by C. D. Payne
“I was changing my trousers. Please knock before you enter.”
“How come you was changin’ ‘em at this time o’ night?”
“That’s my business. Where’s my 50 cents?”
“I’ll have to pay you when I get my ‘lowance,” he said, flopping down on my bed. “They’re gettin’ a little friendlier, Nick. They only had three fights on this walk. I think I like the new dog best. What’s his name anyways?”
“I suppose it must be Camus.”
“Wow. That’s a great name. Kamu the Wonder Dog! If my mom says it’s OK, could I ‘dopt him?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s an extremely valuable dog. How much money do you have?”
“I got $26 in my college ed’cation fund. Mom might let me take some of that. And God still owes me $2.”
“Well, that’s a start. And please stay off my bed.”
Dwayne reluctantly rolled his flab off the rumpled chenille. “Nick, if you was doin’ what I think you was doin’, that’s OK by me. We could do it together sometime.”
“Excuse me, Dwayne,” I said, escorting him out the door, “I have homework to do.”
“Think about it, Nick,” he said. “It’s more fun with two.”
From the mouths of fools come truisms. Yes, it would be more fun with two. Sheeni and Apurva—singly or jointly—I’m open to proposals.
THURSDAY, October 25 — Albert III is back. The Joshis came downstairs this morning and were shocked to find him in their kitchen lapping up the nevidya (food offering) in their deoghar (god house). I had neglected to warn Apurva this particular breed has a penchant for defiling religious symbols.
Mr. Joshi brought Albert III back early this morning just as Dad was leaving on his great Expedition to the North. Dew glistened on the trees and all was still except for the sounds of violent oaths being hurled. When I came running out in my bathrobe, negotiations had broken down completely and Dad and Mr. Joshi were circling each other with raised briefcases.
“Nick, tell this maniac that’s not our dog!” screamed Dad.
“Nick, explain to this madman you loaned the dog to my daughter!” shouted his adversary.
“Don’t you want to keep him, Mr. Joshi?” I pleaded. “He’s a great dog.”
“He is an ungodly cur! I never wish to cross paths with him again!”
“Just whose fucking dog is this?” demanded Dad, now threatening me with the upraised briefcase.
I only pretended to cower. In my experience Mom is the parent with the proclivity toward violence. Dad is mostly bluster. Besides, I knew the battered attaché contained nothing weightier than a peanut butter sandwich and a road map of Oregon.
“Dad, Mom sent him!” I explained. “Her new husband hates dogs. I’ve been trying to give him away.”
Dad reluctantly lowered his briefcase. “You’ll give him away all right, pal. When I get back, all I want to see around here is one fucking dog. Preferably dead!”
“OK, Dad. No problem. Would you like to meet Mr. Joshi?”
Dad eyed Apurva’s father suspiciously. “Is he the nut case who wears women’s clothes?”
Mr. Joshi bristled. “I do not wish to be insulted any further. Good morning to you all!” Handing me the dog leash, he got into his car and roared off. I didn’t know a Plymouth Reliant could peel rubber.
Albert III looked up at me and growled.
“Have a nice trip, Dad,” I said, forcing a smile. “Bring me back something nice.”
Dad mumbled a reply. I shall not repeat it here. It is not something a son expects to hear from his loving father.
Sheeni called collect just as I was about to leave for school.
“Nickie, did Albert arrive safely?”
“Yes, they all did,” I replied.
“What?”
“Everyone on the bus arrived safely, including Albert.”
“Are you being extra nice to him?”
“I’m doing my best. I was about to give him a gold-plated steak bone when you called.”
“Nickie, your check hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Well of course it hasn’t. I don’t get paid until tomorrow.”
“Oh,” she said darkly. “That puts me in a bit of bind for the weekend.”
“Do you have some expensive activities planned?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing special,” she replied.
“Well then you’ll get along fine,” I said cheerfully. “How’s dear Taggarty?”
“She’s feeling a bit fatigued.”
“Overwork?” I asked. “Too many hours of fact cramming?”
“I don’t know. She slept most of yesterday. She felt fairly alert at breakfast, but now she’s gone back to bed. I think she should see the nurse. It could be incipient encephalitis.”
“Anyone else exhibiting the symptoms?” I asked.
“No, just Taggarty. Nickie, do you suppose you could wire the money to me? That way I could get it Friday afternoon.”
“I’m sorry, Sheeni. I don’t think that will be possible. Well, darling, I don’t want to be late for school.”
“How about Express Mail?” she asked hopefully.
“Sorry, darling. Goodbye. Thanks for calling.” Click.
If Sheeni imagines I am going to finance her cultural outings with the Iowan Pretender, she can just think again. My check will be taking the slow route to Santa Cruz—overland by way of Tibet.
Bruno Modjaleski’s long epoch of sanding finally came to a close in wood shop today. He actually applied shellac to his dry sink. Perhaps he is winding up his affairs before departing to take up residence as a guest of the state. His court hearing is set for Monday, Fuzzy informed me at lunch. Miss Wompveldt’s sophomore civics class is expected to attend.
This may be Bruno’s last weekend as a free jock. I hope he is planning some intense conjugal visitations with Candy Pringle. Yes, Redwood High’s Cutest Couple has been reunited. Happily for Bruno, Candy’s interlude with Stinky Limbert proved short-lived. She has promised to wait for her man, provided the judge gives him no more than eight months.
At lunch, Vijay handed me this scented note from his lovely sister:
Dear Nick,
I’m so sorry my parents won’t accept the dog. I have tried every manner of persuasion to no avail. They are adamant.
Please, Nick, do not give away that dear, precious dog. I should love to come over and visit with him whenever I am able. I shall be very grateful if you can keep him for me. Perhaps I can pay a little towards his upkeep from time to time.
I am looking forward to our date tomorrow. I have choir practice this afternoon, so I won’t be able to see you until then. Please let Vijay know if you can keep the dog.
Fondly,
Apurva
P.S. I forgot to ask. What is his name?
What powers of persuasion! I could no more refuse Apurva than I could French-kiss Albert (any of them). Of course, Dad will be livid if he finds out. I must contrive somehow to keep the Alberts apart. If Dad sees them singly, perhaps he will be deluded into thinking he lives in a single-dog household.
Since the late Albert Camus inconveniently achieved existential fame without a middle name, I was obliged to move on to another Frog. I told Vijay to tell Apurva her dog was named Jean-Paul.
Vijay made an interesting proposal as we were sharing his vegetarian samosas at the Nerds’ table in the cafeteria. (He currently enjoys a nearly insurmountable lead in the race for “Student with the Most Exotic Bagged Lunches.”)
“Nick, how would you like to study as an exchange student in my old school in Pune?” he asked. “You could live with my uncle’s family.”
“Your hard disk has crashed, Vijay,” I replied. “You are out of your mind.”
“No, listen to what I say. Sheeni’s parents want her to stay in Santa Cruz because you are here in Ukiah. Is that not correct?”
“Unfortunately, it is.”
“Therefore, if you leave, that impediment to her ret
urn will be removed. They will insist she come back.”
“Accomplishing precisely what?” I asked. “Sheeni and I are 200 miles apart now. If I went to India, we’d be 20,000 miles apart.”
“It’s not that far,” said Vijay. “More like 12,000 miles.”
“Well, it’s still a long drive for a weekend,” I said. “Besides, I hear India is hot and has a terrible problem with flies.”
“It’s quite pleasant most of the time,” he replied, offended. “Anyway you wouldn’t actually go there, you would just give that impression.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Let me explain: you fill out the application, win the scholarship, and then we contrive to have the school newspaper do a big write-up about you. All about this extraordinary honor that has come to Redwood High and how much you will miss everyone during your years abroad. Maybe we could get a story in the town paper too. Anyway, we make sure Sheeni’s parents get copies. They’ll be overjoyed and decide to bring Sheeni back. Then, right at the last minute, you have a change of heart and decide not to go.”
“Won’t they change their minds too?” I asked skeptically.
“Not if they don’t find out,” exclaimed Vijay. “Winning an honor is newsworthy. Turning it down is not. The newspapers won’t bother reporting that.”
“But I might run into them downtown,” I pointed out. “I know for a fact Sheeni’s mother shops for magazines at Flampert’s variety store.”
“Well, you—what is the expression—lie low for a while. Or you wear a disguise. Grow a mustache. Dye your hair.”
“It might work,” commented Fuzzy.
“How do you know I’ll win the scholarship?” I asked.
“Why not? You’re intelligent. You get good grades. Besides, no one else has applied. But we’ll need your father’s signature on the application.”
“No problem,” I replied. “I’ve been forging that for years.”
8:15 P.M. To celebrate her coming week of carnal license, Lacey gave Mrs. Crampton the day off and took Mr. Ferguson and me out to dinner. Only I ordered steak, so of course there was a vicious dogfight when we got back for possession of the bone. I don’t know who won—I haven’t a clue which is which. Each Albert exhibits the same outthrust lower jaw, the same bugged-out bloodshot eyes, the same curly pig’s tail attached to the same ratty black body besmirched by identically lopsided smears of white muzzle and chest fur. For all I know, they may be harboring matched sets of genetically identical fleas.
FRIDAY, October 26 — A spectacular day for dating. The planets must be all lined up, spelling “Go for it, baby!” Even as I write this, I can still taste Apurva’s mint-flavored lipstick on the deepest recesses of my tongue. Meanwhile, Lacey is entertaining a local trumpet player in Dad’s own private bedroom. Occasionally, the springs pause in their rhythmic song, and the odor of burning hemp wafts out from under the door. François is seething with jealousy, but I prefer to dwell on the positive side. Besides being my future brother-in-law, Paul may someday marry my near-stepmother. Thus my ties to the Saunders family grow ever more numerous.
I met Vijay and his knockout sister at 7:45 P.M. in the lobby of the school auditorium. Apurva singed the eyeballs in a mind-numbing red satin dress and my mother’s best high-heel shoes. François had selected my outfit: black trousers, Dad’s gray suede jacket, fluorescent cranberry shirt, and a soft mauve scarf borrowed from Lacey and knotted jauntily at the throat. It was somewhat more flamboyant than my usual dress-for-invisibility costume.
Apurva approved. “Nick, you are sensational. The other girls will be very jealous of me tonight.”
“Paroxysms of envy will grip the fellows when they see me with you,” I replied. “Your beauty leaves me speechless, my dear.”
“How fortuitous for me that it does not,” replied Apurva sweetly.
Our chaperon had heard enough. “Let us go now and buy our tickets, please,” said Vijay peevishly.
Flush with twenties (I had cashed my paycheck immediately, lest it be seized again by a creditor), I paid for my date’s ticket. We chose prime seats in the orchestra—close to the front where we would be seen by the multitudes. I insisted our chaperon sit at least one seat removed. Vijay sighed and scanned the audience for pretty girls.
“How is my essay coming along?” I asked him. The application form for the scholarship, we had discovered to our distress, required a 1,000-word essay on the topic “Why I wish to study in India.” Vijay, as the resident Indian expert, had generously volunteered to write it for me.
“It’s coming,” he said. “My difficulty is in making it illiterate enough so that they will believe it came from the pen of an American.”
“Thanks a generous pantsful,” I said. I turned to the more alluring branch of his family. “Apurva, I hope your father was not offended this morning. My dad, I fear, was somewhat rude.”
“I’m afraid he came away with a very bad impression. He was not happy to hear that we were going to the theater with you this evening.”
“But Vijay is here with us,” I pointed out.
“Yes, thank God. He would not have agreed to it otherwise. He is under the impression I came along with Vijay simply out of boredom. Oh, Nick, you can keep my precious Jean-Paul—can’t you?”
“Certainly,” I replied. “Well, I’ll try. It may take some artful subterfuge. Fortunately, I have an aptitude for that.”
“Good. Also, we must try to improve your standing with my father,” she said, looking worried. “It is quite low at the moment.”
“What about my applying to study in India?” I demanded. “Surely that must have scored some points with the old boy.”
“He said what with communal strife, religious conflict, and political unrest, India has more than enough problems without being burdened with the task of educating you.”
As I prepared to reply to this slander, the lights began to dim and the curtain rose.
The play was Hay Fever. How unfortunate that our laws are so lax in regulating high school dramatic arts. I believe draconian fines should be imposed by statute for such crimes as reckless disregard of the text, willful abuse of comic timing, and falsely impersonating an English accent. In addition, whoever cast the Zit Queen as the breathless ingenue should be barred from the theater for life.
At intermission I took Apurva’s warm, wheatish hand and we strolled lovingly among the surprised swim team retinue and their dates.
“I think it is quite good for a school production,” commented Apurva. “Don’t you, Nick?”
“Possibly,” I replied, “for a grammar school.”
“Nick, you must not be so severe. These are not trained actors.”
“In fact, they are not actors at all,” I said. “Shall I buy you some punch?”
“Yes, please,” she replied.
But first François demanded a kiss. While Apurva was complying enthusiastically, she was addressed by a bronzed, muscular junior named Baborak.
“Hullo, ‘Purva,” he said. “What you hear from Trent?” “He’s fine,” she replied. “He is enjoying his windsurfing. Do you know Nick Twisp?”
“I seen the dweeb around,” Baborak replied, cutting me dead and walking away.
Apurva squeezed my hand and whispered into my ear. “Nick, our plan is working. Already Trent’s friends dislike you.”
I didn’t tell her that even when I’m not French-kissing their buddy’s girlfriend, guys like Baborak always despise me. It’s instinctual with them.
Eventually the curtain came down on the last act. I was sorry that what with all the liberties the thespians were taking with Mr. Coward’s story, they hadn’t altered the ending. A surprise stabbing of the ingenue would have produced a much more satisfying climax than the author’s.
After the show, I squeezed in beside Apurva in her father’s rad Reliant for a short cruise down Main Street to the Burger Hovel drive-in. We made Vijay sit in the back and slump down so that he could not be observed by our fell
ow cruisers.
“How did you like the play?” I asked him.
“I found it quite appalling,” replied Vijay’s voice from near the floor. “Do they imagine upper-class Brits speak with Cockney accents?”
“You boys are too critical,” said Apurva. “I think it requires a great deal of courage to stand up on a stage and perform. I should be petrified with fright.”
“Petrification could only be an improvement,” said the backseat critic.
