Revoltingly Young

by Payne, C. D.

  “I mean it. I consider you a human plague. If you were a bug, I’d step on you.”

  “And if you were a man, I would punch you out. But fortunately for you, you’re just a little bed-wetting creep. Thanks for the pastry.”

  “Thanks for dropping dead as soon as possible. And don’t slam the door on your way out.”

  She flipped me both fingers and slammed the door. Shaking all over, I sat down and tried to think of one happy thought. Tertiary leprosy, I thought. I can be grateful I don’t have tertiary leprosy.

  9:45 p.m. A busy day. Five weddings and two adore ceremonies. My tips have gone way up since Toby’s been so emotionally on edge (and, embarrassingly, a bit weepy). Clients must assume the darky is sniffling at their happiness. I appreciate the extra income and have noted it in the column headed “Reasons Not To Commit Suicide.” So far, my list is not very compelling.

  WEDNESDAY, July 13 – Carlyle and I have decided to expel Stoney from the Upts gang. We have notified her of this decision via official e-mail. We also informed her that she is no longer permitted to wear brown. Knowing Carlyle, he could not have been the brains behind the balloon assault. Therefore, I’ve decided to overlook his participation in that outrage. I’ve also persuaded him that the vandal currently sabotaging Upts graffiti could only be gang turncoat Stoney Holt. For these treacherous acts, Carlyle has vowed to exact a terrible revenge.

  Carlyle continues to be the blackest of Winnemucca’s faux Negroes. Apparently Dr. Quentina Freep regards his impulse toward race reversal as the least alarming of his numerous mental disturbances. She even commiserates with his desire to be black. After all, what has being white ever done for him? She advised his foster parents to play it cool and wait for “this phase” to pass. In the meantime, she has lent them a cookbook of soul food recipes. I hope it’s a good one. Carlyle has invited Toby over for dinner tomorrow tonight.

  THURSDAY, July 14 – New depths of despair. This morning I received a copy of a libelous e-mail that “Heart of Stone” had sent to Uma. It read: “Yo Uma! You may be interested to know that a friend of yours (a certain N.W.) has a serious problem with chronic bed-wetting and thumb sucking. The big baby told me he has the hots for you. –A friend.”

  Damn. I can’t believe she did that. She must really hate my guts. Sure, we had a disagreement, some hot words were exchanged, but I never thought she’d stoop that low. I mean, we were friends for a long time. I was the victim of a fair amount of social ostracism just from hanging out with her. Now, I don’t know what to think. Things are really spinning out of control around here. At least now I have Uma’s e-mail address, not that it does me much good. I wonder who Stoney got it from?

  Well, I can never face Uma again–that’s for sure. Don’t know what my alternatives are. Can’t really think straight at the moment.

  11:35 p.m. Well, I made it through the day. Still among the living and non-incarcerated. Toby saw Stoney downtown on his way to a wedding. She was dressed entirely in brown. Now I know what the expression “saw red” means. My entire field of vision turned blood red when I spotted her. Swept by very violent impulses such as have landed many hapless dudes on Death Row. Good thing Toby’s tight clothes limit his pocket capacity. Even access to a sharp pencil could be dangerous when that chick is encountered. As it was, we looked the other way and ignored each other.

  Didn’t feel very social, but went to Carlyle’s house for dinner. Another rude shock. The Mrs. Greene who is his latest foster mom is the very same Mrs. Greene who was my third grade teacher. Somehow I never made the connection. Of all my teachers back then she’s the one I would have picked to be my mom. Now Carlyle’s living out my childhood fantasy. She looked exactly the same and seemed to recognize me despite my Tobification. She said “Hi, Noel!” and gave me a very motherly hug. She even exuded that nice chalky vanilla smell like The Ideal Mother. Mr. Greene was there too and seemed equally nice. He used to be a software engineer, but now repairs slot machines at all the casinos in town. Hard to believe he goes to bed every night with Mrs. Greene and probably fools around with her too.

  Dinner was quite good if a little tense. Mr. Greene barbecued rips out back on their patio. A handy guy, he’s constructed an elaborate outdoor grill out of adobe block. Must weigh at least 100 tons. A real exercise in applied bodybuilding. The ribs came out a little charred, but we all dug in with enthusiasm. The cornbread was good too, though if I never face collard greens again it will be too soon. Carlyle got in trouble when he asked his surrogate mom to pass the “motherfuckin’ potato salad.”

  “Carlyle, we have asked you not to use that word,” Mr. Greene sternly reminded him.

  “I gots to say it, Poppie! Man, you just can’t be black otherwise.”

  “Now, Carlyle,” began Mrs. Greene in a tone I recognized from long ago, “do you know what a motherfucker is?”

  Toby dropped his rib bone. Never in my entire life did I expect to hear that word from those lips.

  “Say what?” Carlyle replied.

  “A motherfucker,” she continued pedagogically, “is a person who has sexual congress with a woman who has given birth. Now what does that have to do with my potato salad?”

  Carlyle looked at me for assistance. No way Toby was handling that hot potato. I stared down at my plate and rearranged my greens.

  “Your mother asked you a question,” Mr. Greene reminded him.

  “Fuck if I know,” Carlyle grunted.

  Our hosts exchanged grim glances and sighed.

  “Noel,” said Mrs. Greene, “don’t you agree that ethnic colloquialisms are all right in their place, but are not appropriate at the dinner table with one’s parents and guests?”

  Carlyle looked at me and twitched. It was a twitch I recognized as an Upts gang sign. Damn, I was now stuck between a gang brother and my fantasy mother.

  “I remember all of my multiplication tables, Mrs. Greene,” I replied, enthusiastically changing the subject. “You were such a great teacher. Six times seven, that’s 46!”

  “I believe it’s 43, Noel,” she replied. “As I recall, math was never your strong suit. And what do you like to study in school now?”

  Truthfully, all I could think of was sex education, but I replied, “English and writing.”

  “Toby’s writin’ his own motherfuckin’ blog,” Carlyle added.

  More sighs from the adults. What I can’t understand is why Mrs. Greene, after herding 35 screaming third-graders all day, would want to come home and take on a foster kid like Carlyle. They certainly don’t look that hard up for bucks. Hell, their TV’s at least 48 inches across. Is being a foster parent that lucrative?

  FRIDAY, July 15 – I’m going to L.A. to visit Tyler! I leave this afternoon. Grandma made all the arrangements and even bought my bus ticket. She said I needed a change of scenery. Boy, do I ever. Too bad they don’t sell tickets to Mars. She called Mr. Dugan and said their slave would be gone for an entire week. He groused, but what can he do? I’m in totally tight with his wife, and Toby’s getting really good at hustling those profitable extra-cost items. Bottom line: they know they’ve got a good thing going. So they’re sticking Rot back into my oversized slave clothes while Toby’s away (I’m dropping them off when I pick up my paycheck). I hope he doesn’t stink them up again. Looks to me like all of that kid’s growth genes are going into b.o.

  7:25 p.m. On the bus to L.A. I’m writing this on a laptop I got a few months ago at a garage sale for $5. The guy was asking $15, but I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Believe it or not, this baby packs a Pentium 75 and Windows 95. There are vines creeping over gravestones in cemeteries faster than this sucker. Forget WiFi or cruising the Web. All I can do are word processing and a few primitive games like hangman and chess. The battery was deceased, so I sawed open the plastic and replaced the cells with standard rechargeables. Works like a charm. At least the screen is color. I hear they once made laptops with monochrome screens, if you can imagine that.

  Nevada may gen
erally suck, but the scenery can be semi awe-inspiring in spots. We are now cruising down Route 395 on the eastern side of the Sierras. To the west out my grungy window a whole line of peaks is turning golden in the fading light. I think nature puts on these grand displays to help us humans forget our troubles. I look out the window and almost get choked up by the soaring majesty. Better than looking in the other direction where a snoring old fart is drooling down both sides of his unshaven chin. Somehow I knew when he got on in Carson City that he was going to plop down next to me. Smells like a liquor store too.

  I’m trying not to think about Uma. I wonder how many people she’s discussed my sphincter control issues with? Probably be all over town by the time I get back. Should I change my return ticket for one going to Oakland? Lots of people live with mothers even wackier than mine. Why should I be so particular?

  SATURDAY, July 16 – Tyler and his stepdad were nice enough to come pick me up even though it was nearly midnight when the bus got in. They live way out in the Valley, but fortunately the freeways weren’t too clogged at that hour. Call me a rube from the sticks, but rolling down the pass when you first hit that sea of lights on the outskirts of L.A. it’s a mind-blowing sight. So many millions of people sprawled out across what was once empty sagebrush. And any time of the day or night a good fraction of them are out roaring around on the freeways.

  Bill (Tyler’s stepdad) picked me up in his awesome 1968 Pontiac GTO. He also has a Harley and a few other bikes as well. He’s an electrician by trade and very mechanically oriented. His full name is William Teslar Tibble, but everyone calls him Bill. Grandma has a theory that everyone looks at least a little bit like some movie or television actor. She claims I look like Brandon De Wilde, whoever that is. Applying her theory, I’d say Bill resembles a shorter, stockier, and grubbier version of Kevin Costner.

  Even though Bill formally adopted Tyler, my nephew still goes by the name Twisp. He says he kept it to honor his mother for all those years she took care of him as a struggling single mom. Tyler Twisp or Tyler Tibble–I’d say you’re stuck in Name Hell either way. Technically, I may be a Twisp, but it would take a very large bribe to get me to change my name.

  My sister Joanie was still up and gave me a big hug when we arrived. She was looking older, but not yet in the repulsive category. She used to be a glamorous airline hostess, then worked as a travel agent. When online reservations made that job redundant, she went into the antique business. She and Bill are out scouring yard sales now. They do that every Saturday morning. She has a booth at an collective store in West Hollywood where she unloads her junk. Plus, she sells stuff at the Rose Bowl Flea Market, where actual movie stars sometimes paw over her items. I wouldn’t mind a few pawing over me right now.

  The Tibble-Twisps reside in a modest stucco ranch crammed with zany 1950s furnishings. Rather like living in a Technicolor cartoon: lots of bold colors, wild patterns, and flamboyant shapes. Dominating the living room is an immense glass cabinet packed with glittering silver and gold trophies. That impressive display must provide a constant ego boost to my athletic nephew. So many awards and medals and ribbons reminding him that he is an achiever of superlatives, a vanquisher of lesser beings. And how many trophies have I won? So far none. Competitive nose picking is not yet an Olympic event.

  Since Joanie’s house is not set up for visitors, I slept in their camping trailer parked next to the garage. It’s the kind where the back end folds down like a ramp so you can load in your bikes or other toys. Bill has two quads that they take out to the desert and zoom around on. Tyler says it’s tons of fun. Too bad you can’t do it this time of year (too hot). I noticed that someone put a plastic shower curtain under my sheet on the trailer bed. My reputation precedes me. Fortunately, I passed a dry night–my first in a while. And my bitter apple garden gloves kept T.S. to a minimum.

  Can’t write any more. Tyler has too much fun on the agenda. One of them is named Awanee.

  SUNDAY, July 17 – Another bone dry night. I’m beginning to think it’s not the bladder, it’s the state. Let us not forget I am a native Californian. Nevada is an alien environment for me.

  So far Joanie and I are the only ones up. She just fixed me a massive breakfast. While I ate, we had a chat on family topics.

  “My mother just paid me a surprise visit,” I informed her.

  “Oh, really? She’s my mother too, but you can have her. How was she?”

  “OK when she wasn’t crying or grabbing my hand. She told me my real dad was George Twisp.”

  “Oh. She spilled the beans, huh?” Joanie sipped her coffee. “Well, I’m glad that secret’s out. Yep, we’re all Twisps. Lucky us.”

  “So why am I living with Grandma Wescott?”

  “Well, it seemed like the best solution at the time. And that’s what the judge decreed. How bad is it?”

  “Uh, not that bad. We get along OK. I just can’t figure out why Grandma’s going to all the bother.”

  “Well, she always seemed like a nice lady. I don’t know what happened to her son. Is he much of a pain?”

  “I hardly ever see him.”

  “Well, you’re lucky. What a bastard. Perhaps your grandma figured she screwed up so bad on the first one, she wants to make amends with you.”

  “I think her husband wasn’t the greatest. She doesn’t talk much about him.”

  “So maybe that’s where Lance got his personality. Stands to reason.”

  I nibbled my bacon and cleared my throat.

  “So. Any chance I can meet him?”

  “Who, Noelly?”

  “George F. Twisp. My dad. I hear he lives in L.A.”

  Joanie slumped back in her chrome dinette chair and stared out the window.

  “There’s a concept, Noel,” she said at last. “I’ll have to think about that one.”

  “We could invite him to dinner,” I suggested. “And maybe Nick too. It could be a family reunion.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea with Twisps,” she replied. “Besides, I already called Nick when I heard you were coming. He wasn’t there. His girlfriend Ada said he went to Prague.”

  “But he was just there.”

  “Well, he went back. He must have liked it. Ada didn’t seem too tickled either.”

  My glamorous brother. I wonder what he’s up to?

  No sign of Tyler yet. That big guy can really sleep. Must be hard keeping all those muscles charged up. Gives me time to note yesterday’s highlight, which was our evening excursion to the Barber College to hear the Pickled Punks. We went with Tyler’s B-list girlfriend Ericka Stabb and her bud (my date) Awanee Doma. Although Ericka only rates a B, Tyler often goes out with her to clubs because she has a driver’s license and a rad Mazda. She’s also adept at getting her friends into places with age restrictions. That girl can flirt. Awanee and I are both pretty shy, so it was a bit uncomfortable being thrown together. Still, we managed to relate a bit. Her father’s Mexican and her mother’s Vietnamese. Pretty attractive in an exotic way. Very thin and petite, although nature hadn’t skimped on her chest enhancements–not that I got anywhere near them. She in no way reminded me of Uma, which was good.

  The Barber College used to be exactly that in the basement of a once fancy, now derelict building in Hollywood. They cleared out the barber chairs, but kept all the ornate pink marble and mirrors. All those hard surfaces make for a very loud environment when the Pickled Punks got cranked up. Tyler knew it was my kind of band–about 14 levels beyond maniacally frenzied. The place was jammed and hotter than blazes, so everyone got very sweaty and crazed. My eardrums are still pulsating. Needless to say, we have nothing like them (or the club) in Winnemucca.

  In case you’re not up on your carnie lingo, “pickled punks” are those weird and scary fetuses they used to have floating in jars in carnival sideshows. In keeping with their name, the Pickled Punks featured a large backlit jar in front of their drummer. I worked my way up close, but found it contained nothing more than one tired-loo
king pig fetus. Not even a two-headed one. That was the sole disappointment I experienced from that band. Their music was so awesome, I bought one of their self-produced CDs. As I forked over my money I made a mental note to burn a copy for Stoney, then remembered I hate her guts. It’s hard losing your friends.

  Afterwards we parked at Tyler’s high school in a private spot he knows behind the athletic building. Tyler and Ericka went at it (within limits) in the front seat, while Awanee and I chatted in the back seat. Sorry, but I’m just not capable of throwing myself at total strangers–even if they have very kissable lips and tiny, bare knees that call out for caressing.

  9:12 p.m. Got blasted by the sun today, so I may zone out early. Tyler and I went with the B Team to the beach. The Pacific Ocean is another convenient amenity that’s lacking in Winnemucca. We parked in Santa Monica by the pier and walked all the way to Venice and back. Tyler walked a few blocks on his hands. Quite the showoff in more ways than one. I’m not sure he realizes that in this posture those strolling beside him have a straight shot down his baggy swim trunks at the prize sausage and two furry kiwis nestled within. I noticed Awanee was studying them with interest. Tyler reports that she, like everyone else in our party save Ms. Stabb, is a restive virgin. We camped on the sand and got pretty silly, so I feel like I’m breaking the ice with her a bit. Very sweet and cute as a button, but not many sparks–at least on my side. Too bad I can’t be like Tyler. He enjoys his girlfriends as one would a juicy steak or a fine cigar: with genuine pleasure, but little emotional involvement. Much more sensible than my approach, which is to fall like a brick and then try to cope with the catastrophe.

  Tyler’s cell phone is constantly ringing with girls, girlfriends, and more girls checking in. To this credit, Tyler is very straightforward. He told them all he was hanging at the beach with Ericka. He even got a call from Stoney, who told him he shouldn’t believe a word I said about her. Well, the joke was on her because I hadn’t mentioned her once. I’m doing my best to put all things Winnemuccan out of mind.