The Mother Road

  “Yes, sir,” Paul and Porter say at the same time.

  I smile to myself, happy that my dad has finally remembered who his favorite child is.

  “Hello, boys,” I say, as I round the corner of Tacy. “What are you cooking?”

  “Hot dogs, of course,” My dad says with his arm stretched out. He pulls me into his chest and gives me three kisses on my head. “You smell nice and your shirt fits you perfectly. Don’t you think so, boys?”

  “It’s a little tight,” Paul comments, enticing my father’s evil eyebrows to appear. Paul falters and covers up his last statement. “I mean, looks great. Not tight at all.”

  I glance over at Porter, who is refusing to make eye contact with me. Instead, he’s flipping the hot dogs, concentrating solely on the flames under them.

  “I haven’t had a hot dog in a long time,” I comment. “I haven’t actually had meat in a while.”

  With a scrunched nose, Paul asks, “Are you a vegetarian?”

  “No, but I try to eat organically most of the time. All those toxins aren’t good for you.”

  “Actually…”

  Whenever Paul starts a sentence with the word “actually,” I just tune him out, and that’s exactly what I do now as he goes on and on about the myths about non-organic food. I take the time to put my shower items away in Tacy. That’s when it dawns on me that there are three beds in the camper and four people.

  “Uh, where is everyone sleeping?” I ask, stepping off the bottom stair of Tacy and sitting in a camping chair next to my dad.

  “Didn’t you know? You’re sharing the bitch bed with Porter,” Paul laughs.

  “What?” My face turns bright red as I turn to see Porter’s reaction. Sharing a bed with Porter would have been a dream come true four years ago, but now I would rather sleep in a tub of my brother’s urine.

  Actually, that’s not true. If Porter crawled into bed with me, I wouldn’t flee the scene right away. I probably wouldn’t even kick him out. I might kick him in the gonads and then rub my cheek against his chest because that’s the kind of girl I am. Beat them and then treat them.

  My dad pats my hand. “Porter will be sleeping in a tent outside of the RV.”

  Why did that answer disappoint me? Like my dad and brother would really allow Porter to sleep with me. “Why did you lie, Paul?”

  “Because Dad said we couldn’t make fun of you for being urine face; I had to get my jabs in somewhere.”

  “I’m not urine face!” I yell, the whole campground probably hearing my outburst. “It hit my chest. If anything, I’m urine tits.”

  “I’m not calling you urine tits. You’re my little sister; you’re not supposed to have tits.”

  “Can we not use the word tits, please?” my dad asks, but we both ignore him.

  “So then what would you call these?” I ask, holding my boobs up. I catch Porter take a glance at me fondling myself before he turns back to the hot dogs, clearing his throat at the same time. “If these aren’t tits, then please tell me what they are.”

  “Stop touching yourself.” Paul covers his eyes.

  “Every girl has tits, Paul. Savannah has tits just like I have them.”

  “Don’t.” Paul points his finger at me. “Do not associate your tits with Savannah’s.”

  “Why not?” I stand and grip my boobs in my hands, dancing circles around Paul while I rub them together. “Don’t want to think about my tits as Savannah’s tits?”

  “Stop, you’re ruining everything,” Paul cries, the palms of his hands pressed against his ears while he hums so he can’t hear what I’m saying.

  “Enough with the tit talk, Jesus.” The Bern-Man has spoken and the eyebrow has made itself known. No more tit talk for tonight, but I note the damage it has done to Paul and remind myself to use such torture devices in future fights.

  “Hot dogs are ready,” Porter calls out, placing a plate of charred dogs on the picnic table.

  Putting our fight on hold, we all take a seat at the picnic table. I sit next to my dad and across from Paul, happy that I have to turn my body diagonal to talk to Porter, the less interaction the better.

  The chips are broken out, sodas are cracked, and condiments are passed around the table as we decorate our dogs, preparing them for a toast.

  We raise our hot dogs like every other trip we’ve had, Porter follows suit, and my dad prepares his speech. “To a safe and fun trip across the country. May Tacy guide us down the Mother Road, may our stomachs be full of wieners—” enter snort from me, “—and our days full of laughter. Here’s to getting our kicks on Route 66.”

  “Hear, hear,” Paul says, like a dumb ass.

  We clink our hot dogs together and all take a bite. The texture of the beef is an unfamiliar one to me, since it’s been a while since my last bite of a hot dog, but I chew like a pro and swallow. Not so bad. It’s not the best hot dog I’ve ever had, but I’m not throwing up, so I’m happy.

  The boys talk about the baseball playoffs coming up, and when I say boys, I mean Porter and my dad. Paul is as feminine as they come. He might sport the beard and he might have been in the Army for a short stint, but when it comes to building things, knowing sports statistics, and guzzling enough beer to belch, “I Will Always Love You,” he is not your man. If you’re looking for someone who can show you how to break into someone’s hard drive, if that’s a thing, and bake one mean pineapple upside down cake, then he’s your man.

  “How’s Savannah? Is she okay with this trip across the country?”

  Mustard drips off of Paul’s beard as he licks his fingers. “Yeah, she was the one who found Mom’s map. She suggested the trip after I talked about all of our vacations out on the road.”

  Damn, I knew I liked that woman. It’s not very often you like your soon to be sister-in-law, unless your sibling has struck gold, and somehow Paul luckily did.

  “Savannah is a good girl,” my dad chimes in.

  “Do you always have to say her name like that?” I ask my dad, who also has mustard on his beard.

  “How do I say her name?” My dad feigns innocence.

  “As if you were born in the deep burrows of Georgia and have molasses dripping off your tongue.”

  Every single time my dad says Savannah’s name, he uses a rich southern accent, as if he was transported back to the massively inappropriate cotton picking days.

  “Sounds better when said like that. Plus, she likes it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Where did she find the map?”

  “In Mom’s photo album. We were looking through old pictures and it was in the back. She thought it would be good for us to have one more trip together. It all worked out when Porter was out in California to…”

  “We don’t need to talk about what I was doing,” Porter interrupts Paul. “I’m just glad I was in the right place at the right time. Hell, if I wasn’t, I would have missed urine face.” He can’t even get the sentence out of his mouth without laughing. Paul gives him a fist bump, and like the children they are, they blow it up and go back to their hot dogs.

  “What did I say? We’re not talking about…urine face,” my dad snorts.

  “Dad!” I whack his arm.

  “I’m sorry,” my dad chuckles. “But, sweetie, you almost drank our piss.”

  Everyone with a beard at the table breaks out into a fit of laughter. Hands slap the table, guts are held onto, and the deep rumble of their chuckles vibrates through the air.

  I brush off my hands and crumple my napkin, then toss it on my plate. “Yuck it up, boys. Get your jollies in now because when I get you back, you’ll want to remember this moment when I warned you.” I lean over the picnic table and I enunciate every word. “Don’t mess with me.”

  Satisfaction runs through me as Paul gulps, clearly fearing what I can do to him a week before his wedding, but Porter’s reaction is the exact opposite. He sees my threat as a challenge. What he doesn’t know is it would give me the greatest pleasure to mess with his arroganc
e. I have some planning to do.

  Our dinner is cleaned by Paul, while my dad and I lay out the next portion of the trip, and Porter takes a shower. Arizona has a few attractions we want to stop and visit, the meteor crater being one of them. If you are to take back one thing from this trip, you will learn that my father, Bernie McMann, is obsessed with space. He grew up in the era of the great space race and swore to his friends that his fiftieth birthday would be celebrated on the moon. To his dismay, it was celebrated at an Old Country Buffet with his kids, but boy did we pig out that night.

  Paul and I don’t mind space; we grew up to our dad talking constantly about the moon, watching Star Trek, and being launched by my father from our living rooms to our beds as if we were our own personal rocket ships. The fear that threatens to take over me on this seven day trip is the many, and I mean many, space conversations my dad will try to have, especially after that show about astronaut wives just aired. He called me after the pilot and talked to me for two hours about the Gemini and Mercury crews and how they were the real pioneers of the space age. Lucky for us, there is a plexi-glass astronaut in Illinois dedicated to the Gemini men. My dad is practically frothing at the mouth from excitement over the damn thing.

  “I’m going to hit the shower.” My dad kisses the top of my head and pats my shoulder. “So glad you could come with us, Buttons. I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too, Dad.”

  “Come on, Paul, you smell like ass.”

  When I was young, it was always me and my dad and Paul and my mom. I was in charge of the map and giving my dad directions, while Paul helped mom in the kitchen, hence his pineapple upside down cake skills. When I moved across the country, I knew it was a big adjustment for my dad, especially since Mom was no longer alive, but he encouraged me, knowing it was the best move for my career. I try to visit back home as much as possible, but I know it’s not like it used to be, something my dad is still adjusting to.

  While the men are showering, I step up into the RV and stare down the bitch bed, aka, the dining table. If it’s anything like I remember, I’m in for a night full of the inability to stretch my body out, my arms getting stuck in the crevices of the cushions, and the worry if I’m going to fall through the table only to end up with a particle board piece of scrap shoved uncomfortably up my ass.

  Dreading the night in front of me, I toss the cushions to the floor and grab the leg from underneath that’s holding up the table. It’s a little rusty, so trying to fold it up is challenging.

  “Come on you geriatric plate holder. Get in there,” I say to it.

  With fear of being pinched by the rusty leg’s button that won’t go in, I grab the hem of my shirt and bring it up to the button to protect my fingers. The cotton shields me, giving me more confidence to press harder.

  “Don’t be a little bitch; work with me here.”

  I grunt and shift my body to apply more pressure. Sweat starts to tickle my temples and I swear some more, throwing my entire body into the table.

  “Do you need me to warm you up before I push your button? Are you a needy little lady? Fine. I can stroke you.” I take a break from the button and start running my hand up and down the leg of the dining table. The cold metal starts to warm from my pumping. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you, leg? Come on, work with me now.”

  Moving my shirt back up to the button, exposing almost my entire front half, I press it in, throwing my back into it. With a final grunt and a thrust from my upper half, the button gives in. I scream from surprise and my fingers slip, trapping my shirt in the button hole while the leg of the table still stands straight as an aroused pencil cock.

  “Damn it!” I flop to the ground, the hem of my shirt rising up around my neck, my entire front exposed just in time for Porter’s viewing pleasure.

  Mid stride, he stops on the second step of the RV’s entrance when he sees me sitting on the floor, stuck in the table. He takes in the scene in front of him and his eyes turn a shade darker when his eyes land on my bare skin. If I didn’t think he was by far the hottest piece of male ass I’ve ever seen, I would have considered him a perv for the amount of time he took observing my appearance.

  Scrambling out of view, I turn my back to him and fumble with the stupid leg again.

  “Having some trouble?” I can feel his chest against my back, leaning over to see what I’m up to.

  “Nope.” I scoot closer to the pole, my legs straddling it as if I’m borrowing the steel rod from a gnome’s strip club to conduct my own tantalizing dance.

  “Seems like you’re stuck.” There is mirth in his voice and I hate it. His hand reaches around me as his head leans over my shoulder. “Let me see what you have going on here.”

  “Do you mind? I have this under control,” I say, turning my face so our noses are millimeters apart. My eyes widen from how close he is. The urge to rub my cheek against his short beard is overwhelming. The thought of having beard burn all over my body is tempting, and like the fool I am, I can feel the words on the tip of my tongue, asking him to motorboat me with his scruff.

  I convince myself it’s the hot dog talking.

  “I don’t, actually.” He leans over some more and takes a look at the button I’m having trouble with. Our bodies are practically tangled together as he fits his rather large physique over my legs and under the table so he can help.

  “I really have this handled.”

  “Doesn’t look like it. It looks like you’ve got your shirt stuck. Nice bra, by the way. I didn’t know you could still fit in a training bra.”

  A horrified gasp escapes me. “It’s a sports bra!” I defend.

  “Really?” His head turns sideways. “Looks like the one you got from the bra fairy that one Christmas.”

  Yes, you heard that right. The bra fairy.

  I love my mom dearly, God rest her soul, but there are few moments in a little girl’s life that she will forever remember…like getting her period, rubbing her body up and down a poster of her generation’s heart throb…and getting her first bra. My mom destroyed one of those moments for me. Can you guess which one?

  Being the tomboy I was at the time, I wanted nothing to do with a bra. If Paul and Porter weren’t wearing one, then I didn’t want one. My mom had a different idea though.

  One Christmas Eve, when I was in fifth grade, we were having a gathering of sorts at our house. Our grandparents were present, as well as our neighbors, and, of course, Porter. I spent the whole day playing football with the boys out in the pastures and when we got back to the house, there was one single present under the tree where the entire party was gathered. My mom clapped her hands together in glee at our return and told me there was a gift under the tree for me.

  Being the present monger I was, I fell to my knees and grabbed it in excitement, ready to tear it open. The card read, “To Marley, From the Bra Fairy.”

  As the words registered in my brain, the package flew to the ground and I refused to open it. My dad, being the protective husband that he was, told me in a stern, but kind voice to appease my mom, despite the message on the card. Reluctantly, I opened the present, pulled out a cotton pink training bra, and held it up for everyone to see. The audience proceeded to clap while my mom told them it was my first and then asked me to model it for everyone.

  It was emotionally scarring. I went to bed that night asking Paul why he didn’t have to wear a bra. His excuse was he had a penis and he didn’t have boobs. The boy was a porker back then…a bra might have done him some good.

  “You think you’re so funny…” my sentence is interrupted by the incredibly loud grumble of my intestines.

  Porter, who is messing around with the button, stops what he’s doing and looks down at my stomach. “What was that?”

  My stomach churns again and I instantly break out in a cold sweat.

  “Must be hungry.” I pass his comment off with a shrug.

  Meanwhile, my lip trembles while it feels like there is a mini zombie
apocalypse taking over my intestines. My mouth waters, my ass instantly feels heavy, and I know what is about to happen to me isn’t a good thing.

  “You ate two hot dogs and half a bag of chips.” He studies me with concern.

  “Fast metabolism,” I squeak out. Before my eyes, I see my skin turn to a light grey color as I attempt to force myself to stop sweating.

  I convince my body that I’m not hot, that I’m actually in a frozen tundra, watching penguins get it on with their little penguin penises and polar bears enjoying handies from one another. I try to laugh at the visual in my head, but all I can picture is the flesh eating monsters burning up a storm in my guts.

  “You don’t look alright…”

  “Just get the button undone!” I shout, losing my cool, my stomach gurgling again.

  “It’s really jammed in there, your shirt isn’t helping. What were you doing with your shirt in the button anyway?”

  “It doesn’t matter, just fix it, for the love of God, fix it!”

  Porter stops his attempt at my freedom to scan me up and down. “Seriously, Marley…”

  Gurggle, grumble, grumble, perrrrrrt.

  A questioning eyebrow raises on Porter’s perfect face. If I wasn’t so lost in what was about to come out of my ass, I would have reveled in the fresh soap smell coming off of him and maybe pressed my cheek up against his as if I was a cat marking my claim, but instead, I’m focused on being seconds away from sharting in my pants.

  “Shit! Get me out of this thing,” I yell, yanking on my shirt, hating that I might have to rip it. “Get me out, get me out.”

  “I can’t when you’re flinging your body everywhere.”

  Guuuuuuuurrrrrgleeeeee.

  “Noooooo!” I scream, shimmying out of my shirt by backing my entire body up toward the door. My arms are the last thing to exit before I sprint to the back of Tacy, slam the bathroom door shut, sit on the toilet, and completely humiliate myself from the noises escaping me that I have no chance at stopping.