Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp

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.

Like me, Hank would probably be making countless expeditions with his future Trophy Wife (Sheeni Saunders) to the big city (Santa Rosa, California) in search of luxurious household furnishings for his rented bachelor digs. Carlotta Ulansky (my 14-year-old feminine alter ego) is inclined toward the comfortably overstuffed, but Sheeni insists on the rigorously tasteful. She has replaced Granny DeFalco’s spine-crunching old couch with a sinuous sofa of hand-woven wool (color: eviscerated celadon) fashioned by brooding, socially conscious Finns. Upon this taut perch this afternoon we successfully performed our 31st act of sexual union. Now a casually tossed mauve linen pillow conceals a small, telltale moist spot.

For the sake of statistical texture in my future autobiography—tentatively titled Nick Dillinger Unmasked—I’ve decided to keep a running total of my sexual experiences (excepting only solo acts,
already too numerous to count). This should prove invaluable to future sociologists studying the amorous habits of oversexed, alcoholic fiction writers. Perhaps I’ll keep track of my beverage consumption as well, though I fear the inexorable binges of middle age may muddle the count. So far at any rate my lifetime cocktail total is up to four.

Back to sex. I’ve found that one of the nicest aspects of sexual intercourse is that delicious moment when one is maneuvering one’s clammy nakedness atop one’s submissive love—heart fluttering, senses tingling, be-condomed T.E. (Thunderous Erection) honing in on its target like a laser-guided smart bomb. I asked Sheeni if girls enjoyed that moment of exquisite anticipation as well.

“I hardly think so, Nickie,” she replied. “We’re usually paralyzed with fear that the dolt is going to stuff it up our bladder or something.”

All in all I’m glad I was born a male, even if lately I do spend a good part of my time dressed as an elderly Italian widow. Yes, homely Carlotta continues her role as a one-girl fashion harbinger of the long-delayed “Mussolini Revival.”

Ten minutes later. My journalistic ruminations were interrupted by the sounds of ear-piercing howling. Carlotta rose from her lacquered teak computer desk and strolled into the living room where her obese maid, Mrs. Flora Ferguson (née Crampton), was beating Sheeni’s ugly black dog Albert with the New York Review of Books.

“What’s the trouble, Mrs. Ferguson?” inquired Carlotta.

Breathing even heavier than usual, my maid paused to compose her reply, causing me to wonder—as I often do—if paying her by the word would speed up her speech. “Sorry, Miz Carlotta … I didn’t mean … to interrupt your writin’… I think this damn dog … done piddled on your … brand new davenport!”

Feigning alarm, I studied the familiar stain in question.
“Damn!” exclaimed Carlotta. “This sofa cost over $3,500. It was custom ordered from Helsinki.”

“That so?” remarked Mrs. Ferguson, impressed. “And it don’t … even recline!”

Albert looked up at me imploringly as I replaced the linen pillow.

“That dog has got to learn,” said Carlotta sternly. “Mrs. Ferguson, you may resume your administration of discipline.”

Sighing heavily, she followed my orders. Albert took it like a man. As chief bill-payer in the household (and presumed leader of the pack), I am trying to establish my unchallenged dominance over the rebarbative beast. No one likes to be number two (just ask Sheeni’s wanna-be boyfriend Vijay Joshi), but hierarchies must be imposed. They are civilization’s only defense against chaos.

SUNDAY, February 21 — The day dawned surprisingly spring-like, which Sheeni interpreted as a sign from God to skip church. We rendezvoused at the downtown Ukiah donut shop for a leisurely perusal of the New York Times and furtive, under-the-table grope. Carlotta hoped this would lead to a quick return home for my 32nd you-know-what, but Sheeni suggested instead a joint expedition on our matching new 21-speed Italian mountain bikes. At a nearby deli staffed by swarthy Middle Eastern men in bloody aprons, we purchased two curried eggplant sandwiches (My Love is experimenting with vegetarianism). She deposited this aromatic package in the streamlined, graphite-reinforced basket mounted on her handlebars. In my basket she placed a small but surprisingly weighty (and noticeably more aromatic) black dog.

“Darling,” I pointed out, “it appears your dog Albert would prefer to ride with you. As you can see, he’s growling at me.”

“He’s only clearing his throat, Carlotta. I fear he may have a touch of the ague. An outing in the fresh air cannot help but
prove restorative. And sweet Albert belongs to both of us. He loves you very much.”

“And do you love me very much?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“On a morning this glorious, I love nearly everyone,” she replied, swinging a lovely leg over her saddle and powering off in a demandingly high gear. Sighing, Carlotta adjusted her brassiere (containing two jumbo-sized foam shoulder pads, a $20 bill, and a condom) and puffed after her. Albert hunkered down in his basket and glared at me.

We had gone barely two blocks when vile Vijay Joshi emerged from a side street on his modest red mountain bike—once the object of considerable Twispian envy, believe it or not. The morning sun glinted crudely off his plated Taiwanese chrome as Vijay pedaled toward us. He glanced with calculated indifference at my satiny Milanese metalwork and peered longingly down the fluttering neckline of Sheeni’s official Wart Watch T-shirt. I felt the need to distract him from this latter activity by crashing into his rear wheel.

“Carlotta! Look where you are going!” he shouted, swerving toward a municipal oak tree and unfortunately just missing it.

“I believe I have the right of way,” she replied. “Heavens, you nearly injured darling Albert.”

“Do be careful, Vijay,” called Sheeni, circling back.

“In this country one keeps to the right-hand side of the road,” Carlotta pointed out.

“A dictum you might well observe yourself!” he replied.

If looks could kill, the roadside would be littered with two fresh corpses.

“May I inquire, Sheeni, if you and your reckless chum are cycling to any particular destination?” Vijay asked.

“We have aspirations of reaching Lake Mendocino, Vijay. Would you care to join us?”

“Yes, indeed,” he replied eagerly. “I understand that lake is one of the scenic delights of your county.”

The nerve of that creep. Imagine inviting oneself along on a private bicycle excursion. So much for my eagerly anticipated afternoon interlude of bosky lakeside lovemaking. How frustrating. And how unfortunate that one’s desire for sex is inversely proportional to one’s opportunities for love-making. I hope those gigantic logging trucks are running on Sundays. Perhaps we’ll be lucky and encounter one piloted by a reckless, immigrant-loathing skinhead.

2:15 p.m. Picnicking on a grassy ridge overlooking Lake Mendocino. At Sheeni’s suggestion, Vijay is lunching on Carlotta’s curried eggplant sandwich. As My Love reasoned, “There are only two sandwiches, Carlotta had a tremendous breakfast, and Vijay is a lifelong vegetarian.”

“A lifelong grasping reactionary, you mean,” I muttered, suddenly conscious of an urgent rumbling from my empty stomach. I thought back to some of my lapsed Cub Scout foraging skills. Perhaps a grilled salamander would hit the spot.

“Vijay, how is your poor sister?” asked Sheeni, sharing her sandwich with Albert.

“Apurva is quite distraught. The tumult is unceasing. That is why I excused myself from my father’s house today. I have never seen him so angry.”

“It’s unfortunate your neighbors are such gossips,” sighed Sheeni.

Some nosey spy has reported to Mrs. Joshi that a staggeringly handsome youth, oddly blindfolded and gagged, was seen on more than one occasion entering and leaving her daughter’s bedroom window at night. That was when the tandoori hit the fan.

“How has Trent reacted?” I asked, nibbling a stalk of grass like a dustbowl famine victim.

“He’s crushed,” said Sheeni. “His parents are accusing him of breaking his word.”

“But he didn’t,” I insisted. “He neither saw Apurva nor spoke to her.”

“Perhaps not,” agreed Vijay, “but your friend Trent Preston has wantonly violated her chastity. And that is quite a serious matter to my parents.”

“Chastity is such a Eurocentric concept,” commented Sheeni. “I fear, Vijay, that your country, during its prolonged colonial occupation, may have imported too many Victorian novels. And what is your tiresome father going to do?”

The pretentious twit replied in French. I exchanged glances with Albert as our two lunch-mates conversed in the language of Voltaire and Jean-Paul Belmondo. We were both clueless.

“What did you say?” Carlotta demanded.

Sheeni translated. “Vijay says his father is adamant. He’s sending Apurva back to India to live with his brother’s family until a suitable marriage partner can be found.” She sighed. “Bad news, I fear, for my old childhood sweetheart Trent.”

And even worse news for Nick!

“But you needn’t worry, mon cheri,” said Vijay. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That’s what you think, Buster, I thought, contemplating a calamitously uncontrolled descent by my adversary over a 200-foot cliff that I knew we must pass on the route back.

8:35 p.m. Vijay still lives. He refused Carlotta’s invitation to pause and admire the view. The fellow is such a philistine. He probably regards majestic stands of towering redwoods as so much marketable timber. Speaking of fine wood craftsmanship, My Love and I are curled up together in my new Royal Leisure solid walnut bed under Granny DeFalco’s once-musty quilt (since scientifically sanitized). Fortunately, we share a mutual passion for postcoital journal writing. Sheeni, I regret to say, is presently
recording the details of a phone conversation she had late this afternoon with Trent Preston. He is “most upset” that Apurva is being banished to India, but details beyond that Sheeni insists she is not at liberty to divulge. I’d peek at her journal, but she writes in an impenetrable (so far) cipher. I wonder if the library has any books on code-breaking? I’m alarmed that Trent feels the need to call up his former girlfriend for solace. Why isn’t he pouring out his heart to his swim team buddies? Or to Sonya “The Refrigerator” Klummplatz? I know for a fact she’s keenly interested in all aspects of his love life.

“Nickie, I’m ravenous!” Sheeni announced, snapping shut her journal. “Have you anything in the larder for a small supper?”

“You name it,” I replied, powering down my state-of-the-art laptop computer. “We could microwave a great lump of Mrs. Ferguson’s high-caloric meatloaf.”

“That’s what I like about you, Nick,” she said, reaching for my robe. “You may have the best stocked refrigerator of any teen on the planet.”