Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  Philip had other ideas. Obstinately asserting his territorial rights, he barged into Joanie’s bedroom, bouncing me back onto the Couch from Hell.

  “You’ll regret this, Dr. Dimby,” I said, making up my torturous bed. “I know for a fact Joanie will be furious.”

  “It’s Dindy,” he said. “With two ‘d’s and one ‘n.’”

  “It’s the middle of the night,” I snapped. “I am not interested in a spelling bee at this hour. Good night!”

  “Up yours,” he said, slamming and locking the bedroom door.

  Boy, Joanie can sure pick them, I thought, settling into my bed of horrors. Nice expensive new chest implants and all she can attract is the Creature from the Atomic Accelerator.

  10:30 A.M. Philip was a little friendlier this morning. He wanted something.

  “Uh, what did you say your name was?” he asked.

  “Frank Dillinger.”

  “Uh, Frank, do you know if Joanie has a spare door key around?”

  “No, Dr. Dimby, I don’t believe she does,” I answered coldly, pretending to scan the job ads in the Los Angeles Times.

  “Uh, Frank, will you be here this afternoon, say around four, to let me back in?”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied. “I don’t think I should have let you in in the first place. Joanie told me explicitly she never wanted to see you again.”

  “Joanie will want to see me now,” he said confidently. “I’ve left my wife.”

  “How fortunate for her,” said François. “Your wife, I mean.”

  11:45 A.M. After the runty physicist departed for his lab, I sent François into Joanie’s room to snoop through his stuff. His bags appeared to have been packed in considerable haste. Among the tumult of preppy knit shirts (size small), chino slacks, argyle socks (some with holes), and Kevin Clein bikini briefs (ditto), I found a checkbook (balance of $273.12), a framed photo of a chihuahua-like woman surrounded by three befreckled children (the Dindy clan?), crumpled reprints of a dozen boring monographs on particle physics by you know who, and a box of Trojans.

  “Looks like Dr. Dimby intends to lock the barn after the bun is in the oven,” observed François, mixing his metaphors.

  Next François turned his attention to the gleaming, state-of-the-art laptop. He switched it on and watched in awe as the powerful CPU hurtled through its self-test.

  “I wonder how big the hard drive is?” said François, calling up its directory. “Holy shit, 785 megabytes! And nearly full of programs.”

  François typed “Format C.”

  “Uh, François,” I said nervously. “Do you really want to do that?”

  “Did you enjoy sleeping on the couch last night?” he asked. François hit several keys, and the hard disk began to spin, industriously performing a form of electronic housecleaning. After ten minutes, the whirling stopped.

  Joanie’s apartment may be crowded, but Dr. Dimby’s hard disk is as desolate as François’s conscience.

  3:45 P.M. Today’s movie was My Man Godfrey, a 1936 comedy starring William Powell, Carole Lombard, and Bertha Ulansky as a jaded parasitic socialite. I’d seen it before, but enjoyed watching it again on Miss Ulansky’s giant screen. This time I watched carefully and noted that in several scenes suave Boston-Brahmin-in-disguise William Powell was shown full length against common objects of a known size. No way that great star was a midget.

  “He may be of average height, possibly less,” conceded Miss Ulansky, “but he wears a toupee. The man is as bald as a monkey’s butt.”

  7:30 P.M. The dingy Dr. Dindy returned right on time this afternoon, but unfortunately Kimberly was here to let him in. Cutting me dead, he changed into one of his innumerable polo shirts and called his wife for some aerobic telephone shouting. I predict their divorce will be ugly in the extreme. Like many men of science, Philip is obsessively rational about all matters except his private life. Only within this sphere can he let down his hair to revel in primitive emotions, unprincipled manipulativeness, and unrestrained vindictiveness.

  Just as he slammed down the phone (I could hear his wife’s violent sobs), Joanie arrived home from her stratospheric hostessing.

  “Philip!” she shrieked.

  “Joanie darling,” he said, smiling lovingly, “I’ve left Caitlin.”

  “Oh, Philip!” she exclaimed, falling into his freckled arms.

  They embraced, kissed, and groped each other. Embarrassed, I pretended to read my book (Superstar Los Angeles on a Depression Budget).

  The groping grew more flagrant. I wondered if silicone was formulated to withstand that sort of handling.

  “Uh, Philip honey,” whispered Joanie, “maybe we should go into the bedroom.”

  Still joined passionately, they moved as one toward the sanctuary of the bedroom.

  Joanie paused. “Philip honey, have you met my brother Nick?”

  “He’s your brother?” asked Philip. “He told me his name was Frank Dillinger.”

  “Nickie Twisp,” called Joanie, drunk with happiness. “Why did you tell Phillie your name was Frankie Dillinger?”

  “I forget,” I replied.

  “Is he staying here long?” demanded the lipstick-smeared swain.

  “Oh, no,” replied Joanie. “He’s going soon!”

  “We must have our privacy,” he insisted.

  “We will, honey,” she said, as they disappeared into the bedroom.

  “Call 911,” suggested François. “Tell them a short rapist with freckles is attacking your sister.”

  I thought about it, then remembered. I can’t call the cops. I’m a fugitive from justice!

  SATURDAY, November 29 — This morning Joanie telephoned out and had bagels and lox delivered (she paid). Everyone gathered around the table for a celebratory feast—the two roommates, both boyfriends, and me. Nearly everyone looked well rested and sexually fulfilled.

  “I never thought you’d leave your wife,” observed Kimberly, biting into her third bagel.

  “I had a little help,” confessed Philip. “I think one of my Pakistani grad students told her about Joan.”

  “I’m glad he did,” declared Joanie happily.

  “Me too,” said Philip, draping a freckled paw over her shoulder. “But it was still none of his business. Next spring the guy comes before me for his orals. I can’t wait. I’m going to tandoori his skinny brown ass.”

  “That doesn’t sound very ethical,” commented François. “To ruin a man professionally because of a personal vendetta.”

  “What’s it to you?” demanded Philip, glaring at me over his lox-laden bagel. “What business is it of yours, kid?”

  “Ethics are everyone’s concern,” replied François with conviction. “Or should be.”

  10:45 A.M. Joanie made us all talk in hushed tones and walk around on tiptoes after Philip retired to the bedroom to work on his “important new book.” Five minutes later, we were startled by a bloodcurdling scream. Moments later, Philip—looking more than usually deranged—burst through the doorway.

  “It’s gone!” he gasped. “My entire manuscript! Three years’ work totally evaporated!”

  That will teach the twit to backup his files. As a scientist, he should know the infallibility of technology is a cruel myth.

  4:30 P.M. Before today’s movie (The Long, Long Trailer, starring Lucille Ball, Desi Arnaz, and Bertha Ulansky as a gregarious trailer court resident), François asked our hostess if she would like to have a live-in caretaker companion.

  “You mean you, Frank?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Well, yes,” I replied. “I could get you videos whenever you want. And I’m a pretty fair cook. You could cancel your Meals on Wheels.”

  “But, Frank,” she replied, blushing under her rouge, “you’re a man.”

  “So?”

  “Well, whatever would people think?” she asked, her penciled eyebrows arching far into her wrinkled forehead.

  “But I’m only 14,” I said. “You’re much, much… more
mature.”

  “Frank, I’m afraid you’ve been watching too many of those filthy new movies,” she said, pressing the play button on her remote. “I do not share the industry’s present obsession with sex. This picture we made at Metro in 1954. I suggest you study it well. You’ll see Lucy and Desi don’t spend a single night together in the trailer until they are married.”

  François had one more ace up his sleeve. “Miss Ulansky,” he suddenly blurted out, “will you marry me?”

  “Why, Frank, this is so unexpected,” she replied, smiling coquettishly as she pressed the pause button. “I shall, of course, have to think about it.”

  “Please do,” he said.

  “This is the sixth proposal of marriage I have received,” she observed pensively. “There were four young men before my husband Tom. I feel you should know that, Frank.”

  “I appreciate your candor, Miss Ulansky.”

  “Not to imply, of course,” she added, “that there was ever any hint of promiscuity on my part. I was quite innocent when I married.”

  “I could never believe otherwise,” François answered. “I feel you should know, Miss Ulansky, that this is my second proposal of marriage.”

  “The first young woman declined?”

  “Yes, she wanted to finish high school.”

  “The course of love is never easy,” Miss Ulansky observed. “Or so 10,000 screenwriters would have us believe.”

  7:35 P.M. When I returned, Kimberly was microwaving dinner for Mario; Joanie and Dr. Dinge were cuddling on the couch with take-out Chinese food.

  “Oh, Nick,” said Kimberly, “before I forget, I’ve got something for you.”

  I prayed it required turning out all the lights and removing her USC sweatshirt. As usual, my prayers went unanswered. Kimberly wiped her hands on a towel, dug into her skintight jeans, and handed me three one-dollar bills.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “It’s a refund,” she explained. “I got a better offer on the couch.”

  “Like what?” I asked, shocked.

  “One hundred dollars!” she beamed. “From Philip. He’s renting it for a month.”

  I turned to face the chinless chow mein-gobbling runt. “What do you want it for?” I demanded.

  “I forget,” he replied, smiling innocently. “But you can camp out on the carpet, Frank. It’s nice and soft.”

  It was all I could do to keep François restrained.

  MONDAY, November 30 — 9:55 A.M. I am now batting zero-for-two in marriage proposals. After a restless night, Miss Ulansky turned me down. She said that try as she might, she could not excuse the fact that I did not have wavy hair.

  “Call me superficial, Frank,” she said. “I don’t know why it is, but I never could warm up to men with straight hair. My husband Tom had the loveliest wavy brown hair. Until he went bald, of course.”

  “I could have my hair curled,” suggested François.

  “Sorry, Frank. It wouldn’t be the same. I’d know, you see.”

  “I understand, Miss Ulansky,” I said. “Well, thanks anyway.”

  “Thank you, Frank,” she replied, patting my hand. “I want you to know I’m extremely flattered that you asked.”

  10:45 A.M. Securing the number from long-distance information, I called Redwood High School in Ukiah and asked to speak with ninth-grader Frank DeFalco.

  “It’s an emergency,” I told the suspicious secretary. “There’s been a plane crash.”

  After several interminable minutes, Fuzzy, sounding scared, came on the line.

  “Nick! What happened? Did Merle’s plane crash?”

  “No. Listen, Frank, the monsoon was bad. Our penthouse was wrecked. Cholera is breaking out all over. I’m thinking of coming back.”

  “You can’t come back, Nick. I just heard the FBI is looking for you now.”

  “Frank, I’m coming back. Can you hide me out in your room over the garage?”

  “I don’t know, Nick. Mom likes to go up there sometimes and scream and beat the mattress with a tennis racket. She says it helps relieve stress.”

  “Do you have any other place you could hide me? Frank, I’m desperate.”

  “Well, there’s Grandmama’s house. No one’s living there. I guess I could sneak the key.”

  “Great! What’s the address? I’ll meet you there tonight around eight.”

  “Can’t, Nick. I’m grounded. But I could drop the key off on my way to school tomorrow. There’s a grape arbor in the back yard you can hide in until I get there. The address is 507 Cripton Street. It’s a little green house with pink shutters.”

  “Thanks, Frank. I really appreciate it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Wait, Nick! Whose plane crashed?”

  “Buddy Holly’s,” I replied sadly. “He’ll never sing another note.”

  2:15 P.M. Riding the bus to Ukiah. Three hours ago I packed my meager thrift-store possessions in a brown paper sack and left this note for my sister:

  Dear Joanie,

  Thank you for your hospitality. I can see it was time for me to leave. I hope in spite of his many faults you are happy with Philip. If you should happen to be in the family way, I hope that turns out OK too. For your sake, I hope the kid doesn’t come out with freckles and a weak chin.

  Do not look for me. I am changing my name and melting into the vast anonymous expanses of America, Europe, and/or Asia. Someday, if you should happen to see my photo in The New York Review of Books, please feel free to look me up. I suggest you write to me at that time in care of my publisher.

  Goodbye for now. Tell Mom not to worry.

  Regards,

  Nick

  P.S. Miss Ulansky requests You Can’t Take It with You. Try to get to the video store before two.

  A gray rain is falling on the desolate cotton fields of the Central Valley. What a blow to my hopes. Frankly, I had expected more from my sojourn to Los Angeles. I imagined glamorous parties beside the pool, stimulating conversations with Nobel Prize for Literature winners in town for a fast buck, exciting evenings with nubile starlets desperate for career advancement. Oh well, at least I shall soon be breathing the same dusty rural air as My Beloved.

  The overpriced bus ticket dealt a crippling blow to my finances. I have $68.12 to my name.

  6:30 P.M. A two-hour layover in downtown Sacramento’s fashionable skid row area. I am gripped by insecurities. Should I turn myself in? No way. Lance would have me sent upriver for a ten-year stretch. Being an uneducated ex-convict virgin at age 25 is not in my plans. Sheeni wouldn’t wait for me either, that I know.

  10:15 P.M. Can’t write much. Too cold. No light. Bus pulled into Ukiah about an hour ago. Fortunately, streets downtown deserted. No one noticed me. Glad I have mustache for disguise. Found Fuzzy’s grandmother’s house. Only two blocks from Sheeni’s! Now in dank grape arbor. Sharing old wooden lounge chair with 89 hairy black spiders. Please, God, don’t let it rain.

  DECEMBER

  TUESDAY, December 1 — 12:45 A.M. God not listening as usual. Icy rain falling. Getting soaked through. No shelter. Teeth chattering. Spirits sinking.

  2:30 A.M. Rain still falling. Fear onset of hypothermia. Will this night of hell never end?

  4:45 A.M. Starting to thaw. Forced to abandon grape arbor. Found laundromat open 24 hours. Deserted except for one scary-looking guy washing oddly spotted blankets. Look suspiciously like bloodstains. Certain there’s a logical explanation. Probably shot a deer and had to bring carcass home in double bed of his Winnebago.

  5:30 A.M. Grizzled, shifty-eyed deer hunter finally left. Removed most of my clothes and put in dryer. Damn! Was that a police car that just cruised by?

  6:45 A.M. Getting light. Still raining. Extremely fatigued. Have to leave. Can’t risk being seen on streets in daylight.

  7:45 A.M. Back in dripping arbor. Just as wet as before. Pray Fuzzy comes soon.

  8:30 A.M. Where is that hairy scumbag?!!!!

  9:10 A.M. Fuzzy finally showed. Opened
back door. Going to bed now.

  7:30 P.M. I awoke at twilight after an intense, leaden, dreamless sleep. I yawned, stretched, and looked around: pink rose wallpaper, flowered drapes, rag rugs, dark ornately carved furniture, framed photos of swarthy people in old-fashioned clothes, large disturbing crucifix over the heavy walnut bed, faded black housedress hanging from a peg on the back of the dark-stained paneled door.