Revoltingly Young

by Payne, C. D.

  The painful introductions were made in their grand Old English foyer. It had all the period accouterments except two knights dueling with swords. Everyone was doing their best to be gracious and consoling toward newly orphaned Jake Darko, who was certainly nervous if not emotionally devastated. Mrs. Dockweiler gave me a fierce hug and said she was available for grief counseling 24/7. I thanked her and said I’d probably do OK on my own for now. Somehow I made it to the lower-level guestroom with my stuff, but Maddy pushed her way in before I could shut the door.

  “God, from Veeva’s description I thought you’d be much cuter.”

  “Uh, no . . . I guess, I’m not. What’s my name again?”

  “Jake Darko. Don’t you love it?”

  “Uh, it’s OK.”

  “All my friends have huge crushes on the actor Jake Gyllenhaal. He’s an alumnus of our school. You’ll recall he made quite an impression starring in the film Donnie Darko.”

  “Uh, I don’t think I saw that movie.”

  “Oh, you really should, Jake. Well, I’ll let you get unpacked. Dinner’s at 7:00. Try not to let my mother get her claws into you.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Just don’t encourage her.”

  Maddy then let out a piercing scream that about blew me out of my shoes.

  “Don’t you love the echo in this room?” she inquired, dancing out the door.

  I walked over and checked the knob. Just as I feared. No lock.

  11:08 p.m. On a pain scale of one to ten, I’d rate dinner a 9.6. Mrs. Dockweiler did her professional best to draw me out, but I took refuge in monosyllabic mumbling. Fortunately, the eats were great, though I fear I surprised my hosts with my hearty appetite. Yeah, kids can be so callous these days. I had to keep making up stuff when the Dockweilers asked me about siblings, what my parents did, where I lived, who was arranging the funeral, why no relatives were available to take me in, etc. God, it will be a miracle if I can keep my story straight. Mr. Dockweiler probably wouldn’t notice, but his wife is trained to root out everyone’s darkest and deepest secrets. Fortunately, Maddy and Marty (her 16-year-old brother) tried as best they could to distract her. I don’t see how those two kids can stand it. I’m sure if she were my mother, I would have run away from home even sooner.

  Marty let me check my e-mail on his state-of-the-art computer. He also has all the latest game consoles. No e-mail from Uma, but I had messages from Nick, Tyler, and Awanee urging me to check in right away. My brother added that his lawyers can deal with the cops, and I should call him collect before he leaves for Paris. Too bad that guy’s credibility is so low. If his lawyers are so smart, how come he had to spend half his teen years locked up? Of course, I haven’t winged anyone with a gun–not yet at any rate. I didn’t dare send any replies, fearing the cops might trace them back to Marty’s computer.

  Maddy’s brother seems as retiring as his sister is aggressive. They don’t look much alike except for the exact same heavily lidded brown eyes borrowed intact from their dad. No way Mr. Dockweiler could ever weasel out of a lawsuit contesting their paternity.

  The good thing about hanging out in Marty’s room is his sister can’t get at you there. They have a house rule that each bedroom is a personal sanctuary–no other family members allowed unless expressly invited. I’m praying that also applies to the guestroom. Marty showed me some of his video games and asked if it was true that I was a founding member of the notorious Uptowners gang.

  “Yeah. In fact, I’m the one who came up with the name.”

  “That is so cool. Do you really know Carlyle Bogy?”

  “I’ve known him since kindergarten. Want to know an interesting fact about that guy?”

  “Sure, Jake.”

  “Carlyle can tie his dick in a knot.”

  “How do you know that? Are you lovers?”

  “Uh, no, but I’ve seen him do it.”

  “That’s amazing. Is it true you’re also getting it on with Veeva Saunders?”

  Veeva is one to talk about people wagging their tongues.

  “Yeah, I suppose so.”

  “Do you like her as much as Carlyle?”

  Marty was not as laid back as I’d first assumed. Nor did he listen very well.

  “I like her fine. Why?”

  “Just asking. Has anyone told you, Jake, that you look like Brandon De Wilde?”

  “People have mentioned it. I’m surprised you even know about that actor. He was way before our time.”

  “I have DVDs of many of his films and most of his TV appearances.”

  “Wow, you must really like the guy.”

  “My grandfather worked on the crew of his TV show ‘Jamie’ back in the 1950s. Brandon was still a kid actor then. It only ran one season. He died in a car wreck–just like your imaginary parents.”

  “Yeah, I heard that. He was only 30.”

  The same age as my brother Nick. Just goes to show you never know what’s coming around the next corner.

  “Brandon was on his way to appear in a stage production of ‘Butterflies Are Free.’ Isn’t that ironic, Jake?”

  “Is it, Marty?”

  “Sure, Jake. Butterflies are free, but people die in car crashes. You know, there’s a butterfly on your T-shirt.”

  “Yeah, my sister gave me this shirt. It’s not really my style.”

  “I think it’s fucking amazing, Jake. Just fabulously fucking awesome!”

  So far, kids in L.A. seem way more intense than your average teen redneck back in Winnemucca.

  I have wedged the back of a desk chair against the doorknob like they do in the movies. At the very least, it should slow down any intruders. My mattress is surprisingly lumpy for the Dockweilers being so loaded. It is also besmirched with some suspicious stains. Probably a hand-me-down from their kids’ toilet training days. I pray to God I don’t add to the designs as the housekeeper would probably scream rape if I showed up invited in her laundry room with my sheets. I was doing OK in that department at the Krusinowski manse, but then I was feeling a bit more relaxed there. This being a houseguest is rather stressful to the nerves.

  Probably I should do a little loud sobbing now for the benefit of my hosts. I think I’ll skip it though and just hit the sack. Perhaps I’ll be able to work up a few orphan’s tears at breakfast. That should keep them satisfied for a while.

  SUNDAY, August 21 – The Dockweilers and houseguest drove to Venice this morning for breakfast at an outdoor café near one of the canals. I don’t see why people move to Europe when you can get virtually the same ambience right here. And here the waitresses wear cute form-hugging tops and speak your own language.

  Grieving, I’ve decided, is a lot like moping, which I’ve had tons of experience at. So I moped all through breakfast, while downing a large omelet plus two breakfast pastries. I spotted a fellow diner who reminded me of Uma, so I let out a genuine sniffle as well. Good thing too, because Mrs. Dockweiler watched me like a hawk the entire time. I think she’s decided she has a professional responsibility to get me through this crisis. God help any of her family members if somebody close to them actually dies. I’m sure she’d make everyone feel at least ten times worse.

  Midway through the meal I excused myself to take a call from Veeva. She reported that the minute Connie Saunders heard her mother was in town she made plans to escape with her hubby to romantic Santa Barbara for a few days–just the two of them.

  “I think she’s hoping to reinvigorate her marriage,” commented Veeva. “Fat chance of that.”

  I begged Veeva to let me come stay with her while her parents were away, but she said it was too risky.

  “Maddy Dockweiler is a total pain!” I complained. “She keeps putting me down.”

  “Oh, she always does that with her friends’ boyfriends. I could be going out with Tyler and she’d still find a way to get a dig in at him. It’s just her coping mechanism, Noel.”

  “That implies you feel Tyler is some kind of ultimate, Veeva–
the boyfriend beyond reproach.”

  “Don’t be silly, Noel. I was just using him as an example.”

  “No, Veeva, there was a clear superiority over me implied in that statement. That was a putdown worthy of Maddy herself.”

  “Well, Noel, you’re always letting me know how I don’t measure up to your precious Uma. And frankly I’m sick of it.”

  “Veeva darling, I think you’re great. I love the time we spend together.”

  “I like you too, Noel. You’re very special to me.”

  “Then you’ll let me come stay with you?”

  “Forget it! You don’t know my mother. She’d sniff the air and know I’d had a man in the place. The woman is some kind of she-wolf.”

  Now moping for real, I returned to the table and said the call was from my Aunt Min in Dallas consulting on the choice of colors for the funeral.

  “Aren’t the colors usually black?” inquired Mr. Dockweiler.

  “Not in my family,” I replied, “When my Uncle Phil died, he went out in shades of teal and gold. And Grandma Edna specified lavender and baby blue. Laid out for viewing, she made quite a memorable display.”

  Later we all got a break from Maddy’s mouth when she went to the beach with her surfing club. According to her brother, she joined that group to meet boys, but so far has achieved intimate contact only with manta rays and jellyfish. Marty prefers tennis and insisted that we bang some balls back and forth on the Dockweiler’s private court. Believe it or not, when they bought the house it came with a lavish swimming pool, but they ripped it out to put in a tennis court. Is that insane, or what? To me that’s like tearing apart your Rolls Royce to make a go-kart from the wheels.

  Marty gave me a lesson in the proper way to serve a tennis ball (as if I cared), while his mother spied on us from the house. Remembering to mope, I paused occasionally to wipe away an imaginary tear. Then we went up to his room to sample more of his video games, and I played him my Pickled Punks CD on his righteous stereo. Impressed he was not. He plays trumpet in his school’s jazz band, and prefers the music of Miles Davis–even though that guy has been dead for years.

  The time went by pretty fast and the eats were good too, even though it was the housekeeper’s day off. In keeping with a family tradition, Mr. Dockweiler made dinner (he does that every Sunday night). Tonight he made his mother’s old recipe for peppered ham casserole. I had three helpings, though I had to pick out all the artichoke hearts. Yuck. They might have been big back in his mother’s day, but I told him I didn’t think anyone was eating them any more. He said he would “take that under advisement,” whatever that means. Maddy only insulted me three times during the meal; she must have been feeling mellow from her day in Malibu.

  Then we watched a DVD on their giant plasma TV of a Paramount movie that won’t be released to theaters for months. It was a comedy that I think someone of the mental capacity of Carlyle Bogy might enjoy. Maddy told her dad it was a “royal stinker,” but he said not to worry because they had already recovered the costs of production and hadn’t even finished selling all the “secondary rights.”

  All in all, a fairly pleasant day, and it didn’t cost me a cent. I think this houseguest racket may be better than I first assumed. The secret, I think, is to get invited someplace nice like Beverly Hills instead of, say, a trailer park in the sticks, where they might expect you to help with the dishes and chip in for the eats.

  MONDAY, August 22 – The chair against the door worked fine, except the intruder came in through the French doors. Terrified, I switched on a lamp and there was Marty Dockweiler in his flannel bathrobe. He was carrying a half-full bottle of red wine and two glasses.

  “Care for a drink, Jake?” he asked.

  I looked at the clock on the night stand.

  “Marty, it’s 2:47 in the goddam morning.”

  “I’m taking that as an affirmative, Jake.” He filled both glasses and handed one to me.

  “Actually, Jake, it’s only 1:47. That clock was never adjusted to Daylight Savings Time. We don’t get that many guests down here because of the mold problem. How do you like the wine?”

  I took a tentative sip. My first taste of wine. Not bad–only a notch or two degraded from the original grape juice.

  “It’s OK, Marty. Did you swipe this from your parents’ stash?”

  “You’re such a throwback, Jake. I find that charming. Mind if I sit down?”

  Since the chair was busy blocking the door, I moved my feet aside and he sat on the bed. He nodded toward the door.

  “Was that chair there to keep me out?”

  “I was thinking more of your scary sister.”

  “Glad to hear it. Maddy seems to be exhibiting an unusual hostility toward you. She’s very competitive with Veeva, you know.”

  “Then why did she agree to hide me out?”

  “Because she and Veeva are best friends. They’d do anything for each other. Do you sleep in the nude?”

  “No, I sleep in my shorts. How ‘bout you?”

  “In the buff. Always. More wine?”

  “OK.”

  Marty splashed more wine in my glass, and I took a big swig. Unlike vodka, this stuff improved with use. Something fluttered by the lampshade, startling me.

  “It’s only a moth, Jake. It must have come in with me. A moth has joined the butterfly.”

  Marty impressed me as a kid who was fixated on butterflies. I asked him if he collected them.

  “You’re my first, Jake. My first and best.”

  The guy wasn’t making much sense, so I figured he must have started earlier on the wine with a full bottle. His speech was a bit slurred too.

  “I like your dad, Marty. Your mother’s OK too.”

  “That’s a joke, Jake. You don’t have to bullshit me. And I’m not going to bullshit you. OK?”

  “OK, Marty. It’s a deal.”

  “The thing is, Jake. It’s like this. I’ve got it all figured out. You’ve got two choices here. More wine?”

  “OK.”

  Marty emptied the bottle into our glasses.

  “What are my two choices, Marty?” I hoped they wouldn’t be too difficult because my head was beginning to spin.

  “Number one, Jake, I can go upstairs and tell my parents who you really are.”

  “Not a very nice choice, Marty.”

  “No, not very nice, Jake. Or, number two you can invite me into that bed.”

  That choice didn’t sound very nice either. I told him I was a bed-wetter from way back. He said he’d risk it, switched off the lamp, and shoved in beside me. I sensed immediately that he had left his flannel robe behind. Kind of an awkward situation for my muddled brain to cope with. A realization began to dawn.

  “Marty, are you gay?” I asked, pulling away from his embrace.

  “There’s no such thing, Jake. Everyone is bisexual, only some of us choose to admit it to ourselves.”

  Damn, was that a yes or no? I couldn’t really tell, although his clammy hand down my shorts was pointing toward the affirmative. I told him I was straight and had two girlfriends. He reminded me that I only had two choices. So, to make a long story short, the houseguest received a more or less compulsory blowjob and then a tearful apology. Marty said he loved me deeply despite my being an uncultured clod, and I said he should go away and leave me alone. Eventually, he did.

  Only the second blowjob of my life and I had to receive it from a guy. Even worse, it was not unenjoyable. In fact, I came rather more explosively than I did with Veeva. I’m hoping that can be attributed to a general relaxation induced by the wine and not a hitherto unsuspected sexual inclination. That is another problem I just don’t need.

  The adults had both gone to work by the time I wandered into the kitchen looking for breakfast. Too bad too, because my dull headache from the wine would have enhanced any simulations of grief. Maddy said I looked like a homeless person and deigned to point out the cupboard containing the cold cereal. No sign of Marty, not that I w
as looking for him. I ate two bowls of organic granola, then tried calling Veeva. No answer so I left a message.

  Now I have finished updating my blog and await the next houseguest activity. What does the proper houseguest do to avert excruciating boredom when he’s not fending off amorous assaults? Dare I sneak upstairs and snoop?

  4:12 p.m. No call back yet from Veeva. Where is that chick? I had lunch out on the terrace with Marty. Excellent tamales made by the Dockweiler’s morose housekeeper. I decided I can’t hate a guy just because he loves me and thinks I’m an uncultured clod. Plus, he had gone out this morning and bought some antique games for my laptop. Very sedate ones, of course, so as not to tax my anemic processor. We kept the conversation on computers and did not broach the unmentionables. I’d probably like the guy if he wasn’t hung up on Brandon and butterflies and me.

  When we were finishing up dessert, Marty’s mom came home, kissed her son, and invited the houseguest up to her office. Ominous feelings of dread washed over me as I trooped up those carpeted stairs behind her. I knew which room was her office, since I had given it a thorough inspection a few hours before. Her file cabinets had revealed some interesting facts that some prominent celebrities would probably pay Big Money not to have revealed. She dumped her purse on a shelf, closed the door, and waved to me to take a seat on the sofa. We both sat, got comfortable, and smiled at each other across her cluttered desk.

  “How are you, Jake dear?” she asked.

  “Not too bad. God, I still can’t believe my parents are dead.”

  “I have some good news for you, Jake. I had my administrative assistant check with the Highway Patrol. There were no fatalities on the 405 Freeway last week.”

  “Oh. . . Really? . . . Well, uh, that’s a relief.”

  “I’m rather disappointed that you guys felt the need to lie to me, Jake.”

  “Oh, you know, huh? Did Maddy tell you?”

  “She didn’t have to, Jake. I see with a mother’s eyes.”