by Payne, C. D.
I finally checked in with Grandma, who seemed delighted to hear from me. Yeah, she wants me back, and she claims it’s OK with her son too. She told Lance that if I wasn’t there to look after her, she’d have to think seriously about moving in with him. I guess a 57-year-old ex-cop figures it’d look bad if he’s living with his mom. I should start charging that guy hefty fees for elder care.
8:14 p.m. I had dinner in the cookhouse tent with Miren. We found an unoccupied table and sat by ourselves. I guess her parents don’t mind me now since we’re related, and they got clued in that Randy was the actual drug-dealer, not me.
Miren is still pretty amazed by the turn of events. She said it would be like in Pride and Prejudice if Elizabeth Bennet had gone through the whole rigmarole with Mr. Darcy, only to discover on the last page that he was her uncle.
I hadn’t read the book, but I told her I could see her point. I said I hoped she wouldn’t wind up resenting me for molesting her.
She said that we both cared for each other, and she could see no reason to feel ashamed about what happened. She said that we probably would have broken up soon and never seen each other again. Now that can’t happen because “an uncle is for life.” She admitted that Nerea is disappointed that our marriage is off.
“Why was your sister so hot for us to get married?” I asked.
“Nerea is terrified we’ll grow apart. She doesn’t want me to go to college and find a life apart from the circus. She figures if I’m married and have kids, I’ll always stay right here–with the family and with her.”
“I know how she feels,” I said. “I don’t much like change either. I’m having a hard time thinking of you as my brother’s daughter.”
“I know, Jake. It’s a shock. Or should I call you Noel now?”
“No, I prefer Jake.”
Miren said she and her sister liked their “Uncle Alfredo” when they were little kids, but lately he’d been sort of creeping them out. He was always watching them–as if anyone needs yet another parent. Plus, it had mystified her why such an internationally known clown would want to travel with an obscure one-ring mud show like this one. She wishes her parents had informed them why he was so obsessed about them, but understands why they hadn’t.
Curious about her background, Miren asked me many questions about the Twisps and the Saunders. I told her what I knew, remembering to sugarcoat some of the nastier Twisp parts. For example, I said her paternal grandfather was “retired and living in Los Angeles.” We agreed that it was a shame things hadn’t worked out better with Nick and Reina. She suspects that Sheeni and Reina were the two great loves of his life, yet now he has wound up with neither of them.
I’m amazed how chicks always seem to know such things. I mean, she only met the guy yesterday.
11:48 p.m. After the evening show, Nick and I hung out with the Lurrietas in their trailer. We drank Basque wine (I got a watered-down splash), and Nick and Mr. Lurrieta swapped circus stories and discussed mutual show-biz acquaintances. I sat beside Miren and kept reminding myself not to put my arm around her or grab her hand. Incest or no, I really wanted to hold her in inappropriate ways. Despite the wine, everyone was a bit down because the circus jumps to Nebraska tomorrow, while we’re heading back to Winnemucca in Nick’s rental car.
Then it was time to say good night, and things got even sadder.
Will write more tomorrow. Feel too low now.
SATURDAY, September 24 – The circus pulled out right on the dot at 7:00 a.m. Nick showed up a little after 6:00 with coffee and donuts. I tossed my stuff in his car, and we stood around in the golden light of the rising sun and talked about nothing much. Nerea and Miren looped their arms around mine, and we took Mr. Barker’s pugs for a stroll around the lot. Then it was time to go, and we did the final hugs, and I got kissed by all the Lurrietas except their old man. Lots of tears, and I was not entirely exempt either. My brother was such a wreck, it took him 20 minutes to get it together enough to start the car and head down the road.
6:45 p.m. We made it to Salt Lake City. Nick sprung for separate motel rooms because he said he has “problems sleeping with other people in the room.” That may explain why he’s 30 and still single.
My brother has quite the lead foot. He slams over into the left lane, accelerates like he just broke jail, and holds it steady at a brisk 90 mph. He says he always thrashes his rental cars because, “Hey, it’s not my car.” On a lightly traveled stretch of interstate between Buffalo and Casper he let me take the wheel. He told me to stay under the speed limit and “try not to hit anything.” Driving a car is way better than any video game. Hard to believe adults get tired of it. Nick practically had to pry my hands off the wheel to take over when we hit heavier traffic this afternoon.
Nick said when he was 14 he drove a large Lincoln towing a trailer through heavy rush-hour traffic from Oakland to Berkeley with disastrous consequences. Hard to believe my sedate brother was once so wild. I hope I haven’t inherited that same sobering gene.
Can’t write any more. Going out to dinner with my ‘bro. I think I’ll order a big steak and let him pick up the check.
10:18 p.m. Not much on the motel TV. I was hoping for a porno channel, but dream on. Both Nick and I agree this town is the cleanest city we’ve ever seen–and Nick has been all over the world. Our waitress was so scrubbed and fresh-faced, she looked like she’d just been unwrapped from the factory packaging. Incredibly perky too, like she was totally thrilled to be there taking our orders. She almost had an orgasm on the spot when I told her I wanted my filet cooked medium rare. All that enthusiasm, yet the food was mediocre at best.
Over dinner I got Nick to talk about why things went sour for him in Paris. He said too many years had gone by, and both he and Reina had changed. They were too much in their own separate worlds now. Plus, her kids felt totally threatened and wanted their real dad back, not “some American turkey who couldn’t speak the language.” Nick said Reina had inherited an apartment building in Paris. Since her young kids made it difficult for her to tour with her bird act, she wanted Nick to quit the stage and help her run the building.
“Somehow she imagined that I would want to do that. She thought it was perfect because we could be together all the time. True, but when I get out of bed in the morning, I want to look forward to more than fixing toilets and collecting rent from a bunch of disgruntled tenants. Besides, I had already worked as a janitor in that building–years ago when I lived there with Sheeni. The thought of carrying out the same garbage cans left me cold. I don’t think Reina quite realized that I wasn’t this marginal person any more. That I had a profession now and had done very well in it.”
Nick was skeptical Paul Saunders would fare any better, but said Sheeni’s brother had at least one thing going for him: “Reina’s parrots love that guy. They just go wild when they see him. Naturally, she takes that as an encouraging sign.”
Feeling reckless, I raised the touchiest subject of them all: Sheeni Saunders.
My brother sipped his wine and shifted uneasily on the banquette.
“Yeah, it was interesting seeing Sheeni after all these years. I used to think the sun rose and set on that gal. I thought she was the smartest, most beautiful girl in the world.”
“And now?” I asked.
“I think she spends too much time out in the sun. I don’t know, I was struck by how coarse her skin had become. Her eyes seemed tired. They’d lost their sparkle.”
“And?”
“And what? That’s about it. We’re strangers now–except I suppose we have our children in common.”
“Do you wish you were still married to her?”
“Hard to say. Could be–at least theoretically sometimes. But I didn’t feel that way when I was sitting beside her in that Paris restaurant. I was thinking, hey, I don’t know this person at all.”
Weird. According to Veeva, Nick’s been totally hung up on that chick for half his life, yet he tells me she feels like a complete strange
r to him.
Nick pushed aside his plate and asked me if there was anything going on between Miren and me.
Being a full-blooded Twisp, I denied everything. I said we were just pals and Miren wasn’t that interested in boys because she intended to go to college and study literature.
“She takes after her mother,” he commented. “I think Nerea may have a bit more of the Twisp in her.”
A fairly astute observation. My brother may not be as oblivious as I’d always assumed.
SUNDAY, September 25 – Once we were out of Salt Lake City traffic, Nick let me take over and drive the rest of the way. It didn’t seem to phase him that I had no license and yesterday was my first time behind the wheel. Perhaps a spark of that youthful rebel still flickers inside my brother. I did have a near-miss in the restaurant parking lot when we stopped for lunch in Elko. How was I supposed to know that ancient idiot would pull right out in front of me? Doddering 90-year-olds are allowed to drive in this state, but me–a teen with all my finely honed faculties in prime condition–is denied my rightful license. Is that fucked up, or what?
At lunch I mentioned to Nick that I was thinking of changing my name to Jake Twisp.
“Jake, huh?” he said. “Is that short for Jacob?”
“No, it’s just Jake.”
“How about a middle name? Most people have one.”
“I don’t know, Nick. I never thought about that.”
“How about Jake Sinatra Twisp? That has a nice ring to it.”
Yeah, maybe. If you’re 103 years old. I told him I would pass on the middle name. Nick said if I was serious, he would get his lawyer to file the paperwork. I told him to go ahead.
Jake Twisp. I think that sounds like me. At least for now.
Grandma was thrilled to see us. She gave us both hugs and carried on in a rather embarrassing way about my face bruises and bum tooth. She looked OK, but she’d put on a few pounds. Wescotts tend to do that when they’re stressed. I wish I didn’t cause her so much worry.
Grandma invited Nick to stay the night, but he was eager to get going. He said he planned to dump the rental car in Reno and catch the next flight to Vegas. I gave him a farewell hug, and he slipped me another $100 bill. That makes two hugs and $200 from that guy. He pays off better than any slot machine in the state.
So here I am back in my cramped and squalid bedroom. Still, it’s palace-sized compared to my circus roomette. I lay down on my narrow bed and felt the crinkle of the plastic layer under my sheets. All the trauma I went through on the road, yet I didn’t wet the bed once. Not much thumb-sucking to report either. A positive trend that I hope continues.
My computer’s back from the cops, minus its violated hard drive. May take me a while to get it back up to speed. So I guess I won’t be checking my e-mail tonight.
Grandma phoned out for pizza and we’re going to watch a video. I may sew on some sequins too as her costume orders are backing up. She’s OK about my new name. She says she was never that nuts about the name Noel–or Wescott for that matter.
MONDAY, September 26 – I spent 45 minutes this morning waiting outside the office of Mr. Tweedy, Winnemucca High School’s crankiest guidance counselor. As usual, no one who passed by said hi or acknowledged my existence.
Finally, I was called in, and Mr. Tweedy looked me over with his patented frown.
“You’re back, huh, Wescott? I thought you were in jail in Southern California.”
“No, that’s Carlyle Bogy.”
“Aren’t you guys gang brothers?”
“Well, it wasn’t much of a gang. And I’ve changed my name to Jake Twisp.”
“Oh,” he sneered, “since when?”
“Since my brother’s lawyer petitioned the court for a name change.”
“Well, I’m not altering anything in this computer until I see a legal document.”
That didn’t surprise me. As everyone knows, Mr. Tweedy hates high school students and goes out of his way to be as unhelpful as possible. A few years ago he achieved notoriety throughout Northern Nevada by suspending 47 girls in one day for showing up for class with their midriffs exposed. The sight of a bare navel drives him wild. He also despises baggy trousers on boys, except he can’t really ban them since all objectionable areas are more than covered. He’s been known to stop the baggiest boys in the halls to inquire sarcastically if they just lost 200 pounds.
Mr. Tweedy turned to his computer and called up my records.
“Any requests?” he asked.
I told him I thought it would be nice if they piped hip-hop music into the classrooms over the P.A. system to help the students concentrate on their studies.
“How would you like a three-day suspension for that smart-ass remark?” he asked.
“Sorry, Mr. Tweedy. I misunderstood your question.”
“I repeat, do you have any class requests?”
“Well, I was thinking it might be interesting to take Spanish or Hungarian.”
I was in luck. Mr. Tweedy said there was an opening in Spanish I. He also plugged me into some other classes in his usual capricious and arbitrary way, then handed me a printout of my schedule.
I thanked him and told him I would need to be excused for the balance of the day as I had a hearing scheduled at 10:30 in Juvenile Court.
Mr. Tweedy smiled and said in that case I’d probably need to be excused for the next two or three years.
The judge gave me a long lecture on the dire consequences I would face if I didn’t give up my trouble-making and gang-ridden ways. She said it was only luck that I hadn’t gotten into more serious trouble and wasn’t facing “prolonged incarceration” like my peer Carlyle Bogy. She also regarded it as a very bad sign that my face bore evidence of recent hooliganism. I stated I was truly sorry for all the grief and worry I had caused my family and guardian. I got choked up and started bawling into my shirttail. Next time I’ll try to remember to take along a handkerchief. She said I appeared remorseful, and she hoped very much that I would reform and never again have to face her in court. She gave me six months probation and 50 hours of community service. In Winnemucca that usually means being trucked out to the interstate highway to pick up litter. Fortunately, I’ve had a lot of recent experience at that.
So now Noel Wescott has a police record, a parole officer, and a rap sheet.
All in all, it’s a good thing I’m changing my name.
TUESDAY, September 27 – My first day back at school. The biggest problem with missing an entire month is that there are now kids who have gone out, flourished as couples, and subsequently split up whose fleeting connection I may never have any knowledge of. It’s like if you go on a long camping trip in the wilderness and never find out that the Pope died or Brad Pitt got divorced.
There was a big pep rally for the football team during the first period; attendance was compulsory. OK, as I view it here’s the basic Winnemucca High School dilemma: Are you demonstrating poor school spirit if you’re unenthusiastic about supporting sporting competitions in a town that has no reason to exist? Why exactly are we all stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, and why should we care if our football team beats Elko (another totally pointless town)? Like me, Stoney Holt used to sit on her hands at these functions, but today I noticed she was screaming and chanting with the rest of the automatons. Is that the price one must pay for being popular and dating Scott Chandler?
I didn’t run into Uma until fifth-period study hall. To my surprise she came in and took the desk right next to mine. Even without her midriff exposed, she immediately got my heart beating wildly.
“Hi, Noel,” she said.
“Hi, Uma. I’ve changed my name.”
“Not to Toby, I hope.”
“No. To Jake–Jake Twisp.”
“Jake Twisp, huh? Well, that will take some getting used to. How was your summer vacation?”
“I wasn’t on vacation, Uma. I was a teen runaway and fugitive from the law.”
“Whatever, Jake. Did
you have a good time?”
“Well, uh, it was OK. I’m surprised you’re talking to me, Uma.”
“Your friend Stoney Holt has been e-mailing me unsolicited updates on your hectic love life, Jake.”
“She has?”
“Yes. It appears you’ve been a very busy guy.”
“I can explain everything, Uma.”
“There’s nothing to explain, Jake. I’m relieved, in fact. It appears your ego is not as fragile and your devotion to me not so all-consuming as I had first feared. Therefore, I don’t feel I have to worry about wrecking your life by associating with you.”
“Can you translate that into English, Uma?”
“In short, Jake, I still like you. Do you know what tomorrow is?”
“Uh, not offhand.”
“It’s Bingo Night. Shall I drop by at my usual hour?”
A powerful jolt went through my body, paralyzing my tongue.
“You look a little sick, Jake. And what the hell happened to your face?”
WEDNESDAY, September 27 – Uma Spurletti lost her virginity tonight to her desired partner: an experienced male. We performed the act–twice–on my narrow bed to the musical accompaniment of the Pickled Punks. Entry was gained without too much struggle, and Uma reported that the experiment probably bears repeating. My expensive Dockweiler condoms performed flawlessly and transmitted far more tingles per stroke than Grandma’s discount brand. Yet another reason it pays to be wealthy.
Of all the girls I have slept with, Uma is the reigning world’s champion. Everything about her is extremely exciting and pleasing to my nervous system. I really can’t get enough of her, although I intend to give it my best shot from now on. Clutching her naked body to mine afterwards was nearly as nice as the actual act. I filled her in on my eventful summer and new nieces, and she brought me up to date on her exciting life. The best news: her aunt Rosa is now in Washington training to be a Peace Corps volunteer. After sampling the Nevada male dating pool, she decided she wasn’t quite ready for marriage, and now intends to go to Latin America to help little Catholic babies. Mr. Spurletti has hired a live-in housekeeper to take her place. This woman is a native Nevadan who believes that her job is to cook and clean, not to worry about whether Uma is leaving the house without a bra.