by C. D. Payne
“I think so. Probably. Mom, I meant to ask you. Are you paying Dad child support for me?”
“Of course, Nickie. Four hundred dollars a month. It’s all I can afford right now with Lance Junior on the way.”
Four hundred dollars a month! Dad must be netting at least three hundred dollars of pure profit on me. That’s nearly four grand a year.
“Mom,” I said affectionately, “could you possibly make the check payable to me instead of to Dad?”
“Nickie, don’t be silly. I can’t do that. Why? Is your father being his usual miserly self?”
“Boy, is he ever,” I said.
“Nickie, the arson inspectors haven’t come snooping around for a while. It’s probably safe for you to come back home now. How about it? Don’t you want to be here when your baby brother is born?”
“I’d love to, Mom,” I lied. “But I can’t leave my classes. I’m studying hard, you know.”
“That’s nice,” she said. “And what sports teams are you going out for?”
“None, Mom,” I replied. “I’ve decided to go straight from the sandlot into the American League.”
“Watch your smart mouth,” she replied.
I’ve heard that line before.
After hanging up the phone, I penned this brief note and handed it silently to D——e:
Dear Fat Pervert:
Under the circumstances, I feel it is inadvisable for us to continue cohabitating in the same room. Since it was my bedroom originally and you are the interloper, I believe it is incumbent upon you to move out. As there are at present no other bedrooms available in the house, I suggest you transport your disgusting belongings and repulsive person to your family’s camper trailer in the back yard. Please do so by nightfall today if at all humanly possible.
Sincerely loathing you,
Nick Twisp
With much head scratching and lip mumbling, D——e struggled through the note, then said simply, “No way.”
Furious, I scribbled another note and thrust it at him.
The illiterate lump plodded through this missive and announced, “I don’t care what you say, Nick. I ain’t goin’ out there an’ freeze my balls off. You wanta be a stuck-up snob, you go out an’ live in the camper!”
Seething with volcanic rage, I turned to go, then paused as Dad shuffled out of his bedroom. His hair was uncombed, his beard unshaven, and his left eye unopened. All the colors of the rainbow (but with the more ghastly purple hues predominating), it was swollen completely shut.
“Dad,” I said, “is it OK if I go live in the Crampton’s trailer?”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what you do,” he replied.
This I interpreted as an assent. “Dad,” I continued, “what happened to your eye?”
“None of your fucking goddam business,” he answered.
Dad’s not talking. Probably he learned the hard way that the bimbettes in the boonies can play rough. Good thing for him she wasn’t packing a firearm.
4:30 P.M. I am writing this within a tiny birch-walled cocoon—my new bedroom on wheels. To my surprise, Mrs. Crampton offered not the slightest objection when I proposed moving into her trailer. Perhaps she was still disturbed by the nasty bedroom nudity she observed this morning. She gave her consent eagerly and even found an old electric heater to stave off frostbite. We have plugged the trailer cord into an outlet by the back door. I can turn on the heater and my computer, but the addition of a lamp on the line trips the circuit breaker. Thus, I have a choice: I can write in the warm darkness or the frigid light. Perhaps I’ll experiment to see which has the most salubrious effect on my prose.
Trailer life is not as bad as I expected. I have set up my computer on the dinette in the front. I have a little propane stove for preparing tea, a tiny sink for brushing my teeth, a fair-sized closet for my modest wardrobe, two musty drawers for my underwear, a double bed across the aft in case Sheeni should happen to drop by, and—best of all—a stout lock on the door. No toilet, though. I have procured a large glass bottle as a substitute. The label says “apple cider,” so I can leave it out in public view without embarrassment.
Fuzzy dropped by with some hot gossip as I was putting away the last of my things.
“Hey, this is kinda cool,” he observed, ducking his head to come through the Hobbit-sized door.
“Yes, I’ve decided to think of it as my first efficiency apartment,” I replied. “I’m pretending it’s an artist’s garret in North Beach. Have a seat, Frank.”
“Say, how does your dad look?” asked Fuzzy.
“Like he forgot to duck,” I replied. “How did you know?”
“I heard all about it,” said Fuzzy. “From Uncle Polly. He was there.”
“Where?”
“The Burl Pit—that’s a bar out on Old Redwood Highway. Your dad got decked by one of the musicians.”
“Paul?” I asked excitedly.
“Sounds like it,” confirmed Fuzzy. “Some chick was biting on his ear too. It might have been Lacey. Uncle Polly said she was built like a brick Space Shuttle.”
“That’s Lacey all right,” I agreed. So that’s why Dad’s been walking around with his hand over his ear. I thought he was thinking about going into radio announcing.
I told Fuzzy about the news from Oakland this morning.
“Wow, they deported him,” he said. “That’s bad. I hear those guys keep grudges for a long time. Do you think he’ll try to sneak back across the border to find us?”
“Maybe. But he doesn’t have much to go on. That’s not what’s worrying me. Frank, have you ever been fingerprinted?”
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “They took some prints of my baby toes in the hospital when I was born, though.”
“That’s OK,” I said. “As I recall, you weren’t opening my mom’s refrigerator with your feet. Has Vijay ever been fingerprinted?”
“I don’t know,” said Fuzzy. “Let’s go call him.”
Dad and Mr. Ferguson, looking like recent hospice admittees, were watching a football game in the living room. I led Fuzzy past them into Dad’s bedroom and dialed Vijay’s number. After a half dozen rings, Mr. Joshi answered, sounding annoyed.
“Hi, Mr. Joshi,” I said. “Is Vijay there?”
“Young man, what is this I hear about your making advances towards my daughter in the public library?”
“Uh, beg your pardon?”
“You were seen kissing Apurva most licentiously. Is that not so?”
“Apurva?”
“Yes, my daughter. Don’t try to deny it. After I received you into my home too. But I am not surprised. Boys like you have no respect. Well, you will never associate with my children again.”
“I won’t?”
“I have instructed them not to talk to you. Ever again. Now, I have nothing more to say to you. Goodbye!”
“Wait, Mr. Joshi. Can I ask one thing?”
“Well, what is it?” he demanded.
“Has Vijay ever been fingerprinted?”
“Certainly not,” he replied. “Except, of course, for his green card application. Now goodbye!” Click.
“Bad news?” asked Fuzzy.
“The pits,” I replied wearily. “Apurva’s now officially off-limits and Vijay may have to apply for a parole before he can enroll at Stanford.”
“Should we tell him?” asked Fuzzy.
“Better not,” I replied. “We don’t want him to panic and do something stupid like confess.”
10:30 P.M. As I was preparing for bed, I was startled to hear a rustling noise outside the trailer. Quickly switching off the lamp, I peered out through the tiny porthole over the bed. Peering in through the same round window was a hideous, moonlit apparition—Dwayne.
Yanking the tattered curtains closed, I screamed “Peeping Tom!” at the top of my lungs.
This brought a muffled curse, followed by rapidly retreating footsteps.
I must borrow a tactic from the Vietcong and booby-trap my
perimeter. I wonder where one obtains stalks of razor-sharp bamboo?
MONDAY, November 5 — Another restless night. The trailer mattress turned out to be profoundly lumpy and smelled heavily of Eau de Dwayne. I must measure to see if the mattress in my bedroom will fit. All the windows sweat from the damp night air, and—even with the anemic heater going full blast—the floor is as chilly as a grave in the morning. I also have reason to believe I am not entirely alone. When I opened my underwear drawer this morning, I found two fresh mouse turds and a newly chewed hole in my best argyles.
But all of this, diary, is just beating around the bush. Yes, disaster has struck again. My eye-blackened, ear-gnawed, mind-addled father has suffered another career setback.
HE’S BEEN CANNED!
Miss Pliny, while fact-checking Dad’s Oregon article, came across a listing for a similar report in an obscure Canadian forestry journal. Miraculously retrieving the office copy from the files, she discovered that the pages in question had been mysteriously excised. Smelling a rat, she called the editors in Vancouver and had a duplicate copy faxed immediately. Evidence to sustain a judgment of plagiarism was overwhelming. Except for the misspellings in Dad’s version, the two articles coincided word for word.
By the time I got to work after school, Dad was gone—already history. His messy desk had been cleaned out, his framed portrait of Ernest Hemingway had been taken away, his neatly stenciled name on the assistant editor’s parking space had been spray-painted over. All that remained was a heavy atmosphere of lingering outrage and ill-concealed censure.
Quickly I developed a serious case of guilt by association. This must be what is meant by the saying the sins of the fathers are visited upon the sons.
“Shall I resign too?” I meekly asked Mr. Preston.
“That won’t be necessary,” he replied coldly. “But why did you mislead us by saying your father was in Oregon?”
“He told me to,” I answered.
“The plagiarism was bad enough,” my employer continued reproachfully, “but the phony expense report was larceny, pure and simple.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, studying my shoes.
I spent the rest of the afternoon lying low in the deepest thicket of filing cabinets. Mr. Preston is right—the files are a mess.
All of this followed a more than usually stressful day at Redwood High. Vijay, being nobody’s fool, demanded at once to know what “this fingerprinting business” was about.
“Why do you fellows care if I’ve ever been fingerprinted?” he asked Fuzzy suspiciously.
“Yes, Nick. Why do we care?” said Fuzzy, handing the ball off to me.
“Well, er, I just thought maybe we should start wearing rubber gloves when we mark up the rest rooms. You know—in case the cops try to take some prints off the walls.”
“Nick, that is pure paranoia,” replied Vijay. “The authorities are not likely to call in master detectives on a case of misdemeanor rest-room vandalism. Besides, there must be 10,000 sets of fingerprints on those walls.”
“You’re right, of course,” I said, quickly changing the subject. “Say, who snitched on Apurva and me to your dad?”
“Who knows?” replied Vijay. “I told you that was high-risk strategy. My sister was crying for hours last night.”
How flattering!
“Vijay, you can tell Apurva that I’ll miss her too,” I said.
He looked at me quizzically. “She wasn’t lamenting a separation from you, Nick. She was crying over that dog you keep for her. Father says she can’t visit it either.”
“Oh,” I replied. “That’s … too bad.”
“Yes,” continued Vijay, “and, of course, I dare not be seen with you. We must be discreet until such time as Father calms down or Apurva is married off. Fuzzy, you’ll have to serve as our go-between outside of school.”
“Right,” said Fuzzy
9:40 P.M. Damn, wouldn’t you know it? My bedroom mattress is four inches too long to fit in Little Caesar. For the foreseeable future, I shall know only lumpy, malodorous rest. I suppose I should be grateful. In a few months I may be sleeping on a urine-stained cot in a homeless shelter.
When I arrived home, my jobless father was deep into his second zin bottle.
“Where were you?” he demanded.
“At work,” I replied. “Some of us have jobs.”
“I don’t want you going back there,” he slurred. “You tell those bastards you quit.”
“But, Dad, what’ll I do for money?”
“There are other jobs in this town. I’ll show them. They can’t push us Twisps around. Anyway, I’m suing that asshole.”
“For what?” I asked.
“For costing me the use of my hand!” he replied, deftly employing his injured limb to pour another tall tumbler of zin. Dad better pray Mr. Preston’s attorneys never plant a video camera in his wine cabinet.
In the kitchen, Mr. Ferguson and D——e were shelling nuts for Mrs. Crampton’s famous Bliss Despite Unemployment Pecan Pie.
“Sorry about your dad,” croaked Mr. Ferguson wanly.
“He sure can booze it up,” commented D——e.
“At least he’s not in jail for attempted homicide,” François said, addressing the refrigerator. “Something I hope no one at school finds out.”
D——e swallowed nervously. “If they do, I got some secrets to blab too.”
I have counted my wad: $28.12 in cash and $13.63 in the bank. One more measly paycheck and then I am tossed, overeducated and underskilled, onto the rusty barbed wire of the teen job market. I wish now I had not been quite so precipitous in sending that generous check to Sheeni. Damn, too late to stop payment on it. She’s probably already converted my hard-earned dollars into cosmetics to make herself even more compellingly attractive to other men.
I do not share Dad’s optimism I can find another job. And I refuse to don the pastel polyesters of the exploited fast food worker. I know! I’ll put an ad in the newspaper to sell my valuable antique neon sign. It’s about time I got back something from that miserable beast Albert. Despite buying strictly freight-damaged, expired-date, bulk generic brands, I’ve blown a small fortune on dog food. If only dogs ate grass like cows. I’d save a bundle and never have to face the lawn mower again.
11:30 P.M. A blustery rain has begun to pelt Little Caesar’s tin roof. It sounds as if I were residing inside a large garbage can. How do people sleep in trailers in damp climates? The din is enough to deafen rock drummers.
TUESDAY, November 6 — I was 45 minutes late for school; my alarm failed to go off. Some vandal unplugged the power cord to the trailer. I suspect a dim trailer trespasser, who—François assures me—is courting swift retribution of the most cataclysmic kind.
I received a nasty shock when I told Fuzzy in gym about Dad’s getting the ax. It seems I won’t be eligible to receive a $100 signing bonus if I recruit Dad for scab concrete hauling (only a few positions remain unfilled). My so-called best pal Vijay has already claimed it.
“But how did he know my father was fired?” I demanded indignantly.
“He didn’t,” replied Fuzzy. “He’s claimed the bonuses for all our friends’ fathers. Older brothers too. If they’ve got a driver’s license, Vijay has his dibs in on them.”
“But, Frank, that’s not fair!” I complained.
“I know, Nick. But those are the rules. Dibs is dibs. You know that.”
I think it’s time to call a convention to revise the unwritten code by which American teens conduct their lives. If people from abroad are permitted to exploit unfairly these unfortunate loopholes, our entire way of life will be threatened.
At lunch, Vijay said he was sorry to hear of my family’s misfortune and asked if my father would be home this evening. I replied I did not have the slightest idea. Vijay shrugged, dug into his deepest pocket, and handed me this smuggled note from his cloistered sister:
Dear Nick,
By now I’m sure you must have heard the bad n
ews. Father refuses to listen to reason. As a last resort, I told him the truth—that we were simply trying to make dear Trent jealous. That only made him even more furious. He blames you for putting such “unwomanly” notions in my head. As if any sensible girl needs the assistance of a male in such arts!
Father threatens if I ever see you again he will advertise immediately in the local Indian press for a husband. I think he may be serious, so I shall have to be extremely cautious. Nevertheless, I intend to sneak over to see you and Jean Paul as soon as an opportunity arises. In the meantime, I will do the best I can unilaterally to further our plan.