Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  Sheeni as a guy? I don’t know, it seems like such a stretch. She would have to cut her lovely chestnut hair and somehow bind her increasingly prominent bosom. (Girls, I’ve noticed, seem to get bigger upstairs when they’re preggers, perhaps anticipating looming cafeteria duties.) Nor could I see her swaggering up to some smelly urinal to let fly. Still, she did have that manly, take-charge attitude toward life. As I recall during our marriage there was a fairly constant struggle over who was going to wear the pants in the family. And she did prefer the female superior position during sex. One comforting thought: Perhaps it was Sheeni himself whom the gypsy saw accompanying my wife in the mountains.

  When we returned, Mr. Hamilton took me aside for a few words before departing.

  “You know, Morag, Frank loved Ava, but they didn’t stay married for long. It just didn’t work out between them.”

  “I know. He tried to commit suicide over her.”

  “Sometimes great love, great passion isn’t enough.”

  “Yeah, I suppose not.”

  I could tell Mr. Hamilton was well-meaning and spoke from experience. Except for his oddly pruned eyebrows, he was the blandest of men in appearance. Average height, average build, average paunch, average bald spot. A complete nonentity, if you judged only by his looks. Yet he was unquestionably a man of distinction— a great artist who was the master of a difficult craft. He had known momentous love and had suffered for it. On the other hand, I’m not like him and Frank. I don’t fucking give up.

  I have the greatest admiration for Mr. Hamilton. Yet am I the only one who thinks that dressing up as assorted gals six nights a week to parade in front of your mom is a bit peculiar?

  SATURDAY, July 16 — Ten weeks, diary. Ten short weeks since I applied the marital brand to my mate-for-life. Yes, we have faced some adversity. Yes, we shall be together again.

  Large scary eruption on my forehead. I don’t think it’s a zit. I think it’s a goddam fleabite from Ruggles. I wish he’d use somebody else’s face for a mattress. Can’t write much. Have to go out and search Paris for goateed young men. Also need some more wrinkle creme. Mrs. Fulke getting dangerously low on her Transylvanian beauty formula.

  10:24 p.m. Even in cloud-like Rumanian shoes, dogs barking again. Must have walked 30 miles in summer heat under hot, airless wig. Most enervating. Seems to be sudden revival of facial hair among Parisian men. Inspected thousands of hirsute faces—many indignant at being stared at, more than a few obviously repulsed by appearance of starer. Forehead boil now the size of an angry red golf ball. Madame Zyxlenska all for making emergency visit to local clinic, but vetoed by me as too dangerous. Madame Z now heating up large intimidating needle for proposed lancing operation. Lance: frightening procedure that can scar one for life. Lance: evil cop stepfather who can scar one for life. Just a coincidence? I think not.

  SUNDAY, July 17 — Had to stay inside today as I have a feminine sanitary napkin fastened over my draining facial boil. Does wonders for Mrs. Fulke’s already severely impaired looks. Hard to believe all that ghastly pus produced by my innocent teen body. Enough to gag a goat, but brave Madame Z has not yet run screaming from her home. Women, I think, have a higher nausea threshold for these sorts of horrors. It’s so they won’t be repulsed by the numerous foul discharges expelled daily by their disgusting babies.

  Madame Z kindly translated the Paris Match article for me. Hard to believe all the errors of fact the French press can cram into 800 words. Still, it’s often said that for media personalities there is no such thing as bad publicity. Rick S. Hunter has realized his dream of international mega-fame, even if he does (temporarily, I hope) have to hide out from the cops.

  Inspired by Clyde Barrow and John Dillinger (other misunderstood fugitives), I have composed another missive to the press. This one treats in greater detail the events leading up to my marriage to my alleged abductee, Sheeni Saunders, and details in full our loving regard for one another. It was previewed approvingly by Madame Z, who thought it was just the sort of heart-wrenching saga to appeal to the French public’s romantic side.

  “It’s just like the story of Abelard and Héloïse,” she commented.

  “Oh? Who are they?”

  “He was a great poet and philosopher in 12th Century Paris. He wrote beautiful letters to Héloïse, but things didn’t work out and he wound up being castrated.”

  A sudden scrotal spasm. That was not the sort of reassurance I had in mind.

  MONDAY, July 18 — Another anniversary. One year ago today I commenced writing this modest journal. Back then I was a lonely miserable kid in Oakland. Now I’m a lonely miserable married person in France. No longer a kid, not yet a man, and detoured temporarily (I hope) into female senescence. All in all, not the sort of year I expected when I journeyed to the shores of Clear Lake last summer for that fateful first meeting with you know who.

  Back to mundane life. Purulent boil from hell mostly drained, but forehead now looks like I’ve been igniting cherry bombs on it. Have discarded sanitary pad, and Mrs. Fulke combing gray locks down low in front. Look like Alice B. Toklas on an especially bad day. Have banished Ruggles from my room, though he has figured out that by heaving his furry bulk against the door he can spring open the lock. Very smart for a cat. Wonder if he could extricate himself from a mailbag at the bottom of the Seine?

  4:12 p.m. Just had a phone call from Connie. The news started off fairly good. She interrogated Paul in the hospital while he was coming out of the ether. She did this because she’d read that modern anesthetics work just like truth serum. People in a groggy, post- operational state do not have the mental perspicacity to lie. “Did you ask him if he loves you?”

  “Don’t be silly, Rick. I had more important fish to fry. As it was I had to bribe the nurse, and she only gave me five minutes.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “You know that wacky bird girl you tried to fix him up with? My Paulo never slept with her!”

  “He didn’t?!”

  “Definitely not. He tried, of course. Well, Paulo is a virile guy and will be even more so when his stitches come out—so his surgeon assures me. But that girl turned him down.”

  “She did?!”

  “Indisputably so. Not even heavy petting. Paulo was sleeping in one of the equipment vans. The trumpet was on loan from the circus. My Paulo never betrayed me!”

  “That’s great, Connie. How’s his chip working?”

  “Flawless. I can tell every time he gets up to use the john from clear across town.”

  “That should be very helpful, I suppose. Is Mr. Saunders coming to your wedding?”

  “That’s what I called to warn you about, Rick. There’s been a hitch in our plans.”

  Instant alarm.

  “What kind of hitch?”

  “Paulo’s odious father refuses to come home. He claims the police there are close to making an arrest.”

  “An arrest of whom?!”

  “Well, they wouldn’t be arresting Sheeni. I think you better take another powder, Rick. And quick! The cops may be closing in on you.”

  Fuck! And double fuck!

  7:38 p.m. On the train to Amboise. I’ve had to say farewell to Madame Zyxlenska and her Streetcar Named Sanctuary. She seemed sad to see me go. She said Mrs. Fulke was a model houseguest and was welcome back anytime. She assured me that France has mountainous regions galore to the south. Since that is the direction Reina’s circus is heading, I thought I’d team up with her. Mrs. Fulke can lay low with her and keep her eyes peeled for goateed young men. Since Sheeni was so taken with Señor Nunez, the Boccata Brothers, and other such types, I feel it is likely that she will be drawn to any circuses visiting her area. Naturally, Reina’s private life is her own, and it is no concern of mine whether she had an affair with Paul. The fact that he threw himself at her and was rejected does not imply that the object of her heart’s affection lies elsewhere. Still, that smoldering kiss on the stairs must have counted for something. Really, I s
hould not feel so excited at the thought of seeing her again. After all, as I keep reminding myself, Mrs. Fulke is a married woman.

  TUESDAY, July 19 — I’ve decided lovely Reina is a bit like her birds: friendly, but not appreciative of surprises. She was certainly taken aback last night when an elderly Scottish pensioner showed up at her caravan door. She’d been following the press reports with interest, so there were numerous misconceptions to clear up. No, I was not a sexual predator and kidnaper. Yes, I was wanted by the police, hence the funky disguise. No, I did not really enjoy dressing up like old ladies. No, I had not been in a terrible accident. It was just an unfortunate reaction to a fleabite, possibly exacerbated by excessive use of wrinkle creme. No, I was not interested in turning myself in to the gendarmes. Yes, my hunt for my missing wife had turned south and could I possibly accompany her in that direction?

  This request brought the conversation to a dead stop. I had never seen gracious Reina look so stricken. She explained all the reasons why this would be impossible. Her birds would not tolerate another person in the caravan. Circus people are very close-knit and most suspicious of strangers. She could get in trouble for harboring a fugitive and be expelled from France. My wife would find such an arrangement most objectionable. And so on. Very disheartening. Soon we were both weeping over our cups of tea as her empathetic birds fluttered restlessly on their perches. She did consent to let me crash that evening in her station wagon, where I passed a most uncomfortable night and woke at dawn. Where to now? God only knows. I seem to have come to the end of the road.

  8:45 a.m. Walked into town to scrounge up some breakfast. Must be some ugly towns in France, but I’ve yet to see one. This one looked like it was posing for scenic postcards in every direction.

  Picturesque bridge over Loire, quaint river promenade lined with dazzling flowers, fairytale buildings nestled under great fortified château. Found a café and wolfed down three croissants. No dinner last night, so semi-famished despite profound despair. Should I jump off bridge? Be an inspiring final view. Very romantic location for suicide of modern-day Abelard. Might become a tourist destination over time. Boon to local economy. Sheeni could move here when she got old to write a wistfully regretful memoir of our days together. She could open a little shop and sell her book along with postcards of the two fabled lovers in younger and happier days.

  1:26 p.m. Suicide on hold. Mrs. Fulke spruced herself up as best she could and submitted an employment application to circus boss Madame Marie Poco. Small, tough-talking broad, but not bad looking for being so old—at least 40, I’d say. In need of honest Ticket Seller, but Mrs. Fulke not qualified due to near-total ignorance of French language. Also out as Diesel Generator Technician. Deemed too old and slight for Roustabout. Perfect for Trumpet Player opening, except can’t play trumpet. Only one other vacancy: Assistant Animal Attendant. Managed to talk myself into that job on a trial basis. Off the books, of course, since lacking proper sanction from Government of France to sweep up monkey shit. Therefore, I’m to stay out of sight if the gendarmes come around. “No problem with that,” I assured her. Starting wage an astonishingly meager E65 a week. I’d earn more if I had a commercial license and could drive a truck. Will be permitted to sleep on bales of hay in camel van. Hoping “camel van” is circus slang and vehicle does not contain actual camels. No drugs permitted or wanton promiscuity with townies. No overtime pay, no weekends off, and no bitching about the long hours.

  “It’s a great life,” said Madame Poco, welcoming me aboard. “If you fit in, you’ll love it.”

  “I’m sure I will,” Mrs. Fulke lied.

  10:58 p.m. Very fatigued. Can’t write much. Have bear scat in my wig and down my jogging suit (bored bear named Beez gets frisky when introduced to new attendant). My supervisor even older than Mrs. Fulke. Wiry Italian guy named Captain Lapo with ill-fitting false teeth and wine on breath. Seems friendly enough. Unclear what he is captain of besides my fate. Circus like traveling U.N.; many nationalities represented, so de facto lingua franca is English. Captain Lapo introduced me to my rake, shovel, and wheelbarrow. Showed me around the cages. No lions or tigers, thank God. Bear pretty scary, but said to be a sweetheart. Monkeys will bite unless you show them who’s boss. Ditto the mild-looking ponies. Boa constrictors must not be permitted to grab you around the neck. Fortunately, they eat infrequently and defecate minimally. The same cannot be said for the camels (Ajax and Omar), who will spit their foul-smelling juice or kick you in the ass. Alas, they do occupy the eponymous camel van, but fortunately hay (and Mrs. Fulke) stored in a separate compartment, redolent with authentic camel aromas.

  Have made myself at home as best as I can in my tiny metal cell. One lonely window for ventilation and one light in the center of the ceiling. Assorted hay bales that can be arranged creatively to suit one’s furniture needs. No storage at all. Clothes I’m keeping in Mrs. Fulke’s ratty suitcase. Under a steel plate in the floor is a compartment holding the van battery. Here I’ve stashed my money, jars of wrinkle creme, Rick S. Hunter’s passport, photos of Sheeni, and her plastic-wrapped keepsake sock. A hay bale over the plate keeps it concealed from prying eyes. Thankfully, the door to my new home has a fairly substantial lock. So far no bugs except angry horseflies. Perhaps they’re angry at finding only camels and moi.

  Sneaked away this evening to watch Reina perform. Most charming and entertaining act. Diverting clowns haul out the cart containing birds and props, so most in audience don’t notice that the pretty trainer in the sexy dress walks with a limp. Parrots pass balls back and forth, drive toy tractor around pylons, climb fire truck ladder for daring rescue, perform stunts on “high wire,” and more. Big applause at end led by elderly animal attendant. She really is quite a wonder. And such a beacon of loveliness in a lonely guy’s life.

  WEDNESDAY, July 20 — Nothing like spending the night in a camel van to make a person nostalgic for his garret apartment in Paris. Hay bales not as resilient to the spine as a city person might assume. Nor are cud-chewing camels on other side of thin metal partition ideal companions for restful sleep. Have been given long list of camel care requirements by their swarthy owner, a Mr. Iyad Maymun. He and his younger (and prettier) wife Nuzhah do handstands and somersaults on top of their sauntering beasts, believe it or not.

  Asked Captain Lapo this morning where I was to shower. He looked at me blankly and said he used a bucket in the pony van (his residence). I said that would not do for me as I was “a woman,” causing him to check me out brazenly. Had he not noticed my alleged sex before? He suggested I use the shower in the roustabout’s caravan. I had inspected that loutish lot at dinner in the cookhouse the night before and suspected that any female who crossed their threshold would be in for a stimulating time. So I knocked on Reina’s door, and she (reluctantly) let me in.

  After my shower, we had a quick chat while I prepared Mrs. Fulke’s face for public view. Forehead getting better. No longer looks like a relief map of Mars. Reina is not enthusiastic about my hiring myself on as assistant animal flunky. She says it is the lowest job in the circus, that they will work me like a dog even if I am supposed to be an old lady, and that few last more than a few weeks in that position. I said I didn’t think it was that much of a comedown from unpaid janitor and had to be better than my alternative, which was jail.

  She sighed and said we mustn’t appear too friendly lest it raise suspicions. She had already lost face with Madame Poco over Paul’s sudden defection.

  “Do you miss him that much?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  “Well, I thought he was my friend. He could have at least given notice and said goodbye.”

  I decided not to tell her why his departure had been so unexpectedly abrupt.

  “He went back to America with Connie. They’re getting married this week.”

  “Is that so? Well, he must have changed his mind.”

  We brooded silently over our gloomy thoughts until Damek screamed. You have not known the full dimension of human hear
ing until you experience a cockatoo’s cry in a confined space. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  2:12 p.m. Shit. This is the new metaphor for my life. I rake it, I shovel it, I haul it, I dump it. I sprinkle fresh straw and refill water buckets. By the time I finish the last cage, it is time to begin anew on the first cage. And where does all that diverse and exotic excrement go? I dump it in a corner of the lot, and eager French gardeners of both sexes roll up with their wheelbarrows to trundle it away. At least some of us, I feel, should get a life.

  Cookhouse tent remarkably like high school cafeteria. No one extends much of a welcome to the new guy. I’ve been sitting by default at the old folks’ table. Captain Lapo, the grizzled band members, Madame Poco’s elderly bookkeeper, a superannuated clown, etc. Only desultory conversation and most of it in French. Mrs. Fulke the object of some envious glances though. She appears to be the only diner at the table with her own native teeth.

  After lunch I sneaked into town to augment Mrs. Fulke’s work wardrobe. You can’t clean a monkey cage in a garden frock. Also got some scarves to tie down her wig as monkeys extraordinarily grabby little creatures. Their master is an English gent named Granley or Granola something, who takes such a scientific approach to animal training he gives his monkeys numbers instead of names. I have already decided the twit must be killed. He wears the most pretentious khaki bush suit like he’s just leaving on safari for Big Game. Also sports the silliest red moustache and a coiled bullwhip on his snakeskin belt that I would very much like to apply to his freckled hide. Did I mention that in the cookhouse he likes to monopolize the seat beside Reina? Of course, he hasn’t deigned to say two words to the new monkey attendant. Nor have many of the others. Reina’s right. In the circus hierarchy I’m the lowest of the low. It probably doesn’t help that I exude an all-pervasive odor of ripe camel dung.