Revoltingly Young

by Payne, C. D.

  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.”
r />   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.

  Silly me. I thought we were joining all those lovebirds for life.

  Speaking of Cosmic Love, I’m still dateless. After working myself into a tizzy, I sent Toby in to buy another candy bar. No Uma. Her work hours seem most irregular. Fat Marvin was there giving me the evil eye. I got a closer look at that cretin’s nametag. Won’t you know it, he’s a Tuelco–the old man’s youngest son, according to Grandma. I think ol’ Gus should have pulled out early that night.

  10:45 p.m. I’ve been researching the female vagina. This is quite easy these days, thanks to the profusion of porn sites on the Internet. You can get some full-color views from a true gynecologist’s perspective. Seems a pretty simple affair–at least from the outward appearance. Not nearly as much variation as you get with penises, which should be helpful for us neophytes. I think it’s great there’s so much information out there these days. I can just imagine how mystified my dad or grandfather must have felt when they first started poking around down there. Of course, this information exposure only heightens my desire to experience the real thing. I wonder if Uma finds the subject (carnal relations) similarly captivating?

  That question I hope to answer soon.

  FRIDAY, July 8 – Payday at last. No check yet, but by tonight I expect my net worth will have skyrocketed. Meanwhile, I at last received an e-mail response from my elder brother. Nick apologized for not getting back to me sooner, saying he was “away for a week in Prague for a jugglers’ convention.” Why is it that everyone on Earth goes to conventions but the one sub-group that really needs to mix it up: horny teenagers? Nick writes and I quote: “I have no reason to believe that Lance Wescott is not your father.”

  OK, either the guy is totally clueless or a compulsive liar. I’m inclined toward the latter. In my experience, we Twisps much prefer a complicated lie to the simple truth. We are by nature a devious clan.

  The town’s meager black population has gone up by one. Carlyle’s package was delivered today. Unlike Toby, Carlyle tries to distract attention from his blue eyes and dearth of Negroid features by speaking an extreme version of ghetto English. The effect is arresting to say the least. I suggested he throttle back a notch to appear less like an offensive caricature, but he wasn’t buying it. He has also modified his walk to an in-your-face ghetto strut (with twitches). More than a bit ridiculous, but I must be supportive of my fellow gang member. Now he has hit the streets in full regalia to buy a metal comb for teasing out his big ’70s-style afro.

  5:12 p.m. Momentous news! Toby spoke to Uma again. First he got fat Marvin out of the way by asking him if he knew some “old guy named Gus?”

  “My dad’s named Gus,” he replied, eyeballing me suspiciously.

  “That’s too bad,” Toby said. “I just heard he collapsed into his macaroni and cheese at the senior center.”

  Marvin cursed, spat, and hustled out the door.

  “Is that true?” inquired Uma, adorning the gum display with her Mediterranean beauty.

  “Probably somewhere on this planet,” replied Toby, nervously scanning the candy bar rack. My Big Moment was approaching.

  “I wish I could eat candy like you do,” Uma remarked.

  “Why don’t you?”

  “I have a grandmother who weighs 300 pounds.”

  “So do I. But fortunately I’m not related to mine.”

  Not wishing to appear too hedonistic, I put back my jumbo bar and selected a regular-size Payday.

  “How did you manage that?” Uma asked, sliding my bar under the scanner.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “That will be $1.29. Do you know Mary Glasgow?”

  I fished out my wallet. “Sure. I’ve known her since kindergarten.”

  True enough, but I doubt stuck-up Mary would deign to spit on me if my clothes were on fire. Uma, I knew, was tight with her.

  “She’s having a Christmas in July party. Are you interested?”

  Toby had a mild coronary. Could it be that Uma was asking me out?”

  “Uh, sure. Yes. Really, I’d love to. When is it?”

  “Tomorrow night. Her parents are going out of town. We’re supposed to dress in holiday-appropriate attire–whatever that means.”

  “Sounds good. What time should I pick you up?” I had to get this nailed down before she changed her mind or came to her senses.

  “I don’t know. Eight o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “OK.”

  “OK, Uma.”

  “Are you intending to pay me? Or do I have to call a cop?”

  “Oh, right!”

  Toby paid for his item and wandered off in another golden fog.

  I have an actual date with Uma!

  I have joined the One Billion Club at last. This asking out chicks was much easier than I expected.

  By the way, my paycheck seemed suspiciously low. Lots of onerous deductions for frivolous taxes, plus no reimbursement for Toby’s pricey used shoes. Mrs. Dugan claimed she “forgot.” I let it slide, cause ol’ Toby is now slaving (happily) for date money.

  SATURDAY, July 9 – The most momentous day of my life. I less than 12 hours I may be holding Uma’s hand (assuming I can work up the courage). Lots of overnight leakage and thumb molestation I’m attributing to nerves. My composure was not improved by Stoney arriving bright and early to grill me on these latest developments. Somehow she had heard, although I informed no one except Grandma and my employers. Just try having a secret in this town.

&nbs
p; “Why would Uma invite you to Mary Glasgow’s dumb party?” demanded Stoney.

  “Why not? Maybe she likes me.”

  “You wish. No, it’s got to be something else. Maybe they intend to humiliate you for trying to pass as black.”

  “That’s Carlyle. I’m only doing Toby for the bucks.”

  “I fear the worst. Did you ever see the movie ‘Carrie’?”

  “Stoney! Uma’s not like that. Besides, I’m not going to the party as Toby.”

  “You’re not? Does your girlfriend know that? As I recall she invited Toby not Noel.”

  “And how, may I ask, do you know that?”

  “I have my sources. Are you going as an elf?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “It’s a Christmas party, you dork.”

  “I know that. I thought I’d wear a red shirt and my green corduroy pants.”

  “You’ll look like an idiot.”

  “Stoney, did you come over here just to undermine my confidence and make me feel bad?”

  “Sure, Noel. What else are friends for?”

  1:17 p.m. Carlyle’s transformation to an urban minority youth has not gone down well with his foster parents. They’ve scheduled an emergency appointment for him on Monday with the county juvenile psychologist. Carlyle has met with this chick (Dr. Quentina Freep) many times in the past, and regards her as “kinda sexy,” but “nosy as hell.” At least she’s black, so Carlyle expects a more sympathetic hearing than last time when he just a “white punk” setting the county ablaze.