by C. D. Payne
SATURDAY, September 22 — Early A.M.: wake to sounds of hateful mother screaming. Attribute vociferation to sexual ecstasy. Wonder if energetic intercourse safe for fetus. Hope not.
Hours later: surprise large naked cop gargling in bathroom. Looks like partially shaved bull. Could feed family of six for long winter. Pendulous testicles hang down halfway to knees. Cop not bashful, says: “Hi, Nick. You know what you need, kid? A swift kick in the keister. And I’m just the fella to do it.” Contemplate pilfering naked cop’s service revolver and shooting everyone in sight (commencing with him). Pass loathsome mother in hall. She says, “Oh, Nick. Officer Wescott may be dropping by early to ask us some more questions about the crime.” Which crime is that: Fornication? Betrayal of Wally? Corrupting the morals of a minor?
Half hour later: small, ugly black dog bites Officer Lance Wescott in left ankle. Possible motive: avenging wrong against Wally. Only light bleeding. Hateful mother swats dog with newspaper, invites bellowing policeman out for brunch. Invitation not extended to son.
10:15 A.M. The phone rang, I answered it, and God switched the sun back on. It was Sheeni. She’s in San Francisco with her parents!
“Darling, I was worried sick!” exclaimed Sheeni. “Nothing’s happened to Albert, has it?”
“No,” I replied, “I’ve been stabbed in the back. By my mother. She says I can’t move to Ukiah.”
“But why, darling!”
“She’s pregnant.”
“Who’s pregnant?”
“My mother.”
“Your mother! But your mother’s old!”
“She’s ancient,” I agreed. “But she’s still knocked up.”
“Let that be a lesson to us all,” said Sheeni. “Who’s the poppa?”
“Old moldering Jerry, one presumes. Meanwhile, her new boyfriend’s out of town, so she’s shanghaied yet another guy into her bed—a fascistic cop. Even for this family, it’s all amazingly sordid.”
“You don’t say, Debbie,” said Sheeni. “Yes, I would love to get together this afternoon. Why don’t I take BART over and meet you in downtown Oakland around one? We could do lunch.”
“That would be wonderful,” I said. “I’ll meet you in front of city hall.”
“Great, Debbie,” said Sheeni, “and do bring that dear black friend of yours.”
Lunch with Sheeni! Suddenly, I was ravenous. Five days without food. What was I thinking of? But what smooth, virtually zit-free skin to bring to those intimate embraces. Oops, instant T.E. Life is looking up!
7:30 P.M. A whole afternoon and part of an evening with The Woman I Love. What an exquisite day—even if there was hell to pay when I got home. Mom didn’t buy it that I’d been taking Albert for a six-hour walk. She came dangerously close to flying off the handle again. Doesn’t she realize how damaging these tantrums are to young Jerry Junior? Of course, the kid is facing many, many years of life with Mom. So perhaps it’s best that he come into the world with that first layer of emotional scar tissue already formed.
I was a half hour early and Sheeni was 15 minutes late—ample time to work myself into a state of near nervous collapse. When she finally appeared, the adrenaline rush almost killed me. I’d forgotten how excruciatingly lovely she is. She strode toward me in the bright sunshine in a pale blue sleeveless dress the color of her eyes. She had a white cashmere sweater slung over her tanned shoulders and a big canvas bag under her arm. She was also wearing her patented Sheeni smile: quizzical, ironic, faintly bemused.
Fortunately, Albert went ape-shit when he saw her, so I had several seconds to compose myself before she transferred his doggie germs to my famished lips.
“Hi, Nickie,” said Sheeni, “miss me?”
“It’s been years,” I stammered.
“Decades,” she replied.
“Centuries.”
Sheeni frowned. “Centuries, I fear, may be transporting us to the realm of hyperbole.”
We had lunch in a small Thai cafe selected for its authentic Third World atmosphere, cleanliness, and prices. Sheeni chose a booth by the front window so she could coo and wave to lonely Albert, tied up outside. “Do sit beside me, Nickie,” said My Love, sliding over in the tiny booth. I squeezed in beside her. Slowly, the unexpected shyness I felt in her presence was beginning to thaw.
Over spiced coffee and lemon-grass chicken we caught up on all the news.
“How long are you in San Francisco?” I asked.
“Only today, I regret,” said Sheeni. “Father and Mother are here to interview a new minister for the congregation.”
“What happened to Rev. Knuddlesdopper?”
“Canned, I’m afraid,” she replied. “There was another incident in the men’s shower room. Mrs. Clarkelson’s faction waged an intensive letter-writing campaign among the church hierarchy that finally bore fruit. Knuddy has been defrocked.”
“Happens to us all sooner or later,” I leered.
“Alas, much later than some people anticipate,” replied Sheeni.
I sighed. “Damn that Jerry. There should be compulsive sterilization laws for morons like him.”
“I’m amazed your mother wants to go through with a pregnancy at her age,” said Sheeni. “It seems to me a timely miscarriage at this point would be greatly beneficial to everyone concerned.”
“Well, I have thought of loosening some treads at the top of the stairs.”
“Too Hitchcockian,” said Sheeni. “Strategies like that never work in real life. Chances are someone else would fall and then you’d be tormented by remorse. Or you’d forget and trip yourself, and then be paralyzed for life—probably from the waist down.”
“That would certainly be inconvenient,” I agreed. “Well, what can we do?”
“How about a reconciliation between your father and mother?” suggested Sheeni. “The entire family happily reunited in Ukiah.”
“Out of the question,” I sighed. “They hate each other—as well they should. Besides, Dad only goes for younger women.”
“Yes,” said Sheeni, “I’m told all work came to a complete halt at Progressive Plywood yesterday when his friend Lacey dropped by. She certainly made quite an impression on Trent.”
I didn’t like the wistful way Sheeni lingered over that despised name. “You sound like you’re jealous,” I observed pointedly.
“No one enjoys being replaced in the affections of former sweethearts, Nickie. Think of how you’ll feel when I marry François.”
“Who’s François?” I demanded.
“My future French husband,” she replied. “I’ve had a presentiment that he will be named François. It came to me while on mushrooms.” How I hate that ethereal, drug-induced Frog!
After lunch, Sheeni, Albert, and I took a long stroll around Lake Merritt. I held her slender hand and wondered if I could live with the name François Dillinger. It was better than Nick Twisp, but not by much.
We came to a pleasant hillside overlooking the lake and lay down in the warm grass. Sweating joggers trotted by on the path above us; below us, a few paddleboats churned across the polluted green water. In a minute, Albert was noisily asleep. I leaned over and kissed the future wife of François. My sense memory confirmed they were the same sweet lips I had tasted in Lakeport.
“Oh, Nickie,” sighed Sheeni, “what are we going to do?”
As we lay on our sides facing each other, I could peer past the neckline of her dress and see a pink nipple nestled in white lace. I have tasted that part of her too, I thought, and felt a deep thankfulness that the world permits such miracles. “I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m getting pretty desperate. Last week, my mother tore up one of your letters.”
“That’s awful,” said Sheeni. “And my parents are questioning the sudden boom in Debbie Grumfeld correspondence. They’re extremely suspicious. I had to take a holy oath it was she I was visiting today, not you.” Sheeni lay back and looked wistfully up at the sky. “If only, Nickie, you were a tad more rebellious.”
; I sat up. “What do you mean!” I demanded. “I’m extremely rebellious! I’ve cut every single day of school so far except one. I’m in deep shit with my mother at all times. I’ve had my allowance and privileges suspended. I always accept the charges when you call collect. What do you want? Grand theft? Drug smuggling? Political assassinations?”
“Nickie, you’re ranting like my father.”
“Well, I thought we were going to be revolting together. I don’t see you racking up any forbidden calls on your parents’ phone bill!”
“You’re entirely correct, Nickie,” said Sheeni, placing a gentle hand on my arm. “I’ve shown an unconscionable lack of contumacy. Perhaps it is my middle-class upbringing. I’ll endeavor to do better. It just seems to me that if your behavior were unrestrainedly insubordinate—and I know that is asking a lot from one so virtuous as you—your mother might eventually be persuaded that life without you is preferable to life with you.”
I had to admit she had a point there. “What exactly should I do?” I asked.
“Nickie, darling,” said Sheeni, “you must become a rebel. Yes, even an outlaw. I propose you rent the film Breathless as soon as possible. You must emulate Jean-Paul Belmondo.”
“But our VCR was stolen,” I pointed out.
“Then steal one yourself!” replied Sheeni.
Of course. What a liberating concept!
As the setting sun dyed the sky a vivid magenta, we resumed our walk around the lake. Sheeni was under strict parental orders to return no later than five, but—in a willful act of filial rebellion—she delayed her departure until after six. As we said our farewells outside the BART station, Sheeni kissed me nearly as fervently as she did Albert. “Be good, Albert,” called Sheeni. “And, Nickie, be bad. Be very, very bad.”
“I will, darling,” I replied, choking back the tears as The Woman I Love descended the escalator and disappeared again from my life. “I will!”
SUNDAY, September 23 — Another night interrupted by through-the-wall bedspring gymnastics. Officer Lance may be even more frenetically rabbitlike in his mating than the oversexed Jerry. I can only pray he is similarly predisposed to life-shortening heart disease.
As I lay awake in the dark, I decided one of François’s first tasks will be to rid the house of all uniformed policemen. To overcome the inhibitions that compel me to be law-abiding, polite to elders, and excessively “nice,” I have decided to create a supplementary persona named François. Bold, reckless, contemptuous of authority, and irresistible to women, François is just the sort of atavistic sociopath who can wage and win a war of nerves. In my new split personality, François is the side with the calculating intelligence, itchy trigger finger, and cojones grandes.
This morning, François got out of bed feeling more than usually dangerous. As he passed the bathroom, he heard male and female voices inside. “Shit!” he muttered. “Those fuckers are taking a shower together. How repulsive.” So François sauntered downstairs and closed the valve on the hot water heater. This produced loud shrieks from above. Then François untied Albert, who sniffed the air, growled, and darted up the stairs salivating for cop blood. More screams and bellowing ensued.
At breakfast, François made no effort to conceal his contempt for the Cheerios-slurping cop. “What was all that racket last night?” he demanded coldly.
Mom put down her cereal spoon and blushed. “I’m, I’m sorry, Nickie, if we disturbed you.”
François was unappeased. “You know this is my home too. All of a sudden some stranger starts sleeping over. I’m not even consulted.” François was amazing Nick with his outspokenness. He also was clearly amazing their mother.
“What’s it to you, kid?” demanded the cop. “Mind your own damn business.”
“You mind your business, Lance!” said Mom. “He’s my son. I’ll talk to him. Nickie, you’re right. I should have informed you that Officer Wescott would be spending the night. I’m sorry.”
My mother actually apologized to me! But François was determined to draw blood. “I thought there were laws in this city against illicit cohabitation. Or are they just another big policemen’s joke—like the laws against burglary?”
The red-faced cop was really steaming now. “Kid, you are asking for trouble…”
“What are you going to do, shoot me with your gun?” taunted François.
“Why you little worm, I’ll…” The cop lunged toward François, but Mom flung herself against his great hairy arm.
“No, Lance,” she shouted. “Nickie, go to your room!”
François rose coolly, flung down his napkin, and walked toward the back door.
“Where are you going?” demanded Mom.
“Out,” replied François.
“You’re grounded, buster!” she screamed.
“Not anymore,” said François, banging the screen door as he departed. He strolled across the lawn, expecting two angry adults to fly out after him. But curiously, they did not. “Showed those fuckers,” muttered François.
“You certainly did,” I agreed.
I walked down to the corner and called Lefty from a pay phone. His sister Martha answered. “Hi, Martha,” I said. “How’s the psychotherapy going?”
“None of your damn business,” she replied. “And why hasn’t your mother paid Dr. Browerly’s bill?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she has an emotional block against it. Can I speak to Lefty?”
“You tell her that Dr. Browerly says if he is not paid this week, he will have to suspend our consultations.”
“That would be tragic,” I agreed. “Is Lefty there?”
“The dweeb went up to Tilden Park,” she replied, hanging up.
Lefty was not alone in the park. When he spotted me approaching on the trail, he dropped Millie Filbert’s hand like it was a red-hot report card. “Hi, Nick,” he said nonchalantly, “long time no see.”
“Hi, Lefty. Hi, Millie,” I said.
“Hi, Nick,” answered Millie. She was looking tremendously alluring in pale-peach shorts and thin cotton tee shirt. Perhaps for the convenience of her date, she had left her bra at home. Lefty was right. Improbably, they did not droop.
“What are you guys up to?” I asked.
Poor choice of words. They both turned red. “Just hanging out,” said Lefty. “Want to go on a hike with us, Nick?”
François knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to brain Lefty and drag Millie Filbert into the bushes. But ever-tactful Nick was in charge. “Sorry, I can’t stay,” I said. “I’m running some errands. Call me tonight, Lefty. OK?”
“OK,” said Lefty.
“Bye, Nick,” said Millie sexily.
Lefty and Millie headed off up the trail. In that direction, I knew, lay the remote glen Lefty and I had discovered just a few weeks before. After wrestling my conscience into submission (François helped), I decided to follow them surreptitiously. Lefty wouldn’t mind, I decided. As best pals, our sex lives are open books to each other.
As expected, Lefty and Millie soon departed from the main trail and headed down into the ravine. I hiked on another 200 yards, then circled down toward the glen from the south end of the canyon. Threading my way silently through the thick brush, I reached a clump of bushes on a small rise. About 30 feet below, the two lovers were making themselves at home in the tiny cloistered clearing. I ducked down and peered out through the foliage. At this close range, I could easily overhear their conversation.
“Are you sure this is private, sweetie?” asked Millie, looking around.
“Sure, baby,” said Lefty, unzipping his backpack. “Nobody comes down here. And if anybody did, we’d hear them in plenty of time.” From the ancient pack, he extracted a blanket (brand-new and still in its plastic wrapper), a split of screw-top champagne, two plastic cups, and a box of condoms. Whatever his conversational shortcomings, Lefty certainly had the makings of a good provider.
Millie helped Lefty spread out the blanket, then nestled down beside him, poised ex
pectantly for a torrid kiss. Instead, Lefty handed her a cup and poured her some bubbly. His hand, I noticed, was shaking. (So were mine!) Lefty emptied the champagne into his cup, clinked it against Millie’s, said “Many happy returns,” and took an exploratory sip. Millie gulped hers.
“I love good champagne,” said Millie, setting aside the empty cup. She reached down, lifted her tee shirt over her head, folded it neatly, and lay back on the blanket—her fabulous breasts bobbling pale white in the dappled sunshine. There was no question she had undergone major developments this summer.
