Free Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp by C. D. Payne Page A

she walked in her front door. The table was set for five. Making themselves at home were my new cook and chauffeur. Bored with being snowed in and worried about their parents, Trent and Apurva had decided to bail on their honeymoon. Already Apurva was in the kitchen showing Mrs. Ferguson how to make vegetarian meatloaf. Trent was petting Albert on the sofa and listeningpolitely to dim Dwayne boast how his dog Kamu could “bite the head off” Apurva’s dog Jean-Paul.
    8:05 p.m. Our next shipment of Wart Watches had better sell out in a hurry. Trent eats like he’s at the training table of the Chicago Bears. Marriage in general seems to be good for the appetite. I only pray Apurva was eating for two. All through the meal I could sense Trent was wondering why Carlotta insists on dining with repulsive Dwayne. Hey guy, I don’t like the cretin any more than you do.
    Serving seconds on dessert, Mrs. Ferguson was dumbfounded to discover that Trent and wife somehow had visited Memphis without touring Graceland.
    “And what is Graceland?” inquired Apurva.
    Mrs. Ferguson staggered back from this blow.
    “It’s Elvis Presley’s home,” explained her husband. “It’s now open to the public.”
    “You have … heard of Elvis … ain’t ya?” asked my maid.
    “Certainly,” replied Apurva. “He’s that heavyset singer who died many years before I was born.”
    If Apurva regards Elvis as ancient history, I can only imagine what she thinks of Frank.
    After dinner Trent took Carlotta aside and requested a $100 advance on my first month’s car rental. I paid him in cash and told him to park the Acura out of sight in the alley behind the garage. Then Apurva helped me move my stuff out of the bedroom, which Carlotta is graciously giving up (but only temporarily!) to the newlyweds. Believe it or not, I’ll be bedding down tonight on the sofa in the living room.
    Oh well, I keep reminding myself that at least Trent is married—just as those aging Vietnam War protesters make the best of things by reminding themselves that at least Richard Nixon is dead.
    10:20 p.m. Thank God Sheeni didn’t call or come over. I did have one visitor: Bruno Modjaleski, who knocked on my front door to apologize for being a lying weasel.
    “I’m sorry I cost you the fifty, Carly. But I’m going to make it up to you.”
    “Good,” replied Carlotta, folding her arms over her nightgown and not letting him in. “I could use the money.”
    “Yeah, I decided to pay you back with $50 worth of kisses.”
    Before I could slam the door, the brute grabbed me and made his first installment right there on the front stoop. A fate worse than death (especially the ass grope) and I didn’t even get it down on video to show Sonya.
    TUESDAY, March 9 — Another unfortunate development, diary. Let me begin by noting that I am a sound sleeper. This is why I did not hear the key turn in the lock sometime around midnight, nor hear the person enter. The room was dark and their view into the living room (where Carlotta was sleeping) was partially screened by the new entertainment center cabinet extending out from the wall to form a de facto entry foyer for my tiny home. I surmise that the person proceeded quietly down the hallway to the bathroom, where they removed their garments. Ever-useless Albert, locked in the kitchen, raised no alarm. They then tiptoed across the hall to the bedroom, where—while attempting to slip beneath the covers—they encountered the lightly clad voluptuous form of a sleeping female. Waking in surprise, Apurva leaped to what for her might have been a logical conclusion and shouted, “No, Carlotta, this is not right! No!”
    Her husband woke up; Carlotta jolted awake and dashed into the bedroom just as angry Trent switched on the light. Everyone gasped. On the other side of the bed was My Love, coming to the traumatic realization that she was standing nude in a room with her former childhood sweetheart and his new wife.
    Time slowed