by C. D. Payne
“I used to live there, you know.”
“Yes, you and Sheeni. That is part of what makes it so depressing.”
She sighed. I sighed.
“Is your husband there, Apurva?”
“He is out with Violet giving television interviews. Or so he says.”
She sighed. I sighed.
“Do you know if he’s publicizing the fact that Sheeni’s father has left France?”
“I believe so. He seems especially anxious that she return. Why this is so I cannot say. I shall never understand you Americans.”
“Apurva, Trent loves you. You can’t give up on him.”
“I do not care to discuss my private life with you, Nick. I believe that you have interfered with it enough. Nor do I trust that you have any sincere interest in my welfare.”
“Apurva! I was only trying to make you happy! Didn’t I help you every way I could to marry Trent?”
“Marrying Trent has not been . . . Well, enough said on that subject. Do you wish me to convey a message to him?”
“Apurva, you’ve got to get him to go home with you. Staying in Paris is a mistake.”
“Don’t you think I know that? I never wanted him to come here in the first place. But he had to come and see his precious Sheeni. And now there’s this Violet woman.”
“It’s just an infatuation, Apurva. Trent loves you.”
“Then there is something going on between them. I thought so. He denied it. Well, I see he’s not to be trusted. Just like you, Nick Twisp. Goodbye!” Click.
Damn. I think I stuck my foot in it that time. I know I haven’t always been the most guileless of friends to Apurva, but I’ve never wished her ill. I always liked her. And let’s not forget that were it not for an unfortunate cold virus, I might have been her first lover. As far as potential wives go, she’s always been penciled in on my list right under Sheeni and Reina. That should count for something.
7:22 p.m. Jiri got nailed at dinner. Reina smelled tobacco on his breath. Well, what do you expect? The fool showed up in the cookhouse tent with no visible pacifier. Naturally, Reina got suspicious. She made him produce the half-empty pack, which she tore to bits while he looked on whimpering. He’s chewed up both doll arms and has had to graduate to a leg. Good thing his point total is so low. It’d be a shame if Reina had to marry a freak who walks around with what appears to be a stunted third leg growing out of his face. His moustache is turning out to be something of a joke too. Very sparse and at some angles it gives the impression of being pubic hair attached to the leg. Rather troubling to the casual observer. 11:28 p.m. Still no birthday card/gift from my sister, so I gave her a call. She was home in L.A. giving both barrels to greedy Tyler. That guy can sure slurp. She seemed happy to hear from me and said all her friends were impressed that the cute sailor in the “Heee, Lekker Ding” video was her fugitive brother.
“God, Nick, I never thought you’d get to be so famous. Even Mother is impressed. She’s trying to find out how she can get all your royalties.”
“What!”
“You know, to keep them for you.”
Yeah, right.
“Isn’t she in jail?”
“The prosecution made a big blunder, Nick. They put Lance on the stand. By the time Mother’s lawyers finished with him, even the jury wanted to murder him. Mom was convicted of the lesser charge of aggravated assault. The judge let her off with time served and probation.”
“She’s not in jail? For shooting a guy’s nuts off!”
“We’re all terribly relieved, Nick. But you need to send us some more money.”
“What!”
“That horrid Lance won’t give up. Now he’s suing Mother for damages in civil court—for $12 million!”
What a greedy bastard. No way his disgusting testicles were worth $6 million apiece. I groaned. The handwriting was on the wall. Evil Lance would get my video royalties too. I informed my sister I was virtually penniless and hung up.
You’d think I’d know better by now. The last person in the world to reach out to is a fellow Twisp.
SATURDAY, August 6 — Missing Sheeni terribly on this anniversary day. I’ve lost count of how many weeks it’s been since we were blushing newlyweds in Yahoo City. Now she’s gone without a word and our first French summer is passing quickly too. Back in California this is about the time I’d be bugging my miserly father for some sharp back-to-school clothes. Now I have the wardrobe of an Alzheimer’s victim, and my educational career may have fizzled out to an ignominious conclusion. True, I never liked school, but I suppose it has its uses. It does toss you into a social mix with a lot of cute girls, assuming you haven’t done something insane like enroll in a boys’ academy. And then there are the dances, football games, debate meets, pep rallies, car cruises, etc. All in all, it sounds more appealing right now than endless shit shoveling for Third World wages. Me, nostalgic for high school? I have come to a new low.
11:24 a.m. Some sad news. Madame Ruzicka called Reina this morning in tears. Her parrot Henri died. Cause of death was old age. In fact, the vet estimated he was considerably older than his owner. Might even have achieved the century mark and had three or four previous owners. The moral is if you want a lifelong companion get a parrot, not a wife. I’d consider it, but I don’t imagine they look that appealing in a negligee. Scary to think if I marry Reina, her birds will be deafening me every morning for the rest of my life.
No Tour de Wife competition this a.m. The committee has scheduled it for tonight after the last performance. They announced the theme as “Balancing Your Needs.” Sounds right up my alley. I have plenty of needs I’m trying to balance. Right now I’d like to balance someone pretty and compliant on top of a hay bale.
3:29 p.m. I’ve found my job is slightly more tolerable if I take my radio around with me. The animals too are somewhat more tractable when soothed by music. Beez the bear not a fan of Frank though. He insists I tune to the channel that plays around-the-clock, around-the-calendar Christmas music. Festive for him, but “Jingle Bells” in midsummer gives me a big dose of holiday dread. December always was an anxious month in my family—even before my mother surprised my dad one Christmas Eve with a petition for divorce. To be frank, Sinatra is also beginning to pale. Did he have to record quite so many sad laments of lost love? Just because Ava ditched him is no reason to keep reminding the rest of us of our marital woes.
5:24 p.m. Walked into town with Reina to buy more produce for her birds. Nice to be alone for a few minutes with my darling, though concomitant pangs of anguished longing were a trial. I tried to get her to talk about the on-going secret contest, but she refused to spill. Nor would she say how I was doing. I told her it was most unsettling to be observed constantly by Marcel, Donk, and Captain Lapo and not to know on what I was being evaluated.
“There lies the road to paranoia,” I pointed out. “Is it by any chance table manners?”
“No, it’s not.”
Too bad. Jiri and Tarkan shovel it in like coal stokers on the Titanic.
Reina did confess she’s had to nix as too extreme many proposed Tour de Wife events, triggering the wrath of the committee. She’s also worried that Jiri’s poor performance so far may be affecting his self-esteem.
“Did you hear his playing at today’s matinee, Rick? It was just awful.”
“Call me Morag. Yeah, but it has degenerated no more than my manure shoveling. I can barely get the stuff in the wheelbarrow now. I want you just as much as he does.”
“How exactly to you want me?” she inquired.
“Well, how do you think?”
“I don’t know, Morag. That’s why I asked. What do men want?”
Could chicks be as confused on this issue as guys?
“Well, Reina darling, I want to be with you, to embrace you, to . . . uh, protect you.”
“From what? Do you perceive me to be in some kind of danger?”
“I don’t know. That’s just the way men feel. They want to be prote
ctive of their sweethearts.”
“Protective or possessive?”
“Both, I suppose. Guys are genetically programmed to want to be their mate’s exclusive partner. We don’t want to devote our precious resources to raising some other guy’s spawn.”
“That’s rather primitive thinking, Morag.”
“We’re the product of millions of years of evolution, Reina. I didn’t make up the rules. To give it to you straight, what guys want is to impregnate you with their seed and fight off all trespassers.”
“Oh, dear. Even Jiri, do you suppose?”
“Even him, Reina. His primitive brain strives to obtain nicotine, blow the trumpet, and get you with child. He’s signaling that last need by sucking on a doll leg.”
“I’ve been wondering about that, Morag. Is it some kind of fertility symbol?”
“Yeah, he sucks on that because society does not permit him to flaunt his penis.”
“Oh, he’s been doing that too.”
“What?!”
“When he comes over to take a shower. Lately, he’s been knocking the bathroom door open accidentally while toweling off. I never realized they were such large, floppy things. Not at all like the statues in the parks. Don’t you men find it rather inconvenient?”
No, but Jiri may. As he’s being brutally dismembered.
SUNDAY, August 7 — Head feels like it is being stepped on by heavily laden camel. Skull may have to be trepanned soon with large-diameter drill bit to relieve pressure if six aspirins I just gulped don’t bring surcease of suffering. Has tidal wave of intoxicants entirely killed off my liver? Kidneys complaining too. Fear general system failure from acute alcohol poisoning. Wasn’t even drinking for amusement. It was last night’s “Balancing Your Needs” test, which consisted of three contestants teetering atop overturned buckets while imbibing diverse assortment of intoxicating brews. Any guy who upchucked or whose foot touched the ground was out. Mrs. Fulke made it through beer, red wine, cognac, pastis, pear brandy, vodka, rum, and nasty French whiskey. Her downfall was a disgusting an- ise-flavored liqueur splashed into her cup by a drunken Greek roustabout. One swallow, and she simultaneously swooned and hurled.
Not a pretty sight as I was jocularly reminded this a.m. at breakfast. Details murky after that point, but contest went on for some time. Much merriment, spirited betting, and general booze quaffing. No one missed Reina, who had been sent into town on diversion errand by crafty committee. Final drunkard left standing: the hollow-legged Czech. Probably just another night’s partying for that guy. Despite alleged self-esteem issues, Mr. Mestan has come roaring back. New point totals: Jiri - 8, Mrs. Fulke 11, Tarkan - 17.
I remember from health class that binge drinking permanently destroys brain cells that you never replace. Feeling pretty stupid at the moment. Oh well, I’ve always thought that intelligence is overrated. If you look around, it’s the stupid people who are raising hell and having all the fun. Of course, they often die young, but I suppose it’s exciting to scream along on your crotch-rocket motorcycle right up until the moment you crash into that oak tree. And think how many sick people are saved annually by the donated organs.
11:26 p.m. Today’s contest has been postponed as booze-impaired contenders deemed too incapacitated for any activity except plaintive moaning. Committee not in the greatest shape either. Bleary- eyed Donk just got his giant ass chewed by Reina for last night’s festivities. She says committee should test for qualities that are important to chicks like honesty, openness, and willingness to listen. Skeptical giant replied that such a contest would be “extremely boring” and “unlikely to attract much wagering.” Captain Lapo added that men are the best judges of what makes a good husband since we’ve had “way more experience at it.” This would imply there was once a Mrs. Lapo. I’d pay in the low one-figures to hear the story of that unfortunate lady.
5:18 p.m. Someone may have been in my sty! I returned from an interval of camel herding on a far corner of the lot and got the distinct feeling that things were not as I left them. No sign of anything missing though. My under-floor battery safe did not appear disturbed, but it’s hard to tell. No sign of forced entry, and Iyad denies using his key. Could just be hangover-induced paranoia, I suppose, but unsettling nevertheless. Getting a bit sloppy in Mrs. Fulke’s persona. Her Scottish accent, for example, waxes and wanes like the moon. Must try to be more consistent, so as not to arouse suspicion.
Headache almost gone, but liver still feels like it was autopsied, critiqued by students, and sewn back in. Drinking gallons of water to flush my system. Wish the doniker weren’t so far away. Sometimes I just say fuck it and piss on a hay bale. So far, Omar and Ajax have not objected to the additional flavoring.
9:37 p.m. Big scandal rocking the sports world. The Baturs have been found guilty of cheating. Marcel got suspicious when he noticed a roustabout flashing a bankroll that was way too impressive for six days past payday. He did a little detective work and discovered that Mr. Batur had bribed the booze handlers to pour less liberally into Tarkan’s cup. Too many conspirators have confessed under duress (applied by Donk) to dispute the evidence. The charge stands! Therefore, Mrs. Fulke has been awarded second place, and the Turkish malefactor has received a scolding from Reina and a big fat zero points. Angry protests from the Batur camp, who claim their guy would have bested a “mere woman” even without cheating. But the committee is standing by their decision. New revised totals: Jiri - 8, Mrs. Fulke - 13, Tarkan - 14. Only one point separates the two leaders. Reina will soon be mine!
MONDAY, August 8 — A new week, a new town (Albi), a new river (the Tarn). It appears that every town in France tries to have at least one tourist attraction. Albi’s is an immense red-brick structure that looks like they started out to build a fort, but decided at the last minute to make into a church. Hard to believe people travel thousands of miles to eyeball ugly old churches, but upon this twisted impulse the French have built their national economy. Albi also is famous as the birthplace of the painter Henri de Toulouse- Lautrec, a little person who made it big, but not in the circus. There’s a museum in town devoted to him, which I’m sure my wife already has toured if she’s hiding out here. Mrs. Fulke likely will be kept too busy for such cultural enrichments.
A very windy morning, which greatly hampered the erection of the tents. Much cursing by the roustabouts as they struggled to control the flapping canvas. Poor Omar and Ajax were getting blown all over the lot as they strained to tug the heavy tent poles into upright position. Where are the elephants when you need them? Interesting fact about that: according to Captain Lapo, our circus once employed an elephant act, but Madame Poco reluctantly let them go because elephants attract animal rights activists “like flies.” By contrast, no one seems to care if camels are exploited. I believe this to be because there’s absolutely nothing endearing about a camel. This is also why no one objects when unattractive poor people are exploited in mind-numbing, low-wage jobs. If you ain’t cute, you don’t compute—as Mrs. Fulke has learned the hard way.
3:16 p.m. I’ve observed there’s noticeably more tonnage to shovel out after a move. Why this is so I’m not sure, since I’ve always found travel to be constipating. I took a break from my muck- hauling to call Violet in Paris for an update. The good news, she reports, is Apurva has gone back to Ukiah. The bad news is T.P. is even more messed up than before. Now he is no longer faking his inability to perform.
“What are his symptoms?” I asked.
“His symptoms? Oh, there’s weeping, staring into space, impotence, sleeplessness, pacing the floor, impotence, refusing all food, disinclination to bathe, impotence, being surly toward TV interviewers.”
“Sounds like he’s depressed, Violet.”
“An astute observation, Rick.”
“He had words with Apurva before she left?”
“Well, I imagine he did, since you told her about us!”
“I didn’t mean to, Violet. Honest. From the way she was talking I thought s
he knew. Is Trent pissed at me?”
“Surprisingly not, Rick. He says he admires you for having the strength to act on your convictions—unlike him—and tell the truth.”
Uh-oh. The guy’s even more deranged than usual.
“He’s processing some difficult emotions, Violet. These things take time. My advice is to be patient and to try to distract him with cultural outings.”
“But he can’t leave the building, Rick. Haven’t you been reading the papers? Every time we try to go anywhere he’s mobbed by frenzied fans.”
“You mean like teeny-boppers?”
“Some. But mostly women over 40. He seems to have struck a powerful chord with that age group.”
Handsome Trent being mobbed by lovesick matrons. Why does that thought brighten my day?
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“Down in the wig salon, Rick. The ladies there take turns holding him and stroking his brow. He finds that soothing.”
Madame Lefèbvre is such a rescuer. I could use a nice session on her bosom myself.
“Sounds good, Violet. That should help a lot. I predict he’ll snap out of it soon.”
“I hope so, Rick. He’s supposed to be memorizing his lines.”
“What lines?”
“You are out of touch, Rick. He’s starring in the new remake of Breathless. Filming starts next week.”
Truly, a low, low blow. As if it isn’t obvious to all: Rick S. Hunter was born to play that part. But no, lucky Trent gets to star in the remake of Sheeni’s favorite movie, and I get a one-way ticket to Manureville.
10:45 p.m. Bowing to pressure from you know who, the committee tonight staged a contest called “Willingness To Listen.” This entailed the three contestants listening intently while Donk read out a list of 100 items—mostly place names, historical figures, characters from fiction, bodies of water, etc. Then followed an interval of “muddling the mix,” during which raucous onlookers shouted out as many similar names as they could think of. When the combatants were deemed adequately addled, we were handed paper and pencil and told to write down as many of the items from Donk’s list as we could recall. For this feverish brain dump we were allotted ten minutes. Each correct answer earned us a point, while each incorrect item caused a point to be deducted.