by C. D. Payne
I suppose I should not confide this to you, but Father’s reactionary behavior only goads me to further rebellion. I desire to lose my innocence. I want to be bad!
Yours affectionately,
Apurva
Thrilled to his marrow, François penned this brief reply, sealed it in wood shop with high-strength adhesive, and slipped it to Vijay for delivery:
Dear Apurva,
I feel exactly the same. Let us be bad together. I am now living behind my house in a small, extremely private recreational vehicle. Come to me there as soon you can.
Awaiting your lips,
Nick
P.S. Don’t worry, I have some you-know-whats.
Mr. Preston took my resignation like the gentleman he is. He said he understood, excused me from further labors, had my final paycheck prepared, and told Miss Pliny to add $100 as severance. What a nice man! Now I wish I hadn’t dispersed all of his business receipts quite so randomly through the files. Fortunately for both of us, tax season is still a long way off.
Clearing out my modest cubicle, I left on the desk a copy of Trent’s private journal. I think Mr. Preston may find his son’s sentiments interesting—especially those passages dealing with the lack of accessible birth control in Ukiah.
As I trooped, one last time, down those dusty stairs, I felt—not sadness, not financial dread—but an exhilarating sense of relief. I had broken the chains of bondage. I was free!
As a free person in command of his own destiny, I strolled to the bank, deposited my unexpectedly ample check, then walked on to the newspaper office to place my ad. I am asking $500 for the sign, but—if pressed strenuously—am prepared to come down to $475.
10:20 P.M. A soft knock on my trailer door. My heart leaped! Could it be Apurva so soon? Alas, no. It was just Mrs. Crampton trooping through the rain in an enormous yellow slicker to tell me I had a call. I threw on my robe and finished a surprising second in the 20-yard dash to the back door. For a big woman, Mrs. Crampton possesses blazing speed.
It was the Woman Who Commands the Remote Control to My Heart.
“Oh, Nickie, I’m so depressed!”
“What’s wrong, darling?”
“Taggarty and I were called before the Academic Discipline Committee this morning. Somehow they found out about that paper I wrote for her.”
“Oh, no!” I exclaimed, mentally kissing Bernice. (The only form of osculation I’d care to perform with my spy.)
“Fortunately, since we’re good students and it was our first offense, they were persuaded to be lenient. Taggarty’s going to be marked down an entire letter grade for the course and we’re on probation the rest of the term.”
“Oh, I see. So they’re not expelling you?”
“Of course not, Nickie.”
Now it was my turn to confront black depression.
Sheeni continued, “But we are confined to campus for a week. And we have to work 20 penalty hours in the dining hall. It’s almost as bad as being in the army. I hope I don’t get dishpan hands.”
“You have lovely hands,” I sighed.
“Thank you, Nickie. Thank you for the check and the nice letter.”
I then related the entire shocking story of my father’s firing. Sheeni was clearly appalled.
“Nickie, Trent’s father hired your father on my personal recommendation. How do suppose that makes me look now?”
“Well at least you’re not walking around with half his chromosomes in your DNA,” I replied. “Think how I feel!”
“How is he going to get another job?” she asked. “Mr. Preston will never give him a reference.”
“I think he may be contemplating a complete change of careers. An opportunity has come up in the transportation field. How are your parents, by the way?”
“As deranged as ever, I’m afraid. Father called me last night in a panic and asked if I knew anything about birth control.”
“He did?” I said, instantly alert. “What did you say?”
“I said I felt my knowledge of the subject was adequate and that he should not be concerned unnecessarily.”
“What did he say to that?”
“He asked me some completely absurd questions about selling stolen birth control pills. I don’t know where parents get such notions. Probably 60 Minutes ran some sort of tiresome exposé on the subject. I wish reporters would be more responsible. Parents are suspicious enough without all this unnecessary media sensationalism.”
“So he’s not making you leave school?”
“Nickie, why do you always leap to that same dreadful conclusion? Of course, he isn’t! Besides, my parents are entirely preoccupied now with Paul’s romantic life. Thank God.”
“They haven’t warmed up to Lacey yet?”
“Hardly. Mother finally gave up on prayer and tried bribing the woman to leave. She refused. Now Mother wants to have Paul kidnapped and taken to a cult deprogrammer. So far, Father’s opposing that on legal grounds. It ought to make for a lively Thanksgiving.”
“Sheeni! Are you coming home for the holiday?” I asked, not daring to hope for an affirmative.
“Yes, Father insists on it. I hope I can see you, Nickie. It will be difficult. The punishment if my parents find out will be draconian in the extreme.”
“We shall find a way!” vowed François.
“I hope so. I have a nice surprise for you too, Nickie.”
“What’s that, darling?”
“Taggarty’s agreed to accompany me to Ukiah. Won’t that be fun?”
“Yeah, a riot,” I muttered. “How is Taggarty?”
“Still disturbingly somnolent. This week she started going to an acupuncturist. She’s still sleeping excessively, but she reports her dreams have improved.”
“That is something at least,” I said.
“Nickie, did you mean all those sweet things you wrote in your letter?”
“Of course, darling. What I lack in material wealth, I make up for in extravagant sincerity.”
Sheeni laughed. “Oh, Nickie. You make me feel better. You always do.”
Still swaddled in the glow of that loving benediction, I shall now retire to my cozy bed.
I’m back. Someone put a dog turd in my pillowcase!
WEDNESDAY, November 7 — To my surprise, Vijay had no reply for me from his sequestered sister to my brash proposal. François feels this is a good sign, but I’m not so sure. He has almost persuaded me to believe we are facing an imminent resolution of our clouded virginity status.
Speaking of reckless optimism, Vijay is convinced he will soon be collecting $100 in blood money from Dad’s scab recruitment.
“He wasn’t particularly interested at first,” admitted Vijay. “He mentioned something about completing an ongoing literary project while collecting relief payments from the state. But I pointed out that, according to my father, people who are discharged from their jobs for misconduct are ineligible for the dole. After that, it was merely a matter of enumerating the advantages of the proposed employment.”
“Which are precisely what?” I demanded.
“Pleasant outdoor work, fair compensation, exceedingly short commute, no constraints on one’s freedom to smoke, and no boss constantly looking over one’s shoulder. In addition, I pointed out he would be defending the principles of free enterprise and unfettered competition. I think that may have persuaded him. Your father is a clear-thinking patriot, Nick.”
Odd, I thought those qualities were mutually exclusive.
“I also pointed out,” continued Vijay, “that in this part of your country, driving a big truck is regarded by a large segment of the female population as an extremely glamorous occupation for a man. That may have carried some weight with him as well. By the end of our conversation, he was talking about turning his experiences on the job into a book.”
That’s an idea. He could title it: I Scabbed for Sex.
After school, with no job to devour my precious free time, I strolled by the library in hope
s of bumping into you know who. But instead of beautiful Indian scholars bent—charmingly perplexed—over their algebra, I found only desiccated magazine-crumpling snoozers and scandal-mongering librarians. One of the latter, I feel certain, ratted on us to Apurva’s father. To repay them all for their collective treachery, I set them to work researching the origins of the mechanical egg incubator—a subject in which I have not the slightest interest.
As I was leaving, who should walk in but Paul, returning some music scores. He looked tranquil and content—as should any man who spends eight hours a night cohabitating with Lacey.
“Hi, Paul,” I said. “Watch out for kidnappers.”
“Thanks for the tip, Nick,” he replied placidly. “Keep an eye out yourself. Sleeping dogs can still bite.”
“Will do, Paul. How’s Lacey?”
“Lacey is a divine undulation in the cosmos, Nick. How’s Sheeni?”
“Sheeni’s fine too,” I answered. “She’s coming home for Thanksgiving.”
“Good. Then consider yourself invited for dinner.”
“You mean with you and Lacey?” I asked.
“Sure, us and the entire Saunders clan. It’s a family tradition.”
“But, Paul,” I objected, “your parents despise me.”
“All the more reason to come, Nick. Dinner’s at two. I hope you like turkey.”
“I love it. Should I bring anything?”
“Flowers for Mother, Nick. But you knew that.”
“Oh, sure.”
Wow! Thanksgiving dinner with the Saunderses. Who would ever have guessed?
When I got home, I was startled to find Dad huddled around the kitchen table with Fuzzy’s scary father and uncle. In the living room, a purple-faced boarder was being forcibly restrained by his wife-to-be and her nameless offspring.
“Union busters!” shouted Mr. Ferguson. “Scab bosses! Hoodlum scum!”
“Quiet… honey,” soothed Mrs. Crampton, neatly pinning him to the sofa. “You’re like…to have… a stroke.”
“Nick!” yelled the angry agitator. “Your dad’s turning traitor! He’s selling out to the bosses!”
“I know, Mr. Ferguson,” I replied, picking up my mail. “But it’s of no concern to me. I don’t wish to get involved.”
Dumbfounded, Mr. Ferguson glared at me. “Where are your principles, boy?”
“I haven’t any, Mr. Ferguson,” I explained. “Like most of the finer things in life, they are a luxury I cannot afford.”
On my way out to Little Caesar, I was detained by Fuzzy’s uncle Polly.
“Hey, kid. I hear you got a nifty neon sign for sale. How much you want for it?”
“Five hundred dollars,” I replied. “It’s an antique resort sign and it works perfectly.”
“I’ll give you $40,” he said.
“Forty dollars!” scoffed François, deeply insulted.
“OK, fifty. That’s my final offer.”
“Do you have it in cash?” I inquired meekly.
Uncle Polly pulled out a mesmerizing green roll, peeled off a crisp fifty-dollar bill, and slapped it on my outstretched palm.
“Nice doin’ business with you, kid. Where’s my sign?”
“Uh, in the bedroom,” I mumbled, flabbergasted. Maybe I should forget my aspirations of becoming a writer and go into the cement business instead. That roll contained more than Dad’s total lifetime earnings to date.
The mail brought another disturbing mash note from Bernice and my new, official United States of America passport. I wish I didn’t look quite so much like a destitute refugee child in the photo. And all those official-looking pages so embarrassingly blank. You’d think they’d start you off with a few nice border stampings just so you wouldn’t look like a completely untraveled rube.
A sudden racket outside drew me to my tiny trailer window. My moronic dogs were howling indignantly as Uncle Polly packed away his new purchase in the trunk of his shiny black Caddy. I don’t see what those freeloading canines have to complain about. I’ll probably blow the entire fifty keeping them in overpriced dog delicacies.
10:05 P.M. Damn. No nocturnal visitations. I had even lit a few romantic candles, brushed my teeth twice, and—to obscure lingering D——e odors—doused the mattress with some of Dad’s prestigious cologne (Stampede by Lalph Rauren). All for naught. Oh well, I suppose there’s nothing like a nice seductive atmosphere for enhancing the pleasures of autoeroticism.
Earlier this evening I found my old Cub Scout printing kit and spent a few pleasant hours doctoring my passport. I now have documentary evidence of having traveled to every continent except Antarctica—including several nations usually visited only by second-rate explorers, arms dealers, and TV evangelists.
During dinner, Mr. Ferguson vowed his intention of blocking “any and all scab truck movement” by the reckless imposition of his “living and breathing body.”
“Just make sure your rent is paid up,” replied Dad. “I don’t want to have to try and collect it from your estate.”
I won’t repeat what Mr. Ferguson said to that.
THURSDAY, November 8 — Only two weeks until I see The Mother of My Future Gifted Children. Perhaps we’ll be able to start practicing some of those tricky conception techniques now while our bodies are still nimble. Beginning a training regimen at this stage, experts say, can avoid those embarrassing fumblings later on when the biological gong is clanging.
I think I’m catching a cold. I had to open all the trailer windows last night to breathe and almost froze to death. At one point, I rose in the frigid blackness and spread all my clean underwear out on the bed for extra warmth. That helped some. I suppose I could have moved the heater under the covers, but since Albert’s sudden passing, I found I’ve developed either a healthy respect or a morbid fear of electricity. I can’t decide which.
Still no reply from Apurva. Why are women so curiously noncommunicative after receiving sincere and concrete proposals? Do they, contrary to all reports, place a higher regard on subtlety? Should I instead have invited her over to view my stamp collection?
Dad’s scab conversion has had at least one positive result (besides enriching Vijay’s bloated wad). It was just the prod Mr. Ferguson needed to rouse him from his premarital doldrums. He was up like a shot at dawn and back on the picket line fomenting solidarity.
The scab himself was off the entire day at an undisclosed location receiving instruction from DeFalco subalterns in the operation of a concrete truck. He came home grimy with oil and disillusionment. Dad was surprised to learn that the men were expected not only to transport the concrete to the site, but also to dump it. “Those chutes weigh a ton,” he complained, guzzling a beer, blue-collar style, from the can. “And then they expect us to wash the damn things. I don’t see why. You just get them all covered with gunk on the next load.”
“Was the truck difficult to drive, Dad?” I asked.
“Nah. It has power steering and an automatic transmission. An old lady could drive it. Now, a BMW—there’s a road machine that rewards your serious driving skill.”
I know, Dad. I’ve got the whiplash to prove it. “When do you start, Dad?” I asked.
He looked around warily. “Where’s that nut-case commie?”
“Still picketing,” I said.
“I’m not allowed to say,” replied Dad, striving, unsuccessfully, for inscrutability. “It’s top secret.”
“Fuzzy at school said they were going to fire up the plant tomorrow morning,” I pointed out.
“Don’t tell that wacko,” he warned. “Flora is having him drive her down to San Quentin tomorrow to meet her husband.”
“What for?” I asked.
“How should I know? Maybe they want his blessing on their happy union.”
“I hope he takes it like a gentleman,” I said doubtfully.
“I hope he murders the old commie,” replied Dad, swigging his beer. “It’ll save me the trouble of running him over.”
9:45 P.M. M
y cold is worse. Kindly Mrs. Crampton gave me her old electric blanket, so perhaps I won’t freeze again tonight. The thermostat is broken, but she assures me it still “gets to cookin’ real nice.”
FRIDAY, November 9 — Can’t write much. Too sick. Skipping school. Feel like tertiary malaria victim. Woke up sweating buckets under the Electric Blanket from Hell. Broken dial stuck on “High.” Chest all red. First-degree burn?
