Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp (27 page)

Even the Ringworms have to stop eventually, if only to let their amps cool off, and before we knew it, we were tottering across the parking lot—our stunned senses still jangling—toward Fuzzy’s car and its dormant spliff. Fuzzy lit another kitchen match, I started the engine, and soon I was navigating down dim streets through a cloud of vision-obscuring but sensory-expanding vapors. Fuzzy was charged with directing me to his house, but since he was preoccupied by Lana’s reefer and ruby lips, I drove there unerringly on my own, as Sonya pasted her still-perspiring bulk to my right side and dug familiarly into my pocket to pull out my vibrating phone.

“Hello,” she giggled, “Sonya Klummplatz here! Yeah, lady, the dance is over and, man, was it a blast. We got all hot and
bothered with a bad case of the Ringworms, and now we’re going to Fuzzy’s to have a tiny bite to eat and cool off in his very own heated pool. Hey, Lana, pass me that puff. Oh, and don’t worry, Fuzzy’s parents are down in Millbrae at a conference on concrete. Sounds pretty boring to me. What? Sorry, you can’t talk to Rick, because my guy’s driving the car and I’m driving him to distraction. Maybe you should go to bed now and let us young people get on with it. Hey, Rick, your old lady friend hung up on me. And she didn’t sound that old!”

Not great news, but possibly good for my image. Fortunately, nobody thought to ask how I had found my way to Fuzzy’s imposing concrete mansion on my own. I squealed into the drive and slammed to a stop just inches from a cement retaining wall. We piled out and trooped into the darkened house, where an elaborate cold buffet was laid out in the poolside family room. Fuzzy popped some cold beers and told us to dig in. Needless to say, my date was first in line.

“Hey, Frank,” I called, “what’s that alien spaceship outside in your yard?”

“That’s the bubble my dad has installed every winter over the pool,” replied Fuzzy, handing me a beer. “They’ll take it off next month for the summer. Say, how did you know my name was Frank?”

Bad slip by Rick. I better watch it.

“Oh, I think Sonya mentioned that. Why do they call you Fuzzy?”

“Search me, Rick. I guess it’s a nickname.”

We filled up our plates and toted everything outside to the gleaming silvery bubble. I could hear the hum of a small fan somewhere that kept it inflated. We passed through a zippered airlock and entered the giant cocoon. Wisps of steamy vapor rose from the luminous blue water—as the pool’s underwater spotlamps illuminated the fabric dome with a wavering liquid light.

“Totally cool!” exclaimed Sonya, plopping down at a poured concrete table and motioning for me to take the cement cube beside her.

Fuzzy put down his food, grabbed a rope by the pool edge, and fished out a tethered floating thermometer.

“I had the heater on all day,” he remarked. “Lana likes it like bath water.”

“What’s the temperature, darlin’?” asked Lana.

“96 degrees,” he replied proudly. “A new world’s record.”

Nothing like a little light reefer to make a guy feel peckish. After two return trips to the house for snack refills, I sat back on a concrete chaise longue, belched contentedly, and sucked on my third beer.

“OK, swim time!” bellowed Sonya. “Everybody strip!”

I was the last guy out of his clothes, but then I had seen all the others naked before. Lana didn’t scream when Fuzzy revealed his furry self, which led me to conclude she was no stranger to his intimate parts. A guy can’t help but get a warm feeling knowing he’s helped a pal secure a fulfilling sex life—especially with someone so nicely put together as Lana. My own naked date checked me out when I at last dropped my thrift-shop underpants.

“God, Rick, how do you stay so skinny?” she demanded.

“I burn a lot of calories hanging around gorgeous chicks,” I slurred. The beer was getting to me.

Sonya shoved me playfully into the pool, and I nearly drowned in its soothingly warm water. It was like immersing one’s entire body in a giant wet vagina. Not a bad way to go. Sonya pulled me up from the depths by my hair and kissed me as I coughed pool water into her eager mouth. What was that other odd sensation? Oh, I was being groped. This went on for a long time, then I heard Fuzzy and Lana climb out of the water on the other side of the pool.

“Good night, guys,” called Fuzzy. “You can crash in the guest room if you want.”

“Good night,” I heard Lana say. “See you tomorrow.”

The rest was a little hazy. I remember brisk towel-rubbing of parts public and private, Sonya pushing together some chaise cushions beside the pool, my stating that I had too much respect for her as a person to take advantage of the situation as someone unrolled a condom over my improbable T.E. I remember Sonya muttering something about not intending to remain a virgin forever and my being elected by unanimous consent as the deflowerer designee. Then she told me to lie back and pretend I was Trent Preston, which I remember thinking was a pretty low blow as a hand guided me to where enough of me wanted to go that I was able to function in an acceptable manner to all parties concerned until I heard my little phone ring somewhere in the distance and suffered a major sexual shutdown probably induced by guilt but maybe it was the beer and the reefer and my throbbing head. And then it was over and Sonya said it was a night she knew she would never forget. I may not either, but God knows I intend to try.

We got our clothes back on, I took Sonya home (no good-night kiss), and parked Fuzzy’s car in front of Trent’s house (his Acura was blocking the drive). The keys I dumped in Trent’s mailbox. I got home in the dead-of-the-night, post-motorcycles quiet, and immediately blacked out.

5:50 p.m. No call from Sheeni. I carried my phone around all day too. I suspect she’s mad at me. I’d call her to find out for sure, but I don’t dare risk having her expensive cellular phone ring within earshot of her parents and get confiscated. Fuzzy called sometime after noon and asked if I wanted to come over and help finish up the buffet.

“Is Sonya going to be there?” I asked.

“No, sorry, Rick.”

“Fine. I’ll come over.”

“You got a bathing suit?”

I told Fuzzy I didn’t; he said he’d lend me one of his.

“You got wheels, Rick?”

I said I had a bike and would be there in 15 minutes.

Fuzzy looked surprisingly well rested in red swim trunks probably intended to coordinate with his russet body fur. I changed into some baggy tan swim trunks in my pal’s guest bathroom, then he and I took our beers and plates down to the pool bubble.

“Where’s Lana?” I asked, helping Fuzzy move the cushions back on the concrete chaise longues and taking a seat.

“Her brother picked her up at Sonya’s. The story was she spent the night over there.”

“Good thinking.”

“Sonya’s bragging she nailed you.”

“Man, I wish she’d keep quiet about that.”

“I found a condom by the pool, Rick, but it was empty.”

“That’s not surprising.”

“I don’t think it counts if you didn’t come.”

“God, I wish I could believe that, Fuzzy.”

“I’m Lana’s first real boyfriend, Rick. Sonya got jealous when Lana lost her virginity, so I guess you got drafted to even the score. Chicks are pretty competitive about stuff like that. But I don’t think Sonya likes you that much.”

“That’s a relief,” I said, sipping my beer.

“Sonya’s stuck on this guy Trent Preston, but he’s married. Lana says she walks by his house about five times a day.”

“Really? That’s sick.”

I’ve never walked by Sheeni’s house more than four times in one day.

“What do you think of Lana?” Fuzzy asked.

“She’s very nice, Fuzzy. No offense, but I could stare at your girlfriend’s naked body all day long.”

“I feel the same way. She’s not dumb either. She just talks that
way because she’s from West Virginia. I hear you’re putting the moves on Sheeni Saunders.”

“We pal around together.”

“I better warn you a good friend of mine is totally stuck on that chick.”

“You mean that kid who’s wanted by the cops?” I asked.

“Yeah, Nick Twisp. He looks harmless, but the guy is pretty devious. If he finds out you’re messing with Sheeni, he could make your life miserable in ways you haven’t even dreamed of.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied, flattered. “So what’s the latest on this Twisp guy?”

“Not much, Rick. I got a call from him a few weeks ago, then zip. The cops haven’t found him, I know that. Vijay Joshi thinks he might be dead.”

“Sounds like wishful thinking to me.”

“You kind of look like him, Rick,” commented Fuzzy. “Your body, I mean.”

“I’m sure I’m much more muscular than that wimpy guy.”

“Maybe a little. It’s funny, Nick had this mole on his left nut, and—not that she was checking out your package—but Lana says you got one there too.”

“Oh, moles like that are very common,” I insisted.

“Really? I never seen one besides Nick’s—not that I spend much time gawking in locker rooms. But I am the manager of the football team.”

“Oh, well, dumb jocks rarely have them. Moles on the scrotum are a sign of intelligence. That’s a proven scientific fact, Fuzzy.”

“You can call me Frank if you want. That’s what Nick called me. I kind of miss that guy.”

“He probably misses you too, Frank. Good friends are hard to come by.”

Damn. I wonder how much a doctor would charge to take an acetylene torch to that incriminating blemish?

•    •    •

MONDAY, April 19 — The big story in today’s paper was the $8.8 million wrongful arrest suit filed by indignant lumber executive George W. Twisp. If Dad wins, he’ll have dinged every taxpayer in the county over a hundred bucks. Sure he may bankrupt local government, but what a valuable lesson for those rabid law-enforcement officials.

No sign of My Love in school today. I hope she’s OK. I managed to dodge a certain chatty non-virgin and actually went to all of my classes. Some of my forgetful teachers had to be reminded who I was. In study hall I penned a nasty letter to my sister impugning her integrity and demanding an additional $1,250 in cash. Better late than never, we hit the road again in driver’s ed. Apurva complimented me on dodging another logging truck, then reminded me of this evening’s dinner engagement at her house.

“Would you like to bring your friend Sonya?” she inquired.

“I better not, Apurva. She’s still madly in love with your husband.”

“Oh, he has that effect on everyone, Rick. My boy is remarkably lovable. Even my father is starting to like him!”

That’s odd, he never did a thing for me.

9:45 p.m. Wonderful aromas were wafting from Carlotta’s kitchen when I arrived promptly at six to be greeted by a hug from Apurva and hostile growls from Albert and Jean-Paul. I bet it would surprise Fuzzy’s late grandmother to know that her old yellow stove was now being used for the preparation of Red Lentils and Rice Khichadi. Many changes had been made in our former home. Furniture was rearranged, new pictures brightened the walls, an ornately patterned Indian cloth had been draped over my expensive sofa, Trent’s sports gear was much in evidence, and Granny DeFalco’s unsettling crucifix had disappeared from the bedroom wall. Her sanitized quilt remained on the double
bed, which lately had witnessed so much after so many decades of so little.

I was helping Apurva grate cucumbers for the raita when Trent came in the back door from his after-school job. We shook hands, as this was his first formal meeting with my latest personality. The guy sure radiates a healthy glow. He must be in the 99th percentile of poets now for muscles. Maybe Rick S. Hunter should get a part-time job heaving around 80-pound bags of concrete-mix on sunny loading docks. Nah, I have enough trouble just doing Dogo’s laborious exercises.

Dinner was delicious, not too spicy, and completely vegetarian. Apurva has decided that although she is married to an American, she can at least be true to her roots by eschewing meat. I’m sure it would discourage America’s cattle ranchers to know that such ostentatious virility as Trent’s could be sustained on a diet of lentils and sprouted mung beans.

As we sat down to dinner in the dining room, I couldn’t help but feel more than a little envious. Here was Trent Preston, a guy with no marital ambitions, who was now enjoying blissful wedded life and dining on exotic cuisine with Ukiah’s second sexiest teen in a nice comfortable home furnished at my expense. Meanwhile, I, who have forthrightly pursued an honorable marriage with the woman of my dreams, was hiding out from the cops under an assumed name and cooking my own budget glop in a slummy bachelor’s apartment. Now I ask you, is that fair?

“I’ll never understand you Americans,” Apurva commented, passing me the basket of warm, aromatic naan. “I enjoyed the dancing last night, but don’t you think it was cruel to make sport of less fortunate peoples?”

“That wasn’t the idea, darling,” replied Trent. “Miss Najflempt, the world cultures teacher, suggested that theme to the dance committee as a way of helping students realize that not everyone in the world is as fortunate as we are.”

“All those students jeering at the beggars didn’t seem very understanding,” Apurva replied. “And someone deliberately stepped on my brother’s foot.”

“How deplorable,” I said. “I saw Vijay limping today. He must be excited about becoming an uncle.”

Apurva blushed. Perhaps that wasn’t considered by Indians a proper subject for polite dinner conversation.

“We’re all very excited,” smiled Trent. “Of course, it was a great shock to discover I’m going to have a son.”

“Not to mention a daughter,” added Apurva.

“Oh, are you expecting twins?” I asked.

Faux pas by Rick. That comment by Apurva was a surprisingly sarcastic allusion to her husband’s other acknowledged paternity. I was rescued by a vibration in my pants.

“Mind if I take this call?” I asked. “It might be important.”

“Not at all,” replied Trent, stifling a blush and not looking at his wife.

“Hello?” I ventured.

“Rick, you must really despise me!” declared My Love. “First you have sex with Sonya. And now you’re having dinner with Apurva!”