Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  “They’re better off,” I said. “At least they never have to eat liver again.”

  “Jerry loved liver,” snapped Mom. “I fixed it for him all the time.”

  “Yes,” I replied, “and look what happened to him.”

  Mom swung back to clout me one, but decided—for once—to resist her deep-seated impulse toward child abuse. “You get to bed!” she exclaimed.

  “Can I get a razor blade first?” I asked.

  “Get to bed, smarty-pants!” yelled Mom, shoving me out of the bathroom. Thrilled by this display of violence, Albert barked excitedly. “And don’t forget to walk that dog,” added Mom.

  “How can I walk him in bed?” I asked. That was a mistake. Mom officially lost it and flew off the handle. She delivered a stinging, flat-hand slap to my right cheek. Albert encouraged her with another lusty bark.

  “OK, smart-mouth!” bellowed Mom. “I’ll walk the dog. You go to bed!”

  “All right,” I said appeasingly. “I was just asking.”

  “And I’m telling you!” screamed Mom. The veins on her forehead were beginning to stand out and turn purple—always a cautionary sign. I turned and hurried down the corridor to my room.

  “Why do I put up with that kid?” Mom asked Albert. “Why?” The traitorous canine looked in my direction and sneered. I could tell he wanted to add some slander of his own, but words—as usual—escaped him.

  9:30 P.M. I heard the phone ring downstairs and Mom answer it. I opened my bedroom door and slipped silently up the hallway to the head of the stairs. What I heard chilled my blood.

  “I’m sorry, Sheeni,” said Mom. “Nick can’t come to the phone now, he’s being punished. … I’m sorry, I don’t care if it is an emergency. … All right, I suppose I could give him a short message. …You don’t say! OK, I’ll tell him. And please don’t call here collect again. I can’t afford the expense. I’m sorry to hear about your father. … No, Nick won’t be calling you tomorrow. He’s not permitted to make long-distance calls. I suggest you write. Good night, Sheeni.”

  I hurried back to bed as Mom climbed the stairs. She looked in from the hall and scowled.

  “Don’t pretend to be asleep. That was that girl Sheeni. She told me to tell you her father has been arrested at the Greyhound bus station in Lakeport.”

  I was paralyzed with horror. “Why?” I croaked.

  “For kidnapping some boy,” replied Mom with distaste. “It all sounds quite sordid to me.”

  “Did, did she say anything more?” I stammered.

  “That was all,” replied Mom. “I don’t see how it concerns us anyway. Now go to sleep. You’re grounded.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until I see a change in your attitude,” said Mom, slamming the door.

  Great! An indeterminate sentence, the worst kind. But I don’t think it’s going to matter to the FBI that I’m grounded when they come to haul me off to jail.

  WEDNESDAY, September 5 — 12:30 A.M. I can barely type from the trembling in my fingers. Thank God, correcting mistakes is so easy on a computer. How I pity those troubled, literary teens of the past who had to type their journals on ordinary typewriters.

  After Mom delivered her doomsday message, I lay in bed, listening to the muffled sounds of the TV from downstairs and contemplating my forthcoming years in the custody of the California Youth Authority. I wonder if anyone has ever gone on from reform school to literary renown? Probably not.

  It was well past 11 before Mom switched off the TV and climbed the stairs to bed. I waited until I heard her begin to snore (everyone in my family snores, including—much to Sheeni’s likely future distress—me), then I sneaked downstairs to the phone. A growl from the dead Chevy caused me to jump. It was my repellent dog, reclining in the dark on his Body-by-Fisher bed. I whispered for him to hush and dialed Sheeni’s number. After two rings a strange man’s voice answered.

  “Deputy Riffman,” it said. “Who is this?”

  I hung up. Are they arresting Sheeni as an accomplice? Am I dragging the woman I love down a sorry, sordid path to perdition? What exactly does “perdition” mean? These questions torment me.

  I’ve decided to sleep (as if I could!) beside the phone. I must know what is happening. This uncertainty is living torment.

  4:20 A.M. The jangling telephone jarred me to consciousness. I had turned down the bell, so it didn’t wake Mom. As usual, it was the operator asking if I wished to accept a collect call from … “Yes, yes!” I interrupted, whispering eagerly.

  “Nickie, darling. Is that you?”

  It was The Voice of the Woman I Love. She sounded very far away.

  “Yes, it’s me, Sheeni. What’s going on? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. A bit chilled. I sneaked out to call from a pay phone. It’s a little scary. I hope all the Lake County rapists have retired for the night. I’m just in shorts and a tube top.”

  “Not the yellow one, I hope,” I said, alarmed.

  “Yes,” replied Sheeni, “how did you know?”

  “Why must you dress so alluringly?” I demanded. “Especially when you’re sneaking out in the middle of the night.”

  “It’s just my nature, I suppose,” replied Sheeni philosophically. “Although this evening’s upheavals, I feel, may at least partially excuse this particular sartorial lapse.”

  “What is happening?” I asked.

  “What is not happening might be a more appropriate question,” said Sheeni. “It has been a night to remember. Father is back finally. I don’t think they’re going to charge him with anything. Although he should not have struck that sheriff’s deputy.”

  “Why was he arrested?” I asked urgently.

  “Lefty’s parents notified the sheriff’s office here. They were watching the bus station. Father, you’ll recall, was somewhat in the dark at that point. At first he thought it was some kind of immigration matter. Then, when they said he was under arrest for kidnapping, he thought it was a joke. Some sort of a gag arranged by his law partners. Then, when the deputies persisted, he got angry. Father, as you may know, is apt to do anything when he gets angry.”

  “What about Lefty?”

  “He went back home with his parents. They’re probably getting into Oakland about now.”

  “Did he talk?”

  “Like ZaSu Pitts on Ecstasy. First he clammed up. Then he got rattled by all the uniforms. His mother screaming hysterically didn’t help his composure either. So, I’m afraid, Nickie darling, your pal spilled the beans.”

  “All of them?” I stammered weakly.

  “Apparently so,” sighed Sheeni. “Your name came up rather prominently. My parents have forbidden me ever to speak to you again.”

  “What!”

  “Yes,” said Sheeni. “Exactly so. You’ve been banned from my life. Of course, you realize this parental edict now makes you even more desirable in my eyes.”

  “It does?” I asked wonderingly.

  “Well, yes,” replied Sheeni. “Frankly, Nick, I was always somewhat appalled by my parents’ approbation of Trent. In some ways it was the only chink in his armor of perfection.”

  “Then I’ll get to see you again, Sheeni?”

  “Of course, darling. But it’s going to be difficult. We’ll have to sneak around and lie to our parents. Can you do that?”

  “I do it all the time,” I replied.

  “Good,” said Sheeni, “I hoped you’d say that. I was worried you might be a bit of a Goody Two-Shoes.”

  “Hardly,” I said. “I’m in a state of permanent open revolt around here. That’s why my mother wouldn’t let me come to the phone.”

  “Then, darling, I shall take strength from your outlawhood. We shall revolt together. This will be the bond of our love. This and darling Albert. You must affect a girlish handwriting, Nickie, and communicate by letter daily. Write the name ‘Debbie Grumfeld’ as the return address on the envelope. She’s a friend of mine who moved to Oakland last year. We’re returni
ng to Ukiah tomorrow, so send the letters to my home there.”

  “And will you write to me, darling?” I asked.

  “As often as I dare,” said Sheeni. “Unfortunately, this episode could not have come at a worse time. School starts Monday and I’ve yet to complete my fall wardrobe purchases. So, some parental appeasement will be required—at least temporarily.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be lovely,” I said wistfully, wishing with all my heart that I could walk the halls of Ukiah’s Redwood High School hand in hand with my love.

  “Thank you, darling,” said Sheeni. “Well, I’m shivering from the cold, and I don’t like the way my erect nipples are outlined enticingly against this thin fabric. So, hugs and kisses. I’ll talk to you soon. Say hi to Lefty for me. Bye, darling.”

  “Goodbye, sweetheart,” I whispered.

  At that moment, the overhead light snapped on, blinding me. I dropped the phone and turned around. It was Mom, standing in her robe by the light switch. If looks could kill, I’d be a cinch for the Channel 2 news.

  “What the friggin’ hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. Albert growled at me from his ringside seat.

  “I, I couldn’t sleep. So I phoned for the time.”

  “You better be telling the truth,” said Mom. “Because I’m calling the phone company tomorrow. And there better not be any more collect calls on this line.”

  Guess what, Lefty (wherever you are)? My life is a living hell.

  10:15 A.M. I never got back to sleep. I lay in bed, feeling like moldy roadkill, wishing I could fast-forward through the coming week. The day dawned appropriately gray, gloomy, and cold. I thought of whacking off for some brief, transitory pleasure, but my libido is off somewhere hiding out.

  The liver had its revenge on Mom too. I heard her go in the bathroom and toss her cookies. Not even the sounds of her violent bodily distress gave me pleasure.

  Dreading another confrontation, I didn’t go down for breakfast. Mom didn’t call me. After a while, she walked into my room (without knocking) and said I owed her $83.12 in long-distance fees. To her surprise, I took out my wallet and paid her in cash. “Where’d you get all that money?” Mom demanded.

  “Dealing dope,” I muttered.

  “What’d you say?”

  “It’s my savings,” I replied. “My entire college education fund except for $7.”

  Mom, though, was impervious to guilt. “That phone is off-limits to you,” she said, pocketing the greenbacks. “You want to talk to somebody, you write them a letter.”

  “I’m not going to talk to anyone,” I replied. “I’m going to stay in my room and become a maladjusted, antisocial hermit.”

  “Good,” said Mom, “that sounds like an improvement to me. But first you’re going to walk that dog.”

  Albert was in a bubbly mood and ready for exercise—even with me. We walked to the donut shop, where I blew four of my last seven dollars on the extreme depressive’s breakfast: a large coffee, two maple bars, a cinnamon twist, a blueberry turnover, a chocolate old-fashioned, and a dozen donut holes. Even the clerk (an immense, middle-aged black woman), who doubtless deals daily with the profoundly sugar-compulsive, seemed impressed.

  On the way back, I had to rescue Albert from a large Doberman who trotted over menacingly to sniff his heinie. Albert’s defense was to growl nervously, sit down, and look around to me for protection. I felt like maintaining strict neutrality, but for Sheeni’s sake, I hoisted Albert out of danger range. He thanked me by dribbling on my shirt.

  When I got home, Mom was in Joanie’s room hanging frilly baby-blue curtains on the windows. The effect is strikingly juvenile. Joanie, I am sure, will be pissed. Albert sauntered in and hopped up on the bed to watch Mom. She didn’t object, and greeted him affectionately—while lobbing a scowl in my direction. Frankly, I think the two of them deserve each other.

  I went to my room and sat at the computer. Any second now, I expect the phone to ring and the next stage of my life (as a juvenile offender) to commence.

  12:45 P.M. The phone never rang. At 10:30 Lefty’s parents showed up without an appointment. I heard the car stop out front and watched from my bedroom window. Lefty was in the back seat looking red-eyed, subdued, and just slightly swelled up. He spotted me in the window and quickly looked away. He didn’t get out of the car.

  When the doorbell rang, I felt a strange tingling at the base of my scrotum. This, I realized, is the physical sensation of extreme terror. It’s probably what the noblemen in France felt right before the blade of the guillotine hurtled down.

  I heard Mom open the front door and exclaim when she saw Lefty in the car. Five seconds later, I heard Lefty’s parents exclaim when they saw the bedoilied Chevrolet in the living room. Then there were muffled conversational sounds interrupted periodically by loud expostulations from Mom. Then heavy footsteps stormed up the stairs and my bedroom door exploded open. Mom, several frightening emotional states past livid, stood in the doorway. “Get…get downstairs!” she raged.

  I darted past the erupting volcano and hurried downstairs. Mom thundered down after me. From the couch next to the Chevy, Lefty’s parents looked up in reproachful indignation. The next 15 minutes were an excruciating blur. I remember hysterical screaming (the two moms’), tears (mine), outraged bellowing (Lefty’s dad’s), expressions of heartfelt remorse (mine), threats and recriminations (Mom’s), and abject cowering (mine). Finally—my emotions shredded, my self-esteem in tatters—I was sent upstairs to await punishment. (What do they call what they just put me through?)

  Thank God it looks like Lefty’s parents aren’t planning to call in the cops—though Lefty’s mom did say she was going to send us the bill for her daughter’s “psychological counseling.” I fear I may have applied too freely the red-hot poker of guilt. I just hope Martha recovers her mental equilibrium in a hurry. God knows, psychological counseling is a luxury we can’t afford.

  Then I had to endure more abuse as I was carrying the computer and baseball cards out to Lefty’s car. (His dad turned out to be a both a liar and an Indian giver.) Lefty didn’t even look at me as I was loading his computer into the back seat. Just see if I ever try to help out a pal in trouble again. He can walk around with permanent, Day-Glo peter tracks for all I care.

  Mom has been phoning around trying to locate Dad. Whenever there’s serious abuse, I mean discipline, to be handed out, she likes to rope in Dad to foster the illusion of parental consensus. Thus the tyrannical misuse of power is cloaked in a sheen of ersatz legitimacy. Naturally, I’ve been trying to anticipate what forms the parental decrees may take. Knowing Dad, I can expect some radical diminution in my allowance. I may also have to mow his yard gratis for the next 2,000 years. Mom, though, is harder to predict. She has a sadistic side that probes for deep emotional wounding through creative discipline. My worst nightmare is that she’ll banish Albert. If she uses that sword against me, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  2:15 P.M. Mom just burst into my room. “Your father is falling-down drunk!” she exclaimed accusingly.

  “Oh,” I replied. I didn’t see quite how I was at fault here.

  “I’m going to Marin,” continued Mom. “Don’t you dare leave this house.”

  “OK.”

  “While I’m gone, I want you to take Joanie’s bed apart and put it in the garage.”

  “OK,” I said meekly. I didn’t point out that to accomplish this task I would have to leave the house.

  “It’s none of your damn business why!” said Mom.

  “OK,” I said. “I didn’t ask.”

  “Well, don’t!” she added. “Just do it!”

  5:30 P.M. Joanie’s bed came apart with great reluctance. It’s a vast oak monstrosity custom-built for athletic newlyweds. (Joanie inherited it at the age of seven when my parents moved on to twin beds.) I had to wham on it with a sledgehammer to free the bed rails—splintering some of the fine oak in the process. Then the mattress got away from me on the stairs, narrowly m
issing a small ugly dog.

  Later, when I was closing the garage doors, Mr. Ferguson called my name from the bushes.

  “Great news, Nick,” he said, peering through the foliage. “I just heard on Channel 2 news that your friend Leroy is alive. He didn’t drown after all!”

  “That’s nice,” I said, walking quickly toward the house. I didn’t feel much like talking to Mr. Ferguson.

  Then, as I was watching Kate Cruikshank giving an exclusive live report from Lefty’s front yard, the phone rang.

  “I hate your slimy guts,” declared a familiar voice.

  “Lefty, I don’t think you’re being entirely fair,” I replied.