Have you ever listened to a solo trombone play an ode to America in a perfectly echoed room? If you haven’t, try this. Eat a hot dog after being a quasi-veggie for a while and see what happens. My ass is convinced it’s a solo artist putting on a performance for the porcelain gods as it sings a little ditty of plops and toots to anyone who wants to listen.
My face rests in my hands in utter humiliation as I just let things happen to me, not stopping the entourage of hot dog trots. With each flex of my intestines, a new wave of undiscovered flatus escapes my body. Encore after encore of shit storms play for Porter, who is a mere few feet away. Too bad my instrument isn’t tuned…
The RV dips, indicating that my dad and Paul are back from the shower. Their presence is confirmed when I hear them ask, “Where’s Marley?”
“Uh, she’s in the bathroom. I don’t think the hot dogs are sitting well,” Porter answers. Hearing Porter talk about me having diarrhea really feels good. Loving this!
“Oh, no.” A knock comes at the door and from the gentleness in his step, I know it’s my dad. “Buttons, are you okay?”
“Noooo,” I whine, leaning my head against the bathroom door.
“Okay, well we’ll get your bed ready and grab a water for you as well, so when you’re done, you can just relax.”
“I think I’m dying.”
I can hear them whispering to each other, but I can’t quite make out what they’re talking about. I’m about to ask when my dad says, “Marley?”
“Dad, I don’t need a freaking audience. Can you all just leave until I’m done?”
It’s bad enough Porter knows what I’m doing in here. I don’t need all the men in my life standing next to the door, waiting to rate the next ode to the toilet bowl from the inspiring soloist, my asshole.
“Can I just tell you one thing?” my dad pries.
“What?” I moan, not in a good way.
Nervously, my dad clears his throat before he speaks. “I just wanted to let you know the toilet is on the fritz right now. It’s not flushing.”
My stomach bottoms out, my legs go numb, and I feel like passing out. From a distance, I can hear the distinct sound of Paul snorting and then getting whacked by my dad, causing him to grunt in pain.
“Freaking perfect,” I mutter, just as another round of the sweats takes over my body.
CHAPTER FIVE
**MARLEY**
A loud rumble startles me out of my slumber. A cold gust whips over my exposed arm and I quickly grab my blanket to break the chill from freezing over my skin. I’m unaware of my surroundings, my back is stiff, and the distinct odor of human feces keeps breezing past my nose.
That’s when it all comes rushing back to me.
Hot dogs.
Shirt caught in the table.
Porter and his soapy goodness.
The kind of diarrhea no one should ever experience in a lifetime.
And to top it off, a broken toilet.
After a disgusting half an hour of begging the intestinal gods to be nice to me, I exited the bathroom to find the RV empty and all the windows wide open. The boys were out by the fire, talking quietly and drinking beers, my bed was made, and the blankets folded over as if I was staying in a five star hotel with turn down service.
Too humiliated to make eye contact with anyone, especially Porter—oh, what he must think of me—I put myself to bed, holding back the tears that wanted to flow from embarrassment. Coming on this trip was supposed to be a relaxing time with my brother and dad, but instead, it’s been a twenty-four hour stint of me basking in human excrements and fighting off the suicidal feelings I still have for Porter.
I hate him, but I don’t. Does anyone ever really get over their first crush?
After what happened last night, I have no doubt in my mind that Porter has zero feelings toward me. How could he when I’ve been covered in urine and sharting up a storm in one single day?
Keeping it classy.
Another rumble echoes through the early morning air, shaking Tacy. I roll to my side, bringing the blanket up to my neck and open one eye. I peek up top to the attic of the RV to see Paul’s bed made perfectly and him nowhere to be found. Next, I look over to my dad’s bed, the curtain that separates the space is open, and his bed is made as well.
I’m alone once again.
Knowing the boys in my family, they are preparing for the worst. Back in my teenage years, there was a secret code my brother and dad used when it was that time of my month. They used to look each other dead in the eyes and say, “The red moon is rising.” With that short little sentence, they were able to put on their protective armor and face the almighty velociraptor that popped out of my vagina every month.
Then there were those unique times that I wasn’t on my period, but had moments that made it seem like I was. My dad referred to those as the “red dot special.”
Try being a teenage girl, living with two men who spoke code to each other depending on your mood and the time of the month. Usually, their code talk made me angrier than anything, turning me into a red dot special anyway, so if there was any harm done to them, it was their own doing. I never once felt bad for punching Paul in the testicles multiple times for acting like a freaking Wal-Mart manager calling out to the house about the red dot special on Aisle 9, Marley’s room.
Bastard.
From the looks of it and the sounds of it, they were preparing for a red dot special.
Tacy shakes again, making me wonder what the hell they are doing outside. The smell of rotten ass is overpowering and I just pray it’s not the deposit I made last night still sitting in the toilet that is making my nostrils sew themselves shut.
Unable to go back to sleep and parched from not hydrating enough, I grab my blanket and wrap it around my head like a shepherd looking to herd his sheep, but instead of sheep, I’m looking to locate my dignity. Looking around the empty RV, I know I will come up short; it’s nowhere to be found.
My feet hit the ground and I instantly retract them. The entire RV is frigid and I have no socks on my feet. Scanning the space, I spot Paul’s football slippers that look like plush high tops made for a clown. Not wanting to get a fungal infection, but desperate for some toe cover, I slip them on. The blanket I’m holding is pulled tighter around my waist as I step out of Tacy, looking around for any signs of my family, but I don’t see anyone.
There is coal in the fire pit where the boys hung out last night, a light smoke still billowing from the burnt out embers. It must be early because the campground is quiet, only a few early birds are spotted walking their dogs. The rumble I heard while inside Tacy is still filling the quiet morning, so I head to the back of the RV, where I halt instantly.
Standing in his jeans only, bare chested with ruffled hair, is Porter. He’s holding a hose in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. His chest is broad, broader than I remember, and there is a light sprinkling of hair perfectly placed on his pecs, framing their strength. His muscles ripple over his stomach, showing off the defined six pack that no normal human should be able to obtain. And holy hip dips. You know the things that make a woman go crazy, the V that points to the goods, yeah he has those and they travel down below his low hanging jeans. The elastic band from his boxer briefs pokes out from his waistband, making me wonder what it would feel like to slip my hands under it.
I crushed on him when he was a boy, but right now, I’m craving on him as a man. My body wants to throw myself up against him to feel his soft skin, to remember what it’s like to be held by him, but my mind keeps replaying that one horrible night over and over again. I won’t let myself forget what happened, ever.
“Good morning,” he says, with a tilt of his cup in my direction, interrupting my thoughts. He holds up the hose and in his best Cousin Eddie impression from Christmas Vacation, he says, “Shitter was full.”
I know he’s trying to crack the tension between us, but that doesn’t stop the flames that encase my face as I instantly tu
rn red. I want to go scared turtle on him, dip my head and limbs into my shirt, and fall flat to the ground, praying I camouflage with the asphalt.
Not giving me a chance to answer him, he says, “I was able to figure out what was wrong with the toilet, wasn’t too hard to realize once I got a good look. I fixed it and I’m making sure it’s ready to use for the rest of the trip.”
His voice is sincere, his eyes look at me gently, and I can tell he’s trying to be as nice as possible, but it doesn’t matter; all that runs through my head is that Porter, the man who stole my heart, is emptying out my shit like an incredibly hot version of Randy Quaid.
Mortification hits me first, followed by the need to throw up from embarrassment.
“Excuse me.” Before he can ask me what’s wrong, I sprint back to the front of the RV, where my dad and Paul are just returning. They have bags in their hands as well as two large water jugs. Their faces are somber, the same faces they gave me when they found out I “became a woman.”
“Hey, Buttons. How are you feeling?”
“Your coloring looks better,” Paul adds. “Dehydration can be a serious thing, and for the amount of time you were on the toilet, I calculated your dehydration level to the brown level—no pun intended—which needs medical attention. Dad didn’t think you would want to go to the hospital, on account of pooping in a non-working toilet, so we got you a bunch of water instead.” He finishes his rant with a smile while holding out a bottle of water to me.
Ignoring their comments, I ask, “Why is Porter cleaning out the toilet?”
“He offered,” my dad answers. “He’s developed some good plumbing skills and was able to fix the toilet this morning.”
“Did he…” I can’t even get myself to say the words. I take a deep breath and gather my thoughts. “Did he fix it from inside the trailer or from the outside?”
Paul and my dad glance at each other and I already know the answer without them telling me. Utter mortification sets in.
Pushing past them into the RV, I grab my toiletries bag, toss the blanket off my bed, and pull out a quick pair of clothes to change into, avoiding eye contact with every male in the vicinity.
Call me dramatic, but it pretty much feels like my life is over. Porter Smith, my very own personal heart-throb, cleaned up my poop-capades this morning. Can’t get much worse than that for a girl.
**PORTER**
Rolling stones must have played five times during our almost four hour jaunt across Arizona, but no one even dared to ask Marley to pay her “mooning” dues. Instead, the men huddled close together, keeping our distance from Marley, who couldn’t seem to stop grinding her teeth. She sat in the back of the RV on her dad’s bed and typed on her computer.
Bernie whispered that we were in red dot special mode right now, and were to stay far away from Marley and on guard. Growing up with the McManns, I knew exactly what red dot special mode was. It meant don’t talk to the beast and protect your junk. You were to blame if you got knocked in the nuts.
This morning, I was trying to get the toilet job done before Marley even woke up, but the pump was so damn loud, I was surprised she didn’t wake up earlier. The minute I saw her, I tried for a joke, bringing up one of our favorite Christmas movies we used to watch, Christmas Vacation. It didn’t quite have the effect I was hoping for. Quite the opposite, actually. Pretty sure she hates me even more.
“Fifty thousand years ago, the meteor struck earth at twenty-six thousand miles per hour. It made a divot of two point four miles in circumference and five hundred and fifty feet deep. It’s one of the oldest preserved craters to date.”
Classic Paul and his encyclopedia barf.
“Could you imagine being alive when there was a meteor coming straight at you? Do you think you would be one of those people in the movies who just stares at it, or do you think you would run?” Paul asks.
“Run. What kind of idiot would stare at it?”
“Paul would,” Marley says from behind us.
In synchronization, the men scrunch their shoulders from her voice. They’re still waiting to see what happens next. She walks up to the cab area, a water bottle in her hand and a carrot hanging out of her mouth like cigar. This morning, Paul and Bernie made sure to grab healthy options from a grocery store the local owner of the KOA drove them to. Marley was a healthy eater and they wanted to make sure, after last night, to accommodate her. That didn’t mean they still didn’t get their all-time favorite snack: Funyuns. They were always on the list; it was a McMann tradition.
This morning, when she was wrapped in her blanket, I would have loved to get lost in her warm, fresh-out-of-bed body. Her eyes were still sleepy, her brown hair was falling out of her loose braids, and her heart-shaped lips were plump and ready to be kissed. She was too fucking tempting.
After she got ready for the day, she painted her face, put some product in her hair, and dressed in a pair of skin tight jeans and a hot pink T-shirt. She was gorgeous, but she wasn’t the girl I grew up with either. The girl I knew wasn’t into wearing makeup; she wasn’t much into looking at herself in the mirror either, but this older Marley was different. Made me wonder how much of the girl I grew up with still existed.
Cautiously, Paul defends himself. “I wouldn’t stand there and watch. I would run like Porter.”
Marley snorts and sits on the back of the dining table bench. “Paul, who are you kidding? If you saw a meteor coming toward earth, you would drop trou and jack off.” Marley pretends to jerk off a fake penis and says in a deep male voice, “Oh, yeah, a meteor, a gift from the unknown.” She scrunches her nose and then sprays her hand at Paul, fake orgasming his face and says, “Meteors!”
“That would be dad you’re talking about,” Paul scoffs, wiping away the fake jiz from his face.
“Watch it,” Bernie warns, clearly not liking his kids talking about him whacking it off to space items.
Paul folds his arms over his chest. “I don’t get off from space.”
“Paul, you used to speak Klingon to me. Pretty sure you would beat your meat to a meteor. You practically pissed yourself that one time we watched a meteor shower. Remember, out on the trampoline?”
I chuckle to myself as I remember that night. Paul and Marley had a trampoline on their farm, the kind of giant trampoline that existed before the safety netting that prevented children from orbiting around the yard and breaking their necks. We spent many nights out on the bouncy service staring up at the sky, picking out the constellations and making ones of our own.
The meteor shower was like nothing we’d ever seen before. The night was clear and it almost looked like it was raining in the sky, water never falling down to earth. We each had a liter of orange soda to our name, and Paul being the daredevil he was, waited until the last minute to go to the bathroom, nearly peeing his pants. He sprinted away, holding his crotch until he made it to the bathroom.
Even though Paul almost pissed himself as a teenager, what I remember the most from that night was the stolen moments I shared with Marley. We laughed together and rolled on the trampoline in a fit of amusement, running right into one another. My hand fell to her hip and her fingers brushed against my chest. Her eyes searched mine frantically, and that’s when I knew she liked me. She didn’t see me as a brother…she saw me as something more.
Marley looks over at me briefly and I catch a glimpse of reminiscing in her eyes, a look that reflected in my own. She must be thinking of the same moment as me.
“Are you feeling better?” Bernie asks, changing the topic for Paul’s sake.
“I am. Thanks for going to the store for me.”
“Does this mean no more hot dogs?” Paul asks, earning a whack from his father to shut his mouth.
Marley tenses up, but says, “No, I think I’ll be okay. Can’t stop the tradition now. I’ll just make sure to drink lots of water and keep my wieners to one a day. Two inside me is just too much.”
“That’s so wrong,” Paul laughs.
&
nbsp; “There it is!” Bernie bellows.
I watch in amusement as Bernie and Paul practically hum in their seats as we park the RV. Once the keys leave the ignition, Bernie and Paul bolt, leaving us in their dust. To me, a meteor crater is just a hole in the ground, but to Paul and Bernie, it’s a shining beacon in their love for space. Paul will deny how much he loves space, but it’s evident in the way his leg is bouncing up and down as if he was a dog getting scratched on the belly.
We all walk inside the visitor’s center, where Paul and Bernie spend their time reading each factoid presented, while Marley takes pictures of the attraction with her Polaroid.
With my hands in my pockets, I observe the area, but find no interest in really reading about the history because, honestly, why bother when Paul is going to recite it back to us in the RV the minute we start driving? I choose to wait for the cliff notes, aka, the Paul Notes.
Stepping outside, I take in the massive hole the crater produced in the earth’s surface. Desert surrounds us, not a tree in sight, just rolling grounds of dirt. Growing in upstate New York, you’re used to the trees obstructing your view, but out here, in the west, you can see the landscape for miles.
Marley leaves the educational portion of the visitor’s center and looks out at the crater. Her hands rest on a metal bar that keeps visitors from veering off course. She looks resigned, almost sad in a way, and I wonder if it has anything to do with her mother not being here.
“Pretty big, isn’t it?” I ask, not knowing what else to say, but wanting to talk to her.
She looks back at me briefly and sighs. “Yeah, bigger than I expected.”
“Really? Didn’t you hear Paul’s spiel about the dimensions?”
She chuckles. “I guess you never really know what a five hundred and fifty foot hole really looks like until you see it.” She lifts the camera and takes a picture. A little white photo pops out the end, which she grabs and starts shaking.
“You know the shaking doesn’t really do anything.”