Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp Read Online Free Page B
Author: C. D. Payne
spite of my zits and incipient baldness at least one person in this world finds me attractive. If only he were a cute 16-year-old girl. But then what would she be doing loitering in the men’s room?
I sat in the periodicals room for a few hours reading computer magazines. This always fills me with extreme hardware lust. Unrequited, of course, like all my other passions. My bankroll is down to $72 and falling fast. At the opposite end of the table a short fat girl about my age was reading Atari magazines. She kept looking over at me. Finally, she got her fat composed in a friendly expression and asked me if I had a computer. I didn’t want to encourageher, but out of politeness I said yes I had an IBM AT clone. She said she had an Atari ST and loved its color graphics for games and drawing. I said I used my IBM mostly for word processing and “other serious tasks.” That took the starch out of her sails. She was going to reply, but fortunately a librarian shushed for quiet. When Ms. Atari got up to get another magazine, I sneaked out.
After dinner tonight, we heard a semi-tractor hiss to a stop out front. It was the assless Don Juan back from his Iowa assignations. Jerry pretended nothing was amiss and feigned surprise when my mother lit into him. He disavowed any knowledge of the incident and said if a woman answered his phone (which he doubted) it must have been the maid bringing more toilet paper. What a feeble and transparent liar! To my shock, Mom bought it. She even kissed him!
As Mom fixed Jerry a much better dinner than she had served me, she asked him what he intended to do about the deceased camouflaged hulk in the driveway. Jerry viewed the matter with cool detachment. He said as much as he would like to move the car, he could not—because, of course, it was someone else’s private property. He suggested Mom call the city and have it towed.
What about the angry sailor and his $900?
Jerry said if the sailor came back, Mom should simply remind him he had purchased the car with Jerry’s standard guarantee: “Thirty days or thirty feet. Whichever comes first.”
“I’m in the right,” announced Jerry, carving his steak. “That $900 is already invested in my new car. I pick it up tomorrow.”
“What did you get this time, honey?” asked Mom.
“A slab-sided Lincoln,” said Jerry. “A cherry ’62 convertible. Like the one Kennedy was shot in. Only this one’s white instead of black.”
With Jerry, that stands to reason.
THURSDAY, August 16 — When I got up, the big tractor truck was still parked outside. Thinking it would be fun to have extra guests for breakfast, I sneaked downstairs and called the sailor in Alameda (I found the number in Mom’s purse). He was very happy to hear Jerry was back.
At 8:12 we had three sailors at the front door and two at the back door. When the doorbell rang, Jerry was slumped in a kitchen chair trying to wake up enough to swallow coffee. He perked right up when Mom yelled the fleet was in. He turned white, hissed at Mom to get rid of them, and ran upstairs. The sailors cornered him in Joanie’s closet. (They hadn’t stopped to chat with Mom.) When they grabbed him, Jerry went limp like a house cat caught with the missing family hamster. Two big guys with bad haircuts held him off theground while the erstwhile Chevy owner went through his pockets. They found $63 and change. Jerry said that was his entire life savings. The sailor poked him hard in the beer gut. Mom whimpered, “Don’t hurt him!” I was shaking with excitement. The sailors were breathing hard. Jerry looked like he was trying to climb out of his body.
“Honest, guys,” said Jerry, “that’s all I got!” The sailor hit him again. Jerry lost his coffee down the front of his shirt. Mom screamed. I felt like screaming. Jerry started to cry. They carried him downstairs and dragged him outside to go through the cab of the truck. Mom yelled at me to call 911, but one of the sailors said,
I sat in the periodicals room for a few hours reading computer magazines. This always fills me with extreme hardware lust. Unrequited, of course, like all my other passions. My bankroll is down to $72 and falling fast. At the opposite end of the table a short fat girl about my age was reading Atari magazines. She kept looking over at me. Finally, she got her fat composed in a friendly expression and asked me if I had a computer. I didn’t want to encourageher, but out of politeness I said yes I had an IBM AT clone. She said she had an Atari ST and loved its color graphics for games and drawing. I said I used my IBM mostly for word processing and “other serious tasks.” That took the starch out of her sails. She was going to reply, but fortunately a librarian shushed for quiet. When Ms. Atari got up to get another magazine, I sneaked out.
After dinner tonight, we heard a semi-tractor hiss to a stop out front. It was the assless Don Juan back from his Iowa assignations. Jerry pretended nothing was amiss and feigned surprise when my mother lit into him. He disavowed any knowledge of the incident and said if a woman answered his phone (which he doubted) it must have been the maid bringing more toilet paper. What a feeble and transparent liar! To my shock, Mom bought it. She even kissed him!
As Mom fixed Jerry a much better dinner than she had served me, she asked him what he intended to do about the deceased camouflaged hulk in the driveway. Jerry viewed the matter with cool detachment. He said as much as he would like to move the car, he could not—because, of course, it was someone else’s private property. He suggested Mom call the city and have it towed.
What about the angry sailor and his $900?
Jerry said if the sailor came back, Mom should simply remind him he had purchased the car with Jerry’s standard guarantee: “Thirty days or thirty feet. Whichever comes first.”
“I’m in the right,” announced Jerry, carving his steak. “That $900 is already invested in my new car. I pick it up tomorrow.”
“What did you get this time, honey?” asked Mom.
“A slab-sided Lincoln,” said Jerry. “A cherry ’62 convertible. Like the one Kennedy was shot in. Only this one’s white instead of black.”
With Jerry, that stands to reason.
THURSDAY, August 16 — When I got up, the big tractor truck was still parked outside. Thinking it would be fun to have extra guests for breakfast, I sneaked downstairs and called the sailor in Alameda (I found the number in Mom’s purse). He was very happy to hear Jerry was back.
At 8:12 we had three sailors at the front door and two at the back door. When the doorbell rang, Jerry was slumped in a kitchen chair trying to wake up enough to swallow coffee. He perked right up when Mom yelled the fleet was in. He turned white, hissed at Mom to get rid of them, and ran upstairs. The sailors cornered him in Joanie’s closet. (They hadn’t stopped to chat with Mom.) When they grabbed him, Jerry went limp like a house cat caught with the missing family hamster. Two big guys with bad haircuts held him off theground while the erstwhile Chevy owner went through his pockets. They found $63 and change. Jerry said that was his entire life savings. The sailor poked him hard in the beer gut. Mom whimpered, “Don’t hurt him!” I was shaking with excitement. The sailors were breathing hard. Jerry looked like he was trying to climb out of his body.
“Honest, guys,” said Jerry, “that’s all I got!” The sailor hit him again. Jerry lost his coffee down the front of his shirt. Mom screamed. I felt like screaming. Jerry started to cry. They carried him downstairs and dragged him outside to go through the cab of the truck. Mom yelled at me to call 911, but one of the sailors said,
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