Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  “That’s ridiculous,” I replied.

  “Maybe, maybe not. But you’re in deep trouble, Nick. Leon said this morning he’s going to castrate your cop-kissing balls. He’s got a knife too.”

  “Thanks for the warning, Patsy,” I called, hurrying down the street. I could feel the targets of Leon’s ire quivering in my pants.

  I took another, tortuously circuitous route back from the gas station. After stashing the full gas can in the trunk of the Lincoln, I closed all the drapes in the house and locked the doors. I also untied Albert and instructed him to attack anything that broke through a door. He yawned and trotted off to nap in the back seat of the Chevy. I just hope Leon doesn’t cut the phone line before he breaks in.

  2:30 P.M. No sign of Leon yet. François was getting cold feet, so I had to remind him of the young woman whose love he was fighting for. Think of Sheeni up in Ukiah with odious Trent, I said.

  “That asshole had better not cross me,” muttered François. “And that goes double for Leon.”

  It’s a comfort having François around. Though I wish he were better trained in the martial arts.

  4:15 P.M. Leon Polsetta, his jailhouse pallor fixed in a menacing stare, just walked past the house. I wonder if I could appease him by making him a gift of my entire sporting goods collection?

  6:05 P.M. Mom gave me two dollars to buy dinner out. Where does she expect me to go, the Salvation Army soup kitchen? She and Wally just left for Berkeley to have an upscale, pre-theater dining experience at some sumptuous yuppie cafe.

  François is impatient to get started, so I have to go now. The next passage I write will be the words of a bold youth in open revolt.

  9:30 P.M. Things are grim. Very grim. François is making a run for the Mexican border. I wish I could join him. I’m typing this as a conscious effort to keep my panic under control. And to leave a written record in case I should be killed or commit suicide tonight. Anyway, this is my side of the story:

  After Mom and Wally left, I got the keys to the Lincoln and went out to hitch up the trailer. Problem number one. Mom had gone in Wally’s car and left her Buick in the driveway blocking the Lincoln. Naturally, she took with her the only set of keys. Cursory inspection revealed every door of the Buick was locked, the brake was set, the transmission was in Park, and the steering wheel was locked. Two tons of immovable steel were blocking my way, Lefty and Millie were due to arrive soon, and at any moment I could expect an assault from a crazed, knife-wielding felon. I decided to turn the problem over to François.

  He fired up the Lincoln, backed it up against the Buick’s front bumper, and goosed the throttle. Tires spun against asphalt, metal ground into metal, the Buick’s insides clanged and clunked, but backward progress was achieved. François stopped when the Buick—its grille now extensively rearranged—was astride the sidewalk. This afforded the Lincoln a kind of Polish Corridor to the street across the front yard. By backing into the yard and maneuvering laboriously over the landscaping, François was able to swivel the Lincoln 180 degrees and back it up the driveway toward the trailer. Not bad for a first-time driver.

  By now, Mr. Ferguson had come out to see what all the commotion was about. “What are you doing, Nick?” he inquired mildly.

  I tried to think of a logical explanation. “Uh, we’re going camping tomorrow and Mom asked me to hitch up the trailer. Can you help?”

  “Sure,” he replied.

  While Mr. Ferguson made cryptic hand signals, François struggled repeatedly to back the Lincoln’s hitch ball under the trailer’s socket. Finally, as tempers and bumper chrome wore thin, union was achieved. Mr. Ferguson cranked up the trailer jack and I plugged in the wiring cable. The rear of the Lincoln sagged contentedly under its familiar burden.

  “Aren’t you supposed to connect those chains too?” asked Mr. Ferguson, pointing to two short lengths of chain dangling from the trailer A-frame.

  “Yes, of course,” I replied, unfastening the shackle and linking the chains firmly together. “There, that’s that. Thanks, Mr. Ferguson.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he replied. “Have a nice time camping.”

  “We will,” I said. I waved as Mr. Ferguson walked back into his house.

  “OK,” said François, sliding into the white leather seat, “let’s blow this joint.”

  François paused to paste on the false mustache he had made from surplus Albert fur. That done, he examined his visage in the rearview mirror. Unquestionably, he now appeared old enough to have a valid driver’s license.

  François fired up the big V-8, shifted into Drive, and pulled forward. As he cut across the lawn to dodge the Buick, the side of the trailer clipped the corner of the house—making an alarming tearing sound. François didn’t stop. Chunks of stucco fell like giant hailstones and a galvanized downspout shuddered and writhed, collapsing the long rain gutter across the front of the house. As the house clung obstinately to the trailer, the Lincoln’s big whitewalls began to spin deep ruts in the thick sod. François gunned it. With a lurch, the trailer splintered free and the Lincoln shot forward. Masterfully, François dodged the birch tree, sacrificing instead the smaller Asian pear. Next, he successfully swerved around the newly emerged Mr. Ferguson, wide-eyed with wonder and fright. Then, the still-accelerating Lincoln bounced over the curb and catapulted into the street, narrowly missing several parked cars. Fighting panic, François at last found the brake pedal and screeched to a stop—nearly jackknifing the trailer.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” demanded Nick.

  “Relax, kid,” said François, straightening his mustache. “I read the book. It’s all coming back to me now.”

  François buckled his seat belt, gripped the steering wheel at ten o’clock and two o’clock, checked his rearview mirror, and proceeded sedately down the street. At the corner he came to a full stop, activated his turn signal, waited patiently for oncoming traffic to pass, then negotiated a successful right-hand turn. Driving was just as easy and fun as he had always imagined. No wonder adults didn’t let kids do it.

  François followed his preplanned route through the heavy Friday-evening traffic, keeping well under the speed limit. Impatient Type A drivers honked and pulled around him, gazing with curious stares as they sped past. At the Oakland border, François turned north into easygoing, tolerant Berkeley. His plan was simple yet bold: drive up into the hills to Tilden Park, stop in a deserted lot, unhitch the trailer, torch it, and drive home. His mother would be furious, his wish to emigrate would be granted, and the still-intact, though now cosmetically marred Lincoln would be his to inherit someday.

  The plan might have worked except for that bump in the road right before the stop sign on that long, steep hill. The car bottomed out, the trailer bounced up, and suddenly François noticed the Lincoln manifested new power—almost as if it had spontaneously acquired a turbocharger or been released from a great weight. The latter was the case. Frozen in terror, François stared at the horror scene unfolding in his rearview mirror: trailer retreating rapidly, A-frame sparking against the asphalt, other cars careering out of the way. Then crash! The Lincoln’s forward progress was arrested abruptly by the crumpling bumper and trunk of a Fiat stopped at the intersection. Dazed, François stumbled out of the car and, openmouthed, watched the vehicular ballet unfold.

  Down the hill, the speeding trailer sideswiped a delivery van, spun around, paused a split second to ponder its options, then resumed its downward plunge toward the busy cross street below. Kwomp! With that ominous sound, the still-restive Lincoln parted from the broken Fiat and began to roll down the hill after its partner. “Oh no!” exclaimed François to the stunned Fiat driver, “I forgot to set the brake!” The driver bolted after the accelerating Lincoln and almost reached it in time. Too bad he didn’t. Too bad he hadn’t thought to set his own brake.

  As startled motorists slammed on their brakes, the speeding trailer rolled unscathed across four lanes of traffic, jumped the curb, and disappeared
silently through the plate-glass window of Too Frank, a gourmet sausage shop. (Fortunately closed for the evening.) A split second later, the deafening crash reverberated up the hill.

  On its slalom run, the Lincoln generated even more momentum, thundering past the stopped cars and into the wrecked building like a runaway express train. Whoosh! A flash of fire rose up as the gas can in the trunk ignited. Boom! Boom! The trailer propane tanks went off like bombs, hurtling chicken-apple sausages through the air like savory shrapnel.

  By then the Fiat’s suicidal dash into the flaming building would have come as an anticlimax, except for the trail of gasoline left by its broken fuel tank. As a stream of liquid fire raced up the hill like God’s divine vengeance, I screamed and fled. Propelled by tidal waves of adrenaline, I flew above the pavement, achieving speeds undreamed of by Olympic hopefuls. I passed curious spectators, I passed thrill-seekers and rubberneckers, I passed clanging fire trucks and wailing police cars, I was unstoppable.

  In downtown Berkeley I overtook an Oakland-bound bus, jumped aboard, tossed a buck at the driver, and fell—sweating and gasping—into a seat in the rear. Most of the passengers were looking out the windows at the plume of black smoke rising into the pale twilight sky. The rest were staring at me. Nonchalantly I reached a hand up to my mustache, discovered it missing, then located it on my left cheek. Hastily, I yanked it off.

  “What’s on fire?” one woman asked.

  “I don’t know,” replied her seatmate. “But smell that garlic!”

  On the ride home I tried to calm my racing heart, but each new siren prodded anew my quaking nervous system. It seemed like every fire truck in Oakland was racing toward Berkeley. Finally, the bus stopped at my street and I hurried homeward in the darkness.

  Uh-oh! Flashing red and blue lights at the end of the block. I approached cautiously, then stopped. Parked in front of my house were two Oakland patrol cars, their radios blaring police chatter into the night.

  I ducked behind bushes, reapplied my mustache, and peered out. Somewhere Albert was barking furiously. In the stark white glare of the police spotlights, the ravaged yard and ruined stucco looked like a post-apocalyptic disaster scene. Just then the front door opened and out stepped Officer Lance Wescott, leading a bruised and handcuffed Leon Polsetta. They were followed by two more beefy cops escorting a pair of scantily clad teens. Only Lefty was handcuffed. Millie looked like she might have been too hysterical to get the cuffs on her. One cop, I noticed, was carrying Lefty’s backpack. With a great slamming of doors, all the prisoners were stowed away, and the cars screeched off into the night.

  After a while, I crept out and nearly knocked over Mr. Ferguson, who had been lurking nearby in his bushes.

  “The cops arrested some intruders in your house, Nick,” he said, eyeing my mustache nervously.

  I yanked it off. “Yes, I saw,” I said.

  “Is there anything I can do, Nick?” he asked.

  “Just don’t tell the cops anything.”

  “Oh, I won’t,” he replied. “I never do.”

  In the house, the living room was a shambles. Leon must have resisted arrest or perhaps Lance had just played handball with him awhile. The Chevy, I noticed, had a fresh head-shaped dent in the door. I opened it, and Albert rushed out, still barking excitedly. I looked at him accusingly. “All those cops and not a single dog bite among them. Some help you are.” Albert growled a groveling apology and grinned. At least he was having fun.

  Upstairs, my bed was torn apart, a brassiere was draped over the lampshade, and on a corner of the nightstand was a torn condom wrapper. The actual prophylactic I found in the sheets. It was unrolled but otherwise in mint condition. All signs pointed to a clear case of coitus interruptus. Further investigation turned up Lefty’s undershorts, but not Millie’s panties. Either she arrived without them or Lance let her put them back on. He probably watched too, the sicko. The bra I put away in a drawer for later examination.

  Too scared for rational thought, I switched on an all-news radio station. The big story was the five-alarm fire still raging out of control in Berkeley. Fed by large stocks of extra-virgin olive oil, flames had spread to a bakery, specialty grocery store, cheese shop, and Santa Fe-style restaurant. Now firefighters were being hampered by the irritating smoke from burning jalapeños.

  Uh-oh, sounds from downstairs. I recognize that scream. Mom’s home!

  11:15 P.M. I just turned on the radio to test my hearing. The fire’s nearly out in Berkeley. For a time they were worried it might spread to a building housing 40,000 pounds of mesquite charcoal, but then the wind died down. My ears are ringing, but I guess I can still hear OK. For a while there, I was afraid I was going to be the first person in history deafened by his mother’s voice. Thank God Wally was there to keep her physically restrained. Otherwise, I’d be a curiosity down at the morgue right now.

  Since things had gotten so out of control, I figured the best course was just to deny everything. I’ve had pretty good success with this tactic in the past and can simulate veracity instinctively—even while under extreme emotional and psychological duress. Besides, what’s a few lies when you’ve just destroyed over $5 million worth of epicurean delicacies? My opening moves were brilliant:

  “Mom!” I yelled, running down the stairs. “Officer Wescott just arrested Leon! He broke in again!”

  “Leon did all this?” she exclaimed, slumping stunned into a chair. “What happened outside? Who wrecked my car? Where’s Jerry’s Lincoln?”

  “The trailer’s missing too,” mumbled Wally, fighting off an affectionate Albert.

  “Where’s my trailer!” demanded Mom.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “Maybe Leon took them.”

  Mom eyed me suspiciously. “What do you mean you don’t know? Where were you, buster? You’re supposed to be grounded.”

  “I, I went to look for a birthday present for you, Mom,” I said. “It was the only chance I had.”

  “My birthday’s not until November!”

  “I know, but I saw something neat on sale.”

  “What?” she demanded.

  “It’s a surprise!”

  “Wally!” screamed Mom. “Call 911. Tell them to send Officer Wescott over right away. Tell them we need help. We’ve been attacked! We’ve been robbed!”

  Lance didn’t show up until a half hour later. In the interim, Wally and I cleared up the mess in the living room while Mom lapsed into a mild catatonic state.

  “Wally, how come you guys got home so late?” I asked.

  “We stopped to watch that big fire in Berkeley,” he replied.

  “Oh,” I said. “How was it?”

  “Great. The flames were shooting hundreds of feet in the air. The aromas were wonderful.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “I heard some waiters got singed trying to rescue the Chardonnays. They lost some very excellent wines. Doggie, please don’t do that.”

  Albert had burrowed under Wally’s cuff and was trying to climb up inside his pant leg. Wally reached in and gently extracted the obdurately affectionate canine.

  “Did, did they know who started it?” I asked.

  “Some arsonist. Boy, I’d hate to be in his shoes when they catch him. Damn, I wonder if I can get that dent out of the door.”

  While Wally and Albert contemplated the damaged Chevy, I brought Mom a glass of water. She was too distraught to notice my hand was shaking uncontrollably. But she revived when the loathsome Lance swaggered in without knocking. He looked even more pleased with himself than usual.

  “Hi, Estelle,” he said, ignoring me and Wally. “Busy night.”

  “Oh, Lance darling!” exclaimed Mom. “What happened?”

  “Caught your friend Leon going in the front door again. Then I hear a noise upstairs and find two underage minors fornicating in the bedroom.”

  “Nick!” screamed Mom.

  “It wasn’t me, Mom! It was Lefty and Millie. They love each other.”


  “Yeah, right,” sneered Lance. “Well, if her parents file a complaint, and I’ve advised them strongly to do just that, he’s going down on a statutory rape charge. I just wish I could nail you as an accessory.” Lance shot a bloated scowl in my direction. “But I’ve got other fish to fry with you, hotshot.”

  I gulped.

  “Lance darling!” said Mom. “Where’s my car and trailer? What did Leon do with them?”

  “Leon’s clean on the car-theft rap,” replied Lance, dazzling her with his police lingo. “You might have better luck asking your kid those questions.”

  Mom gave me a look the temperature of liquid helium.

  “I, I don’t know anything about it,” I stammered. “I don’t know how to drive. I’m too young.”

  “You know that big fire in Berkeley?” asked the cop.