The Mother Road (9 page)

Her mouth drops open and rage turns her body stiff. “I hate you!”

“Feeling’s mutual, babe.” I pat her on the shoulder and walk down the steps to the observation deck of the crater.

Whenever I go back to think of this crater, I will always associate it with the hole I dug deeper for myself where Marley is concerned. Just a little under a week to go. I can do this, I convince myself, knowing full-well every time I see her, my resistance slips.

“Wow, look at this place. Now that I see it in person, I don’t think I would have run away if the meteor was flying straight at my head,” Paul says, clapping me on the back. “Fifty thousand years ago the only eye witnesses were mammoths, sloths, bison, and camels. If only humans were alive, could you imagine the stories that could travel from generation to generation?”

Marley comes up behind Paul, her camera clicking indicating her arrival. “Maybe you can ask the bison if their great, great, great grandparents passed down stories. I’m sure they would love to share.”

“If I spoke bison, I would.” Paul’s enthusiasm is a little nauseating, especially after the conversation I just had with Marley.

She walks to the end of the observation deck with her dad, her hand around his waist and her head against his arm. Her relationship with her dad has always been flawless, and her love for her mom was evident every time they were together. It’s hard not to have feelings for a girl who can love so deeply, that’s Marley. She loves hard; I know firsthand.

“Porter, get over here,” Bernie bellows, beckoning me with his arm. “We want to take a family picture.”

I saunter over to them. They’re standing at the edge of the observation deck, the massive crater right behind them. I reach for the Polaroid to take the picture when Bernie asks a young woman who is standing off to the side if she will take a picture.

“Put your arm around Marley, Porter, and scoot in close.”

I step toward Marley, who is snarling like a wildebeest at me. Ignoring the fangs that peek past her luscious lips, I wrap an arm around her and pull her in close. She jabs me with her fingernail, but I ignore the pierce to my skin and smile for the camera.

“Say cheese!” Bernie calls out.

The minute the Polaroid pops out, Marley disengages herself from me and grabs the camera from the helpful stranger. Once again, she shakes it, but deliberately looks at me, as if her shaking the photo is supposed to grate on my nerves.

It doesn’t, at least I make it seem like it doesn’t.

“You know, you’re not supposed to shake the Polaroid,” Paul chimes in, his comment spreading a smile across my face. “According to a recent study that I read on CNN technology, shaking a Polaroid after it’s been conceived can actually distort the picture’s development process. In today’s technology, there is a white plastic that protects the film, so shaking to dry it is pointless. OutKast’s song about ‘shaking it like a Polaroid picture’ has actually done a disservice to the modern day Polaroid.”

“Shut the hell up, Paul.” Marley walks away as I laugh out loud.

**MARLEY**

“I can’t get over the colors, they’re gorgeous.”

“The pigments are actually composed from iron and manganese compounds.”

I grit my teeth as Paul lectures us about the creation of the Painted Desert in Arizona. When I was searching out the different attractions we were visiting online, I spent most of my time observing the Painted Desert, also known as the Badlands. Paul nicely told me there were multiple versions of the Badlands in the United States, South Dakota being one of them.

Frankly, I didn’t care. What I did care about was the way the sun set against the gorgeous Arizona sky, bringing the hue of the rock formations out. It was one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen.

Variations of orange, red, and teal spanned across the triangle peak rock formations. The park was large and we took our time driving around to the different stops, making sure to take a picture at each one. Paul and my dad talked about the geology of the park as well as the Triassic period, during which the formations were formed. With the nerd bombs that set off every two seconds, I sometimes wonder if I actually came from this family.

Porter is quiet and rightfully so, I pulled a red dot special on him at the crater, more from embarrassment than anything. I don’t regret a thing.

Oh, sorry, did my Pinocchio nose just jab you in the eye? Yeah, I’m lying, big time.

“Irwin, get out of the car!”

I turn my attention to an elderly couple who just parked in the parking lot next to Tacy. The husband is sitting in the passenger seat, struggling to get out of his seat, and his wife is holding the door open for him.

“You’re missing the sunset. What are you doing, you old coot?”

“I can’t get out of this flinging flanging contraption.” I can’t help but watch Irwin struggle.

“You just going to stare at them or are you going to help?” Porter’s voice is inches from my ear, sending chills down my arm.

I cower away from him, giving us some distance. “It’s none of my business.”

“Then why are you staring?”

“They’re being loud; it’s hard not to look at what’s going on.”

“Milly, I can’t figure this out.”

“For the goodness of birds,” Milly flings her hands up in the air, just as her cell phone rings. “That’s got to be Diane.” Digging through her purse, she locates her phone and pulls it out.

Porter and I both watch as she holds it in front of her and starts yelling, “Hello. Diane, can you hear me. How do you work this darn tootin’ thing? Irwin, how do you work this, hello? Diane, can you hear me?”

“Milly, get me out of this car.”

“Diane, can you hear me?

“Milly, I can’t get out of here.”

“This is a train wreck,” I giggle, as Porter chuckles next to me, easing the tension between us.

“Milly!” Irwin roars in frustration.

Milly tosses her phone in her purse and screams, “Press the red button, Irwin! The red button, press the God forsaken red button!”

We watch as Irwin leans over and presses the button, releasing the seat belt and letting him escape. He looks back at the car and says, “You can’t trust technology just like you can’t trust a fart.”

He shuts the door and grabs Milly by the hand to lead her out to the viewing spot. Irwin nods at us, while Milly twiddles her fingers as a hello, as if they didn’t just verbally destroy the ambiance of the sunset.

“Such a beautiful couple, aren’t they, Irwin?” Milly asks, talking about Porter and myself.

I go to correct her when Porter puts his arm around my shoulder and smiles at them. “Thank you, ma’am. Ten years tomorrow with this bag of bones.”

“So sweet.” Together, Milly and Irwin walk away, while I push Porter away from me.

“What is wrong with you? Ten years ago would have made me twelve.”

“Never too young for love,” he smirks, making my heart flutter.

“You’re a pervert.”

“Are you really going to act like a bitch this entire trip, Marley? Why can’t we just get along and enjoy each other’s company? I haven’t seen you in a while; it would be nice to catch up.”

Oh, he would like that, wouldn’t he? I can see the glint in his eyes, the need to forget what he did to me. Yeah, not going to happen. I want him to fear me. I want him scared, wondering what I’m going to do to him. If I can’t cut him in the heart—because clearly he doesn’t have one—then I can mess with his mind, and I have every intention of doing so.

“You know what? You’re right. We should really do some catching up. Tell me, how many women have you banged since you left me naked and alone?”

Porter runs his hand over his face and then walks away. That’s what I thought. Point Marley.

****

“This is the best beer you will ever drink,” Porter says to Paul, holding up a six pack of beer they bought at a gas station.

It was a disgusting show of male homage to a microbrew that I unfortunately witnessed while grabbing a green tea from the cooler. Paul and Porter spent a good ten minutes debating what beer they wanted to take down tonight, when Porter practically orgasmed on the glass when he saw his favorite micro-brew.

The minute they started discussing what beer to drink tonight, I knew exactly what I was going to do to them to redeem urine face. I scoured the gas station, found some Saran Wrap, and purchased it along with my green tea and some trail mix. The green tea and trail mix is for me; the Saran Wrap is for the two idiots who are currently hugging their beer choices to their chests.

My dad doesn’t drink. I believe he’s had one beer in his life, so instead of jacking off to the beer aisle, he grabbed a liter of root beer for himself and a Three Musketeers bar because Bernie is a classic man.

We are resting at the Wigwam Village, my dad is checking us in, and I’m itching to put my plan into action. Redemption will be found for urine face.

The door to the cab opens and my dad hops in, “We’re in the wigwam right over there.” My dad tosses the key to me. “Marley, the room is for you. The boys and I will protect Tacy from being stolen.”

The serious tone in my dad’s voice forces me to shake my head at him. I love Tacy, she’s been our travel companion for decades, but there is no one, and I mean no one, on this planet who would try to steal her. Not with the ripped tire attached to the back, the rust spots on her bumper, and the semi-working toilet in the back.

“We only got one room?” I ask.

“Yes, there was only one available. It’s a popular travel destination.”

I look out the window and take in the landscape. The Wigwam Village sits right off of Route 66, also known as US-40. What used to be a resting place for travelers is now in the middle of a shopping center, right next to a Safeway Grocery Store. Travel destination might not be the way I would describe it, more like nostalgic landmark.

“Since we don’t have an RV hook up, we are going to have to take turns using the bathroom, though. Boys, help me set up when we get parked.”

Just like I expected, Porter and Paul put their beers down once we are parked and help my dad with the RV. I go into FBI agent mode, slip their beers in my bag, along with my other toiletry needs and my Saran Wrap, and open my wigwam.

From the outside, the structure resembles a giant white teepee, so when I walk inside, I’m surprised by how small the room actually is. The windows sit low to the ground, since the roof angles up to a point, and there is enough room for a bed, a small table, and a wood chair. Straight in front of me is a bathroom with probably about two feet of walking space. It smells like an old campground, but I like it. It’s aged, but it brings me back to a good day when life was innocent, not full of such commodities like a television and cell phones. There are minimal decorations and the comforter looks like it was dragged out of
That 70’s Show
. I like everything about this place.

I set my bags down just as my phone rings. It’s Marisa.

“Hey, Riss,” I answer.

“Hey, Marley, how’s the trip going? Your travel blog tips have been hilarious. Can you really take make-up off with tape?”

I’ve had to become pretty creative with my blog posts, given the fact that I’m stuck in an RV with three men and not much bathroom space. Whenever I get the chance, I read up on the latest celebrity beauty fads and give them a go. Yesterday’s was from Lady Gaga, who claims to use athletic tape to take off her glitter eye makeup. I gave it a go a little while back and finally wrote about it.

What I found out from using tape to take your makeup off is that you are a pretty asinine person if you skip the make-up remover and trade it in for tape. Thanks to being my father’s daughter, I only had duct tape at the time to assist in the experiment. HUGE mistake. I spent fifteen minutes sweet talking my eyelids, begging the skin not to rip off in the most unpleasant way. I wrote about my experience last night.

To Lady Gaga’s credit, she uses soft athletic tape, I faltered in that direction.

“Don’t try it. Didn’t you read the whole article?” While I talk to Marisa on speaker phone, I unpack some of my things to make myself a little more comfortable.

“Didn’t have time; Johnny came home with a raging boner. I was cooking us dinner and he came up beside me, flopped it on the counter and asked me if I wanted to have an appetizer.”

“Ew, come on, Marisa.”

“What? It was a good appetizer. And yes, I cleaned the counter after, not that it matters, Johnny’s penis is always clean.”

“No penis is fully clean, Marisa. No matter how many times you scrub it. There is always dick cheese lying around somewhere.”

“What kind of dicks have you’ve been hanging out with that you’re dealing with man feta? I told you I need to get you fucked. Does Paul have any groomsmen you can hook up with at the wedding? I should really be there; can you score me a plus one? I can be your wing woman.”

“Not necessary, but thank you for the offer.”

“Fine, but don’t say I never tried to offer to help. So, how’s the open road?”

“It was good until we got a special visitor.”

“What do you mean?”

I pull out the beer from my bag and head to the sink in the bathroom. “Paul’s best man joined us. Porter Smith, recognize the name?”

“Porter Smith, Is that the….noooooo,” Marisa cries out, understanding the importance of the name.

“Yup.”

“What is that hairy nutsac doing on the trip? I thought it was a family thing?”

I inspect my nose in the mirror as I answer her in a snotty voice, trying to impersonate Paul. “Porter is family.”

“This is crap!” I appreciate her outrage…it’s why we’re friends, we feed off each other’s emotions. You always feel so much better about yourself when your friend gets angry with you rather than trying to solve the problem. Sometimes, you just have to bitch.

“Tell me about it, but I can’t say anything because it’s Paul’s last ‘hurrah’ as he calls it, so I’m trying to be cool about the unexpected guest.” I lean my butt against the sink and sigh. “Marisa, you have no idea how hard it’s been. You know when you see people from your past who’ve destroyed you in some way and all you wish for them is to be fat or to have a receding hairline, maybe a face full of pock marks?”