluding the cabin boy and Dogo. (We followed in the Plock II as the main party traveled by cab.) Connie and I ordered the most expensive item on the menu—the filet mignon and jumbo prawn combo—earning dirty looks from our future father-in-law. Sheeni only picked at her petit filet, causing me to feel a fresh pang of sympathy for our beleaguered zygote. Our host sat between his wife and Mrs. K, and for all I know may have played footsie with both of them. Complaining it was “too watery,” Mrs. Saunders angrily sent back her virgin mai-tai; I fear I may have spoiled that cocktail for her for all time.

  So now we’re back and everyone’s upstairs having nightcaps and watching satellite TV. Dogo has not yet emerged to join me in the luggage basement. The plan is for Sheeni to sneak out after lights-out and link up with Rick S. Hunter. Perhaps we can do it in the pitch-black laundry room atop a vibrating clothes dryer. I have a pocketful of quarters just in case. Wish me luck!

  SUNDAY, April 5 — 1:15 a.m. A DISASTER! Sheeni’s in the hospital! I’m a nervous wreck. Finding the laundry door locked (were they worried someone was going to steal the dryer lint?), My Love suggested we stroll over in the warm moonlight to the pleasantly deserted golf course. We kissed in the shadows of a clump of trees beside a sinuous pond, and as we lowered ourselves onto the invitingly lush grass My Love suddenly cried out in pain. Something had bitten her leg! I spotted a small lobster-like creature scuttling away and stomped on it. My Love was nearly hysterical from pain and shock, but somehow I managed to get her back to the Plock, where her pajamas-clad parents pitched a major abusive fit, while Mrs. K calmly dialed 911 on her cellular phone. By then My Love’s face had begun to swell alarmingly and she was having difficulty breathing. While waiting for the ambulance, Connie put ice on the bite and Mrs. K sent Dogo and me out with flashlights to retrieve the dead creature, which somehow we found and which Dogo said was a scorpion—a “big one.”

  I got in the ambulance with My Love, but her father dragged me out bodily. The Saunders went in the ambulance, and Connie and her mother followed in the Plock II. Mrs. K told me I had to stay behind because I would just be in the way and “had caused enough trouble already.” Connie told me not to worry, slipped me one of her cellular phones, and said she would call as soon as she heard any news. Dogo has been refilling my glass with brandy. If the phone doesn’t ring in the next two minutes, I’m going to lose my mind.

  2:10 a.m. Connie just called. My Love is OK. They’ve given her anti-venom serum and she’s resting peacefully. The doctor said it was good they got her to the hospital right away, because it was a bark scorpion, one of the most dangerous kinds, whose bite can be fatal. He also assured Mr. and Mrs. Saunders that neither the venom nor the treatment should affect the baby, which is when the parental shit really impacted the fan.

  Too exhausted (and plastered?) to worry about that. I’m going to bed.

  11:45 a.m. On the road (Interstate 10) heading west toward California border. Have terrible hangover. Feel rotten. Very surly to employer at breakfast. The Saunders are no longer with us. Sheeni’s father came back while I was asleep and cleared out their stuff. My Love was discharged early this morning, and the three of them caught a plane to San Francisco. We didn’t even get a chance to say good-bye!

  Connie just divulged shocking news. When pressed by irate parents, Sheeni named as father of surprise zygote despised affected twit Trent Preston. Could it be true? Doesn’t seem possible. Connie agrees. She deems it sinister ploy by Sheeni to wreck former boyfriend’s new marriage. Is my Sweet Darling capable of such treachery? Prefer to believe her mind still muddled by scorpion venom. Thankful, at least, she didn’t name Nick Twisp or Rick S. Hunter, though Connie revealed that parents blame Sheeni’s brush with death on my fiendish attempt to seduce their once-virginal daughter. I’m now object of their unbridled hatred—so what else is new? Wonder if they despise me more than Nick Twisp? Or Trent? Though my racial purity may be suspect, at least I’m not a married man.

  9:20 p.m. Spring Break is over. When we got back to Bel Air, Mrs. K paid me $700 in cash and added a $50 bonus for “disappointments in love.” She said she would hire me for future trips as long as I didn’t outgrow my uniform or change my face to “some unacceptable film star.” I thanked her and assured her that this would be my look from now on.

  Lacey says Rick S. Hunter is “much cuter” than the old Nick. She likes my new voice too. I value her opinion on these matters because she’s a professional devoting her life to superficial appearances. Tonight I may realize a longtime ambition to spend the night with her alone. No sign of Mr. K, who I presume is having a loving reunion with his wife and daughter. My hostess just closed the cave walls and is making some popcorn in the microwave. Rick S. Hunter is stretched out on the daybed with his laptop. I’m hoping faux leopard skin proves a flattering complement to my virile new lips.

  MONDAY, April 5 — Lacey’s a mess. She bared her soul to me last night while we cuddled on the daybed, I sipped white wine, and François schemed to bare the rest of her. At one point she asked me whether I thought it was better to be in love “with a poor musician or a rich married man?” Out of loyalty to Connie, I replied that a woman’s first concern always must be the economic well-being of her unborn children.

  “But I don’t have any unborn children,” she objected.

  “Of course you do,” I assured her. “It’s just that they’re, well, unborn.”

  “Oh, I see … I guess.”

  “Lacey, I know you love Paul, but let’s face it, the only thing he’ll ever have in common with Charlie Parker and Stan Getz is a prison record for drugs. The guy’s not destined for jazz super-stardom. Do you want to raise your children in rented pool cabanas?”

  “No, but I don’t want to break up Bernie’s marriage either.”

  After swearing Lacey to absolute secrecy, I divulged the shocking details of Mrs. K’s Mexican liaison with Paul’s father.

  “That’s amazing!” she exclaimed. “I dig older men, but Mr. Saunders makes my skin crawl. I’d dump Paul in a minute if he ever got to look like his father.”

  “I feel the same way about Sheeni,” I confessed.

  “Bernie did say his marriage has been on the rocks for years,” she admitted.

  “What more proof do you need?”

  Lacey nibbled her popcorn and mulled it over.

  “Bernie’s a very sweet guy, Nick, I mean, Rick, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I could just be a spring fling to him.”

  “You can land him if you put your mind to it, Lacey. I’m talking multi-carat diamond ring, trousseau shopping on Rodeo Drive, the whole nine yards. Men Bernie’s age are always looking to settle down with that second trophy wife.”

  “It’d be awful to dump Paulie while he’s in jail, Rick.”

  “A guy can do a lot of emotional healing while meditating in a cell. And don’t forget, h
e said the thought of marrying you made him barf.”

  “Paulie did say that,” she conceded, “the rat.”

  François suggested it might be helpful in making Bernie jealous if I were to spend the night with her on the daybed. She gave me a playful tap and said having a “cute guy like you” in the pool utility room would be enough “to get Bernie plenty steamed”—even if I was supposed to be her brother.

  At least I persuaded her to try out François’s new lips. She liked them too.

  9:50 a.m. When I crawled out of my cave this morning to cough out eight hours of accumulated chlorine fumes, Bernie Krusinowski was soaking his corned-beef body in the hot tub. He waved me over, but I approached cautiously and kept a safe distance.

  “So, you didn’t listen when I warned you to stay away from my daughter. Now look at you. Do you have to iron those lips or are they permanent press?”

  “They’re still a little swollen from my surgery.”

  “How much did that quack soak you for?”

  “$11,400, but I’m not complaining. Everyone missed you on the trip.”

  “Mexico’s a nice enough place—if you’re a Mexican. I had more important matters to attend to here.”

  “I hope, Bernie, your intentions toward my sister are honorable.”

  “Hold it down, bub,” he cautioned, glancing about. “What did Lacey tell you?”

  “We have no secrets in our family. I’ve advised her to look for a younger man who can satisfy her every need.”

  “I can satisfy everything she needs satisfied, bub. Don’t you worry about that.”

  “She wants children and a home, Bernie. If she doesn’t get a ring, she’ll walk.”

  “She never told me that.”

  “Don’t let her know I mentioned this, but the same sad story played out last year in Ukiah. The guy’s name was George W. Twisp—very big in concrete and lumber up there. He’s still a basket case.”

  “Really?”

  “She leaves a very big void, Bernie. And when she walks, she’s gone. My sister never turns back.”