Revoltingly Young

by Payne, C. D.

  If there’s a color worse than the bleakest black, that is where my life has now sunk to.

  FRIDAY, August 12 – Some disturbing phone calls last night. The first was from my sister Joanie in L.A. The cops had just hauled away Tyler for questioning, and she was going off the deep end. She said if her son got in trouble with the law, he wouldn’t be able to play high-school sports, wouldn’t get an athletic scholarship to USC (his intended college), wouldn’t go on to have a highly lucrative career in the pros, and would wind up a Skid Row failure like our father. All because of my pernicious influence. I told her Tyler wasn’t in very deep, and she should just relax and not worry. Then she called me some very unsisterly names and hung up. So much for that precious fraternal butterfly about to take wing.

  While I was still shaking from that call, Veeva phoned demanding to know why I hadn’t returned any of her calls. I explained my many reasons and inquired why she hadn’t thought to call on our land line sooner as we were in the book.

  “Not being stupid, I thought of that, Noel, but I couldn’t remember your damn last name. I just think of you as a Twisp. Finally, I called Tyler and got your phone number from his mom. She’s rather hysterical you know.”

  “I know. The cops got Tyler for being in our gang.”

  “Two rather cute and young L.A.P.D. officers were just here asking me about your idiot pal. I don’t know why they imagine I’d be clued in on your Glocca Morra criminal associates.”

  “That’s Winnemucca, Veeva.”

  “Whatever. I didn’t even know you guys were in a gang with that hearse hijacker. It came as a complete shock to me.”

  “Well, it’s not much of a gang.”

  “No, you’re just splashed across the front page of every newspaper in the state. Fortunately, everything’s in a big uproar here. My mother hardly noticed the cops.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “My parents had a monster fight. Daddy said he had to go to Vegas on business, but my mother accused him of wanting to see Nick’s Czech girlfriend.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I’m not sure. Daddy tends to mumble during fights, and it’s hard to hear him over Mother’s screaming.”

  “Did he go?”

  “Oh, he went. Last night. My mother’s been totally insane ever since. She was so distracted, I got her to give me my credit card back early.”

  “Damn, Veeva, your father and my brother might be stuck on the same woman.”

  “I know. It’s all very unsettling. I’m feeling almost as jealous as Mother.”

  “You’re such a daddy’s girl, Veeva.”

  “Well, that’s no secret. That’s why it’s such a positive step that I did it with you. Speaking of sleeping with Twisps, I heard back from Aunt Sheeni.”

  “About her kid? What did she say?”

  “She said and I quote: ‘You must have been watching too much American TV.’ How’s that for a copout?”

  “Yeah, Veeva, if it wasn’t true, you’d think she’d be denying it more vigorously than that.”

  “Exactly my feeling, Noel. Now tell me all about jail!”

  We discussed my prison experiences, declared our mutual regard, and promised to keep in touch. I didn’t tell her about the cops finding my blog and threatening to expose our affair. There’s no point in everyone in the Saunders’ household coming unglued. And I want to keep Veeva on my side as long as possible. A guy needs at least one friend in his life.

  5:12 p.m. Despite the scorching weather, I had to get away. Grandma packed me a bag lunch and I took a long bike ride out of town. One good thing about Winnemucca, you don’t have to travel far to find Total Solitude.

  If you take the time to look closely, I suppose the landscape is not as desolate as it seems. I ate my lunch beside a dried-up stream. The best way to end it, I decided, would be to hike far out of town with a small collapsible shovel, find a tall sand bank, and tunnel into it until it collapses down on top of you. It would all be over in a few minutes, and chances are nobody would ever find you. You’d just disappear. In a few thousand years the sand bank might wash away, and some future Future Civilization would discover your bones and speculate on your demise. Probably they’d never suspect you were escaping a rape charge and a love affair that went bad. If I copied my blog onto a CD and stuck it in my pocket, do you suppose they’d be able to read it in 5009? Most likely it would be way too obsolete by then.

  SATURDAY, August 13 – The phone rang in the middle of the night. It was Jamal Bogy himself. All in all, the fugitive seemed pretty cheerful.

  “Jesus, Jamal, why’d you steal that hearse?”

  “Shit, Noel, you ever tried hitchhikin’ as a black dude? Man, you could grow old and die waitin’ for a ride.”

  “What were you doing in Sacramento?”

  “Well, bro’, first I hitched to Reno ’cause you weren’t givin’ me no bus money.”

  “You saw Rashilla?”

  “Yeah, man. It didn’t work out with that bitch. I didn’t tell her I was white, but she didn’t tell me she was fat. So I figured I’d come that far, hell, I might as well go to Disneyland.”

  “Yeah, well, you chose an odd way to get there.”

  “You watch me on TV, dude? Man, that was a blast haulin’ down the road with all those ‘copters chasin’ my ass. That Cadillac had some balls! I mean it could go! I gots to get me one of those cars!”

  “So how’d you escape the cops?”

  “Piece of cake, dude. I rolled under some parked car, wiped off my paint, and stuck my afro in my backpack. Then I hooked up with this family, said I got separated from my parents, and they gave me a lift to Pasadena.”

  “So you’re in Pasadena?”

  “I was. Man, that’s a white bread town. Got my black ass out of there in a hurry.”

  From my experience only his underwear was dark, but I didn’t contest the point.

  “So where are you now?”

  “I hooked up with these dudes. They invited me to share their crib.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Damn, Noel, I gots to go. Just checkin’ in, bro’. Got to crash now. We’re making a big run tomorrow to pick up some reefer.”

  “A run to where?”

  “Hasta la vista, dude!”

  Even though it was 3:12 by the clock, I immediately phoned Detective Moroni and told him that Carlyle Bogy might be trying to cross the border into Mexico tomorrow in the company of marijuana smugglers. He thanked me, but said I should never again call him at that hour unless Jesus Christ on a pogo stick had just cruised into the Silver Sluice looking for some action. Damn, how was I supposed to know my information could wait ’til morning? I thought it was a Vital Breakthrough.

  11:14 a.m. I’ve hauled the battery from Grandma’s Honda out to the hippie bus to recharge my laptop. I hope she doesn’t mind.

  A Federal Express truck arrived after breakfast and delivered an overnight package from Veeva. She’s lent me her spare cell phone until the cops return mine. Those assholes better not be running up a bunch of charges on my number. I tested out the new phone by checking in with Stoney. Her parents were pissed to hear she’d joined a gang, and she’s now totally grounded except for going out on dates with guys.

  “Not that Scott’s likely to phone after this scandal,” she sighed. “Are you grounded too?”

  “No way. Grandma knows I’m innocent.”

  “You’re so lucky not to have real parents, Noel. I’m thinking seriously of murdering mine.”

  “Don’t do anything rash, Stoney. Maybe you should give Scott a call.”

  “And say what? Invite him over to view my gang tattoos?”

  Sure, it’s hard for guys to work up the nerve to ask chicks out. But it’s probably harder for girls to wait around hoping the guy they like wakes up to their existence.

  4:14 p.m. My emasculated stepfather Lance Wescott just roared into the driveway. Things have gotten very ugly indeed.

  SUNDAY, August
14 – I’m on the road. I’m putting the dust of Winnemucca behind me. I would like to have seen Uma one last time before I left, but that wasn’t in the cards. I left a note for Grandma and cut out early this morning. I have my backpack, my laptop, and $87.43 in cash. Not much assets to show for 15-1/2 years on this planet. Way too little to be splurging on bus tickets, so I walked down Main Street and loitered by the front gate of an RV park. When a rig with California plates was exiting, I tugged open the rear door of the trailer and hopped in. Fortunately, the guy was headed west. It was one of those giant rolling home on wheels where the front third extends up over the bed of the truck towing it. I think they’re called fifth-wheel trailers. Seemed oddly cramped inside, but then I figured out that was because all the slide-out sections had been sucked inside for moving. I sat in a recliner and watched my hometown retreating in the early morning light through the huge rear window. I poured myself a glass of water and later used the toilet in the fancy bathroom. Got a little nervous when the guy stopped for gas in Stockton. I thought they might come in for lunch, but they headed into the truck-stop restaurant instead (after nearly giving me a heart attack when they stopped to lock the trailer door). It was an old guy and his perky younger wife. I found some barbecued chicken in the refrigerator and some corn chips in a cupboard. The only thing cold they had to drink was beer, so I stuck with water. Finished it off with some great homemade chocolate cake. Beats standing by the highway in the heat with your thumb out.

  We headed down Route 99 in the afternoon and got all the way to Bakersfield before they pulled off the freeway. I didn’t know where they were headed, so when they stopped at a light, I bailed out and walked back to the freeway interchange. I had a budget dinner in a truck-stop diner, then walked around the lot asking the truckers idling there if anyone was going to L.A. A younger guy who looked fairly unmenacing agreed to give me a lift. He’d been driving a long time (and fudging his logbook), so he needed someone to talk with to help him stay awake. We crawled up the Grapevine at about eight miles per hour, and I told him all about the events of the last few days. He said he left home at 16 and lied about his age to get in the army. He didn’t recommend that course of action, but said at least the army gave him experience driving big trucks. He was an on-call driver now, which he liked because it left him plenty of time to go surfing. He talked about surfing non-stop for the next three hours, which Tyler probably would have found fascinating. He dropped me off in West L.A., and I took a city bus into Santa Monica.

  It’s now after 11 p.m. and I’m bedded down for the night in some bushes next to the Civic Auditorium a few blocks from the ocean. Rather scary and not that comfortable, but it seems fairly deserted around here. Still pretty warm, so I don’t think I’ll freeze to death. It’s worrisome being on my own, but at least I don’t have to listen to Lance Wescott’s fat mouth any more. I’m thinking of changing my name. Perhaps I should just bite the bullet and go with Twisp.

  Noel Twisp.

  I could live with that.

  TUESDAY, August 16 – Sorry to have skipped a day, but yesterday was hectic in the extreme. Anyway, Veeva doesn’t understand why I bother to write a blog, since it isn’t actually posted on the Web. I told her that noting what I do and feel every day makes my life seem slightly more worth living. She seemed to accept that and said maybe in 20 years her children will be desperate to read it. Hard to imagine Veeva as a mom. The good news is she’s had her period, so those condoms in Vegas were doing their job. The bad news is I am no longer recording our intimate activities (should they occur) in case this laptop falls into the wrong hands.

  I was planning on sleeping in doorways along Venice Beach and panhandling tourists for spare change, but darling Veeva has come to my rescue (at least temporarily). She has secreted me in her granny’s old house in Bel Air about a half-mile from her own posh pad. Mrs. Rita Krusinowski (her grandmother) now lives near Phoenix, but has retained her old home for when the Arizona summer heat proves too oppressive. It was 116 degrees there yesterday, but Rita would rather swelter in the desert (says Veeva) than face her daughter and her grandchildren in L.A. She allegedly prefers the company of her Chihuahua dogs and a one-armed chef/chauffeur/handyman/companion named Dogo.

  The house isn’t entirely deserted though. I’m sharing these once palatial premises with Señora Garonne, the elderly mother of the Saunders’ housekeeper Benecia. Although she does not quite have all of her marbles, she is employed as a caretaker by Mrs. Krusinowski. I’m not sure what care she takes, since the place is looking a bit decrepit–and that’s saying something from a guy used to life in a squalid trailer. Señora Garonne is under the impression that I am Veeva’s brother James (still salted away at camp). Every time we pass in a hallway she exclaims at how Nipsie has grown. I cornered Veeva on this point, and she admitted that her brother (the elder of the two) is only 11. Years ago he acquired the nickname “Nipsie,” but Veeva felt the topic was too tiresome to go into further.

  Bel Air is nice (the view from up here is to die for), but it’s a bit far off the beaten track for a kid with no car. I found a dusty old ten-speed in the garage though, and I’m using it for transportation. Veeva thinks it might have belonged to Dogo. I wanted to move into his old quarters above the garage, but that door is locked and no one seems to have the key. So I took the farthest bedroom from Señora Garonne, and Veeva and I may or may not have gotten reacquainted there several times so far with the door securely closed.

  Of course, Veeva had to let Benecia in on my presence, since she frequently looks in on her mom and brings her groceries, but she’s agreed to stay mum. Señora Garonne is a much better cook than my grandmother, though she gets confused sometimes and does things like thicken the chicken soup with powdered sugar. Her English used to be pretty good, but Veeva says that her adopted language is now dribbling out with her marbles. We get along OK with a combination of English and my schoolyard Spanish. I’m learning to answer to the name Nipsie. I’m also trying to be helpful so her daughter will view my presence here favorably. I don’t know if Benecia suspects Veeva’s interest in me is more than casual. I hope not. According to Benecia, my brother Nick once hid out up here when the cops were after him. I guess it’s a Twisp family tradition.

  Speaking of cops, there’s been no news of Carlyle being captured at the border. Detective Moroni probably thinks I made that story up, and is now even more committed to nailing my bloodied scalp to his wall.

  Life would be OK if I didn’t have to worry about that and obsess about Uma the rest of the time. Why am I so stuck on that chick? The guy who said ‘better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’ was completely full of shit.

  WEDNESDAY, August 17 – Grandma’s 77th birthday. Sorry to have missed it. I didn’t dare send her a card or call her either. I hope she’s OK, and if Lance is still there, he takes her out someplace nice for dinner. She should have an easier time of it now without me there to run up her expenses.

  Two weeks since Uma split from my life. I try not to wonder how she’s getting on with Scott Chandler. I must put Winnemucca behind me. That part of my life is over.

  Veeva reports her father is due back from Vegas tonight. No word yet how anyone is making out with Reina. I guess I’m rooting for my brother. Connie Saunders is totally pissed at Veeva for blabbing about Reina’s arrival in the U.S., as if she was supposed to know of her father’s interest in that babe. Connie even accused her daughter of trying to break up her marriage. The irony is that according to what Veeva has been able to piece together over the years, it was her mom who intrigued to throw her own father at Paul Saunder’s then girlfriend so Connie could make a play for him. She succeeded, the Krusinowskis got divorced, then her father croaked from a heart attack, leaving a big chunk of his fortune to Paul’s old girlfriend. (Something Connie is still burned up about.) Well, Veeva recently called this woman (named Lacey) and found out it was all true. Where things really gets kinky is that before Lacey hooked up with Paul, she was
living with my own father. It was Nick who brought them together! Veeva thinks her mother’s scheming was lower than low, although she’s willing to concede that if Connie hadn’t made the play, Veeva wouldn’t be around today to sneer at it. I’m thankful my own genesis hadn’t hinged on such a convoluted set of circumstances. My parents just got loaded and went at it for old time’s sake.

  I’m beginning to see that mothers and daughters can be extremely competitive. For example, Veeva feels that her mother resents her because she has developed very nice breasts, while her mother’s own impressive rack is entirely fake. Why this creates friction in a family I don’t really comprehend. Shouldn’t mothers be proud of their daughters’ attributes? Not that my alleged fathers have ever demonstrated any pride in my accomplishments, meager as they may be.

  7:14 p.m. Veeva just called me with the news of the day. I was kind of hoping to see her, but I suppose she has her own exciting life to lead. She finally got through to Tyler, who’s been switching off his cell phone because his coach says all those calls from girls were interfering with his concentration on football. He’s the quarterback of his team and has to stay alert. Tyler reports the cops released him pretty fast when they realized an all-city athlete wouldn’t lie about the whereabouts of a despicable gangbanger like Carlyle. As if a guy is trustworthy just because he has muscles, wears a jockstrap, and knows which end of a football to hold.

  Tyler further reported that Awanee is in a panic and has turned her entire house upside down trying to find a valuable ring that I supposedly gave her. So I had to explain that story to Veeva without making it sound like I ever had a romantic interest in the girl. Not easy and I don’t think Veeva found my prevarications particularly credible.

  The big news is the uproar that has been created by the disappearance of Noel Twisp (formerly Wescott). Apparently, I’ve been missed. In fact, my mother is threatening to sic her lawyer on Grandma for gross child neglect. My disappearance has been reported to the cops, and all friends and relatives have been alerted to be on the lookout for me. Damn, I may be seeing my photo on milk cartons soon. Jesus, thousands of kids leave home every day. How come they’re making such a fuss about me? Are they that desperate to see my puny ass behind bars?