by Payne, C. D.
To my horror I just calculated I’ve spent $48 in two days. I’ve got to throttle back on the extravagances. No way I can maintain a Bill Gates’ vacation lifestyle on Toby’s slave income.
MONDAY, July 18 – Urine-free again. I’m beginning to think the bed-wetting was all a myth. Good news: It’s now 3:26 p.m. and I’ve yet to spend a nickel. After breakfast Tyler and I walked over to his buddy Zack’s house to lift weights with him and Duncan (another teammate). That is, I walked and Tyler rode his skateboard. He also surfs, but his true passion in that line of neck-breaking activities is snowboarding. That’s another reason he envies me for living in snow-prone Winnemucca. I’ve told him he can come shovel out our driveway any time. On the way over he alerted me that he had told Zack and Duncan that I was a noted high-desert wrestler.
“And why exactly did you say that, Tyler?”
“Well, these guys have very narrow bandwidths, Noel. They can’t really relate to non-jocks. And I could hardly say you were a linebacker.”
“But I know nothing about wrestling.”
Though I’m willing to experiment with Awanee, should she prove sports-minded.
“Just say you’re in the flyweight division and are very competitive statewide.”
“Won’t they notice my lack of muscles?”
“Just keep your shirt on.”
I did, not that Zack and Duncan paid me much mind. They were more interested in ribbing Tyler for riding a skateboard. It seems your diehard jocks don’t go in for that form of transportation. Perhaps they find the wheels too silly and small. There was nothing small about Tyler’s buddies. Zack could pass for normal in dim light, but Duncan had a neck on him that would make a telephone pole envious. They all grunted away on giant weights in Zack’s garage, while the Nevada wrestler sat it out due to an alleged hamstring pull. Actually, I’m not sure where my hamstring is or if I even have one. I toyed with a barbell and tried to add appropriately macho remarks to a conversation that dealt chiefly with arcane football strategy, contouring the Latissimus dorsi, and pussy.
Now Tyler is at football practice and I’m catching up on my blog. He has football practice every afternoon this week, for which he was most apologetic. I don’t really mind. In truth, keeping up with my nephew can be pretty exhausting.
11:12 p.m. If I can get to bed without being charged, I will have experienced the perfect budget vacation day. Total expenditures: $0.00. I did go out for snacks with Joanie this afternoon, but she paid. I helped her arrange her newly acquired items in her sales space in the antique collective. This store is located in a considerably more mauve neighborhood than you will find in Winnemucca. There were guys walking around holding hands, which would rate as suicidal behavior in most of Nevada.
I was amazed at the outrageousness of Joanie’s prices, but she says her inventory turns over steadily. It’s kind of spooky hanging out in a building stuffed to the rafters with the detritus of countless dead people. Me, I prefer items that are new, modern, and come from the factory wrapped in three layers of sanitary plastic. Joanie says that’s because I’ve grown up in an old trailer surrounded by gloom and decay. People always react against what they’ve known as kids. Glad to hear it. That means as an adult I will be living amid swanky surroundings in a big city with throngs of nubile chicks at my beck and call.
TUESDAY, July 19 – A rather boring day until Tyler came home from football practice. There’s not much to do out here in the burbs with no car and the adults all off scrounging a living. I watched TV, checked my e-mail (terminally sparse) on Tyler’s computer, and snooped around. Not a photo of George F. Twisp on the premises. That guy is perhaps not greatly beloved. I did find an entry for him in Joanie’s address book. No phone number, but I made a note of his address. I also checked out the garage, where I discovered Bill’s elaborate shop (which explains why all the cars are parked outside). Joanie says one day she counted 38 gasoline-powered machines on their property–not counting Bill’s speedboat that he keeps in a storage lot. Tyler says from what he can tell his parents still have a functioning sex life because Bill is so good at figuring out how things work. Knowing him he probably has the shop manual for the female reproductive system.
After dinner Tyler asked me if I wanted to go meet a chick.
“Sure,” I replied. “Is she from the A-list or the B-list?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t met her yet. She sounds pretty cool on the telephone.”
“So how did you hook up?”
“She found me through Myspace.com. She zeroed in on me ’cause of my name.”
“Tyler or Twisp?”
“Twisp. This girl claims her aunt was once married to a guy named Nick Twisp.”
“Hmm. I think this is a chick we need to meet.”
Tyler recruited thick-necked Duncan to do the driving. He pilots (insanely) one of those small Japanese pickups. Of course, the skinny wrestler had to sit in the middle. I felt like a third testicle in a very tight scrotum. We snaked through many winding canyons in Bel Air before locating Miss Veeva Saunders’ street. I had never seen such a ritzy neighborhood.
“How much do you suppose these houses go for?” I asked.
“Millions and millions,” replied Tyler. “Unless it’s a fixer.”
The Saunders’ manse was not a fixer. It rambled across a ridge-top with a mind-boggling 360-degree view that extended all the way to the luminous aqua waters of the Pacific. A very handsome middle-aged man answered our knock.
“Noel?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, surprised that he knew my name.
“And you must be Tyler,” he said, smiling at my nephew.
“Uh, right,” he replied. “We’ve come to see Veeva.”
The man shook everyone’s hand and welcomed us in. “Upstairs, fellows. Third door on the right.”
We trooped up a curving staircase that must have given the carpenters fits to build.
“That’s weird, Noel,” whispered Tyler. “I never mentioned your name to Veeva.”
“Yeah, well he seemed to know who we are,” I whispered back.
We found the door, met the chick, and made the fumbled introductions. Veeva was a nervous, edgy blonde on the thin side. Very intense blue eyes. Extraordinarily neat and orderly teeth like the braces had just come off. Not yet beautiful, but you could tell she was working up to it. Her boudoir was like no kid’s room I’d ever seen. More like an elegant apartment where Gloria Vanderbilt or Jackie O might hang out.
Veeva draped her bony frame on a divan and motioned for us to take a seat. I sat on a curvy armchair upholstered in silver and cream striped silk. Very thin legs like maybe it was the sideline of some pencil factory. Not comfortable but oddly stimulating to the spine.
“Your room’s, uh, very nice,” said Tyler.
“Oh, thank you,” she replied. “I collaborated with Mother’s decorator. We’re still looking for a few final accessories to pull it all together. No theme, exactly, but the inspiration was Manhattan in the forties. I really wanted some Ruhlmann pieces, but even the reproductions are fabulously beyond our reach. Of course, working with a decorator was fun, but you have to reign them in. Their tastes can be so hideous if unsupervised.”
“Say, how old are you?” demanded Duncan.
“Fourteen. Not that it matters. What are you–the bodyguard?”
“Duncan’s my driver,” explained Tyler.
There was something about this chick that brought out the pretentiousness in a guy.
“Was that your father who let us in?” I asked.
“Yes. Paul Saunders, the impresario. You’ve probably heard of him. Isn’t he marvelous? My friends say I’m such a daddy’s girl. It’s true, of course. I dread how daunting it will be to find a husband who could measure up to him in any way. Connie is so fortunate.”
“Who’s Connie?” I asked.
“My mother,” she replied, nodding toward a photo in a silver frame on an anorexic sideboard. “She’s rather insane.”
“Your mother’s Asian?” asked Tyler, surprised.
“She’s Polish on both sides. Fortunately for their children, Daddy is as WASP as they come. My mother is an enthusiast for cosmetic surgery. Years ago she was going through a Chinese phase. She says when I’m 16 she’ll let them attend to my horrible nose.”
“It looks fine to me,” I said.
Veeva rested her azure gaze upon me. “I think it’s marvelous that Nick Twisp has a baby brother. I can imagine he looked just like you at your age: weedy and rather endearingly useless.”
I made a note of that comment for later deciphering.
“You’ve met my brother?” I asked.
“Several times, but years ago. He once juggled half my Barbie collection. You can imagine the impression that made on a young girl. Mother still phones him occasionally, but is very tightlipped about their chats. That is so like her. She can be such a selfish bitch. She gave me that photo of herself for my birthday. Of course, I have to leave it out for a requisite time, then into a drawer it’s going. The frame I rather like. I may use it for my boyfriend’s photo.”
“Who’s your boyfriend?” demanded Duncan.
“I don’t have one currently. My standards are impossibly high. To be frank, though, you’re not in the running.”
Duncan scratched his crew cut and pondered this put-down.
“Is your mother home now?” asked Tyler.
“No. Can’t you tell? The house is so free of her oppressive presence. She’s at a Philharmonic board meeting. She’s on lots of boards. I find it very boring.”
“Do you have any brothers and sisters?” I asked.
“Two wretched brothers–both younger–whom I have contrived to have exiled to summer camp. We are nearly alone here–just as I prefer it. Family life can be so enervating.”
“What kind of dumb name is Veeva,” demanded Duncan, still trying to stretch his inelastic mind around this peculiar chick.
“Is he always so blunt?” asked Veeva.
“He’s a linebacker,” explained Tyler.
“OK, if you say so. Well, according to Mother, I was conceived while viewing an Elvis Presley movie–‘Viva Las Vegas.’ Hence my name.”
“It’s a good thing they weren’t watching ‘Harum Scarum’,” noted Tyler.
“Yes, or ‘Clambake,’ ‘Spinout,’ or ‘Tickle Me’,” replied Veeva, obviously familiar with such Presleyan speculations. “Would you like something to drink? We could go out by the pool. There might be a sunset worth our time.”
We all trooped down to the pool, which was hung off in space on metal stilts. A large window inset in the side gave anyone underwater a sweeping if murky view of the lights of Beverly Hills. A Latina housekeeper set out a large tray of beverages and sandwiches, then discreetly withdrew. What a lifestyle. Even the sun had been commandeered to dress up the darkening sky with aesthetically correct purples and pinks.
Duncan gulped his drink and made a face.
“It’s grapefruit and wheat grass juice,” said Veeva. “One of my many compulsions. The sandwiches are shredded carrot and tofu cream cheese. Animals should be cherished not eaten. Sorry, but that’s how I feel.”
We made the best of it and munched away politely.
“Was it at a drive-in movie?” queried Duncan.
“Was what?” asked Veeva.
“Where they was screwing when they had you,” he elaborated.
Veeva shuddered. “I hardly think so. Tyler dear, your driver is so . . . one point oh.”
“Tell us about your aunt,” Tyler prompted.
“Ah, my aunt Sheeni. Real name Sheridan. My father’s baby sister. Very beautiful and brilliant, of course. She hates America. Never comes here. They live in Lyon. Married to a very sexy young Frenchman. Two adorable kids. So French, but then they are exactly that. I’m campaigning to have my brothers sent to a harsh old-world boarding school where only French is spoken. No luck so far. It could do them both a world of good.”
“You visited your aunt?” I asked.
“Once. Two years ago. I screamed to go back to France this summer, but Mother must punish me for my refusal to submit to her tyranny.”
“Did your aunt say anything about my brother?” I asked.
“No, unfortunately. Well, I didn’t know anything about her earlier marriage then. I’ve asked her since about it on the phone, but she clams up. No one wants to talk about it.”
“Same with my mother,” said Tyler. “She’s Nick’s sister and she refuses to discuss it.”
“My mother won’t say boo either,” I noted. “Though she seems to harbor a very strong dislike for your aunt.”
“We’ve got to get to the bottom of this,” Veeva declared. “I sense a dark and terribly romantic secret. Are you with me, boys?”
Two of the three males nodded in the affirmative. Duncan was still in shock from the refreshments.
WEDNESDAY, July 20 – Another dry night. I am so ready for bed sharing. Speaking of which, I shuffled into the house this morning and there was Tyler breakfasting with Wylie, a decidedly A-list girlfriend. The movie star she most resembles is Reese Witherspoon, I kid you not. It turns out they have a standing date for breakfast on Wednesdays. That’s the only time she could pin him down. Hard to believe. If she were my girlfriend, I’d be clearing my calendar months in advance. Wylie fancies herself a cook. She made us both cinnamon toast. I was looking forward to the accompanying dishes, but her menu stopped there. Wylie’s future husband may be dining out frequently–not that he’ll care. While we nibbled our toast, Wylie chastised me for not calling Awanee for two entire days. I pointed out that in fact I’ve never telephoned that girl.
“And may I ask why not?” she demanded. “Awanee likes you a lot.”
“Well, I’m leaving in a few days. I live about 700 miles away in another state. God knows when I’ll ever be back. And nobody’s yet invented a way to have sex over the phone.”
“What are you saying?” demanded Wylie, perhaps not the most perceptive of chicks.
I spelled it out for her. “This relationship is doomed!”
“You guys are so unromantic,” she sighed. “Kiss me, Tyler.”
He did. What a breakfast that guy had. I don’t know about him, but after she left I had to return to the trailer for some pressure relief work.
7:43 p.m. I spent the day with Veeva in West Hollywood. Sister Joan dropped me off at this immense building on Melrose the locals call the Blue Whale. Its real name is the Pacific Design Center, and it’s Veeva’s constant haunt. A couple of hundred showrooms featuring edgy furnishings you won’t find at your local Wal-Mart. Looked like the kind of place kids would get tossed out of, but everyone seemed happy to see Veeva. A real ordeal for the feet. We trooped all over, scouting for accessories, smirking at the gaucheries, and revisiting all those tempting pieces she had to forego for space or budget reasons. It’s a shocking crime that Veeva had only $75,000 to spend on her room makeover. I pointed out that sum would buy five trailers on my road and probably the occupants as well.
“But I don’t want five trailers,” she replied. “I just want a room that won’t embarrass me when I invite my friends over. You have no idea what a joke my budget was. When I first started on my project, some of the snootier showrooms suggested I try looking at IKEA.”
“How mortifying for you.”
She ignored the sarcasm. “Well, the shoe was on the other foot when I informed them who my mother was. They changed their tune in a hurry.”
I made a mental note to mention Connie Saunders the next time I needed to impress a decorator.
After grinding our feet down to the bone, we had a late lunch in the Blue Whale’s trendy restaurant. Veeva said she would pay as long as I didn’t order anything “that walked or swam.” She forgot to exclude “slithered,” but there was no snake or lizard on the menu. We both had Caesar salads with grilled asparagus. Tasty if not exactly filling. I was so ready for a burger too.
Whil
e munching our salads, Veeva casually inquired if Tyler had a girlfriend.
“No, Tyler does not have a girlfriend,” I replied. “He has about 37 girlfriends. For example, he breakfasted this morning with Wylie, who looks like a fresh-faced Reese Witherspoon.”
“You lie.”
“I don’t lie.”
“His parents let her sleep over?”
“No, she drops by at 9 a.m. every Wednesday. Tyler has promised his mom he won’t have sex until he’s 16. Now me, I have taken no such vow of chastity.”
“And how many girlfriends do you have?”
“Well, locally I’m only breaking one heart at the moment. But I just blew into town late Friday.”
“And how about in–what’s the name of your little town?”
“Winnemucca. It’s an Indian name meaning ‘bored out of my skull.’ Well, I have this chick there I was putting the moves on.”
“But she dumped you?”
“I’d rather not discuss it. So how many guys have you slept with?”
“None so far, but I have impossibly–”
“Right,” I interjected, “you have impossibly high standards.”
“That’s why I find it so appealing that Tyler’s a Twisp.”
“I’m more of a Twisp than he is. Nick is my actual brother. Did you see that article about him in People magazine last year?”
“Of course. I took the liberty of forwarding it to Aunt Sheeni.”
“What did she say about it?”
“Nothing. That woman is a sphinx about her past.”
“We could get married too,” I suggested, doing something suggestive with an asparagus spear. Who says only Tyler and Toby can flirt with girls?
“That’s an idea. Do you love me, Noel darling?”
“I could work my way up to it if I tried.”
“Well if I can’t land Tyler, I’ll keep you in mind.”
“Why be one in a crowd with Tyler when you can have all of me?”