Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  Lefty continued to sip his champagne. “I feel this wine lacks body,” he commented, his voice quavering.

  “How about mine, honey?” cooed Millie, slipping off her shorts. A vivid patch of black between creamy thighs confirmed her undergarment boycott was total. I felt the blood drain from my head. Most of it was going, I noticed, straight to my pecker. As Millie casually picked lint from her navel, her smoldering sexuality finally overwhelmed Lefty’s fear. He jumped her. After a brief tussle (what exactly was he trying to do?), she helped him pull off his clothes, then reached for his ramrod stiff (if not ramrod straight) tool.

  Lefty groaned as Millie’s luscious lips closed over his scimitar-shaped sword. Then it was his turn to triple up the middle, as Millie opened her legs and he lapped eagerly at her soft pink center. I watched in stunned amazement as my boyhood chum hurtled past me in sexual experience. While I was stalled on a siding, Lefty was riding the express straight out of virgin territory.

  “Shall we do it, honey?” inquired Millie.

  “Oh yes!” whispered Lefty.

  As Millie expertly slid a condom over Lefty’s gnarled spruce, my left foot slipped, I grabbed for a branch, missed, and tumbled forward over the bushes. As the sky, earth, and forest swirled around me, I felt an explosion of pain in my back and heard a woman scream. The rest was a blur. I remember striking my head on a rock just before coming to a halt, followed by more yelling, then I think someone kicked me. Then it was quiet for a long time. Then I had a dream (I think it was a dream) that a naked Millie Filbert was walking over my body. I remember realizing with surprise as her bare toes gouged into my privates that agony could be fun. Then I woke up and somehow struggled out of the canyon and got back to my bike. But my shoulder hurt too much to ride. So I walked the bike back home, feeling all the while like I was going to faint or barf or drop down dead. Then I remember Mom yelling at me as we drove to the hospital in Jerry’s Lincoln. Then an old bald doctor said “This may tingle” right before he pushed my dislocated shoulder back into place. It hurt like hell. Then, a pretty nurse washed out all my cuts and applied about 12 miles of duct tape to my upper torso. Then I came home (somewhat less yelling this time) and took a long nap. Could it have been the pill that nice nurse gave me?

  9:30 P.M. If my pain-wracked body were any stiffer, typing would be a physical impossibility. I just had a disquieting phone call from Lefty. Millie Filbert has terminated their relationship. Unfairly, my friend blames me.

  “Some pal you are,” complained Lefty. “Millie thinks I arranged in advance for you to spy on us. She thinks we’re both sickos!”

  “How come you guys left me there?” I demanded, strategically changing the subject. “I could have died!”

  “Serve you right,” replied Lefty. “Do you realize how close I was?”

  “Only too well,” I said. “Gee, I’m sorry. Don’t worry, I’ll write Millie a letter and tell her you didn’t know anything about it.”

  “Sign it in blood!” he demanded.

  “OK,” I said. “And how about I staple on my right testicle too?”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Lefty. “Write it tonight and I’ll pick it up on the way to school tomorrow. I want to give it to Millie before some other guy puts the moves on her.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I said. “With a body like that, she’s bound to be popular.”

  “Don’t you talk about my girlfriend’s body!”

  11:15 P.M. Time for bed. I just composed this letter of contrition for Lefty:

  Dear Millie,

  I am sorry to have violated your privacy so intrusively. Please accept my heartfelt apologies. I can assure you my presence in the canyon was as much a horrifying surprise to Leroy as it was to you. I was certainly not there at his invitation nor through any premeditated conspiracy. I have been thoroughly excoriated by my friend for my heinous and depraved voyeurism. My remorse is all-consuming. I am abject. Forgive me!

  Your friend,

  Nick Twisp

  I hope that is servile enough for Lefty. What a day! François certainly has a lot to answer for. I’m a mass of cuts and bruises, my body looks like something from the Egyptian Room of the British Museum, and the tenderness of my shoulder precludes any sort of relief-giving rhythmic arm movement. I must not think about s-x. I must not let my mind dwell on M.F.’s alabaster b—y.

  Oh no! Creaking bedsprings through the wall. I’d like to boil that Lance!

  MONDAY, September 24 — My body is driving me insane! I awoke at 3 A.M. gripped by a frenzy of uncontrollable itching. Under the surgical tape and bandages, every skin pore shrieked in prickly rage. Poison oak! Leaping out of bed, I tugged at a piece of tape. Agony! Each pull felt like I was skinning myself alive with a rusty fish scaler. Not daring to remove the tape, I scratched furiously, then ran to the bathroom, filled the tub with cool water, and hopped in. The firestorm of itching slackened slightly.

  I spent the rest of the night in the tub. Only when I heard Mom and Lance stirring did I sneak back to my room. Almost at once my skin flamed out of control anew—the wet tape still clinging resolutely to my tortured epidermis. “Mom!” I called feebly. “Mom, help me!”

  Looking none too cheerful, Mom eventually answered my pleas. “What is it now?” she demanded.

  “Poison oak!” I croaked.

  So Mom and Lance ripped the tape from my screaming flesh. It was difficult to tell which of them enjoyed it more. As for me, I was incredulous that a human being could retain his reason through such agony. When at last the final piece of tape was plucked from my raw, inflamed, now virtually hairless torso, Mom rubbed on a soothing salve. Slowly, the torment began to subside.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said.

  “The way you’ve been behaving, I should have let you suffer,” replied Mom. “That’ll teach you to disobey me.”

  “I already know how to do that,” mumbled François.

  “What did you say, buster?”

  “I said I know better than to do that.”

  5:30 P.M. I stayed home from school, of course. As the itching subsided, my nervous system regained the circuit capacity to register the merciless throbbing in my shoulder.

  7:45 P.M. The loathsome Lance was here again for dinner (I had mine in my room on a tray). His patrol car is still parked outside. Meanwhile, parked across the street and staring moodily toward the house is Mom’s erstwhile lover, Wally Rumpkin. I fear she must have given him the word that his services would no longer be required. I only hope if Wally is packing a gun, he is an accurate shot. I would hate to catch a misdirected bullet intended for a fat policeman.

  TUESDAY, September 25 — Another day alone in my room. A couple more weeks of this and I’ll have tied Nelson Mandela’s record. What with the bruises, bandages, and patches of distressed skin, one might almost suppose I was in the custody of the South African police.

  Speaking of police, there was a mild altercation on our street at 2 A.M. last night. When Lance discovered that Wally was still parked out front, he phoned in a request to his colleagues for some middle-of-the-night police brutality. Three squad cars answered the call and within 20 seconds a half dozen cops had Wally out of his car and spread-eagled facedown on the asphalt. Then one cop “found” an open container of beer on Wally’s front seat, so they cuffed him and carted him off for driving under the influence. I hope the charge doesn’t jeopardize Wally’s trucker’s license. I’ve decided Mom’s boyfriends are a lot like U.S. Presidents. You keep thinking they can’t get any worse. And then she comes up with a Lance Wescott.

  11:00 A.M. Sheeni just called. After the phone rang 35 times I knew it couldn’t be one of Mom’s friends, so I answered it. It was My One and Only Love, dialing direct.

  “Hello, darling,” said Sheeni. “I guessed you’d be cutting school. How wonderfully bad of you!”

  I decided not to divulge to Sheeni that I had a valid medical excuse. “Yes, I’m being flagrantly rebellious as usual,” I said. “Where are you callin
g from, sweetheart?”

  “From the hallway of dear old Redwood High,” she replied. “Some boys in the electronics shop altered the pay phone so you can call anywhere in the U.S., Canada, or Europe for free. It’s proving a great boon to the study of geography.”

  “Were your parents angry when you got back late?” I asked.

  “Furious. I had to invent an elaborate story about Debbie Grumfeld having Parkinson’s disease. So when you write, Nickie, you must now affect a girlish handwriting with a tremor.”

  “Will do,” I said. “How are you, darling?”

  “Missing you and Albert terribly, darling. Any sign of your mother’s resolve weakening?”

  “Some,” I lied, “I’m being unrelentingly obnoxious. I’m also insulting her new boyfriend every chance I get.”

  “Very good,” said Sheeni. “Women hate that. What other misdeeds do you have to report?”

  “Uh, well, let me see…” I hadn’t realized I was going to be put on the spot.

  Sheeni didn’t wait for a reply. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, “you know your mother’s nice Lincoln?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wreck it.”

  “Wreck it? But I don’t know how to drive!”

  “Exactly my point,” said Sheeni. “That makes taking such a rare and valuable car out on the highway even more of a wantonly rebellious act. Just wear your seat belt, darling, and don’t get hurt.”

  “I, I don’t know, darling. It’s a really nice car.”

  “Maybe you should hook up the trailer too. I’m told they splinter into pieces spectacularly.”

  “Not the trailer!” I objected. “I was thinking someday, maybe if you came down, it might be a good place to, you know, well…”

  “I don’t think so, Nickie,” said Sheeni. “As I recall, that trailer smelled rather badly. No, it is not the sort of venue a young woman dreams of for a romantic assignation. You’ll have to do better, much better than that. I suggest you wreck it also.”

  “Well, I’ll, I’ll give it some thought.” I looked around for François. He seemed to be off on a coffee break somewhere.

  Through the phone I heard a male voice say, “Come on, Sheeni. Let’s go.”

  “Who was that, Sheeni?” I asked.

  “Oh, just a friend, Nickie,” she replied. “I have to go. My next class is about to start. Kiss Albert for me, darling. Be bad. Be more than bad, darling, be awful!”

  “I will!” I replied.

  François clearly did not like the possessive tone of that cultured voice he had just overheard. “You know who that was, don’t you?” asked François. “It was that asshole Trent!”

  “I know,” I said. “And what are you going to do about it, tough guy?”

  “Just watch me,” replied François, his steely eyes glinting with dark intentions.

  4:30 P.M. Lefty dropped by with a get-well card and a two-pound box of chocolates—both purloined, of course. Still, his thoughtfulness is appreciated. Lefty has decided he violated the code of the streets by abandoning me injured and dying in the woods—even if I had contributed to the needless prolongation of his virginity. Hence, these small gestures of contrition.

  Having just come from a checkup with his lady penis doctor, my pal was even more down in the dumps than usual.

  “Did you have the same cute young doctor?” I asked, helping myself to another chocolate. I could see I would have to eat fast if I hoped to keep up with Lefty. He struggled to swallow the three in his mouth before replying.

  “Yeah, same one. This time I kind of enjoyed it when she examined my hard-on. Maybe because I’m more experienced now with chicks.” Lefty adjusted his crotch and took another handful of chocolates.

  “Well, what did she say? Are you any straighter?”

  “I think I am a little, but she says no. So she wants to operate!”

  “Jesus, why? So what if you’re a little crooked.”

  “That’s what I say!” exclaimed Lefty. “I mean, I can piss straight enough. If I’d been able to get it on with Millie, then I’d of known for sure it would work OK for sex. I’ve decided I’m not going to let them cut on it ’til I’ve had a chance to try it out first.”

  “Good for you,” I said.

  “I mean, if it works OK, I’m just going to live with it crooked. I don’t care how much my mother bugs me. It’s my dick, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is,” I agreed. The chocolates were disappearing fast. I took two more. Lefty gulped another handful. “Lefty, I’m really sorry about Millie. Did you give her my letter?”

  “I did,” said Lefty. “She’s still acting pretty frosty, though. She said your note was pretentious and insincere.”

  I was surprised by the acuity of Millie’s perception. She rose yet another notch in my growing esteem. “But she believes you now, doesn’t she?” I asked.

  “I guess so,” said Lefty. “She said she’d go out with me on Friday.”

  “That’s great!”

  “Yeah, but where are we going to go? I’ll never get her back into the woods. What am I supposed to do? Bring her home and say: Mom, Millie and I are going upstairs to test out my equipment, we don’t want to be disturbed?”

  “What about her house?”

  “Are you kidding? After what happened with Willis, her parents are watching her like a hawk.”

  Here at last was a chance to make up for the wrong I had done my friend. “Then bring her over to my house, Lefty. You can do it right here in my bed. I’ll get Mom to take me to a double feature, and I’ll leave a key under the doormat. I’ll even make sure the sheets are clean.”

  “I don’t know,” said Lefty, laboriously masticating four cherry-filled bonbons. “You sure you won’t be hiding in the closet?”

  “I promise. You’ll have total privacy. How about it?”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Lefty, swallowing at last. “Gee, Nick, you’re a real pal.”

  “Glad to be of service. That reminds me. How’s Martha?”

  “She’s really a mess because the doc canceled our sessions.”

  “My mom didn’t pay him, huh?”

  “Not yet,” replied Lefty. “And Martha can’t understand why after she poured out her soul to Dr. Browerly, he won’t go on for free. I told her the guy was only in it for the bucks. That’s when she punched me. I just hope your mom doesn’t pay.”

  “You don’t wish to continue therapy?” I asked, incredulous. Personally, I can’t wait to commence intensive, interminable analysis.

  “No way!” said Lefty. “Those guys are so nosy. I know if I’d seen Dr. Browerly this week, I’d have wound up telling him that I’d eaten out Millie Filbert. And I’m sure he’s required by the state to blab stuff like that to your parents. If he did, man, I’d be a virgin for life.”

  “How was that anyway?” I asked.

  “Great! It tastes a little like chicken. Only thing is your tongue gets kind of tired. So I’m doing tongue pull-ups every night when I tape my dick down.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I said, making a mental note to do some myself. At last, exercise I could relate to.

  Lefty picked up the last morsel of chocolate and flipped it into his mouth.

  “Aren’t you feeling a little sick?” I asked. “I am.”

  “Nah,” said Lefty. “And I ate another box on the way over. I like chocolate a lot.”

  “You’re lucky you don’t get zits.”

  “I’d rather have a crooked dick any day than zits,” he declared.

  Lefty has a point there. Or does he?

  8:15 P.M. Mom made me come downstairs and eat dinner with her and that repulsive cop. She must not realize the awesome depths of our mutual contempt. From that first post-burglary interrogation, Lance Wescott and I have loathed each other with a compellingly visceral potency. I chafe in his presence. I despise the air he sucks into his vile, nicotine-stained lungs. I covet the very gravity that holds his putrefying flesh to this planet. Yes, I could happil
y turn Officer Wescott over to Thai pirates, Guatemalan death squads, Medellín drug lords, or Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge. Better yet, let them all have a go at him. No doubt he feels the same way about me.

  Lance glared at me with his red watery eyes as he shoveled mashed potatoes into his churning maw. François glared back.

  “I don’t think that was fair what happened to Wally last night,” commented François. “I think the ACLU should be alerted.”

  “You would squeal to those commie flag burners,” replied the cop. “That asshole got what he deserved. He won’t show his big ugly mug around here again.”