Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  Time to go. The last contest of the Tour de Wife starts in less than an hour. Wish me luck, kids.

  11:46 a.m. At 10:00 a.m. the three contestants and three committee members assembled for the final showdown in the Plateau des Poètes, a sort of English public garden in Béziers. But we had not come to admire the pretty trees and languid ponds.

  Donk began with a surprise announcement. Since the contest was so close and this was the final event, only the first-place finisher would be awarded points. After all, he pointed out, there was only one girl up for grabs. A tie would be pointless. No, in the Game of Love there are no consolation prizes.

  The contestants having voiced no objections to this ruling, Donk then requested that we turn over all of our cash and pocket change to Captain Lapo for safekeeping. This I always take as a bad omen, but we meekly complied. The prior events, Donk explained, had evaluated us for those practical, down-to-earth qualities essential in a good husband. But now it was time to delve into those intangible matters of the heart.

  Very good, I thought. How about a poetry contest? I, for one, had some burning passions clamoring to get down on paper. But shouldn’t they be confiscating our rhyming dictionaries instead of our cash?

  Attractiveness, announced Donk, that would be the theme of today’s contest. We participants would have one hour to roam about the town seeing how many people we could persuade to sleep with us. No bribes or any such inducements could be offered. The seducees must come willing of their own volition.

  Tarkan was confused. “But where are we supposed to fuck them?”

  Such a gentleman of the old school.

  “I was coming to that,” replied Donk. “Naturally, you won’t be expected actually to perform the act. You will be accompanied by a committee member, who will ascertain from each party whether indeed they intended to sleep with you.”

  Skeptical Jiri raised an objection. “Reina. She has said yes OK to this?”

  I could see why he might be apprehensive. He may not have looked exactly like the Creature from the Lost Lagoon, but he certainly resembled its musical brother. Clearly, if he were to have any hope, he would have to locate immediately a ladies’ home for the blind and/or insane.

  Marcel answered Jiri’s question: “The broad general outlines have been cleared with Reina.”

  “One other thing,” said Donk. “The people have to be adults. No little kids or teenagers. And no prostitutes!”

  Practical Mrs. Fulke raised her hand. “What if the seducee doesn’t speak a language familiar to the committee person—say Turkish, for example?”

  Tarkan fired me a dirty look.

  “A good point, Mrs. Fulke,” replied Donk. “OK, all parties have to speak French or English. That is the rule.”

  I was glad to see Tarkan drew Marcel instead of the gullible Captain Lapo. But why did I have to get stuck with Donk? Would you confess to some inquisitive giant that you had the hots for a wacky old dame? Clearly, I was starting from a position behind the eight ball. Damn, and I had skipped my morning shower too. Never a sex bomb, Mrs. Fulke was not exactly looking her best. Fortunately, guided by some unseen hand, I had donned a dress this morning. It was that cabbage roses number from Paris. Freshly laundered, so it didn’t smell so bad, but all too obviously unironed. I resembled the proverbial unmade bed. Meanwhile, Tarkan was looking pretty sharp in his ‘Cowboy from the Bosporus’ outfit. He combed his greaseball hair, while Jiri sucked nervously on his wine cork, and Mrs. Fulke performed an emergency tune-up on her makeup.

  Then the committee members synchronized their watches and Donk blew his whistle. Operation Alien Seduction had commenced.

  Now I’ve heard that experiments have been conducted where average-looking fellows randomly walk up to women on the street and inquire politely if they wished to screw. Ninety percent of the time the gals screamed, ran away, or called a cop, but a consistent ten percent or so replied, “Sure, your place or mine?” I heard this from my old pal Lefty, but he claimed to have read it in a magazine. Apparently, there is a horny subsection of the populace willing to have impromptu sex with total strangers. And if the figure was ten percent for females, it certainly must be way higher for guys. And even higher still for randy, sexist French guys. It was now Mrs. Fulke’s task to root out these libertines. But would those amorous Frogs rise to the bait?

  Fortunately, almost all French parks have a few snoozing oldsters leaning on their canes and mentally undressing the passing preschoolers. I sat down on a bench occupied by one such candidate, while Donk loitered discreetly on a nearby path.

  “Bonjour,” I smiled.

  “Bonjour,” he croaked, displaying dazzlingly artificial-looking dentures. I guessed his age to be somewhere north of 80.

  Damn, how does one say, “Would you like to jump my bones?” in French. Mrs. Fulke would have to resort to pantomime. I made a circle with my thumb and index finger, inserted my other index finger, moved it rapidly in and out, pointed to my breast, then looked inquiringly at my victim. A look of astonishment, followed by incredulity, followed by disgust, followed by skeptical reappraisal.

  He whispered something, which even I could translate as “How much?”

  Rats. All those working girls in France were spoiling it for us gals who wanted to give it away. I pantomimed opening a purse, then waving no. I drew a heart in the air, smiled coyly, and pointed at him.

  He looked dubious, then uncertain. Close enough for rural work. I squeezed his bony knee, grabbed his hand, and led him hopefully toward my companion. Smiling amiably, Donk made the meekest of inquiries, but it was all too much for my prey. He expostulated wildly, yanked free his hand, and tottered off down the lane. Two other solicitations ended just as disastrously. Time to go to Plan B.

  Tourists, I need to find tourists. The cathedral! Just as I supposed, the medieval quarter around the church was lousy with camera- dangling Americans. I accosted three likely looking college-aged youths.

  “Hiya, boys,”

  “Sorry, Granny,” one replied. “We’re just as lost as you are.”

  “Say, boys, you see that giant over there?”

  “My God!” exclaimed his pal. “Is that Andre?”

  “Shhh, not so loud,” I cautioned. “He hates it when people ask that. No, that’s Donk my son. I have a little bet on with him.”

  “Is this a scam?” demanded the third youth.

  Jesus, Americans are so suspicious these days. It must be all those e-mail solicitations rolling in from Nigeria.

  “Not at all,” I assured him. “It’s just that Donk doesn’t think he can get a date. It’s got him terribly depressed.”

  “My sister would probably go for him,” remarked the first kid, “but she’s back in Cleveland.”

  “No matter,” I assured him. “It’s just that I’m trying to convince him that looks aren’t that important. That even I could get a date.”

  Rumbles of skepticism from my new pals.

  “Come on, boys,” I pleaded. “All I’m asking is for you to assure my son that you would sleep with me.”

  “Are you crazy, lady?” asked the third one. “Or are you some kind of weird old, uh . . .”

  “Streetwalker?” suggested his buddy.

  “OK, guys,” I admitted in my normal voice. “It’s a fraternity stunt. I’m really a guy.” I gave them a peek at my cloistered chest hair. “But I’ll win points if you tell that giant you dig me. You have to pretend like you really mean it though.”

  Believe it or not, they agreed. Mrs. Fulke scored three Big Ones.

  During the balance of the hour I employed variations on this theme with three cute girls from Wayne State, an elderly Irish couple (yes, both the man and his frail white-haired wife assured Donk that they would do me), three insurance salesmen from Colorado on a company-paid barge cruise won in a sales contest, and an English- speaking Béziers taxi driver and his two fares (gay guys from West Hollywood on their honeymoon). I was working on three visiting priests from Fall R
iver when Donk blew his whistle. Still, 15 legitimate scores in 60 minutes is not bad for an old lady well past her prime.

  12:36 p.m. NEWS BULLETIN: I think Mrs. Fulke may have won!

  Tarkan, Jiri, Marcel, and Captain Lapo did not show up for lunch. The rumor is they are all under arrest in Béziers. Madame Poco most furious. Just peeled out of lot in her truck headed for town.

  Taking matters in her own hands, Reina has awarded me a preliminary kiss (and bonus grope) behind the cookhouse tent.

  I think we’re engaged!

  1:06 p.m. The two gendarmes from yesterday are back. I seem to be under arrest. It’s all a mistake. Mrs. Fulke was not soliciting anyone. Will write more later.

  THIRTEEN YEARS LATER

  I found this letter in my inbox at the hotel this afternoon:

  Dear Nick:

  I read recently of your improbable success in Las Vegas.

  At least, I suppose it’s you. Could there be two Nick Twisps on this planet? I’m assuming not, though I find it astonishing that the Nick Twisp I once knew would take up comedic juggling. Congratulations on your showbiz “triumphs.”

  I sometimes imagine you must wonder what happened to me. Forgive my presumption if that is not the case. I’m married and living in Lyon. It’s not Paris, but Lyon is France’s second largest urban region and quite a cosmopolitan place. My husband’s wine brokerage business keeps us here (and keeps us very busy). I have two children: Emma, six, and François, nearly four. I try to converse in English with them so they will grow up bilingual, but they insist on replying in French. They are quite a handful, but we have a wonderful nanny (Italian) who shoulders much of the burden. I have 11 more units to go to get my degree (in modern French literature). These days I have to get up shockingly early in the morning to get any reading done. Fortunately, I love the view of the sun rising over the Fourvière hill from our terrace.

  Forgive me for disappearing so suddenly all those years ago. Like my brother before me, I had to escape my family. As you may recall, my parents were not to be endured. I went to live with Alfredo Nunez’s brother, who had a farm in southern France. I don’t know if you remember Alfredo. He was a noted clown who lived down the hall from us. I was quite in love with him for a time, and he helped me with many kindnesses. I believe he now lives in Buenos Aires.

  Have you been following the career of Trent Preston? Who could have imagined that my childhood sweetheart would become such a star and marry that odd Brit contortionist? I sometimes wonder if that was your plan all along.

  Are you still so devious?

  Write to me if you get an opportunity. I would enjoy hearing what you’re doing. Any marriage prospects? The article I read said you were single. I think of you often with fondness.

  Cheers,

  Sheeni

  No 13-year-old daughter. Well, that clears up that mystery. I wonder if Señor Nunez’s brother’s farm was anywhere near Albi? Too bad she wasn’t more specific about the location. Perhaps his brother was of normal size and drove a green car. I’m annoyed at the short guy’s duplicity, but we all know how persuasive Sheeni can be when she tries. So she did love him. Connie’s warning turned out to be well-founded.

  It surprises me that Sheeni wound up marrying a suit. I thought she had her heart set on some French intellectual-type. Do you suppose little François is named after his papa? In that case, at least one of her presentiments came true. All in all, my old girlfriend’s domestic arrangements seem somewhat more conventional than I would have expected. Life is full of surprises.

  I sometimes wish I hadn’t let my journal-writing lapse. But the unrelenting dreariness of the California juvenile justice system proved more conducive to practicing one’s juggling than noting the daily particularities of one’s unhappiness.

  The irony is that Sheeni escaped her father, but I never could. After I was arrested, he tried to have me brought up on homicide charges. The only Saunders I wanted to see dead was certainly not his daughter. I suppose he thought if I were charged with killing Sheeni, she would have to come forward to save me. Not entirely a valid assumption, I fear. Fortunately, the French magistrate had had more than his fill of the pushy American lawyer. And the absence of a corpse and Rick S. Hunter’s high media profile helped forestall a gross miscarriage of justice. But Mr. Saunders made sure I answered to the authorities in California for my many transgressions in my home state.

  I notice Sheeni makes no mention of the funds she’s been “holding” for me all these years. I don’t need them particularly now, but I could have used the money when I was trying to hire lawyers to get her ogre father off my back. Mario and Kimberly lost their shirts on my “mouth jewelry” idea, so there was no help from that quarter. Is it too much to lay the blame for all my years spent in “rehabilitation” at the cinematic feet of Luis Buñuel? Perhaps.

  My mother helped a little, but her court case with Lance dragged on for years. In the end he did prevail. For his pain and suffering the jury in San Francisco awarded him one dollar. Perhaps his color photos were too graphic and his demeanor on the stand too insufferable. Last I heard he was working as the head of security for an Indian casino up in the redwoods somewhere.

  My mother got her old job back with the Department of Motor Vehicles and still lives in Oakland. Shy trucker Wally Rumpkin is back in the picture as my mother’s designated doormat. She was never able to regain custody of my little brother. I think family court judges can sniff out poor parenting prospects. Noel Lance Wescott continues to live with Lance’s mother in Winnemucca, and is said to be a bookish teen with an interest in writing. Perhaps one of these days I’ll pay his way down to Vegas to catch my act. Though, if he’s a real Twisp, he could be trouble in a town full of showgirls. Last photo of him I saw he bore an unfortunate resemblance to me at that age. No ill effects apparent yet from being dropped on the floor by his careless bro’. These days I could juggle five or six such infants without working up a sweat. That might be something to try: diapering a kid or two in midair.

  My father decided to devote full time to alcohol and now lives in a residence hotel near downtown L.A. I send him a check every month to stay away from me. My sister married a nice steady electrician named Bill and they live in the San Fernando Valley. Her son Tyler just passed six feet four inches to become the tallest Twisp in history. He plays sports and is the star of all his junior high school teams.

  I was sorry that Trent’s marriage didn’t work out. Well, it seemed like a good match at the time, but perhaps the cultural differences were too formidable. Apurva gave birth to a healthy son and married one of her college professors. They live in Madison. Todd Amitabh Preston I see occasionally in the summers when he’s with his dad. A very bright kid and absurdly well-favored like his parents. His uncle Vijay was admitted back into the U.S. and went to Stanford. I insist on remaining blissfully ignorant of his subsequent activities.

  Don’t know much about my old pals Lefty or Fuzzy either. I heard Lefty got married, but I think he’s divorced now. Fuzzy has entered the family concrete business in Ukiah. His uncle Sal came backstage a few years ago to introduce himself and shake my hand. I thanked him for not bumping me off. He said he was still keeping an eye on me, so I should keep my nose clean. I think he was kidding.

  Sonia Klummplatz got her stomach stapled, lost over a hundred pounds, and went into the modeling profession under the name Esqué. You’ve probably seen some of her ubiquitous cosmetics ads. She always did have the nicest complexion in town and superb bone structure to boot it turns out. I hear she makes over $1,000 an hour and can be quite a handful on the set. Her love life is a favorite topic of supermarket tabloids. For a time she was keeping company with the handsomest Preston of all (Trent’s cousin Bruno), but then she dumped him. Once in a drunken moment I confessed to friends that I had nailed her. Needless to say, they called me a dirty liar.

  Connie and Paul remain married and have produced three precocious offspring, all allegedly authentic Saunders. Paul has
a small record label with an enviable list of highly regarded jazz artists. He also promotes concerts up and down the coast. I see them occasionally when I’m in L.A. They seem quite happy together. It just goes to show that sometimes you can lead a horse to water and make him drink. I wonder if the present Mr. Sheeni Saunders had to resort to similar desperate measures to drag her to the altar?

  Paul’s mother-in-law Rita lives ambiguously with Dogo and their many small dogs outside Phoenix. Lacey married her probate attorney and now runs a string of successful hair salons in the San Fernando Valley. Every year she donates a portion of her profits to an orphanage in Brazil.

  As for Reina, years went by before I heard from her. I found out later that she had written numerous times, but Mr. Saunders had instructed that all letters to me from France be sent to him in case they contained coded messages from Sheeni. He was supposed to forward them to me, but he never bothered. No, she didn’t settle for second place Jiri or Tarkan. She decided that what she really wanted was another parrot. She named it Rick. I called her a few years ago. She was living in Prague and still touring with circuses. She had married a clown (not Marcel) and they had two daughters. She sounded very happy with her life. I wished her well and told her I would never forget our nights in the camel van. She laughed that same magical laugh. She hasn’t changed. So now she’s 30 and I’m 28, and it’s still not doing us any good. We are lost to each other for good it seems.

  I never found out the circumstances behind my arrest in Béziers. I don’t know if one of the gendarmes recognized me or if someone betrayed me. For a long time I thought it was Marcel who had gone through my stuff in the van and offered me up to the cops when they nailed Tarkan and him for annoying the good ladies of Béziers. Now I’m not so sure. I suppose it could have been Jiri, or Madame Poco, or one of the Baturs. The gendarmes split Mr. Saunders’ reward, but they never said if someone tipped them off. I’ve thought of going to France and snooping around, but what would that accomplish? You can’t turn back the clock. Marcel may have been a bastard, but I can thank him for my profession. I doubt, though, if I could yet weasel a compliment out of the guy for my juggling.