The Mother Road (26 page)

“I can understand that.” I try to keep my voice low, so no one, especially Marley, can hear me.

“Because we’re sitting on the fence, we decided to send out your samples to some of our test subjects and have them try out the product. Frankly, I’m excited about the product. I’ve been using it all week and you’re right, the scent lasts a long time even when I’m working out, and I’m not dried out by the bar soap. I want to take your brand and expand on it, making holistic hygiene products for men—and I mean the real kind of men, like lumberjacks. I think it’s an avenue that hasn’t really been ventured down yet. We just have to make sure it would be widely accepted between men and women. We want to make sure it works for the average man and that women want to flock to it.”

“I get that completely. I’m excited to hear what they say.” That’s a lie; I want to throw up from the thought of someone else judging my product.

Making soap is probably not what you pictured me doing out on the farm, especially given the beard, muscles, and plaid shirts, right? I get it; I don’t fit the build for the average soaper, but I got into it when I was researching about what else to do with goat’s milk when you have an abundance of the product and not enough demand. I came across soap made from goat’s milk, so I gave it a try. I spent many hours learning about different essential oils and fragrances that would make the soap smell long lasting and manly at the same time. There were some good batches and some really terrible ones. Luckily, it was just Bernie and me testing them out at the time. One bad batch left us smelling like asparagus pee and violets. It wasn’t very flattering.

After a lot of practice and finding the perfect combination of oils with the fragrances of caramel woods, black amber, black tie, and my secret, a dash of coffee, the overall product turned into Man Soap, a natural and organic soap for the manly man.

I kept the new venture to myself, well, besides telling Bernie, since I was using the goat’s milk from his goats, and I went to farmer’s markets to sell the soap, to see if there was any interest outside of Bernie and me. Once I realized I was selling out every weekend in the summer, I decided to take it the next step and contact some investment groups. Pederson was the one and only group that got back to me. The one and only shot I had at making this venture into something profitable.

Two weeks ago, they called me to come out to California. Because it was around the time Paul wanted to drive out to California, I had to tell him my plan. He uses the soap back home now and Savannah absolutely loves it. That was why she went shopping for me, as a thank you.

When I met the investors in California, I was intimidated, but to ease my apprehension, they gave me a tour of one of their more popular farms, where I was introduced to their flock of goats. After the tour, I presented my soap and went into detail about the positive effects of using goat’s milk. I thought I did a good job representing the brand I created and convincing the group about Man Soap’s positive attributes, but probably not enough, since now they’re on the fence.

I’ve never put myself out there like this and it’s terrifying. I want something more for me, more for Bernie, and more for the farm; this is our one chance. I refuse to end up like my father, a waste of a life.

“We are going to ship out the samples and testers will have a week to give us back their opinions. We should have an answer for you soon. I know it’s not what you exactly wanted to hear, Porter, but there is still a lot of hope. I’m pulling for you, man. I only like to promote products I can get behind, and this is one I would slap my name on if I could.”

“That means a lot to me, thank you, Alex.”

“Of course, we’ll be in touch. Hang tight, brother.”

“Have a good one.” I hang up the phone and stare at it for a second before turning back around to the eyes that I can feel beating down on me.

Taking a deep breath and calming my beating heart, I face Paul first, his eyes full of excitement. “Was that the group you were talking to?”

So much for keeping this a secret. Before Paul can say any more, I nod and say, “I don’t want to get into it right now.” I give him the shut your mouth stare-down and luckily, he picks up on what I’m throwing down. I want to think it’s from all the years we spent by each other’s side, but instead, I know it’s the low growl that pops out of my throat. The growl that pretty much lets Paul know if he speaks of my phone call again I’m going to gnaw off his nose like a rabid raccoon.

“What group are you talking to?” Marley asks.

I sit back in my seat and pocket my phone. “Nothing, really.” I clear my throat. “So, where were we? Foot fetishes?”

I ignore the annoyed look Marley gives me and listen to Paul go on about all the other ways people can become aroused. Basically, what I leaned from this conversation is that humans are sick fucks. I tune him out a bit and look out the window, studying the landscape of Missouri.

It’s funny how quickly the outside can change from one state to another. Desert terrain took up the land in California, Arizona, New Mexico, and portions of Texas. Then it changed into grasslands with giant energy-creating windmills. And now that we are in Missouri, trees are starting to pop up on the side of the road, something I feel like I haven’t seen in a while. The further north we go, the more green it gets. Fascinating.

I like to believe I’m thinking about the terrain but in all honesty, my heart is about ready to explode from nerves. I’ve imagined that phone call many nights and I never expected it to end like that. My future lies in some product testers hands. What if they don’t like it? What if they mock the idea? Is the Pederson Group just sparing me a little time before they crush my hopes? I like to believe I’m a strong enough man to handle this kind of pressure, but I’m not.

I’ve worked too damn hard to have one more door slammed in my face. I’m one “no” away from giving up and settling for who my father always thought I would be, a lonely farm hand.

“And then there’s Formicophilia, which is just disturbing. Basically people can get aroused over seeing insects. I can’t ever imagine popping a woody over a spider.” Paul’s voice fades in the background as my mind runs a mile a minute. The only sound to penetrate my negative thoughts is the bright giggle coming from the woman I can’t seem to take my eyes off of.

Marley laughs. “That’s because you’re too busy screaming like a lip balm wearing teenage girl who just got her period, not to mention the running around as if someone set off a firecracker between your cheeks.”

“She’s got a valid point, son.” Bernie clasps Paul’s shoulder as they all joke about the fake spider he thought was in his hair when we first got to Wigwam Village only a few short days ago.      “Spiders can crawl in your ears! There was validity to my girly cries.”

I shake my head and enjoy the banter of the McMann family. If the testers don’t like the soap, it won’t be the end of the world – at least I try to convince myself that; I still have this family to be a part of…that’s if I don’t fuck things up with my inability to stay away from Marley.

****

“So, tell us what they said,” Bernie and Paul say, leaning over to talk to me while Marley is grabbing napkins for us.

I check her distance from our location and quickly turn toward Paul and Bernie. “They like the product, but they’re on the fence. They’re sending the product to some testers to see what they think. Their results will give the investors a general idea of how they think the product will do in the common shopping circuit.”

“That’s good news,” Bernie cheers.

“It’s okay news,” I try to calm him down. I can already see how excited he is, pretty much itching to start dancing in celebration. “I’m halfway there. We will have to see what the testers have to say.”

Paul squeezes my shoulder. “They will love it. Savannah is really picky when it comes to products she uses. She wouldn’t lie to you, Porter. She loves Man Soap. She won’t let me use anything else.”

“You shouldn’t want to use anything else,” I joke.

“Seriously, this is good news. When will they find out the results from the testers?”

“A week.”

Paul and Bernie nod. “This is good, son. Have faith in your product; it’s a good brand and a great idea. With the right backing, you can truly turn this into a well-known brand. I have faith in you.”

“Thank you, Bernie. I appreciate it, but if we can still just keep this to ourselves for now, that would be awesome. I don’t want anyone to really know, just in case it does fail.” I turn to Paul and say, “Can you please tell Savannah to not talk about it either? I don’t want anyone cluing in.”

When I say anyone, I’m mainly talking about Marley. She’s the last person I would want to know, especially since she’s a beauty blogger. She would most likely tear Man Soap to pieces. I’ve seen some of her blog posts; she can be incredibly harsh.

“Not a problem, our lips are sealed.”

“Thanks, man.”

“I would ask who needs napkins,” Marley says, handing out piles to each and every one of us. “But, knowing you beasts, you will all need them. Remember, your beards are not meant for storing relish. I refuse to watch you pick out two day old chopped up pickles from your beard again, Paul.”

“You take the fun out of everything,” he huffs.

Marley sits down next to me on the concrete wall, looking up at the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, Missouri. We took our pictures already, found a hot dog vendor, and now we’re eating our dogs under the Arch like Mrs. McMann always planned.

“It’s a lot taller than I expected,” Marley admits.

“I agree,” Bernie replies, fidgeting with a picture of Mrs. McMann to his side. Back at a Sinclair gas station in Oklahoma, Bernie found a cheap Route 66 picture frame and instantly fell in love with it. When we got back to the RV, he grabbed Mrs. McMann’s picture and put it inside. Now, the picture frame gets its picture taken by itself. It’s heart-warming. Weird to some people, but perfect for our group.

“Well it is the tallest monument in the western hemisphere, so it would have to be tall to obtain that kind of title,” Paul informs us. “What’s fascinating is the catenary architecture they had to utilize to uphold an arch of steel. The idea of the monument sprouted in the 1930s, but it wasn’t actually completed until the 1960s because of all the obstacles that needed to jump through involving city regulations. Glad they built it, though, because it’s a real beauty.”

Bernie and Paul talk about the bend in the arch and the constructional blueprints that the architects must have gone through, leaving Marley and me alone again.

“So, what was that call all about back there in the RV?”

I knew she wouldn’t be able to let it go. She’s too curious for that to happen.

“Nothing important. I’ll tell you if it ever becomes something of relevance.”

Her face scrunches in a cute way as she tries to break my evasive code.

“Is it another woman? I swear on Thor’s tiny nut sac that if you’re seeing someone, I will pull your intestines out of your asshole.”

Involuntarily, my butt cheeks squeeze together, protecting my intestines from the mere mention of them being massacred.

“It’s reassuring to know you wouldn’t have any problem dismembering me.”

“If you ever used me to cheat on someone, I would dismember you easily.”

I laugh. “Well, that’s nothing to worry about because I’m not that kind of man, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“How would I know what kind of man you are? You don’t talk all that much, Porter. I know the boy you used to be, but not really the man you are today.”

She was one hundred percent right. I don’t open up that much and there is a reason, I don’t want to get hurt, not with Marley. She could easily destroy me, a fact I never want to see come true.

“Not much has changed,” I lie, knowing full well I have more ambition to make something of myself than I did back then. I’ve seen what life can offer someone who tries for more than what’s expected of them, and I want to be one of those people.

“Not really into the whole talking thing, are you? Not surprised by that. Back then you were either pulling some kind of prank on Paul or me, or you were playing video games with Paul. The first time you actually opened up was when you wrote those letters.”

Those letters were the only reason I didn’t find myself slipping down the same path my dad did. Paul was in the Army, I got back from training with another farmer, and I realized what my life would truly be. I was depressed and mad at myself for not wishing for more. Marley wrote to me every day, and I wrote to her. I opened up to her about stupid things, nothing too serious, but hearing her responses, seeing her bubbly handwriting on her personal stationary helped me; it encouraged me to keep moving forward.

“Sometimes it’s easier to say things on paper than it is to say things out loud.”

Not saying a word, she nods her head in agreement, and then takes another bite of her hot dog.     “Not the best hot dog I’ve ever had,” she changes the subject. “My mom would not be impressed.”

“Mama McMann would most definitely not be impressed with this rubbish.”

“That’s what you get for seeking out a vendor who is about ready to pack it up for the day. You get what you pay for, and we got dollar twenty-five hot dogs. Thankfully, I think my digestive system has finally accepted defeat and is adjusting to the crap I’m shoving through it.”

“Good, I’m glad we won’t have any more clogged toilets.”

Marley gives me an annoyed look.

Laughing, I ask, “Still too raw to talk about?”

“Just a little.”

The rest of the afternoon is spent laying on our backs, looking up at the Gateway Arch and taking in the shine of the silver steel and the blue sky, while I occasionally brush my hand against Marley’s.

**MARLEY**

“Now tomorrow is going to be a big day for us. We are finally going to meet the end of our travel on Route 66 and taste the mother of all hot dogs,” Dad says, as the campfire only simmers, no longer shooting up flames. “It’s best that you all get a good rest.”