Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp (31 page)

I’ve never been to Crescent City, but I know it’s the last town on the north coast before the Oregon border, and the weather is supposed to be the pits. A nice summer day there is 55 degrees with a blowing fog. I seem to recall that most of its downtown got wiped out in a big tidal wave from an earthquake in Alaska back in the sixties. I hope My Love is safely away from the shore. They have a prison there at Pelican Bay where the nastiest dudes in the state system chill out. I may know it intimately someday, though I hope not within the next week or so.

I hope Trent takes my advice and lies through his teeth about last night to Apurva. What a wife doesn’t know can’t hurt her—or her husband. An obvious truism, yet damning confessions dribble out of guys all the time. And if anyone is prone to leak like a sieve, it’s Trent. You’d think this trait would have been bred out of humans by the failure of honest guys to achieve reproductive success. After all it’s a known fact that women are most attracted to rogues and rascals.

6:42 p.m. Crescent City was not living up to its reputation
for bad weather when I arrived. It was sunny and fairly pleasant. Even the frigid Pacific was doing its best to appear a beneficent blue. From what I can see, the town’s main activities are lumbering, fishing, clipping tourists, and incarcerating the dregs of California’s criminal class. Lots of motels clustered around the forlorn post–tidal wave, low-budget downtown. On the recommendation of the bus-depot clerk, I got a room at the Fog Horn Motel. Pretty clean and only 28 bucks a night. The first thing I did was use up $27.50 worth of hot water taking the world’s longest shower. Then I checked the town’s comic-book-sized phone book for “Ingenious Home.” No such listing. Damn! It’s occurred to me that New Orleans, Louisiana, is also known as “The Crescent City.” But would the Saunders send their only daughter to a prison camp halfway across the country?

10:20 p.m. On my way out to dinner at a nearby Chinese restaurant, I stopped in at the motel office and asked the sari-clad Indian woman behind the counter if she knew of any local homes for unwed mothers. This question didn’t seem to phase her.

“You would be wanting the Eugenia Home,” she replied. “That is the big green house over on Walrus Street. It has quite a tall fence around it.”

“Ah yes, the Eugenia Home,” I said, greatly relieved. “And which way’s Walrus Street?”

“It is three or four blocks north of here, but you can’t go to the home after dark.”

“Why not?”

“At night they have a pack of vicious attack dogs roaming wild over the grounds.”

“Oh, I see. Well, thanks for the information.”

Ten minutes later I was ambling past the Eugenia Home. I had to cross over to the other side of the street to quiet the half-dozen assorted slobbering German Shepherds and Rottweilers lunging at me through the eight-foot-tall chain link fence. Set on at least
an acre of mangy grass, the sprawling old house once must have been some rich pioneer’s imposing mansion. It had been stripped of its Victorian finery, re-windowed with cheap aluminum sliders, and slathered in dingy green stucco. A stark two-story dormitorylike structure had been grafted onto the back with a notable lack of architectural finesse. There were lights in some windows, but all the blinds were pulled down tight.

What heartless sadism, to cage my sensitive darling in such a grim and forbidding place. Now I wish François had done a little more damage to Sheeni’s father—at least blown off an arm or two. He deserves it!

SUNDAY, May 2 — A quiet day in a quiet town. Even the seagulls were looking subdued and contemplative. I walked past Sheeni’s prison before breakfast, but saw few signs of life. In the early morning sunshine Eugenia Home appeared, you’ll pardon the expression, fairly impregnable. All the gates were chained and padlocked. A businesslike strand of razor wire looped along the top of the encircling rusty fence. No guard towers, but it wouldn’t surprise me if the jailers inside had a shotgun or two at the ready. Perhaps I’ll have to purchase a used armored truck and storm that fence at breakneck speed.

After breakfast at a downtown greasy spoon, I went back to my motel and called the Eugenia Home. Eugenia Fairchild herself answered the phone. I told her I was a concerned father looking for a facility for my sixteen-year-old daughter Deirdre, who unfortunately was in “the family way.”

Eugenia was brisk and all business. “We do have a vacancy at the moment, sir. Our rates are $1,800 per month, payable in advance on the first of each month. That covers everything except clothing, personal items, phone calls, and medical fees. I’m a trained midwife, but most families choose to use our local hospital. They have an excellent obstetrics department.”

I said that sounded fine, but confessed that my “rambunctious” Deirdre might be reluctant to stay there.

“We can handle her,” Eugenia replied. “In our 23 years we’ve only had two attempted escapes, and both girls were picked up by the sheriff within an hour. There’s just the two highway routes in and out of town, you know.”

“That’s comforting,” I lied. “And when do you permit your charges to leave the grounds?”

“We don’t, except for medical checkups. And we accompany them on those.”

“They don’t even leave to go to church?” I asked.

“No need to. My husband Waldo is an ordained minister. He’s conducting Sunday services right now. They’re compulsory, of course. And we give our girls two hours of nonsectarian religious instruction every day. We like to say we’re strict but loving.”

“I see. If I were to phone ahead and request that my daughter be permitted to meet me downtown, would that be allowed?”

“No, sir. We’d ask you to pick her up here in person. You have to understand we sometimes get boyfriends trying to pull stunts like that.”

“Really? And are you armed for such occurrences?”

“My Waldo’s a Vietnam veteran and a crack shot. But don’t worry, we keep all our handguns and rifles locked up. We’re very security-minded.”

“Yes,” I sighed, “I can see that.”

3:20 p.m. A depressing afternoon in a depressing town. I strolled by Eugenia Home again after lunch, though I realize I can’t continue doing this without raising suspicion. Crescent City is not a town of pedestrians. On its deserted residential streets I stand out like a sore thumb. I did spot some obviously pregnant girls sneaking smokes behind the ramshackle carriage house (now used as a kennel and garage), but my tobacco-eschewing love was
not among them. François wanted to call them over to the fence, but I decided they were too far away.

I’m beginning to realize I have very little aptitude for prison breaks. Tunneling under the fence doesn’t seem very practical. Swooping down from the sky has a certain brash appeal, but how do you go about obtaining a helicopter and a sufficiently impetuous pilot? I thought of renting a policeman’s uniform and trying to arrest My Love—perhaps on a morals charge—but decided Eugenia probably is acquainted with all the local law. Besides I doubt if I look old enough to be in possession of a badge.

9:47 p.m. I have a plan. It may not be a great plan, but at least it’s a plan. I cooked it up in consultation with Connie, who I called in desperation on my cellular phone. She was up on the subject because she has spent a lot of idle time lately daydreaming about springing the other Saunders sibling from his prison. I have many things to do tomorrow, the most pressing of which is to buy a car. I’m getting my first set of real wheels! A momentous step in any man’s life, especially as I have to obtain a vehicle with sufficient horsepower to elude the police.

MONDAY, May 3 — God has switched off the tourist-friendly weather. Crescent City was revealing its cold and misty true grim self. It was the kind of weather that makes you want to retreat to your rundown trailer and gulp a few methamphetamines. No doubt some locals were doing exactly that as I bustled around town after breakfast. I got most of what I needed before noon, except for my wheels.

I couldn’t shop at the local used car lots because dealer sales get you involved with the Department of Motor Vehicles (where my mother used to spin red tape before her indictment for attempted homicide). But buying a car from a private party, especially in a rural area, is a challenge if you lack transportation. You almost need to own a vehicle in order to shop for one.

I phoned up about two cars advertised in the paper, but both sellers were located way out in the boonies and neither was willing to drive into town—even when I said I had the cash and was eager to buy. Either they’d already been burned by that ploy or they knew their budget-priced vehicles wouldn’t make it that far. All the other advertised cars were either wimpy subcompacts or out of my price range. I hope I don’t have to unleash François to steal a car.

2:15 p.m. I saw My Love! Or at least I think I did. As I strolled past Eugenia Home on the one daylight perambulation I permit myself, I spotted some inmates hoeing a patch of bare earth near the carriage house. I was pretty far away, but one girl resembled Sheeni—though it’s hard to believe my fashion-conscious darling would tie up her hair in a bandana like that, or be seen in public in such a dowdy dress. I considered heaving a mash note over the fence, but decided I couldn’t risk it falling into the wrong hands.

8:45 p.m. I was washing my underwear and newly purchased wardrobe in a laundromat when I spotted this handwritten notice on the bulletin board: “Body man’s dream! 1983 Ford Escort. Big V-8 motor, Hurst shifter. Rad stereo. Won’t smog. $800 obo. Call Cass.”

Cass turned out to be a lanky guy a few years older than me with long stringy hair, bad skin, and worse teeth. He boom-boomed into the laundromat parking lot ten minutes after I phoned him—the thumping bass of the “rad stereo” heralding his arrival from several blocks away.

“Cool stereo, huh?” he said, easing himself out of what had once been an orange-colored Escort, now rapidly fizzing away from the corrosive sea air. It looked more like a body man’s nightmare. The worst cancerous patches had been bandaged over with duct tape and then spray-painted with gray primer.

“What’s that giant lump in the hood?” I shouted.

Cass thankfully killed the noise. “That’s your air scoop for the motor,” he replied, proudly raising the hood. “My cousin dropped it in. It’s a big-block 390.”

“390, huh?” I said, trying to sound knowledgeable. “Is that the compression ratio?”

I could tell this question had cost me some status with Cass.

“390 is the cubic inches,” he grunted. “It’s got a hot cam too.”

“Good. I was hoping for a hot cam,” I said, inspecting the muscular engine. I didn’t know much about cars, but even I could tell something was missing. One could gaze right down into the bore of the carburetor. “Uh, Cass, shouldn’t there be an air cleaner?”

“Don’t need one with a motor this big. The crap just blows right on through. It runs like a top, Rick. I’m only sellin’ it ’cause I want to get a dirt bike.”

Agreeing to a test drive, Cass drove down the highway like a lunatic to demonstrate his car’s performance features. That ratty little Escort could fly all right, but I was leery of its non-automatic transmission. I confessed that I had never driven a stick shift.

“No problem,” Cass assured me. “Your motor’s got so much torque, you could start out in fourth if you want. Plus, you got your genuine Hurst shifter. Four on the floor, man! The babes go for that.”

Cass could tell I was ready to buy, though he was severely offended when I offered only $400.

“Man, Rick, the stereo alone’s worth more than that!”

“I suppose,” I conceded, “but I’m not that interested in damaging my hearing. The interior’s a wreck, the tires are balding, and, as you admit, it won’t pass a smog test. How about $450?”

We settled on $550, I counted out the cash, and Cass handed me the greasy keys.

“Do you have the pink slip?” I asked.

“Not really, man. You want one, huh?”

“Oh, I suppose not.”

Cass gave me a quick lesson in shifting, then showed me how to spray starter fluid down the naked carburetor to assist with engine starting on “damp mornings.” As a goodwill gesture, he tossed in the three cans of fluid rattling around on the floor behind the front seats.

“You want the tape too?” he asked, pointing a grimy finger at the stereo. “It’s the Young Dickheads.”

“OK,” I replied. “I’m supposed to like them.”

We shook hands, Cass loped off into the mists, I piled in my clean laundry, and drove back to my motel in my new car. I only stalled three times trying to start out in diverse mystery gears. And you really do need to remember to push in the clutch if the aging brakes are to have any hope of halting your rapid progress toward the wall of your motel. But what a feeling of raw power. I’ve got wheels!

TUESDAY, May 4 — I spent the morning becoming acclimated to my new car. I pulled out the dipstick and discovered my engine was full of a brown foamy goo. Oh well, it ran “like a top” once three blasts of the ether-like fluid got it started. And the battery at least looks fairly new. I drove around town and practiced my shifting. Not too hard, but I can’t imagine why anyone would want to bother. This is not the era of the Model T, after all. Face it, guys, the automatic transmission is here to stay.

I found a pair of woman’s panties in the damp, moldy trunk (in lieu of a spare tire), and a long machete-like knife stuck under the front seat. Cass must have kept it in reserve for road-rage confrontations and to defend his right to subject large areas of the countryside to his musical tastes. Nothing in the glove box except a few empty food-stamp booklets and some soiled tampons (unused). The radio doesn’t work (Cass neglected to mention that),
so I’m limited to the Young Dickheads. Perhaps I can employ them to keep the police at bay should I find myself surrounded.

Fuel-efficient my big engine is not. I drove 38 miles and burned through more than a quarter-tank of expensive premium gas. Every time I accelerated I could sense a Saudi Arabian somewhere was smiling. I topped off the tank after lunch and drove slowly back to my motel to get ready. Operation Baby Bust Out begins tonight.

I pushed the intercom button on the front gate of the Eugenia Home at 7:45 p.m.—about 15 minutes before the dogs customarily were released. Clutching a small overnight bag, I was outfitted in teen polyester fashions gleaned from the ladies’ departments of several Crescent City thrift shops, augmented with the necessary brown bouffant wig, budget cosmetics, flashy dime-store earrings, and excessively feminine glasses. Carlotta, or at least her ghost, had returned.