Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  THURSDAY, December 17 — I seem to have lost a day of my life. All I have to show for yesterday is a wretched hangover, strange gaps in my memory, and some cryptic entries in my journal. At least my ear crisis seems to have passed. The swelling is starting to go down, and the angry pit bulls have given way to petulant chihuahuas.

  Carlotta had a trying day at school. If she ever learns how to write, Tina Manion will have a great future ahead of her in tabloid journalism. Her error-riddled article, made even more inflammatory by titillative censorship, could not have been more recklessly sensationalist. It postulated that Carlotta was the offspring of a famous celebrity, then teasingly, maddeningly withheld the name. When pressed, when pestered, when harangued by curious classmates, Carlotta could only smile wanly and deny any knowledge of the affair. She did characterize as false the reported claims that her mother had won an Academy Award and had spurned an offer of marriage from James Dean, breaking his heart with tragic consequences.

  “It’s all a mistake,” became modest Carlotta’s standard reply to queries. “I think they must have me confused with someone else. No, I have no intention of going into films myself. Yes, the Mussolini Revival is all the rage in Hollywood now. Why else do you suppose I dress like this?”

  6:35 P.M. Carlotta has eaten my lonely dinner and is awaiting the arrival of Fuzzy and Heather. My lipstick is freshened, my wig is combed, and my bust is situated precisely where nature might have placed it. I have been instructed by my friend to say a few words of greeting, then immediately excuse myself for several hours. Fortunately, the library is open late tonight. Otherwise, I’d have to freeze to death outside while Fuzzy undertakes his grueling ascent of the Orgasm Pass.

  7:20 P.M. A slow night at the library. Literature, I fear, is on the wane. Perhaps I should reconsider my vocational aspirations. If I abandon writing, what can I do instead? Being a psychologist has a certain appeal. You get paid extravagantly well to sit around and listen to the most intimate dirt. The hours are good and you can ask attractive women, in your soberest professional manner, what really turns them on. I’m told you also get an invaluable perspective on your own neuroses.

  Heather looked rosily robust from her walk through the night air from the bus station. I had forgotten she was so athletically statuesque. I wonder if she often wears sweaters that tight? When she removed her coat, one could almost sense a sudden tension grip the room. I knew then one of us would have to leave. Too bad it turned out to be Carlotta.

  10:05 P.M. Fuzzy just said his farewells to Heather and departed, reluctantly, for home. He will have to hurry if he is to avoid parental censure. He looked fatigued but fulfilled, which, from the condition of my bedroom and his guest, I believe him to be. Heather is now taking a bath in the bathroom with the door ajar. This could be a strenuous weekend for us all.

  11:10 P.M. Five minutes until lights out. I am in my disheveled room; Heather is bedded down, in a state of advanced nudity, on the sofa in the living room. We had a nice chat earlier when she emerged—pink, steaming, and naked—from the bath.

  “Oh, hello,” said Carlotta, her glasses suddenly fogging. “Would, would you like a robe?”

  “That’s OK,” replied Heather, bending over to rifle her bag beside the sofa. “You keep it nice and toasty in here.” She brought out a brush and began to comb the long wet tresses that fell in brown cascades over her gleaming chest.

  “I do like a warm house,” observed Carlotta, hastily wiping her glasses. “Did, did you have a nice bath?”

  “Scrumptious, Carlotta. I’m so relaxed. I’ll sleep like a baby tonight.”

  Well, that makes one of us, I mumbled under my breath.

  “What did you say, Carlotta?”

  “Oh, nothing, Heather. I was just thinking about the stock market. How, how do you stay in such marvelous shape?”

  “B-ball,” she replied. “I scored 32 points against Holy Name Academy last weekend. We murdered those wienies. Do you play, Carlotta?”

  “Uh, no. Not much. Sports are not my thing.”

  “Too bad,” she replied. “You really ought to give it a try, Carlotta. Fuzzy and I are totally committed to athletics. That’s why I love the furry critter. Course, I’m a little top-heavy for basketball, but he gets a kick out of it.”

  Yes, I could see where he might.

  “So you’re Fuzzy’s cousin,” she continued. “Funny, you don’t look anything like him. You don’t even look Italian.”

  “I’m from the Rumanian side of the family,” I explained. “We’re more intellectual and less hairy.”

  “Bet you’re glad of that, Carlotta. Fuzzy’s the hairiest guy I ever met. I’m ticklish too, so we have to be careful when we get it on.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “If we get too close, I start laughing hysterically.”

  “How do you manage, Heather?”

  “Oh, we do somehow. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  Carlotta smiled, but could put no faith in the veracity of that aphorism. I often have the will, yet find the way impeded at every turn. At the moment, I am in the grip of a particularly powerful will, but must lie here in my lonely room and stifle it.

  In case of emergency visitations from my guest, Carlotta has retired to bed in her wig, glasses, makeup, nightgown, and brassiere. When you’re not used to it, sleeping in a brassiere seems extremely strange. I am trying to keep the lid closed on that can of worms. If I permitted myself to dwell on it, many aspects of my present life might begin to seem peculiar.

  FRIDAY, December 18 — The day of the big dance. The last day of school before Christmas vacation. The first day of the rest of my life. And if memory serves me correct, Dad’s 45th birthday. I think I may have a plan for celebrating that grim milestone of middle age.

  My houseguest continues to be comfortable in her body. While Carlotta munched her toast and looked on enviously, Heather cleared a space in the living room and performed 15 minutes of vigorous nude aerobics—elevating her pulse rate and nearly quadrupling mine. The leg extensions, I observed, were particularly invigorating.

  “Come on, Carlotta,” invited Heather, not pausing. “Join in.”

  “Sorry, I can’t,” I replied, thankful again for the fullness of my skirt. “I don’t want to be late for school. What will you do today, Heather?”

  “Fuzzy’s cutting school,” she replied, touching her toes. “He’s coming over.”

  “I’ll bet he is,” muttered Carlotta ruefully.

  “Look, Carlotta. I can touch the floor with the palms of my hands.”

  Carlotta looked. It was a remarkable sight.

  In the alley, Bruno blocked Carlotta’s way and demanded a kiss.

  “Sorry, Bruno. I just came from my doctor.”

  “What’s the trouble, Carly? Knocked up?”

  “They think it might be leprosy. I have to start radiation treatments tomorrow.”

  Bruno took two anxious steps backward.

  “Too bad, Carly. Hey, who’s that chick staying with you?”

  “God, Bruno! Can’t a girl have any privacy at all?”

  “She’s cute. Who is she?”

  “If you must know, she’s my married sister from Boise.”

  “Does she have a date for the dance?”

  “Bruno, I told you she was married.”

  “That’s fine with me. I ain’t lookin’ for a steady thing.”

  “Forget it, Bruno,” said Carlotta, hurrying on. “Murder Stinky and go back to Candy. I still think that’s your only viable option.”

  Bruno struggled to think. “Yeah, Carly. You might be right.”

  The Mussolini Revival is starting to catch on. I noticed two more Carlotta clones in the corridors today. Such is the awesome power of the media to mold public tastes.

  JANUARY

  FRIDAY, January 1 — Nineteen times, diary. Twice last night, as the sounds of celebratory gunshots reverberated across the valley, and once this morning in a more muted bu
t no less explosive salvo. What a way to begin the year. It’s enough to take a guy’s mind off his winsome new computer.

  Feeling a bit peckish after our horizontal workout, Carlotta dialed Dad’s number.

  “Mr. Twisp’s … residence,” drawled a familiar voice.

  “Mrs. Crampton?”

  “No… this is… Mrs. Ferguson.”

  “Oh, right, you’re married now—to that inspiring labor leader. Mrs. Ferguson, this is Carlotta Ulansky. I’d like to hire you.”

  “That’s nice… When?”

  “Immediately. Mrs. Ferguson, can you bring over breakfast for two?”

  “Sure… thing… Bacon and eggs… and home fries…and biscuits… and homemade currant jam … be OK?”

  “Fine.”

  “OK, Miz Ulansky…be right…over.”

  10:30 A.M. Fully satiated, My Love has gone home, but promises to return this afternoon with “a nice surprise.” My maid is doing the breakfast dishes; Carlotta is in her room resting up from a monumental caloric assault. By the way, how does one conceal one’s used prophylactics from one’s servants? I wonder if they have advice lines anywhere to assist the nouveau rich with acclimation queries like this?

  11:45 A.M. While Mrs. Ferguson washed down the living-room wallpaper, Carlotta called Joanie to wish her, Dr. Dingy, and all potential third parties a happy new year.

  “Thanks, Nick,” she said. “How come your voice sounds so funny?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You sound just like a girl.”

  “Oh, that’s my new voice-disguising phone,” I lied. “What’s new?”

  “Nick, something terrible has happened to Mom’s creepy husband. Lance wrote a ridiculous letter to some newspapers and now he’s getting death threats. He had to go into hiding!”

  “How unfortunate, Joanie. What does Mom say?”

  “You know Mom, she’s hysterical. Lance blames her. He claims it was really Mom’s old boyfriend Wally Rumpkin who wrote the letter.”

  “That cowardly blackguard. What a calumny!”

  “Yeah, and there’s something worse too, Nick. Lance isn’t being nice to little Noel. He says Noel is the ugliest baby he’s ever seen.”

  “What slander! Of our own blood relative too. Have you seen the kid, Joanie?”

  “Not in person, no. Mother sent me a photograph.”

  “How does he look?”

  “Nick, all newborns are a little…well, unformed—especially premies like Noel. He’s just a tiny baby. Besides, the photo was blurry.”

  I knew it, my half brother is an atrocity of nature. I hope he doesn’t grow up to embarrass me when I’m famous. Or worse, expect me to support him just because he’s shunned by all normal people.

  1:30 P.M. Sheeni dropped by with her “nice” surprise: a small ugly black dog, his food bowl, rubber chew bone, grooming brush, flea salve, and pee-stained bed. Loathsome Albert is back. Not even François was pleased by his return.

  “But, Sheeni,” Carlotta protested, “why can’t he go on living at Trent’s house with his good buddy Jean-Paul?”

  “Carlotta, you surprise me,” she exclaimed. “This is our own precious love child! I should have thought you’d want him with you always. Besides, I know for a fact darling Albert chafes in the presence of that other uncouth canine. I couldn’t possibly let him remain in that stressful environment another minute.”

  “Hi, Albert,” said Carlotta grudgingly. “Remember me?”

  The vile animal growled and nipped at my ankle, ripping an unsightly run in my expensive new panty hose. The beast will pay for that transgression.

  3:15 P.M. Carlotta generously gave her maid the rest of the holiday off, then accompanied Sheeni and love child on a walking tour of the deserted town. Everyone was inside watching football and gorging on fatty snacks to distract themselves from the imminent resumption of dreaded school or despised work.

  As we sauntered along, Carlotta longed to take Sheeni’s hand, but resisted the impulse. Ukiah, I knew, was not yet ready for open displays of lesbian regard.

  “Carlotta,” remarked Sheeni, “I’ve been going over the books. The figures are most promising. You will soon be a millionaire.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

  “I’m grateful for the fortune, Sheeni. It’s just, just…”

  “Just what?”

  “Sheeni, do you realize I may have to live out the balance of my teen years as a woman? Do you comprehend what that entails?”

  “Certainly, Nick. After all, it is a fate we share.”

  “Yes, but it’s easier for you. You are emotionally and physically equipped for the role. I find it a daunting burden.”

  “We all have to accept some measure of compromise in our lives, Carlotta,” she replied. “Try to show a little more pragmatism. Look what I’ve had to settle for.”

  “What do you mean, Sheeni?”

  “Life in dreary Ukiah. And a computer-obsessed boyfriend who snores, eschews veracity, and wears a padded bra under his unfashionable dress.”

  As usual My One and Only Love is right. I must take a cue from Bing and count my blessings. I’m rich, intelligent, healthy, virile, not violently ugly, and enjoy the relatively unequivocal affections of one of the Outstanding Teens of this or any other epoch. I must be thankful for my good fortune. On the whole I am splendidly equipped for this great adventure we call human existence.

  4:25 P.M. Thanks an existential pantsful, Bing. I returned home to find this message on my answering machine: “Carlotta, this is Miss Pomdreck. There’s a serious problem with your medical excuse. Miss Arbulash wishes to see you in the girls’ locker room first thing Monday morning. Don’t be late! And where is your transcript?”

  “Damn,” I sighed.

  Albert growled and hopped up on the sofa.

  “Wipe that smirk off your face,” I told him.

  He curled his upper lip and looked at me with contempt.

  “I’ll bet Miss Arbulash could use a generous sponsor to assist with her Miss Universe contest expenses,” I remarked. “And as for you, Albert, I think I’ll purchase a large, purebred Doberman to keep you company.”

  Albert uncurled his lip and, groveling abjectly, attempted to lick my hand.

  Great Wealth: it does come in handy at times.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  C. D. Payne is an American writer of absurdist fiction and is also the author of the novels Revolting Youth, Civic Beauties, Cut to the Twisp, Frisco Pigeon Mambo, Young and Revolting, and Revoltingly Young, all of which he has successfully self-published. He lives in Sonoma County.

  For your continued reading pleasure, here is the first chapter of C. D. Payne’s Revolting Youth (available 3/17/2009 from Broadway Books), the hilarious sequel to Youth in Revolt in which we reunite with Nick Twisp as he accidentally ignites criminal mayhem, seeks union with his love, Sheeni Saunders, and still has to live as a girl to avoid the police.

  FEBRUARY

  SATURDAY, February 20—No, I haven’t abandoned my impulse toward labored introspection. I’ve simply been too busy coping with the distractions of sudden wealth to write in my journal. It’s fortunate for New England asceticism that Henry Thoreau didn’t win big in the stock market while camping out at Walden Pond.