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

Angeles. At 2:33 a.m. Connie called me with the shocking news. Her father, noted industrialist Bernard H. Krusinowski, has suffered a massive cerebral thrombosis. The prognosis is not good. He’s deceased. Connie was devastated.
    “ How did it happen, Connie? Where? When?”
    “ It was right after lunch, Rick. He was taking a siesta with Lacey.”
    “ He was in bed with Lacey!?”
    “ That’s right. Apparently, they were right in the middle of things when he suddenly reared up and went limp. I mean, his body went limp.”
    “ Right, Connie. I understand. That’s awful.”
    A tragic end to an eventful life. But, personally, I couldn’t think of a nicer send-off to the next world.
    “ How’s Lacey?”
    “ She’s a mess, Rick. She’s under sedation. Rita is taking it hard too.”
    Rita Krusinowski is Connie’s mother and my father-in-law’s alleged mistress.
    “ I think I killed my father, Rick. I think it was the strain of the divorce that pushed him over the edge.”
    “ Don’t be silly, Connie. Your father was a competitive, hard- driving executive. He was a victim of America’s obsession with success, rich foods, and large smooth-riding automobiles. Did he do much walking?”
    “ Nobody walks in L.A., Rick. The smog would kill you.”
    “ And how about all those cigars he smoked, Connie?”
    “ Dad did enjoy a nice Cuban cigar. You think maybe they hardened his arteries?”
    “ No question about it, Connie. They call it Castro’s revenge. Your father was a walking time bomb. Have the arrangements been made?”
    “ Yeah, Rita’s taking charge as usual. She wants to bury him in Palm Springs, but I’m against it.”
    “ Why, Connie?”
    “ Palm Springs is where you go for the weekend, Rick. It’s not a place to spend eternity.”
    I told Connie not to blame herself and to call me any time she needed emotional support. Hard to believe just a few months ago I got naked in a hot tub with a rich old guy who is now a corpse. I just hope I didn’t pick up any of his cerebral thrombosis germs.
    7:12 p.m. Took a leave of absence from my many jobs today for an expedition by train to the Palace at Versailles. Didn’t see the whole thing because My Love’s feet gave out. That will teach her to sneer at practical Rumanian footwear. Perhaps the French language offers sufficient superlatives to describe Louis XIV’s suburban development, but I find English sorely lacking. It just goes to show what a guy can accomplish if he’s the absolute ruler of the richest state in Europe, has millions of peasants dutifully paying their taxes, commands the finest artisans in the world, wants to invite 20,000 of his fellow aristocrats to sleep over, isn’t a devotee of restrained Danish Modern, and never has to worry about zoning officials or building inspectors. Just when you think things can’t get any more mindbogglingly stupendous, you turn a corner and discover you were just in the guest quarters. The really impressive stuff is still ahead. The whole place makes Hearst’s San Simeon (visited long ago on a tension-packed family vacation) look by comparison like a tool shed. Nor did Louis scrimp on the gardens. Offhand, I’d estimate it would take me several lifetimes to mow his grass. And just the thought of all that geometrical hedge-trimming makes my arms tired. The French may be even more rigorously anal in their landscaping than the Japanese. Quite a shock to the system to go from such monumental gilded splendor back to our own modest hovel. I switched on the radio and instantly had an entire band singing rap in my living room. That, at least, is a luxury Louis XIV never enjoyed.
    WEDNESDAY, May 26 — I introduced myself this morning to our diminutive neighbor. When we met in the corridor, he was dressed modestly for the street in a red satin cape with matching turban. A large red stone (ruby?) was flashing fire from his right earlobe. His name is Señor Alfredo Nunez, he is 53 inches tall, and he’s from