The Mother Road

  We stole a moment together when he helped me clean up the mess from breakfast, but it was a short-lived peck to the forehead before Paul started screaming for Porter to help him trim his beard appropriately. He’s a twenty-six year old man who doesn’t know how to properly trim his own beard. He blamed it on nerves; I blame it on the fact that he’s a needy little puke.

  Once the beards were trimmed and I was left cleaning up the clippings in the bathroom—do you feel the tension starting to rise? – Paul felt his skin was looking pale and asked me for any beauty tips for exfoliating his skin to bring out his natural glow. Not wanting to dive deep into my beauty repertoire, I told him about a baking soda facial mask we could make, which then resulted in my dad, Paul, Porter and myself all wearing facial masks for twenty minutes and watching college football on TV.

  In between taking care of Paul, I made sure to tend to Savannah, who thought it would be fun to get ready in the RV. A good thought, but not when the bathroom had days-old crusted clippings, pee, and toothpaste attached to it. That’s how I found myself cleaning it so Savannah was comfortable on her wedding day.

  I took pictures before I cleaned for bribery purposes. Paul owed me. I’m thinking maybe a two-hundred dollar gift card to Sephora would do. I will bring that up later when I tell a little white lie about Savannah freaking out about walking down the aisle and how I saved the day by calming her down.

  I don’t mind lying to Paul; I don’t mind it all.

  The wedding was beautiful. Savannah looked gorgeous in a cream lace trumpet dress that hugged her every curve. Paul and Porter both wore well-tailored midnight blue suits with white shirts and dark orange ties.

  Me? I was stuck in a “rustic” orange long satin dress that was probably the least flattering dress Savannah could have picked. But, hey, it’s not my day. I just feel bad for her pictures. Photographing terrible decision making is never fun for those who look at the pictures later on down the road.

  Paul cried, anyone shocked by that? But instead of his weasel like crying that makes you want to pluck his nostril hairs, he gently leaked tears as Savannah walked toward him. It was sweet.

  During the picture-taking, Porter kept telling me how beautiful I looked, but I could see a little humor in his eyes on occasion. What’s a guy really going to say when you’re wearing a dress full of sashays and giant bows? It was when Savannah brought out cowboy hats that I had to put a stop to the Gone with the Wind meets Howdy Doody compilation. I left the hat wearing to Paul and Savannah, who owned it while pretending to ride a sack of hay. Have I mentioned they’re perfect for each other?

  Now that I’m finally enjoying the reception, all beard clippings are taken care of, and I’m finally wearing mascara for the first time in several days, I can try to breathe, even though Porter is only a few feet away talking to a family friend.

  You can really judge a man by the way he wears a suit. He is confident if he tailors it specifically to his body, making sure his butt is on display and his shoulders are defined. Looking Porter up and down, I can tell he’s a confident, prideful man. He holds his beer by gripping the neck, not the bottom of the bottle, his hand that doesn’t hold his beer is casually hanging in his pocket, and his body language is inviting to everyone. Sex radiates off of him and it’s killing me just to watch him from afar, wondering what tonight might bring, if he will actually want to talk to me.

  “If I didn’t find my Pauly, I might have gone after Porter,” Savannah says, sitting down next to me. “He’s incredibly sexy.”

  “Uh, sure,” I say, a little uncomfortable.

  “I can see why you hooked up with him.”

  “Excuse me?” Shock and fear run down my spine. “Savannah, where did you hear that from?”

  Casually, she takes a sip of her wine. She never drinks; if she does, it’s a glass of wine and that’s it, but by the soft sway in her shoulders, I can tell she’s had one too many glasses. “Paul and I were talking about it while eating dinner. Those mashed potatoes were to die for. Weren’t they?”

  “Wait, Paul knows? Does my dad?”

  “Pretty sure. I guess they talked about it with Porter last night. He seemed casual about the conversation.”

  “Who seemed casual about the conversation?” I watch Savannah sway to the music, and if it wasn’t her wedding day, I would slap her in the face and force feed her coffee until she was sober enough to tell me all the information. Instead, I exercise my inebriated human patience.

  “Porter was casual. I asked him about it. He just laughed.”

  Laughed? My gaze falls on Porter, who is still talking to family friends. He looks at me, smiles, and then turns back around to his conversation. Why the hell would he laugh? Did he deny it?

  “What did Porter say? Did he deny what happened?”

  Savanah giggles. “No, he said you were like his little sister.”

  See the steam billowing around me? That’s because my stomach is a tea kettle at boiling point right now and the steam is pouring out of my ears. I’m ready to rage.

  He said I’m like his little sister? Well, if that’s the case, we did some pretty incestual stuff last night.

  “When Paul told me about you two, I was super excited, but he told me to calm down. Apparently, you two are just a fling; at least that’s what Porter said. Nothing serious, just a little fun.”

  Don’t get mad at Savannah; she’s drunk and it’s her wedding day. Do not slap her, I repeat, do not slap that drunken slur of a smile off her face.

  “Just a fling?” I ask, teeth grinding.

  “I guess so, but what a fling. You couldn’t have chosen a more perfect man, well besides Paul, to fling it with. But flinging it with Paul would be gross.”

  “My bride!!” Paul wobbles over to us, beers in his hands and his arms outstretched. “You’re magnificent. I’m so going to go down on you tonight.”

  “Paul! Jesus,” I shudder, trying to scrub that visual out of my mind. In the most disgusting way possible, he’s sticking his tongue out at Savannah and making short, nauseating flicks, while Savannah sits in front of him and claps. “Can you two stop? That is beyond disturbing.”

  “You’re just jealous your fling with Porter is over,” Paul says, sitting right next to me. He tickles my chin and says, “Get some good lovin’ on the trip, sis?”

  I don’t mind hitting Paul at all. I slap his hand away and say, “Don’t touch me and why the hell do you know that?”

  “It was so obvious. Dad and I laughed about how you thought you were so clever sneaking out of Tacy. We’re not idiots, Marley.”

  Embarrassment washes over me. I could handle Paul knowing…for the most part. But my dad? That’s a different story. I don’t want him to ever know me as a randy lady.

  “And you talked to Porter about it?” Fishing for information from your drunk brother is totally legit, especially after having to put up with all his prissy, obsessive tendencies.

  “Yeah, he’s over it.”

  The way Paul says, “He’s over it,” so casually is a stab to the heart. Was last night the last hurrah for Porter? And if it was, why even talk about it with my family? Why not deny it? Now I just look like an idiot who can’t keep it in her pants.

  “Gahhh, I got beer on my suit jacket!” Paul screeches. Leaning on me, he presses his suit jacket against my dress.

  “What are you doing?” I try to back away, but Paul won’t let me.

  “Using your dress to soak up the beer.” He breathes directly on my face, the smell of wet bread stinging my nose. “It’s hideous and you’re just the bridesmaid…tend to me.”

  “Get off me,” I shove him, but he goes nowhere.

  “Beer, get the beer out,” he mumbles, pressing his jacket against my thigh, creating a very awkward situation for the both of us. “The beer is staining my jacket, Marley. Why aren’t you helping me?”

  “Maybe because your breath has disintegrated all of my brain cells.”

  “Not like there were many!”
Paul laughs and lifts his beer before dropping it right on my lap. “Boom, mic drop.”

  Beer splashes up my dress and pools in my lap.

  “Paul, what the hell?” I slap him with my bouquet, which he catches in his hand and sniffs.

  “Aw, are you feeling ugly? Don’t worry, no one will think I spilled beer on you, they’ll just think you peed yourself.”

  “How is that better?”

  He laughs, a full on belly laugh. Grabbing my small bouquet, he sticks it in the back of my head as an accessory to my hair and claps. “It’s not, but that bouquet is just divine on you.” He lifts off of me and calls out to everyone at the wedding. “Everyone, don’t worry, I didn’t spill my beer on Marley, she just peed her pants. She had an underdeveloped urethra as a child, so I can see why she might have problems now. Don’t judge her; embrace the piss.”

  “Paul, shutting the hell up right now might do you some good,” I say through clenched teeth.

  At this moment, I wish I had venom that shot out of my mouth whenever I wanted; I would peel Paul’s skin off his face with my freaking snake serum shooting out of my pissed off glands.

  “Don’t tell me to be quiet on my wedding day.” Paul stumbles as he rises on his rickety log legs. He pulls Savannah into his side and kisses her on the head. “We want to thank you all for being here, and despite Marley stealing the show with her underdeveloped urethra, we can’t tell you how happy we are you came. Last night, I talked to my best friend Porter about his intentions with my sister…”

  “What are you doing? Sit down. Sit down now,” I pull on his suit jacket, but he just drunkenly swats me away.

  “I thought we were going to have another wedding on our hands, but turns out, it was only a fling and he sees Marley more as a little sister.” There is a collective “aw” in the crowd. “I know, we were touched by the sentiment too. Porter will find his special someone one day. Marley, she will grow to be an old pilly-cardigan-wearing bag lady with a snaggle tooth. But we will still love her.”

  Paul turns to me and tickles my chin again. This time, I grip his hand and twist it to the point that he bends and screams.

  “I told you to shut up.” I’m standing over him now, hand twisted just enough that he’s feeling pain through his alcohol-clouded head, while pure, dragon-slaying rage pours out of me.

  “Marley, let go of your brother.”

  Dad is holding a beer in his hand…a beer!!

  “Dad are you drinking?”

  “Porter gave it to me. Told me to relax.”

  Porter steps into the McMann massacre, closing off the circle. “He seemed stressed about Paul getting married. I thought it would be good for him.”

  “He doesn’t drink!” I shout, while letting go of Paul’s hand, who crumbles to the ground, clenching his hand and holding it up to the sky, praying to God to sacrifice him.

  “I’ve had only a little bit, Marley. I’m a grown man; I know what I’m doing.”

  I turn to Porter and stick my finger into his chest. He glances down at my dress and does the worst thing he could possibly do in this situation, he smiles.

  Just like that, I snap. A reel of miserable mishaps run through my mind as my shoulders move with my intense breaths and my heaving chest.

  Pee bottle, beard clippings, man fog, dirty bathrooms, mascara pube brushes, DNA in my eye shadow, flannel shirts everywhere.

  A kaleidoscope of plaid washes over my eyes and I feel my pores bleed red. I grab the beer out of my dad’s hand raise it above my head, screech out what I can only describe as a combination of a horny hyena and a cat in heat kind of sound and then slam the bottle on the ground, barely missing Paul’s head.

  Before I can stop myself, I take off toward the house, where I find the bag of flannels I picked up when cleaning out the bathroom in Tacy earlier and bring it to the chopping wood block outside. Twitching uncontrollably, drool threatening to fall out of my mouth, I grab the axe and raise it above my head, ready to strike.

  “Marley, put the axe down and step away from the flannels,” Porter says, hands extended, as if he wants to help.

  “You’re not in a good frame of mind. This is not who you are. You’re not an axe wielding psychopath looking to make a pile of long sleeved cotton into your very own plaid colored mulch,” Paul tries to convince me.

  “Buttons, please put the axe down. We can talk about whatever is bothering you. Please don’t chop up Daddy’s Americana flannel shirt.”

  My head whips to the three men who have turned me nuttier than a fruitcake. I bring the axe down and grip it in one hand while I step closer to all three of them. In unison, they hold onto each other and take one step backwards, covering their crotches. Smart move.

  “Don’t blister your precious, precious flannels? Is that what you’re asking me?” They stand there, silent, terrified. “Is it?!” I ask again, flying my arms about.

  The brave one that my dad is, he steps forward, barely, and holds out his hand as if that’s going to calm me down. “Buttons, why don’t you put the axe down?”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” I scream, waving the axe in the air like a banshee. “Do you think I like looking like an unglued lunatic with an underdeveloped urethra and a bouquet sticking out of her head in a ‘pee’ dress?” Paul goes to answer but I point the axe at him to shut him up. He cowers under Porter, forcing himself beneath Porter’s arm for protection. “Well, I don’t, but apparently I didn’t have a choice in the matter because thanks to you three, I’ve lost respect from everyone at the party.”

  “How is that our fault?” Paul asks. The beer is speaking for him because the minute the question pops out of his mouth, he squeals and then lifts Porter’s jacket and drapes it over his own head, treating it like an invisibility cloak.

  “I will tell you how it’s your fault, you utter ghoul!” I snap. “I was doing just fine until you invited him on our little trip.” I point the axe at Porter. “This was supposed to be a family bonding experience but you just had to invite Porter, didn’t you? Well, good job, because now, everything is ruined.” I start pacing back and forth, tapping the flat part of the axe against my chest. “I should have known this was all going to end like this. Stupid Marley, the little sister thinks she can have relations with her brother’s best friend.”

  Paul’s head evaporates away from Porter’s jacket as he stands tall. “You had relations with my sister? I thought you were just talking. Did you…pork her?”

  Without warning, my dad slaps Paul in the back of the head. “Don’t talk about your sister that way.”

  Porter slaps Paul as well and says, “Yeah, don’t talk about your sister that way.”

  Returning the slap, Paul swings his hand against Porter. “You’re supposed to be my friend, not her boy toy?”

  My dad and Porter both slap Paul. “Don’t call me a boy toy,” Porter states.

  “Don’t disrespect your friend,” my dad reprimands.

  The earth tilts on its access as Paul loses all brain cells and smacks my dad in the back of his head from pure annoyance. The woods fall silent and the air turns thick as my dad’s eyebrows prepare for battle.

  “Oh shit…” Paul starts running in place, shaking his hands at his side as if he can’t believe what he just did. He takes a giant gulp of air and then screams at the top of his lungs, “Ahhhhhhhhhh” and sprints off toward the wedding, my dad chasing after him, holding his pants up as he trots away, leaving me alone with Porter.

  Porter takes a deep breath and steps toward me but I hold the axe up before he can get close. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Listen Marley…”

  “No, you listen,” I screech. “You think this is some kind of fun game you like to play? Screw around Paul’s little sister? Make her want things she can’t possibly have? Well, guess what Porter? I’m done! I’m no longer playing your sick and twisted game. You’ve broken me down for the last time.” My voice is way too high-pitched. I can feel myself teeter over the brink
of insanity. I’m on the verge of banging my head up against a tree, and the only thing I can think of doing so I don’t end up bawling my eyes out is dig into my inner twelve year old self. I puff my chest, walk over to the chopping block and raise the axe over my head. Eyeing Porter, I say, “You’re a stupid McStupid pants and I hope your penis drowns in its own puke and when I say puke, I mean semen, because that’s what penises do, they puke up semen full of babies. I hope your penis drowns in a milky river of babies and then gets an infection because its own babies that it puked up are actually diseased because of the time you let a zombie suck you off. Your penis was sucked on by a zombie and is now going to drown in its own zombie baby puke. People will call it the Penis Puke-pacolypse. Wikipedia will have a whole page dedicated to your rotten, limp zombie penis that children will go to, to scare each other into puking themselves, so then it turns into double puke problems. There will be puke everywhere because of your penis!” I point my axe at his dick and then say, “Bad penis, very bad penis!” I scream the last word, add an “aye, aye, aye” at the end, whip the axe over my head, and then chop down on the shirts that lay in front of me.

  Satisfied, I grab the bouquet out of my hair, throw it at Porter’s face and take off toward the house.

  Most definitely my finest moment.

  There you have it, the beginning of the end. The day I lost my mind, threw all self-respect to the wind, and chopped up a pile of flannel shirts. Metaphorically, it felt like I was chopping off the dicks of the three men who have turned me this way, but I try not to think of it that way because two of those dicks belong to family members, but that third dick, despite its ability to make me scream to the point of attracting all animals ready to mate, I enjoyed chopping it up.

  Did I cause a scene at my brother’s wedding? Yes, I did, but sometimes you have to live your life with the motto…#NoRegrets. Sometimes you have to ignore the way people perceive you and do what you feel is right. If that means stopping the reception at your brother’s wedding to scream out a war cry to all that are listening and then storm off, in your pee dress, then go for it. Every person needs to have a moment in their life of total insanity. A time where there is nothing else you can do but snap in half, wave your arms in the air, and run around like a crazy person, tongue hanging out and insanity in your eyes.