Free Revoltingly Young by C.D. Payne

if you can imagine that.
    Nevada may generally suck, but the scenery can be semi awe-inspiring in spots. We are now cruising down Route 395 on the eastern side of the Sierras. To the west out my grungy window a whole line of peaks is turning golden in the fading light. I think nature puts on these grand displays to help us humans forget our troubles. I look out the window and almost get choked up by the soaring majesty. Better than looking in the other direction where a snoring old fart is drooling down both sides of his unshaven chin. Somehow I knew when he got on in Carson City that he was going to plop down next to me. Smells like a liquor store too.
    I’m trying not to think about Uma. I wonder how many people she’s discussed my sphincter control issues with? Probably be all over town by the time I get back. Should I change my return ticket for one going to Oakland? Lots of people live with mothers even wackier than mine. Why should I be so particular?
     
    SATURDAY, July 16 – Tyler and his stepdad were nice enough to come pick me up even though it was nearly midnight when the bus got in. They live way out in the Valley, but fortunately the freeways weren’t too clogged at that hour. Call me a rube from the sticks, but rolling down the pass when you first hit that sea of lights on the outskirts of L.A. it’s a mind-blowing sight. So many millions of people sprawled out across what was once empty sagebrush. And any time of the day or night a good fraction of them are out roaring around on the freeways.
    Bill (Tyler’s stepdad) picked me up in his awesome 1968 Pontiac GTO. He also has a Harley and a few other bikes as well. He’s an electrician by trade and very mechanically oriented. His full name is William Teslar Tibble, but everyone calls him Bill. Grandma has a theory that everyone looks at least a little bit like some movie or television actor. She claims I look like Brandon De Wilde, whoever that is. Applying her theory, I’d say Bill resembles a shorter, stockier, and grubbier version of Kevin Costner.
    Even though Bill formally adopted Tyler, my nephew still goes by the name Twisp. He says he kept it to honor his mother for all those years she took care of him as a struggling single mom. Tyler Twisp or Tyler Tibble–I’d say you’re stuck in Name Hell either way. Technically, I may be a Twisp, but it would take a very large bribe to get me to change my name.
    My sister Joanie was still up and gave me a big hug when we arrived. She was looking older, but not yet in the repulsive category. She used to be a glamorous airline hostess, then worked as a travel agent. When online reservations made that job redundant, she went into the antique business. She and Bill are out scouring yard sales now. They do that every Saturday morning. She has a booth at an collective store in West Hollywood where she unloads her junk. Plus, she sells stuff at the Rose Bowl Flea Market, where actual movie stars sometimes paw over her items. I wouldn’t mind a few pawing over me right now.
    The Tibble-Twisps reside in a modest stucco ranch crammed with zany 1950s furnishings. Rather like living in a Technicolor cartoon: lots of bold colors, wild patterns, and flamboyant shapes. Dominating the living room is an immense glass cabinet packed with glittering silver and gold trophies. That impressive display must provide a constant ego boost to my athletic nephew. So many awards and medals and ribbons reminding him that he is an achiever of superlatives, a vanquisher of lesser beings. And how many trophies have I won? So far none. Competitive nose picking is not yet an Olympic event.
    Since Joanie’s house is not set up for visitors, I slept in their camping trailer parked next to the garage. It’s the kind where the back end folds down like a ramp so you can load in your bikes or other toys. Bill has two quads that they take out to the desert and zoom around on. Tyler says it’s tons of fun. Too bad you can’t do it this time of