Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  For dessert we all decided on the specialty of the house: chocolate cheesecake. It was nice, but a bit on the heavy side. Only the men finished their huge, 3,000-calorie slabs. Jerry also cleaned up Sheeni’s and Mom’s. But, of course, he has a gut to keep in tone.

  By then I was practically comatose, but the other three perked right up when the band started to play. This was a C&W quartet: Ginny and the Country Caballeros. Ginny was fat, 50, and flat (musically only). She sang and played the guitar. Backing her up were three skinny, middle-aged guys who looked like they could have constituted the day shift at the local Shell station. They commanded fiddle, drums, and accordion.

  To my horror, couples at tables around us started getting up and drifting toward the dance floor. Like most 14-year-old white youths, I have a morbid fear of being compelled to dance in public. I prayed Sheeni shared my sentiment. Alas, she did not. First Mom and Jerry got up. Then Sheeni took my hand and led me toward the dreaded Platform of Public Humiliation.

  Except for the extremely pleasant sensation of Sheeni’s firm breasts against my chest, the experience was a nightmare. When it comes to dancing, I have no talent, no training, and no rhythm. I was also cold sober (unlike my partner), and was acutely aware that my rival in love had doubtless already proven his Terpsichorean mastery. It did not improve my concentration to imagine them clinched cheek to cheek (and, even worse, chest to chest), gliding gracefully across some Ukiahan ballroom.

  So we danced. Sheeni danced like gay prewar Paris. I danced like the German Army retreating from Stalingrad. And then, finally, the struggle came to an end. We were out in the cool night air—walking arm in arm toward our waiting Lincoln. Jerry was singing, the Corn Dog Queen was whistling, Sheeni was humming, and I was immensely relieved.

  In the dark back seat, Sheeni planted a long, ripe one on my lips. She tasted of tequila, cigarettes, and chocolate—a provocatively volatile mixture that ignited my nervous system. I longed to take her right there—even with my condom expired and my mother seated three feet away. I gasped as her exploring hand found the bulge in my trousers. “What about Albert?” she whispered.

  “Just go along with anything I say,” I whispered back. She gave my throbbing T.E. an assenting squeeze.

  I reluctantly removed her hand and leaned forward. “Mom,” I said, “Sheeni and I have been talking, and she’s willing to give up Albert if it will help me get in the Olympics.”

  “You don’t say!” exclaimed the tipsy Corn Dog Queen. “You’d do that for Nick, Sheeni dear?”

  “Uh, yes, Mrs. Twisp. I guess I would,” said Sheeni.

  “Oh, that’s marvelous, Nickie,” replied Mom. “Sheeni, we’ll take good care of your dog.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Twisp,” said Sheeni. She looked wonderingly at me.

  I smiled and kissed her. Trent, I thought, you are history.

  Jerry was in no condition to be driving anything larger than a golf ball, but soon we were lurching safely to a stop in front of “My Green Haven.” Sheeni said good night, and gave Mom and Jerry a hug. The latter also swiped a kiss, which the surprised recipient later confided to me had been of the most intimate French variety. I added that to my long list of wrongs to be avenged.

  I escorted Sheeni home. We have a donut date for tomorrow morning, but this was to be our last few moments of (comparative) privacy. As we walked arm in arm past the darkened trailers glinting silver in the warm moonlight, I explained Albert’s metamorphosis from generic ugly mutt to glamorous, Olympic-caliber Tonzello sports dog.

  “You are a genius,” exclaimed Sheeni, laughing. “An absolute genius!”

  I said it was nothing, but, in truth, these were the very words I had always longed to hear from the lips of a beautiful woman. And I was only 14! Some men wait a lifetime and die never having heard those sweet syllables.

  In the deep shadows under Sheeni’s trailer awning, our eager bodies joined in unrestrained passion. Cautiously, I tasted her hot lips, happily detecting not a trace of the vile truck driver. Soon, we were exploring the erotic limits of the human kiss. My tongue found her tongue, her teeth, her molars, her gums, her uvula, and even dislodged an unchewed morsel of sea bass. As I was attempting to introduce my right hand into her dress, a light came on in the trailer and the door opened. Looming in the doorway was Sheeni’s 5,000-year-old mother.

  “Sheeni,” she croaked, “is that you?”

  Sheeni smoothed her hair and strolled over into the pool of light.

  “Yes, Mother,” she said calmly. “I’m here with Nick.”

  “Let’s see this young heathen.”

  Sheeni motioned me over. I gulped and edged into the light. “Hello, Mrs. Saunders. Nice to meet you.”

  “I doubt that very much,” said the bathrobed crone. “I’ve been discussing your case with Mrs. Clarkelson. Her reports are most unsettling. I fear for your immortal soul, young man.”

  “Nick is a very sweet boy, Mother,” said Sheeni. “He’s agreed to adopt Albert.”

  “That is no step toward spiritual redemption. That dog should be stabbed through the heart with a silver dagger one hour before the cock’s crow on a moonless night.”

  Even for Albert that seemed a bit extreme. I was at a loss for a reply. Sheeni shook my hand. “Good night, Nick. Thank you for dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Uh, good night, Sheeni,” I said. “Good night, Mrs. Saunders.”

  “Look into your soul, young man. Before it’s too late!”

  “OK, I will,” I said, edging toward the gate. I waved to Sheeni as she entered the towering trailer. Pale and expressionless, she didn’t wave back.

  When I got back to our trailer, I was surprised to see Albert outside tethered to the patio shed. He tugged glumly at his leash and barked. Inside was another surprise. Mom was still cleaning up the mess. Someone had gone systematically through the trailer ripping down and destroying the art. Scattered across the floor were shards of broken glass, chewed pieces of plastic frames, and torn bits of three-dimensional apostles. Oddly, the vandal had spared the one piece of secular art: a 3-D portrait of a pale, overfed Elvis.

  “Look what your horrible dog did!” exclaimed Mom, gingerly picking glass out of the rag rug.

  I tried not to panic. “How could Albert have done that? They were way up on the walls! He’d have needed a stepladder.”

  “All the doors and windows were locked,” declared Jerry.

  “That dog is going back to Sheeni in the morning!” announced Mom.

  Rising alarm. “Aw, Mom. He’s just a puppy. He’ll learn. I’ll watch him!”

  “No!” said Mom.

  Horrors, the dreaded parental “no.” I floundered for a life rope. “I’ll keep him outside. I’ll make him a doghouse in the back yard!”

  “No,” said Mom, with sickening finality. “That dog scares me. There’s something funny about him.”

  “But what about my athletic career?”

  Jerry snickered. Mom tweezed a sliver of glass from the rug and winced as it pricked her. “You’ll just have to stick to baseball, Nick. You already have all the equipment.”

  I couldn’t argue with that point. “Great!” I said. “Ruin my love life! But remember, if I turn gay, it was all your fault!” I stomped off to my room and yanked the curtain closed.

  “If you ask me, Estelle,” observed Jerry, “I’d say the kid’s at least half queer already.”

  “Oh, hush, Jerry,” said Mom. “You’re not helping matters.”

  Jerry replied with a loud, deep, prolonged belch. I resolved to murder him that very night while he slept.

  FRIDAY, August 24 — I lost my nerve. I had the butcher knife out of the drawer at 2 A.M., but couldn’t go through with it. I considered using it on myself, but I didn’t want Sheeni to pine away and die from a broken heart. So I went back to bed and tossed and turned until dawn.

  I kept thinking about what Mom had said: “That dog scares me. There’s something funny about him.” He does seem a bit o
dd, come to think of it. Why this compulsive streak of profane desecration? And what was his strange hold over Sheeni? Why should she give up Mr. Wonderful (T—-t) for lowly me—just to keep a small, ugly, smelly dog? It didn’t add up at 2 A.M. It didn’t add up at 5 A.M.

  And at 6 A.M., when I crawled out of bed, it still didn’t add up. But I had decided one thing: Albert’s adoption, though troubling, was still going through. Not without a struggle would I relinquish our love child.

  I slipped on my bathrobe and stepped outside. Another beautiful summer morning. On the patio, Albert was asleep on the concrete beside a pile of vomited religious art. He woke with a start and growled. I ignored him and shuffled off for my last shower. I wanted to be well scrubbed for my farewell donut date.

  To my surprise, I found my date lurking in the bushes outside the entrance to the men’s shower room. She was wearing her fabulously modest bathrobe and (I hoped) nothing else. She waved and motioned me over. “Sheeni!” I said, “what are you…”

  “Shh-h-h!” she whispered. “Crouch down!”

  As I crawled into the bushes beside her, my robe came untied. Neither of us was surprised to discover I had already developed a massive T.E. Sheeni kissed me and squeezed my boner. One of the (many) things I like about Sheeni is her easy familiarity with my penis. “Good morning, sweetheart,” I whispered, trying to reach into her flannel.

  She pushed my hand away and tugged my robe closed. “Not now, darling,” she replied. “You arrived just in time. Mrs. Clarkelson just went into the ladies’ shower.”

  “No way!” I hissed. “I’m not…”

  “Shh-h-h! Quick, put this sign on the men’s door,” she instructed, whispering the rest of her bold plan.

  “But I can’t walk anywhere in my present condition,” I protested.

  “Nonsense,” said Sheeni, “it adds to your appeal.”

  I was pleased she thought so. I sighed. Blind love compelled my obedience.

  I crawled back out of the bushes and hung the sign on the doorknob. Neatly lettered, it read: “Closed for Repairs. Men use ladies’ showers 6-7 A.M. only.” I then circled back through the trailer park—trying my best to conceal with my towel the monstrous protrusion in my robe. As I passed Rev. Knuddlesdopper’s trailer, I bent over provocatively (I hoped) and scratched my bare leg. Walking back toward the shower building, I heard his trailer door open and close behind me. As I came around the corner of the building, I darted into the bushes and crouched beside Sheeni. Ten seconds later, the bathrobed minister appeared. He paused, read the sign, and continued on around the building toward the inviting sound of running water.

  Sheeni looked at me and started to count softly. “One, two, three, four…” When she reached 14, we heard a bloodcurdling scream, followed by a deeper yell, followed by a loud crash. Sheeni continued to count. Between 15 and 23 there were more screams, some muffled howls, and a sharp thud. At 27 we heard a door slam. At 28, Rev. Knuddlesdopper reappeared, rounding the corner in a flat-out sprint. He was beet red, dripping wet, and nude. At 32, the door slammed again. At 34, Mrs. Clarkelson appeared, moving at a fairly rapid clip for her age. She was a somewhat paler red, just as wet, and also naked. She was shouting more or less incoherently, but I thought I made out “pervert,” “rape,” and “911.”

  Sheeni stopped counting, stepped briskly out of the bushes, and slipped the sign into her robe. I followed. “Good work, Nick,” she said. “Pick me up in ten minutes.”

  I nodded as she strolled away. I walked casually in the opposite direction, working my way upstream against waves of excited and disturbed trailer residents. I feigned disinterest amid the hubbub. Ten minutes gave me just enough time for a sponge bath in the tiny trailer bathroom. I had to look my best for the woman of my dreams.

  In the condensed kitchen, Mom was staring moodily at the kettle warming on the miniature propane range. “What’s all that shouting about out there?” she asked in sleepy irritation. “It’s enough to wake the dead.”

  “I don’t know,” I lied. “People are running about all wet. Maybe it’s some kind of religious rite.”

  “I’m glad we’re leaving today,” she said, pouring hot water into a mug. “This place gives me the creeps.” She dumped in a spoonful of instant coffee and gave it a slurp. I thought of Jerry having to wake to this apparition every morning and felt a fleeting twinge of pity.

  After a vigorous sponge bath, followed by an extra-heavy spritz of deodorant, I dressed quickly and counted out my remaining cash: $43.12. I hoped it would be enough. As I was leaving, Mom looked up from her package of powdered donut gems. “We’re leaving at nine,” she announced.

  Less than two hours remained with my beloved! “But Jerry isn’t even up yet,” I protested.

  “He will be,” said Mom. “Don’t be late or you walk back.”

  “OK, OK,” I said, slamming the door. I untied my dog and pulled him along.

  Sheeni was waiting on her patio. She had changed into a bright yellow tube top (no bra!) and dramatically short cutoff jeans that were unraveling provocatively just millimeters below her reproductive organs. She and Albert were thrilled to be reunited. If only she displayed such unrestrained affection with me. I watched them jealously and fantasized about pulling down her tube top—with my teeth.

  To avoid the boisterous crowds in front of Mrs. Clarkelson’s trailer, we slipped out through an alley. As we walked into town, Sheeni carried Albert like a baby, lifting him to her face occasionally for a wet doggy kiss (yuck). I wondered if she’d object to gargling with a strong antiseptic before kissing me goodbye.

  Fortunately, in the interests of health, the donut shop prohibited dogs. Tethered to a newspaper rack, Albert waited forlornly on the sidewalk while the humans went inside for breakfast. We ordered a combination dozen to start with and settled into “our booth” in the corner. Sheeni sipped her coffee and tackled a maple bar. I experimented with the house specialty: a blueberry-filled raised roll, topped with peanut butter and chocolate chips. It was good, but somewhat lacking in focus.

  I was exhilarated by love and the extreme sugar rush, but also felt a fearful panic at the thought of our imminent separation. Sheeni assured me her father often went to San Francisco on legal business and she would wangle a way to come along. “Dad is much more tractable than Mother,” she observed. “It’s the difference between pragmatism and zeal. I seem to have inherited their characters in equal measure, which explains the dichotomy in my nature.”

  “What dichotomy is that?” I asked, munching on a cinnamon twist.

  Sheeni picked up an orange-frosted cake donut and licked the frosting. “Surely you’ve noticed, darling. I approach every aspect of my life with a zealot’s intensity. Yet I am also capable of dramatic compromise. My decision to forsake the love of Trent being an outstanding example of this capacity for self-sacrifice.”

  I didn’t much like the sound of that. I decided to change the subject. “Then that woman I met last night is your natural mother?”

  Sheeni frowned. “Of course. Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “Did she have you late in life?”

  “You might say that. She was over 40.”

  We ate our donuts in silence. When she is emotionally distraught, Sheeni is even more heartbreakingly lovely than usual. Finally she looked up. “My mother, Nick, is a brilliant woman. A very brilliant woman. Her life has turned some strange corners. She has traveled in directions that perhaps we would not choose. But she has been places and seen things that we could not begin to appreciate. Or even understand. These journeys have been difficult and have exacted a fearsome physical toll. Now do you understand?”

  It was all as clear as mud. “Sure,” I said. “That’s OK. She seemed very nice to me.”

  “She was abominable to you. And you know it. Let us speak the truth to each other always, Nick darling.”

  “OK, I promise.” I even decided to try it. “Sheeni, I think I love you.”

  Sheeni smiled, a smear of orange f
rosting heightening the allure of her kissable lips. “Of course you do, Nick. Well, your hormones certainly do. And oddly enough, my hormones like you too.”

  I’m not sure, but I think that was a declaration of love.

  After breakfast, we walked hand in hand to the bus station, where I spent my last nickel on this planet shipping a small black dog to Oakland. Not wanting to put my relationship in jeopardy (and knowing the loathsome Trent was expected that afternoon), I was forced to retreat from my vow of candidness. I told Sheeni that Jerry adamantly refused to transport Albert in the Lincoln. I did not mention, of course, that her blasphemous dog once again had been banished. Nor did I confide that I was now facing the daunting task of revoking an overt parental “no” while attempting to conceal my open defiance of it.

  Sheeni, as ever supremely confident of her overpowering charms, volunteered to persuade Jerry to change his mind. But I finally convinced her Albert would have a happier and safer trip on the bus. As a family of Berkeley-bound ’60s hippies looked on (what was it about that weird decade anyway?), mother and love child had a touchingly tearful farewell. Then Albert was stuffed into a cage and carried off—howling pitifully. I hoped he had a long and miserable trip. And if, God forbid, the bus were to overturn, at least Albert would die happy in the knowledge that his life was insured—for $500 (payable to me).