Revoltingly Young (5 page)

I wandered off in a fog and never did track down the errant couple. When I got back to the Dixie Belle, there they were already married and guzzling their mint juleps. Mr. Dugan, I knew, would dock me the $5, but I didn’t care. I’m more in love than ever. Uma knows who I am and we have already discussed marriage!

MONDAY, July 4 – Independence Day. I wish I were independent of bodily malfunctions, but alas, that is not the case. It’s a mystery where all that liquid came from, since I went to bed terribly parched. I’ve thought of putting a rubber band around my dick, but I’m afraid it will turn black and fall off. What a blow to one’s budding social life that would be.

No reply yet from my brother to my inquisitive e-mail. Those Twisps are such an uncommunicative lot.

Now I wish I’d selected a candy bar yesterday. What if Uma is under the mistaken impression I have a chronic halitosis problem? I must try to get close to her and breathe heavily, but as Toby reminds me, that is precisely the point of the entire teen dating enterprise. Can’t write any more. I am being dragged off to the mountains by Grandma and old Mr. Tuelco. They love to fish. Why they feel the need to take along a hostage, I can’t really say. I could be missing out on some lucrative tips today too–not that I expect Mr. Dugan to call. Grandma informed him yesterday that I was to be paid double-time for all holiday and weekend services. I think she may be tiring of Toby, who’s been a bit surly lately what with his plumbing woes, thumb compulsions, and love-life distractions.

11:12 p.m. I missed out on the big fireworks show. Not to mention the parade and civic barbeque. Uma was probably there the whole time and searching desperately for me. Where was I? Stranded out by some obscure tributary of the Humboldt River in the blazing summer heat. I sprayed “UPT” on a few rocks, then hung out in the shade with my excruciatingly antiquated Gameboy. Some fish were caught and eaten. Pretty good, but nothing you couldn’t find frozen and breaded at your local supermarket. Many beers were consumed, but none by me. Mr. Tuelco overdid it as usual, and Grandma had to drive his truck back. He lives down the road in an even shabbier trailer than ours. He’s married, but his old lady is locked away with a bad case of Alzheimer’s. He pals around sometimes with Grandma, but I don’t think they’re an item. The thought of them together bodily is too repulsive to contemplate. In his day Mr. Tuelco (first name Gus) was a phenomenal breeder; the whole town being lousy with his descendants, including about 27 grandkids in my school. Lots of locals grow up and move away, but for some reason the Tuelcos have never heard of this concept. They just stay put, multiply, and become fry cooks or motel maids.

I have downloaded some new music files for Stoney. Nothing too bizarre, alas, just some fairly funky industrial rock tunes from Taiwan. My best find lately was this MP3 from Ecuador that supposedly had the actual sounds of the bass player being electrocuted by his guitar. Well, somebody was certainly doing some energetic screaming. I’d been playing it constantly, but now Grandma has banned it from the trailer. She prefers country music. I say just because we’re stuck out here in the sticks is no reason to wallow in the lifestyle.

Good night, Uma darling, the fireworks of my life.

TUESDAY, July 5 – No leakage and only moderate T.S. I can postpone suicide for another day. Still no e-mail reply from my famous brother. Probably too busy screwing those topless showgirls. According to Tyler, Nick used to keep some sort of pre-blog daily journal. Perhaps I have inherited a similar Twispian impulse toward compulsive navel-gazing. Too bad my life, such as it is, is so excruciatingly dull and boring.

7:12 p.m. A very strange day. Guess who waltzed into the Dixie Belle this morning? My mother! I recognized her right away even though she had aged quite a bit. She was with this very tall guy with a pink baby face and graying crew cut. So she spots me and bursts out crying. Very embarrassing as we were right in the middle of finishing up our first wedding of the day. Since the happy couple had been up all night gambling and drinking, Mrs. Dugan was serving them strong coffee instead of lemonade. Fortunately, they were still pretty plastered, so they didn’t get too bothered by this hysterical interruption of their Golden Moment of Union.

The problem was that Grandma had told my mother where I was when she called, but had neglected to mention my Tobification. (Grandma has very little to say to her ex-daughter-in-law, blaming her for depriving her of any opportunity for future grandchildren.) Mother saw me and somehow must have concluded I had grown up black. I’m not sure how that’s possible, but that’s my relatives for you. Anyway, Mr. Dugan got very annoyed and told them they had to leave as this was a wedding chapel not a family crisis center. Well, that pissed off my mother, who reached over and yanked off Toby’s wig.

“
This child is
not
a Negro!” she screamed.

“
Who invited her to my wedding?” asked the confused bride.

“
Looks like some kind of racial thing,” slurred the groom. “Are you from the KKK?”

“
Scrub that off your face!” screamed my mother, ignoring his query.

“
You get out of here!” bellowed my employer.

“
Show some respect!” yelled his wife.

“
Please, please, let’s all be reasonable,” said the tall man.

After we were ejected by Mr. Dugan, Mother wiped off her tears, smiled bravely, and invited me to lunch. I explained I had to go as Toby, since I could be called back to work at any time. The tall guy (Mr. Wally Rumpkin) persuaded her to give me back my wig, and we all trooped over to the Silver Sluice for a fancy lunch in their pricey Feedbag Corral. Toby had the $21.95 T-bone steak, since I figured they owed me at least that much for nearly getting my ass canned. No sign of Uma, which is just as well ’cause my mother got pretty weepy all through lunch–especially after Toby asked her point-blank if Lance Wescott was really my dad (I don’t think I would have had the nerve).

So the story straight from the horse’s mouth (as it were) is that Tyler was correct. I am a 100 percent full-blooded Twisp.

“
I hope that doesn’t disappoint you, Noelly,” she wept. “Your father was the biggest mistake I ever made in my life.”

“
Well, Lance Wescott was no great prize either,” Toby pointed out, obliging Mr. Rumpkin to suppress a smile. I kind of like that big guy, even though he never looks you in the eye and lets my mother push him around. He used to be a truck driver until he got disabled (back trouble) from being so tall (at least seven feet).

“
Are you very, very unhappy here?” Mother asked, wiping her eyes.

“
It’s OK.”

I knew the last thing in the world I’d ever want would be to go live under the same roof with that wacky woman, even if she did reside in cosmopolitan Oakland. True, Winnemucca was a pit, but I got along OK with Grandma, she seldom butted into my life, and my dreary hometown did offer that Immensity Known as Uma.

“
Would you like to come to Oakland for a nice long visit?” she asked brightly. (Can mothers read minds?) “I could petition the court to permit it.”

“
Uh, gee thanks, Mother. But I have my job. I just joined a youth group. And school starts next month.”

“
I hope you don’t turn out like my other children, Noel. I never hear from Nick and Joanie only stays in touch so she can give me grief.”

That reminded me of something.

“
Mother, is it true that Nick got married when he was my age?”

“
I refuse to discuss that horrible incident and that horrible, horrible girl. I hope you’re not thinking about girls, Noel. I feel there’s some kind of bad seed from your father that got into Nick. He wound up getting arrested. It was a nightmare for us all.”

“
I always liked Nick,” volunteered Mr. Rumpkin. “He’s a wonderful juggler.”

“
Oh, pay the check, Wally. Everyone is looking at us. They’re wondering why that woman with her make-up all smeared is holding that dear Negro child’s hand.”

I was wondering the same thing.

Parents. They
can
creep you out.

Though I wouldn’t mind being adopted by Mr. Rumpkin. While shaking hands good-bye, he slipped me a wadded-up bill. Twenty dollars! What a guy.

WEDNESDAY, July 6 – Another dry night. I think the secret is to avoid dinners like spaghetti that are full of water. I hope Uma doesn’t insist on cooking Italian every night after we tie the knot. Perhaps I could request my pasta dry. No, she already thinks I’m weird. I realize now I have barely more than a month to win her heart before ill-fated (I wish) Scott Chandler returns. Toby will have to turn up his dusky charm.

Carlyle phones every half hour to ask if his afro has arrived. The guy is very anxious to repudiate his race. I keep telling him it will take at least a week to get here. I’m not sure UPS has even heard of Winnemucca.

I’ve been ruminating a lot about mothers. I think the act of germinating another person inside you kind of weirds them out. I used to envy kids who had mothers to tuck them into bed at night and take care of them. Not any more. I prefer grandmothers. You get the standard love and mothering, but without the biological baggage. Let’s face it: how can you ever hope to have a normal relationship with a person who shat you out like a pumpkin?

5:18 p.m. A slow day in the wedding biz, so Toby sneaked away to see if Uma was manning her kiosk. She was. How I’d love to possess one of her used polo shirts for nightly snuggling (in lieu, that is, of the actual girl).

“
I’ve got it,” Toby announced, smiling brightly.

“
That’s too bad,” said Uma. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“
I mean I’ve got your money.”

“
What?”

“
The $1.59 I owe you for the breath mints.”

“
Oh, right.”

I selected an innocuous Payday candy bar and handed her my $20 bill.

“
I don’t need any breath mints, Uma. They were actually for Mr. Dugan.”

“
Uh, OK,” she said, counting out my change.

“
Did you see the fireworks the other night?” I asked.

“
No. I missed them. How were they?”

“
I missed them too.”

“
Oh.”

The conversation was threatening to grind to a halt.

“
Heard from Scott?”

Uma, alas, brightened. “He sent me a postcard. Their boat had reached Barbados.”

Where was God when I needed a hurricane?

“
I hear you were dining here yesterday and holding some woman’s hand.”

A good sign! Uma has spies reporting on my every move.

“
That was my mother. She only sees me every ten years, so she gets a bit carried away.”

“
My parents are divorced too.”

A personal revelation!

“
Is your father remarried?”

“
No, thank God. He was seeing a woman in Gulfport, but he hasn’t met anybody here yet.”

“
You lived in Mississippi?”

“
For seven years. My father owned a casino boat, but he didn’t like the South.”

“
He likes Winnemucca better?” I asked, incredulous.

“
He loves it. Go figure.”

A fat slob of a security guard strolled over.

“
Is this person bothering you, Uma?”

“
No, it’s OK, Marvin.”

Big dumb Marvin didn’t seem to get the message.

“
We don’t permit loitering in this lobby, kid. You better move it.”

“’
Bye, Uma.”

“’
Bye, Noel.”

Uma actually knows my name! But that pushy rent-a-cop had better watch out. He’ll be sorry when the NAACP drags his sorry ass into court on a discrimination charge.

10:22 p.m. After much soul-searching I have made up my mind. The next time I see Uma I’m going to ask her out. This will be difficult, but it must be done. There are over six billion people on this planet. Even allowing for all those arranged marriages, at least one billion guys must have asked out a billion or so chicks. If Eskimos can do it, if guys garbed only in penis gourds in New Guinea can do it, if reticent English twits can do it, God dammit, so can I!

THURSDAY, July 7 – Still no e-mail reply from my loving brother Nick. Just think, if I’d asked him for the antidote to botulism poisoning, I’d be dead and buried by now.

No leakage last night again, but I forgot my garden gloves, and my red, wrinkly thumb may be ruined for life. I found a sadistic advice site on the web that recommends rubbing the nail with peppermint oil or a freshly sliced jalapeño pepper to discourage T.S. Yeah, and if that doesn’t work, mothers, try amputating the offending digit with a meat cleaver.

7:25 p.m. More weddings. Sometimes it feels like everyone is getting married except me. I’d say about two-thirds of our couples are pretty affectionate, but a solid one-third interact like they were there for an IRS tax audit. I discussed this phenomenon with Grandma at dinner. She knows all about human relations from her many years of listening to the dirt from hair clients. According to her, marriage is the last step many couples take in the process of breaking up. A quick stop at the Dixie Belle is actually faster and cheaper than couple’s counseling. And much smarter than blowing the budget on a big church wedding right before that final split.