Read Online Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp by C. D. Payne - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C. D. Payne
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come to that crowded bed a dewy-eyed expectant virgin.
As I lay there in the dark wondering if Carlotta was the only person in the room with a spectacular T.E., I tried to distract myself by imagining what Sheeni would say if she knew I was honeymooning with her former boyfriend. I pray she never finds out. I wondered how Fuzzy back in Ukiah was getting along on his first date with Lana Baldwin. Why, I asked myself, do people go to such bizarre lengths to couple with others when that fairly peculiar physicalact is all over in a few minutes? Of course, you can blame the crazed single-mindedness of our genes. My genes, I knew, had been alerted that alluring, fecund Apurva lay just an arm’s length away. And why, they clamored to know, wasn’t I doing anything about it? If my genes were in an uproar, one can only imagine the consternation among Trent’s. His biological destiny had been sanctioned by the state, he had golden genes to die for, his goal was within reach, yet somehow someone had called a time-out on the field.
3:05 p.m. Memphis airport. Boarding for my flight to San Francisco is supposed to commence in 20 minutes (I’ve heard that before). Snowplows have cleared the runway and crews are de-icing the plane. Anxious to escape further honeymoon chaperone duties, I managed to bribe the motel manager’s son into braving a trip to the airport in his four-wheel-drive SUV.
Carlotta hopped out of bed pretty early this morning—announcing to her groggy companions that she would be back with breakfast in exactly one hour—no more, no less. While I slogged through the snow in search of an open donut shop, I hoped and presumed that marriage consummation was underway back at the motel. It is true that I detected a certain slackening of tensions upon my return. Too bad our culture doesn’t believe in throwing open the window and hanging out the bloody sheet.
Apurva wanted to call her parents, but Carlotta advised them both to wait until they return on Wednesday (Trent has a vital swim meet with Willits on Friday).
“You only get one honeymoon,” I pointed out. “Don’t spoil it by involving a bunch of hysterical parents.”
Leave-taking with the newlyweds was quite wrenching, as you’d expect. Not a dry eye in the house, but sharing someone’s wedding night can be such an emotionally bonding experience—especially if you’re paying for the entire affair.
• • •
SUNDAY, March 7 — It was sometime in the middle of the night when Carlotta finally dragged her weary carcass through my front door. She dropped her bags and shuffled into the bedroom. There, lounging impatiently under Granny DeFalco’s quilt, was My Love—naked as a clam and primed for conversation.
“Nickie! Where have you been?” she demanded, switching on the lamp.
“Oh, hi, darling. Boy, am I exhausted. Do you mind if I skip the flossing tonight?”
“Nickie, you’ve been gone for three days! You left darling Albert unattended!”
“Well I left a note for Mrs. Ferguson,” I replied, collapsing fully clothed on the bed. “Maybe I’ll skip brushing too.”
“Nickie, don’t lie to me. I know you were with Trent and Apurva. I heard all about it from Vijay. Where are they?”
I fished through Carlotta’s purse and handed My Love a Polaroid photograph. She stared at it in disbelief.
“What the fuck is this?”
“They’re married, Sheeni. I tried to talk them out of it, but they wouldn’t listen.”
All the color drained from my darling’s face. “But they’re too young to get married!”
“Not in Mississippi.”
“Mississippi! How did they get to Mississippi?”
“Same way I did. By airplane.”
“You paid for their tickets!”
“No way, honey. They were already there when they called me. They were destitute. So I went there to see if I could talk them into coming home.”
“Why didn’t you call me!?”
“They made me promise not to tell anyone.”
Sheeni stared in horror at the photo.
As I lay there in the dark wondering if Carlotta was the only person in the room with a spectacular T.E., I tried to distract myself by imagining what Sheeni would say if she knew I was honeymooning with her former boyfriend. I pray she never finds out. I wondered how Fuzzy back in Ukiah was getting along on his first date with Lana Baldwin. Why, I asked myself, do people go to such bizarre lengths to couple with others when that fairly peculiar physicalact is all over in a few minutes? Of course, you can blame the crazed single-mindedness of our genes. My genes, I knew, had been alerted that alluring, fecund Apurva lay just an arm’s length away. And why, they clamored to know, wasn’t I doing anything about it? If my genes were in an uproar, one can only imagine the consternation among Trent’s. His biological destiny had been sanctioned by the state, he had golden genes to die for, his goal was within reach, yet somehow someone had called a time-out on the field.
3:05 p.m. Memphis airport. Boarding for my flight to San Francisco is supposed to commence in 20 minutes (I’ve heard that before). Snowplows have cleared the runway and crews are de-icing the plane. Anxious to escape further honeymoon chaperone duties, I managed to bribe the motel manager’s son into braving a trip to the airport in his four-wheel-drive SUV.
Carlotta hopped out of bed pretty early this morning—announcing to her groggy companions that she would be back with breakfast in exactly one hour—no more, no less. While I slogged through the snow in search of an open donut shop, I hoped and presumed that marriage consummation was underway back at the motel. It is true that I detected a certain slackening of tensions upon my return. Too bad our culture doesn’t believe in throwing open the window and hanging out the bloody sheet.
Apurva wanted to call her parents, but Carlotta advised them both to wait until they return on Wednesday (Trent has a vital swim meet with Willits on Friday).
“You only get one honeymoon,” I pointed out. “Don’t spoil it by involving a bunch of hysterical parents.”
Leave-taking with the newlyweds was quite wrenching, as you’d expect. Not a dry eye in the house, but sharing someone’s wedding night can be such an emotionally bonding experience—especially if you’re paying for the entire affair.
• • •
SUNDAY, March 7 — It was sometime in the middle of the night when Carlotta finally dragged her weary carcass through my front door. She dropped her bags and shuffled into the bedroom. There, lounging impatiently under Granny DeFalco’s quilt, was My Love—naked as a clam and primed for conversation.
“Nickie! Where have you been?” she demanded, switching on the lamp.
“Oh, hi, darling. Boy, am I exhausted. Do you mind if I skip the flossing tonight?”
“Nickie, you’ve been gone for three days! You left darling Albert unattended!”
“Well I left a note for Mrs. Ferguson,” I replied, collapsing fully clothed on the bed. “Maybe I’ll skip brushing too.”
“Nickie, don’t lie to me. I know you were with Trent and Apurva. I heard all about it from Vijay. Where are they?”
I fished through Carlotta’s purse and handed My Love a Polaroid photograph. She stared at it in disbelief.
“What the fuck is this?”
“They’re married, Sheeni. I tried to talk them out of it, but they wouldn’t listen.”
All the color drained from my darling’s face. “But they’re too young to get married!”
“Not in Mississippi.”
“Mississippi! How did they get to Mississippi?”
“Same way I did. By airplane.”
“You paid for their tickets!”
“No way, honey. They were already there when they called me. They were destitute. So I went there to see if I could talk them into coming home.”
“Why didn’t you call me!?”
“They made me promise not to tell anyone.”
Sheeni stared in horror at the photo.
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