Read Online Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp by C. D. Payne - Free Book Online Page A

not falling for your lies, Nick. No way that drug-addict horn player had that kind of dough.”
    “ I’m not talking about Paul Saunders, Dad. Lacey dumped him when he got arrested. She was engaged to an older man who manufactured truck springs in L.A. He just had a stroke and left her a fortune. You can read about it in the L.A. Times. His name was Bernard Krusinowski.”
    “ Ten million, huh? That’s a lot of lettuce.”
    “ Yes, Dad, Lacey’s extremely distraught. You might think about calling her to offer some solace.”
    “ You’ve talked to her? Does she want to hear from me?”
    “ Of course, Dad. I heard her tell a girlfriend that you were the love of her life.”
    Why I wasn’t struck dead for telling that lie I’ll never know.
    “ Yeah, Nick, lots of my old girlfriends feel that way.”
    What a stuck-up creep. I gave him Lacey’s phone number and wished him luck. He didn’t ask me to keep in touch. I didn’t ask him to eat shit and die. I’d call it a draw.
     
    SATURDAY, May 29 — My third week as a married person.
    Well, they say the first year of marriage is the toughest. I did knock a piece off my old lady, though I’m not sure a 15-year-old really qualifies. We’ve both found that energetic intercourse is a good way to work off one’s frustrations. Were this not the case, I’m sure the divorce rate would be about 99.5 percent. The murder rate, no doubt, would be similarly elevated. Since Sheeni dislikes clingy guys, I don’t tell her that I love her, though I’m willing to admit it when asked. She doesn’t. Nor does she mention that she loves me. There seem to be so many topics married people don’t discuss. For example, this morning when we were doing it for the third time I was wondering what was going through Sheeni’s mind. Was she really into it or was she thinking about breakfast? I often feel oddly strange on third go-arounds. Like I’m trespassing in some way on my bodily functions. I climaxed again, but I could tell my prostate was resentful.
    An extravagantly warm and beautiful day. Paris certainly knows how to do spring. Frisky Maurice led me all over the neighborhood. We stopped at the intersection of boulevard Raspail to inspect a large statue, which turned out to be of Honoré de Balzac, the notable dead author. I expect when I’m a celebrated writer, the city of Oakland will be erecting statues of me. I only hope they’re a bit more flattering. As captured in pigeon-flecked bronze, Mr. Balzac appeared to be undergoing an especially agonizing case of writer’s block. Or perhaps he’d just received a particularly groin-pummeling critical review.
    When I returned, My Love was serving coffee and snacks to the Boccata brothers. She made the introductions. In turn, I had my limp hand crushed by Baldo, Bartolo, and Bernardo Boccata. Such muscles! With all that sinew concentrated in one small room, things soon felt quite claustrophobic—especially with their compulsion to juggle everything at hand. I never imagined so many of our possessions could be circulating in space all at once. Communication was difficult because their English is rudimentary and apparently their French is even worse. My Love gave it a stab.
    “ Where are you from?” she asked.
    Although she was too polite to mention it, I could sense she was troubled by the airborne gyrations of her precious French typewriter.
    Baldo, the eldest, was elected to respond. He pointed out the open door toward their apartment across the hall.
    “ I mean in Italy?” added Sheeni.
    “ Pisa!” announced Bartolo, the hairiest, as all three inclined sideways at a dramatic angle while continuing to juggle.
    Enchanted, Sheeni burst into applause; I managed a grudging smile.
    “ You are Americans?” queried Bernardo, wearing the tightest t- shirt and pants. He appeared to be extremely well developed all over.
    “ Yes,” replied my wife. “From San Francisco.”
    “ San Francisco!” exclaimed Baldo. “North bitch!