by C. D. Payne
Lots of sirens, deep booms, and incoherent exhortations through bullhorns from direction of concrete plant. Oops, what was that? Sounded like a howitzer blast.
Can’t write any more. Have to go puke.
SATURDAY, November 10 — Praying for recovery or death. Don’t care which at this point. Twenty-three strikers arrested, four in hospital, scab concrete now rumbling like clockwork past my sickbed. Strikebreaking Dad earning time and a half for weekend work. Likes job. Says other drivers on road rarely contest right-of-way with big concrete trucks. Mr. Ferguson, back from San Quentin, totally pissed he missed battle. Blames fiancée. Broke off engagement and now bunking with D——e.
SUNDAY, November 11 — Recovery dealt serious blow by dead-of-night tire slasher. Little Caesar now listing ten degrees to starboard. Bed at radical angle. Have to hang on or roll out. Difficult to nap under these circumstances. Dad incensed by vandalism to precious BMW. All vehicles on property struck except Mr. Ferguson’s aged Toyota. Dad accused elderly agitator of complicity in deed. Big argument. Dad ordered Mr. Ferguson to move out. He refused unless paid pro rata rent refund. Immediate stalemate. D——e in doghouse for making untoward advances on ex-future stepfather.
MONDAY, November 12 — Have not vomited for six entire hours. Feel corner has been turned. Life may be worth living after all. Vijay called from school with good news. Have won prestigious scholarship to study in India. He has released story and my photo to newspapers. “They sent you a voucher for your ticket,” he added. “The program is ongoing. Just cable them when you expect to arrive in Bombay.” Almost might be persuaded to go if they promised me a level bed. More good news: Ferguson-Crampton engagement back on. Mr. Ferguson off rallying troops for another decorate-your-face-with-tire-tracks plant blockade. Mrs. Crampton secretly frying resistance meatballs for beleaguered union stalwarts. D——e in doghouse for chronic underwear boycott.
11:30 P.M. Well, it happened. I might as well get the story down on microchip while the wounds are still fresh. As I was doggedly attempting to read The Old Wives’ Tale by Arnold Bennett (having first skimmed unsuccessfully for ribald passages), I heard a gentle tapping on my door. “Come in,” I croaked. More soft tapping. “Come in, Mrs. Crampton!” I shouted. “You can take my dinner tray away now.” The door unlatched and swung slowly open.
“Nick, is that you?” asked a lilting, tentative voice.
Apurva!
Fighting panic, I tossed my book and pulled the covers up over my vomit-specked pajamas. Had it really been three days since my last shower?
“Hi, Apurva,” I gasped. “Come in.”
The trailer creaked as Apurva climbed in through the narrow doorway and warily looked around. She was in full, no-holds-barred makeup and smelled of flower-strewn Himalayan meadows.
“Nick, it’s so small!” she exclaimed. “Is this really where you are staying?”
“For the time being. I don’t mind it.”
“Oh, Nick. You’re in bed! Am I disturbing you?” she asked hesitantly.
“Not at all, Apurva. I was, uh, hoping you’d drop by. Please, take off your coat. What happened to you anyway?”
“I’m sorry, Nick. Father wouldn’t let me out of his sight. Fortunately, he was called away unexpectedly on business today. He made me promise I would stay in my room. Of course, he does not realize I am now resolved to be bad. Nick, does the floor always slope at this peculiar angle?”
“Not usually. There’s been a sudden deflation of the tires. I was intending to fiddle with the jacks tomorrow.”
“I see,” she replied. Struggling to maintain her balance, she removed her gloves, scarf, and coat. I was surprised to see her hands were shaking. François was thrilled to see she had dressed for the occasion in a ravishing red knit dress that draped every enticing contour without restraint or apology. Since François often displays these very same qualities, I decided to let him do the talking.
“Have a seat, darling,” he said suavely. “I’d offer you some refreshments, but it’s the butler’s night off.”
“Thank you, Nick. That’s all right,” said Apurva, sitting at the tiny dinette and struggling—with some difficulty—to keep from sliding off while modestly pulling her dress down over her lovely wheatish knees. “Nick, you don’t look at all well,” she continued, gripping the door handle for support. “Perhaps I should leave you to rest.”
“No! No, Apurva. I’m fine really. Never felt better.”
“Are you sure? Forgive me for saying this, but your eyes are watery and your nose appears to be inflamed.”
“Hay fever,” explained François. “Always get it this time of year.”
“Oh, that is a shame. Sister Brenda is similarly afflicted. She doesn’t mind. She feels harsh nasal discomfort is a worthy penance for her sins. Nick, are you cold? You are all wrapped up in blankets.”
“Well, you see, sweetheart,” François explained, “I don’t have much on underneath.”
My guest turned scarlet and looked away. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I should leave and let you dress.”
“Don’t be sorry, darling. I have nothing to hide from you. Do you have anything to hide from me?”
Apurva blushed even deeper and examined the weave of her dress. “I, I don’t want to. Not necessarily.”
“Would you like to come sit on the bed? It’s big enough for two.”
“Well, I suppose I could. You’re sure you are well enough to receive visitors?”
“Never better.” I coughed. “I’ve never known a sick day in my life.”
Apurva edged toward the bed and sat down primly on the lumpy mattress. Only by rigidly bracing her knees was she able to keep from sliding toward the feverish François.
“Nick, what is that peculiar odor?”
“Stampede. It’s my expensive cologne. Like it?”
“Perhaps—in moderation.” She picked up my discarded book. “Oh, what are you reading? I’ve been reading endlessly since I’ve been staying home.”
François plucked the book from her hands and flung it across the trailer. Apurva gave a nervous start. “Let’s not discuss literature,” he said.
“What, what shall we discuss then?” she asked. “How is my sweet dog?”
“Forget your dog!” he replied. “Let’s discuss how that lovely dress unfastens.”
Without a word Apurva reached behind her, undid a clasp, and slowly pulled down the zipper. “Do you mind if we turn off the light?” she asked.
“Not at all,” said François, flipping off the wall lamp while simultaneously shedding his foul pajamas. He reached over and pulled her toward him. She resisted only moderately.
“Are you entirely naked?” she whispered.
“More or less,” replied François, struggling with her bra snaps in the darkness.
“Please don’t do that, Nick,” she said, wriggling away. “Let’s talk first.” But gravity rolled her exquisite body inexorably back toward me. My lips sought out hers and François’s eager hand found a warm breast clothed in softest wool.
“Oh, Nick. I do like you,” she sighed. “But…”
“But what, darling?” cooed François.
“But your nasal discharge is dripping on my cheek.”
“Oh, sorry!” I exclaimed, searching among the blankets for my ghastly handkerchief. No luck. Desperate, I used a corner of the sheet.
“Nick, are you quite sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, but I’m terribly allergic to wool,” lied François. “Would you mind removing your dress?”
“I’d like to, Nick. But…”
François paused in his relentless groping for the elusive bra clasp. “But what, darling?”
“Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, Nick, but the circumstances are not as I imagined them to be.”
“Are you uncomfortable?” I asked. “Would you like another pillow? Shall I turn on the electric blanket? We’ll be toasty in a jiff.”
“Nick, you must realize that when a yo
ung woman is growing up, she is naturally curious about, well, these matters and often fantasizes about her first experience of, of lovemaking. Perhaps you have had similar thoughts?”
“They’ve crossed my mind once or twice,” I admitted.
“Naturally, then you can understand why a young woman should desire that her first time be, well… as pleasant as possible. She would not wish to have the experience tainted by anything smacking of, well… sordidness.”
“The mattress is not up to your standards, huh?” I sighed. “I want you to know I am not responsible for that odor. It’s an unfortunate legacy of a prior occupant.”
“It’s not only the bed, Nick,” she explained. “This doesn’t feel right. It would be disloyal to Trent.”
“But Trent never has to know!” argued François.
“But I shall know. And you will know. Nick, you must get well, move out of this dreary trailer, and save yourself for Sheeni. Believe me, we shall all be happier in the long run. All four of us—you, me, Trent, and Sheeni.”
Yes, but what about François? In the short run he has to cope with the T.E. That Wouldn’t Die.
At that moment we were startled by the sounds of a violent altercation outside. Apurva leaped from the bed, zipped up her dress, and peered out the window.
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “It’s Father!”
I groaned and dived under the covers.
“Come quickly, Nick!” shouted Apurva, throwing on her coat. “Your father is murdering him!”
Dad did not murder Mr. Joshi. He just bloodied his nose and tore his suit. In return, Mr. Joshi added a fresh greenish-purple patina to Dad’s barbrawl black eye. This is not to say as they grappled, panting and swearing, in the mud that they did not wish to murder each other. Clearly, homicide was on their minds. But a vigorous knee to the groin, although acutely distracting, is seldom life-threatening. Still, for two wimps going at it bare-handed, the combat was surprisingly ferocious. Apurva, for one, was terrified.
“Leave him alone!” she screamed, pounding on Dad’s back and sore ear.
“I’ll teach you, you communist!” bellowed Dad, gouging his opponent’s nose.
“I’ll marry you off, you harlot!” gasped Mr. Joshi, presumably addressing his rescuer.
After ten hellish minutes, the combatants had been separated, threats of multimillion-dollar lawsuits had been hurled, I had been singled out for a slashing excoriation by you know who, and sweet Apurva had been dragged off and hustled into the Reliant. As Mr. Joshi roared off into the night, Dad clutched his injured eye.
“Did you get the fucking license plate number?” he demanded.
“Uh, no. Sorry.”
“Damn! Say, who was that girl?”
“I don’t know,” I lied. “She said she was selling magazine subscriptions. Why did you attack him, Dad?”
“I spotted the asshole sneaking up the drive toward my car,” replied Dad, daubing his eye. “I’ll teach those union goons to destroy other people’s property!”
I decided under the circumstance it was best not to correct Dad’s misapprehension.
“Funny,” he continued, “I think I’ve seen that Mexican son of a bitch somewhere before. And why was he yelling at you?”
“Search me, Dad.” I shrugged. “I’m trying to stay neutral in these labor disputes.”
TUESDAY, November 13 — Feeling much better, but I decided to stay home from school anyway. I see no point to missing school only on days when you are too miserable to enjoy your idleness. As another labor Armageddon raged in the distance, I spent the morning giving Little Caesar a much-needed fall cleaning.
With that accomplished, I rode my bike past the ambulances and sheriff’s cars, and treated myself in town to a well-deserved donut break. As usual, I skipped the franchise donut palaces and gave my business to a small place downtown where the only thing older than the aged proprietress is the grease in the blackened deep fryer. Issues of rancidity aside, the donuts are varied, generous-sized, and breathtakingly cheap.
I almost choked on my second maple bar when I opened the newspaper to find a familiar spotted visage beaming out from page five. There, arrayed photographically across three columns, was Ukiah’s most distinguished teen—me. I read and reread every glowing word with immense satisfaction. What a lift to the spirits! So what if the article contained a few inaccuracies (I, for one, have never claimed to have an IQ of 195).
I gobbled down my donuts in a fog of pleasure, then raided a newspaper rack for all of its copies. Some I shall give to friends, some I shall put aside for future biographers, and some I shall mail anonymously to girls who have snubbed my overtures over the years. I only wish I could be there to witness their expressions of bitter self-reproach.
I got back home just in time to answer a noon call from Vijay.
“Did you see the article?” he asked excitedly.
“Yes, it was a tremendously flattering write-up,” I said. “I appreciate, Vijay, your refusal to be inhibited by the constraints of truth. You have a great future ahead of you in public life.”
“I do enjoy misleading the press,” he conceded.
“Perhaps this is why you are an active Republican,” I noted. “Speaking of reactionary impulses, how is your father?”
“He is quite upset, Nick. Is it true you have slept with my sister?”
“What does she say?”
“She says you were just talking. Father wanted to take her to a hospital last night and have her examined, but Mother finally dissuaded him. Well, go on. Tell me. Confess your crimes. What happened between you two?”
“Vijay, if your sister says we were just talking, I am certainly not going to contradict her. That would be ungentlemanly. How is Apurva, by the way?”
“Quite distraught. Father was threatening to send her back to India. But now that he thinks you’re going, he’s changed his mind. He says he wouldn’t trust his daughter on the same continent with you.”
Now it was François’s turn to feel flattered.
“Tell Apurva I’m sorry that she got in trouble,” I said. “And tell her she’s welcome to drop by any time,” added François.
3:30 P.M. I heard a noise like a 747 crashing and rushed into the house. Mrs. Crampton was lying on the kitchen floor in a dead faint. The telephone was off the hook beside her. Putting two and two together, I deduced that she had just received some bad news. Praying some tragedy had befallen her son, I set about reviving her to find out. No such luck. Today’s shocking news concerned her other loved one. Mr. Ferguson has been arrested! He’s in the county jail charged with inciting a riot, resisting arrest, and assault and battery on an officer.
“It’s … not fair,” complained Mrs. Crampton, when she came to. “Now…both my… menfolk… are in prison!”
7:30 P.M. Dad has put his foot down and forbade my studying abroad. He says I am too young and am needed at home. We all know what is really needed at home—Mom’s monthly support check. If Dad were still writing those hefty checks, I’d already be working on my Pune tan.
Mrs. Crampton just phoned and asked for a loan of $15,000 for Mr. Ferguson’s bail. Dad refused and suggested she call the American Communist Party.
11:30 P.M. We just watched Mr. Ferguson on the local news smack a deputy sheriff over the head with his riot shield. There was also a brief glimpse of Dad scattering some strikers as he roared through the gate with six tons of scab concrete. Everyone made the news except me. Why no mention of important scholarship winners? The press-bashers are right: the media has a deplorable bias against good news.
WEDNESDAY, November 14 — I’m a celebrity at school! Every teacher congratulated me in class, including Mr. Vilprang, who said he hoped I would be able to continue my woodworking studies in India.
Then in study hall I was interviewed for the school paper by a cute junior named Tina Manion. I gave her my entire life story (selectively embellished by François), a recent photo, and my phone number. Fuzzy told me later I wa
s fishing out of my depth. He said Tina was going with a college guy and wouldn’t be caught dead dating someone from Redwood High—especially a nonathletic, “scum of the earth” freshman. I said it was just that sort of pessimistic attitude that kept him alone on Saturday nights.
5:30 P.M. Dad came home whistling suspiciously. I fear he may have flattened his first striker. He also appears to be acquiring some unexpected bulges under his shirt. Can he actually be developing muscles? A Twisp with a physique—what next!
Mr. Ferguson got sprung this afternoon, no thanks to his fellow travelers. He was obliged to put up the deed to his house as security for his bail. Mrs. Crampton has laid down the law: her fiancé has to choose between her and the picket line. What an argument against free will.
