Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp

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Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp Page 21

by C. D. Payne


  Talk about the pot slandering the kettle!

  “I hope Wally’s OK,” said Mom guiltily.

  “The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” noted Lance smugly and un-originally.

  “And the fatter they are, the bigger the grease spot,” added François.

  Lance glared at me even more fiercely. “Estelle,” he said, “you want me bash him one? He’s really asking for it now.”

  “Nick,” yelled Mom, “you watch your smart mouth! You should act respectful toward Officer Wescott.”

  “I’m trying as hard as I can,” replied François. “But he’s not making it very easy for me. And how come he took three pork chops and I only got one?”

  “Officer Wescott is our guest,” said Mom.

  “So I have to go hungry?” demanded François.

  Lance turned even redder, tossed down his napkin, and stood up. “Estelle,” he bellowed, “if you don’t smack that kid right now I’m walking out of here!”

  Not wishing to break up her pleasant dinner party, Mom complied. She walloped me one across my head.

  Lance sat back down and I stood up. “You’ll be sorry you did that!” exclaimed François, storming out of the room.

  “I’m sorry about my son,” I heard Mom say to Lance.

  “Nothing wrong with him a few bruised ribs couldn’t cure,” replied the compassionate cop.

  10:30 P.M. Wally is back! I was alerted to his arrival by Albert whimpering for his buddy from his new doggie prison down in the basement. Not taking any chances, this time Wally got out of his car, locked all the doors, extracted a lawn chair from the trunk, unfolded it beside the curb, and sat down—facing our house. You have to admire his courage, if not his intelligence.

  Ten minutes later: I just heard some bellowing downstairs from Lance. Trouble is brewing. Hard to believe all these gallons of male testosterone are being shed over my mother.

  11:10 P.M. Well, Wally’s gone. The cops just carted him off on his second trip to jail in two days. This time I think the charge is likely to be assault on a police officer (Lance) with a deadly weapon (an aluminum lawn chair). But I am willing to testify the defendant acted in self-defense. Lance had no business pushing Wally over backwards in his chair. He could have cracked open his head on the sidewalk. Luckily, a rose bush was there to break his fall. Probably it was the thorns that made Wally respond with such uncharacteristic belligerence. You could hear the clang of aluminum impacting policeman’s skull for blocks around. Needless to say, it was sweet music to my ears.

  Good news. My shoulder has improved enough to permit some degree of normal arm movement. I am now able to reflect freely upon Millie Filbert’s voluptuous charms. After wiping up, I slathered a new coat of salve on my poison oak. Mostly the itching has subsided, except for the occasional spasmodic twitch. I did ten minutes of tongue pull-ups and already can feel that vital muscle toning up.

  Oops, loud shouting downstairs. Mom and Lance are going at each other. Dare I hope this is the beginning of the end?

  WEDNESDAY, September 26 — My dream came true! I went down for breakfast, and there was Mom in her EAT IT AND LIKE IT apron, making pecan waffles for the felonious truck driver. Under the table lay Albert, contentedly nuzzling a giant pink ankle. Unaccountably, truth and goodness have triumphed over evil. The long nightmare is over. Lance is gone!

  “Hi, Wally,” I said. “Did you break out of jail?”

  “No,” he replied, inspecting the ceiling. “Your mom bailed me out.”

  “You really walloped that turkey!” I said.

  “It, it was an accident. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Well, Lance—I mean, Officer Wescott had it coming,” said Mom, plopping another steaming waffle onto Wally’s plate. “I told him you weren’t doing any harm sitting there on the curb. Some men are just too macho for their own good.”

  “I didn’t trust him,” said Wally. “I wanted to be there, Estelle, in case you needed me.” This was a long speech for Wally; he blushed at his loquacity. “That’s very sweet of you, Wally,” said Mom. “Isn’t that sweet, Nick?” “Very sweet,” I agreed. “Gee, Wally, did they rough you up down at the jail?”

  “Not really,” he replied. “They were mostly nice once they got the handcuffs on. Officer Wescott was the only one being disagreeable.”

  “That Neanderthal!” exclaimed François, “I don’t see how Mom ever went out with him.”

  “Officer Wescott has his good points,” retorted Mom. “And it’s none of your business who I go out with.”

  “It is if they’re continually threatening me with bodily injury,” I said.

  “Officer Wescott is a strict disciplinarian,” said Mom. “That’s exactly what you require. I need a man around here who can keep you under control.”

  “What about Wally?” I asked. “If ever there was a man I could look up to, it’s Wally.”

  Mom glanced at Wally; he blushed. “You eat your breakfast, Nick,” she said. “And don’t bother Mr. Rumpkin.”

  “It’s no bother,” said Wally. He leaned over and looked down. “Doggie, I asked you not to do that.” Albert paused, flashed a gargoyle grin, and—leaping up—planted a juicy kiss.

  “See, Mom,” I said. “Everyone likes Wally. I’ll bet he’s nice with babies too. Aren’t you, Wally?”

  Wally blushed.

  “Eat your breakfast, Nick,” replied Mom. “And shut your mouth.”

  No wonder I’m a disciplinarian problem. My parents are always giving me mixed messages.

  5:00 P.M. I just made $20! Still too ill to go to school, I stayed home and helped Wally remodel the living room. He paid me in cash.

  After Mom left for work, Wally brought in his toolbox, a big carton of miscellaneous supplies, and a hydraulic car jack on little steel wheels. We started by piling all of the furniture along the front wall. As his assistant was still nursing a tender shoulder, Wally did most of the heavy lifting. Boy, is he strong. He hoisted the couch all by himself—with Albert on it.

  Next, Wally got the jack under Jerry’s Chevy and swiveled the dead hulk against the wall that adjoins the dining room. Then, borrowing Joanie’s old slide projector, he shone a beam at the car—thus projecting its silhouette on the wall. This we traced in pencil, following the shadow precisely.

  After a short break for coffee and donuts, Wally jacked up the car again and pulled it away from the wall. Then he fired up his reciprocating saw, and—having ascertained that the wall was not load-bearing—cut through the plaster and studs along the Nova-shaped line. The only mishap came when the buzzing blade sliced through the electrical cables to the second floor. Fortunately for the saw operator, the circuit breakers tripped in time to prevent complete electrocution. “Damn,” said Wally, shaking off the jolt, “I should have checked the wiring routes in the basement.”

  Rerouting and patching the cables took about an hour. While he was at it, Wally put in a new triple wall switch and wired in an AC to DC rectifier and a 12-volt transformer. He is certainly handy with tools.

  That done, Wally resumed cutting. When at last the restless blade bit through the final inch of pencil line, Wally put down the saw and gave the wall a gentle push. It swayed indecisively, then fell slowly back and crashed to the floor. As the clouds of plaster dust settled, a neat Chevrolet-shaped portal to the dining room was revealed.

  After lunch, Wally jacked up the car and, with much grunting and heaving, we pushed it into the cutout—stopping when the wall was neatly centered between the wiper blades. Already, it seemed to me, the living room looked so much less cluttered.

  Next, Wally patched the seams between Detroit sheet metal and Oakland plaster. In both rooms he applied drywall compound and paper tape to the joints, smoothing everything neatly until the wall and car blended together seamlessly. While that dried, I masked the car windows, handles, trim, bumpers, and tires.

  “Nick, would you by any chance have some leftover wall paint?” asked Wally.

  “Sure,” I
replied. “Out in the garage. There’s at least a gallon or two.”

  “Uh, get it,” said Wally, almost assertively. He was much less shy when he was doing something masterful.

  I rollered on the paint while Wally completed the final wiring connections. Rust, dings, camouflage coloring, unsightly road tar—all disappeared under gleaming off-white latex. Only the hood required an extra coat to obliterate fully that prophetic message “Pay up or die!”

  We were just moving the last of the furniture back into place when Mom arrived home from work. Tired, dirty, sweaty, we stood beaming as she gazed dumbfounded at our handiwork.

  “Goodness!” exclaimed Mom.

  Wally flipped a wall switch. The Chevy’s taillights began to blink.

  “Oh my!” exclaimed Mom.

  Wally flipped another switch. The headlights beamed on, shining bright circles on the opposite wall.

  “Far out!” exclaimed Mom.

  Wally flipped the final switch. The car radio flickered on; Elvis was singing “Love Me Tender.”

  “Oh, Wally!” exclaimed Mom. “You’re wonderful!”

  For once, I had to agree with her.

  THURSDAY, September 27 — I just got my official Rodney “Butch” Bolicweigski first baseman’s glove back. Plus the rest of my impressive sports equipment collection. Officer Lanced Wreckedcock showed up with it and all the other burgled items while we were having breakfast. Thank God in the excitement no one thought to inquire why my jock-related losses had gone unreported.

  Poor Wally had to sit there meekly drinking his coffee and staring at his shoes while the big-mouthed cop boasted of how he cracked the case. The confessed criminal is none other than 18-year-old unemployed dropout Leon Polsetta from down the block. Even though I always sensed Leon was destined for a life of crime, I received the news of his arrest with regret. When I was nine, Leon took me into the garage and introduced me to an entertaining activity called beating off. He also patiently answered all my eager inquiries about sex, illustrating his lectures by pulling down his kid sister’s pants to point out areas of interest. Leon also told me a dark secret: he had sneaked into the garage once and watched his big brother Phil get it on with Joanie. I knew my sister once “went steady” with Phil Polsetta (today a successful radiator brazer), but I’ve never managed to work up the courage to ask her if it was true she had her first sexual experience leaning up against Dad’s old Subaru.

  Unsettlingly, Mom was clearly impressed by Lance’s detective genius. She didn’t even object too much when Lance called Wally’s masterful remodeling job “a gross eyesore.” All Wally could do was seethe inwardly and restrain Albert, squirming with eagerness to clamp on to a juicy cop ankle. “Let go, Wally!” I mentally telepathized, but my silent entreaties fell on deaf ears.

  As Mom and Lance flirted outrageously, I found little consolation in the fact that Wally had spent the night. The bedspring creakings had been alarmingly short-lived and constituted the only auditory evidence of sexual activity. I must find a way to loan Wally my copy of Lovemaking for Advanced Gourmets. Clearly, the guy needs help in this department. I only pray his shortcomings are in technique, not in equipment.

  After the loathsome cop finally left, I moved quickly to repair the damage. “Gee, Mom,” I said, “I see where two of your favorite films are playing at the UC Theater tomorrow night.”

  “Which ones?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Hair and Woodstock,” I replied. “Why don’t you and Wally make a night of it?” Hard to believe my rigid, uptight, cop-loving mother had once frolicked through the sixties a quasi flower child. As far as I can tell, the only vestige of that liberated decade that had persisted into middle age was her tendency toward multiple sex partners.

  “I’d like to go, Estelle,” declared Wally wimply.

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Mom. “Officer Wescott might want me to testify against Leon.”

  “The trial won’t be for weeks,” I said.

  “OK, I guess so,” said Mom unenthusiastically.

  “Swell,” said Wally, hugging Albert in his immense pink arms. “It’s a date. You want to come too, Nick?”

  “No, thanks, Wally. I know three’s company. You two have a nice romantic evening. I’ll find something else to do.”

  Anyway, François has something planned for tomorrow night. Something ruthlessly Belmondoesque.

  Although my shoulder was feeling much better, I didn’t want to risk a relapse by subjecting it to the pressures of contemporary public education. So I skipped school and rode my bike down to the library. I didn’t stay long. Some sadistic kindergarten teachers had organized a field trip; the building was overrun with screaming five-year-olds. Even the homeless were fleeing in droves. I checked out one book, Safe Driving for the Modern Teen, and came straight home. I’m not sure I really qualify as a “modern teen,” but the librarian didn’t object.

  As I was biking home, I stopped to chat with fellow truant Patsy Polsetta, whose prepubescent privates I formerly studied. Little Patsy is maturing rapidly. She now wears a grimy bra and smokes Lucky Strikes. As we talked I found myself wondering if she’d care to visit the garage again with me (just for old times’ sake). But not even François had the nerve to ask her.

  Patsy disclosed how her brother Leon was brought to justice. Her mom found his burgled stash and called the cops! The only detective work Lance Wescott had to do was track down the Polsettas’ doorbell when he came to arrest Leon. And even then, he probably knocked. Mom will certainly hear of this.

  I read my driver education book in the front seat of our new modular wall unit: Jerry’s dead Chevy. This gave me a chance to simulate all the highspeed maneuvers (labeled “Bad Habits of the Immature Driver”) condemned by the book’s prim authors. I now know how to peel out and lay rubber. I also know how to be discourteous, drive offensively, fail to yield the right-of-way, ignore warning signs, and travel in excess of posted speed limits. Perhaps this is the book Dad studied when he was learning to drive.

  After dinner, Lefty checked in by phone. Everything is set for his date tomorrow with Millie. Mom and Wally’s movie starts at 7:05. At 7:30, the ardent teen couple arrives at Nick’s We-Pay-No-Rent Love Emporium. They find the lights romantically dimmed, Frank softly crooning “Songs for Clandestine Lovers” on the stereo, bedcovers thoughtfully turned down, Albert demurely tied up in the basement. Second movie lets out at 10:25. Satiated teen couple to depart Nick’s Passion Pit no later than 9:50. Nice evening is had by all.

  “What are you going to be doing?” asked Lefty.

  “Oh, I think I’ll ride up to Skyline and watch the sunset,” I replied.

  “Well, we’re still going to check the closet for Peeping Toms,” he said. “Millie told me she doesn’t trust you.”

  “Don’t forget to look for hidden cameras,” I added sarcastically.

  “She’ll probably do that too,” Lefty replied. “It doesn’t matter that much to me, Nick. But with a body like hers, Millie really can’t be too careful.”

  How true, I thought. How excruciatingly true.

  FRIDAY, September 28 — So far so good. No boyfriends slept over last night, though Lance Wescott called this morning while Mom was in the shower. I told him Mom had instructed me to inform him that she never wished to speak to him again. Furthermore, I said that she was now engaged to Wally Rumpkin, who has agreed to adopt me. “From now on you may address me as Nick Rumpkin,” I said. Lance replied by stating precisely how he would choose to address me. I don’t think it’s proper for a police officer to employ such language—especially with impressionable minors.

  Mom is still distracted. She spent a frantic half hour after breakfast turning the house upside down searching for the keys to the Lincoln. She never did find them. So she had to drive her old Buick to work. To her credit, Mom was unaware that François had sneaked the keys out of her purse last night and concealed them in the thumb cavity of his official Rodney “Butch” Bolicweigski first baseman’s
glove. Nonetheless, an organized person would have had the foresight to keep a spare set in reserve.

  Later, as I passed the Polsettas’ house on my way to the Chevron station with Dad’s old gas can, little Patsy was out front decarbonizing the cylinder block of Leon’s Harley. She seems to attend school as infrequently as I do. She looked up, pushed back a wisp of black hair with one greasy hand, and flicked the ash off her cigarette with the other. I prayed the solvent she was using was not explosive.

  “Hi, Nick,” she said, “better get out of here fast.”

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Ma bailed out Leon and he’s looking to pound your ass.”

  “Why?” I exclaimed. “I haven’t done anything!”

  “He says you made him turn to stealing. Having all those neat gloves and bats and shit, and never using any of them.”

 

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