The Mother Road

by Meghan Quinn

  I shake my head and clink my plastic cup with Marisa’s, secretly hoping Edith is not utterly humiliated. She seemed like a nice lady.

  ****

  “I swear to you, it was as if angels were singing the minute his mouth touched me…”

  I hold my hand up before Marisa can finish her sentence. “Seriously, Marisa, I don’t need to hear about every orgasm Johnny gives you with his tongue.”

  “But I have to tell someone about them. It’s an out of body experience.”

  It’s not that I’m not into sharing, because I am, it’s just that every time Marisa talks about her sex life, it reminds me of just how nonexistent mine is. It’s so nonexistent that when I was at the grocery store on Monday, I found myself stroking the cardboard cut-out of the 49ers quarterback, Colin Kapernick next to the display of soda packs. I only stopped cuddling the cardboard because a store clerk asked me kindly to stop fondling Colin’s crotch in front of the children.

  In my defense, the ribbed cardboard felt nice against my fingers.

  Moving to Las Angeles was a great move for my career because it exposes me to the core of the beauty and fashion mecca, but when it comes to men, I’m living right in the pinnacle of all egotistical, blond-tipped, douche bags. Don’t get me wrong, there are some fine specimens out here, sometimes too fine. I have a problem dating a man who’s prettier than me, or takes longer to get ready for a date, or asks to borrow my bronzer—it happened. My dating repertoire revolves around rugged, more earthy men—please don’t mistake the word earthy for smelly; all men I date must delight my uterus with an attractive scent.

  I grew up on a farm in Upstate New York, where I used to have hay bale throwing contests with my brother and dad. I used to walk pigs around at the country fair, showing off their size and girth, and then I would barrel race on my horse, Polly, working the crowd with our theatrics. If you haven’t guessed it, I’m a born and raised country girl who turned into an eyelash curler wielding fashionista.

  That being said, I need a man who is rough around the edges, has a license to grow a beard, and doesn’t ask me to go in on a monthly tanning package with him.

  In all honesty, the men out here are decent. Maybe I’m being too picky…or maybe I’m just hung up on one particular man who broke my heart four years ago, but we won’t go there.

  “I told you I would hook you up with Johnny’s friend, Manny,” Marisa breaks through my thoughts. “He has a Lamborghini.”

  “You also told me he has a thick nest of neck hair that makes it seem like he’s constantly wearing a turtleneck in sunny California,” I point out.

  “But he has a nice car…”

  Sarcasm drips from my mouth. “Oh, then by all means, let me meet this man and his nice car.”

  “You don’t have to be snide with me.” Marisa tosses her empty smoothie cup in a trash can on our walk back to our apartment. “You really need to get laid. When was the last time you had an orgasm? And twiddling yourself doesn’t count.”

  “I don’t twiddle myself.”

  “Okay,” Marisa laughs. “Drop the nun act, sweetheart. I know you try to give yourself carpel tunnel on a daily basis.”

  She is so off, more like an every other day basis. Daily would just be obscene.

  “Fine, it’s been a while, but it’s kind of refreshing not having to deal with the drama of a relationship.”

  We turn the corner to our street and I halt in my tracks, horrified by the sight that stands before me.

  “Who cares about a relationship? I’m just trying to get you fucked…” Marisa trails off on her last word as she looks up to see both my dad and Paul standing outside of our apartment with Tacy.

  Who’s Tacy? The question is more like, what’s Tacy? You see, back in 1987 my parents made the investment of their lives—according to them. They purchased a 1987 Signature TravelMaster, equipped with a kitchen, bathroom, dining area, and three beds. Decorated with a mauve interior and fake wood paneling, it was the glory of RVs in its day. Being from Jamestown, New York and a huge fan of Lucille Ball and the movie, The Long, Long Trailer, my parents named the RV after the lead female character, Tacy.

  Back in the day, Tacy was in the prime of her life, all shiny with her built in overhang adding an extra bed into the mix and her spare tire hanging off the back, she could do no wrong. But now, in her twenty-eighth year of age, she is rusting; she’s lacking in her luster and it almost seems like her back end is drooping from having to hold up that damn tire for so long.

  Tearing my eyes off Tacy, I turn to see my dad with his arms crossed over his burly chest, a bushy beard sprinkled with grey gracing his face, and a look of hostility in his eyes. Paul is the complete opposite; his hands are in his pockets, he’s relaxed, and laughing over Marisa’s comment.

  “Uh, Dad, Paul, what are you doing here?”

  It’s a surprise to see them in California, since they both live in New York. My dad still lives on the farm we grew up on, raising goats and milking them every morning, nothing’s changed with him besides the grey in his hair. When I was still back home, we used to raise pigs and goats, and we grew some vegetables as well, but now my dad can only take care of the goats on his own and some corn. Paul lives up in Watertown, New York with his fiancé Savannah. He’s been in the Army for the past four years, but has been hired by the government to do some kind of computer coding crap that I never pay attention to. Paul is a certifiable know-it-all and loves to bore people with his computer knowledge and random facts about mindless things no one cares about. He can be annoying at times, but he’s still one of my best friends.

  “Good to see you too, Marley.” Paul pulls me into a hug. I press my cheek against his chest and smile to myself when his Old Spice deodorant fills my senses. If Paul is anything, he’s consistent.

  Both my father and Paul are over six feet tall, ruining me for any short man that might want to date me. I’ve spent my entire life hugging men who tower over me and I can’t imagine dating someone I can dance cheek to cheek with. No, I prefer cheek to nipple; it’s more comforting.

  “Sorry, I’m just surprised.” I turn to my dad and he opens his arms to me. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Come here, Buttons.” He pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head five times, like he always does, his wiry beard messing up my hair. Sometimes he switches up the count of kisses, depending on his mood. If he has to say goodbye to me for a long period of time, he’ll kiss me on the head eight times, my lucky number.

  When I pull away, I see Marisa clasping her hands to her chest, happy for the family reunion. “Oh, you McManns, you’re so loving.”

  “Marisa, nice to see you,” my father says with a clipped voice, clearly still not happy with her earlier comment about my untapped libido.

  Picking up on my dad’s temper, she says, “Yeah…um, I’m going to take off. I have some…uh, walking to do.” Marisa gives me a quick hug. “I’ll catch you later, Marley. Paul, congrats on the wedding.”

  Quickly, without skipping a stride, Marisa walks her little Asian-self past our apartment building and around the corner, her phone pressed against her ear, probably trying to call Johnny.

  I turn to the two men in my life and ask, “Alright, what’s going on?”

  Paul, the blond-haired, blue-eyed heartthrob of Jamestown—that’s at least what my friends called him—smiles brightly at me, mischief in his eyes.

  “Aren’t you going to say hi to Tacy?”

  There is a sick obsession in my family where we treat inanimate objects like they are humans. They have feelings just like us and we must pay them the same attention someone in the family would earn. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t drink out of the same water glass twice unless I’ve used all water glasses in my cabinet, or else I feel guilty for not spreading the love. Thanks to my dad’s encouragement, almost every large object on the farm has a name and is treated as a family member. If the tractor’s acting up, we don’t yell at it, we talk to it calmly, trying to so
lve the issue. That is until Dad loses his short-fused temper and starts swearing like a banshee, kicking and screaming. Picture Ralphie’s dad from The Christmas Story times five. That’s the Bern-Man. The only time he will swear is when he’s in an epic battle with the tractor.

  “What up, Tace?” I nod at the pile of junk and then turn back to the two most important men in my life. “So, why are you two here, and please don’t tell me you drove out here in that.” I point at Tacy and take in her bumper that’s hanging on by a screw, strike that, hanging on by duct tape, my dad’s cure for everything.

  “Of course we did.” Paul wraps his hand around my shoulder and we all turn to face the Signature TravelMaster. “Marley, it’s time to finally conquer The Mother Road.”

  “What?” I pull away. “But, I thought we weren’t doing road trips anymore.”

  Before my mom got sick, Dad would sign up a couple of friends to take care of the farm for a two week stint and we would go on a family road trip during the summer. We spent countless hours in Tacy, mindless miles on the road, and unforgettable memories making each other laugh so boredom never got the best of us. But those days were brought to a halt the moment my mom received a devastating call from the doctor.

  The day my mom got cancer was the day we hung up Tacy’s keys. I was in middle school, Paul was a junior in high school, and my dad was just scraping by on the farm, trying to pay off Mom’s medical bills. The cancer was quick and it took us all by surprise. Life was never the same after that.

  Instantaneously, I became the lady of the household, a responsibility I wasn’t ready to carry. I was forced to grow up quickly, learn how to cook, clean, and take care of my dad and brother. We traded in our family traditions for survival tactics, spending our time on the farm and making sure we didn’t lose our home as well.

  Our once goal of eating a hot dog in every state together and taking Polaroids at odd landmarks became a distant memory, and in its place, we pushed through the loss of our beloved mother and worked night and day until our hands were raw.

  Dad downsized the farm once Paul went to the Army, and when I left for school, he sold even more land, giving him a solid savings he could put toward retirement.

  We all went our separate ways, forgetting about the childish goals we strived for, so we could obtain new ones that focused more on our future. Since Mom’s death, I haven’t thought about our final road trip we’d been planning to take before she got sick.

  “Marley, I’m getting married in a week and a half. My life will be changing soon. I’m going to be responsible for a wife, for a family, and I have some unfinished business.” Paul pulls a folded up piece of paper from the back of his pocket and hands it to me. “Mom planned this trip for us. It’s about time we take it. Let’s finish what we started.”

  Tears well in my eyes as I look down at the map Mom drew years ago. The map has yellowed with age, but her pen markings are still clear to this day. Starting from Santa Monica, California, she mapped our trip across Route 66, traveling through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, and then Illinois, where she circled in red the city of Chicago.

  “The mother of all hot dogs,” I say softly, remembering my mom’s dream to eat a Chicago dog along Lake Michigan. I run my hand over the map, wishing she was still with us.

  We were the perfect little family of four, with Paul looking like our mom and me looking like my dad. We wore matching sweaters at Christmas and posed for my mom’s incessant Polaroid taking. The memories rock me harder than I expect as a tear falls down my cheek.

  My dad pulls me into his brawny chest and kisses my head once again. “It’s time, Buttons. Let’s finish your mom’s dreams.” My dad pulls out a picture from his shirt pocket and hands it to me. “We’re bringing her with us, one more final trip as a family of four. What do ya say, kiddo?”

  Uncertainty washes over me. “I don’t know,” I shake my head. “I have my blog and products I have to test.”

  “You can do that on the road,” Paul encourages me. “Come on, sis. If anything, do it for Mom and do it for Tacy. The old girl has one more trip in her.”

  I laugh-snort, snot bubbling out of my nose. I wipe it away and grab my boys by their waists. “I guess we’re going to Chicago.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  **MARLEY**

  Come to find out, Tacy is much smaller than I remembered. You know that whole saying about how things look different in a kid’s eyes? I’ve come to realize this is true. In my mind, Tacy was the size of a semi-tractor with enough space to fit two elephants humping their lives away and a gaggle of creeping zebras looking to watch them.

  As I step into Tacy with my suitcase, I realize rather quickly that the next week in this motor home will be like living in a poorly upholstered clam shell.

  Despite the close quarters, Tacy is how I remember her, particle board wood paneling on the walls, mauve and cream colored cushions, a kitchen only a Smurf could really cook in, and fully upgraded with a dining table that turns into a bed.

  The bitch bed.

  Paul clasps my shoulder as he walks in behind me, the door slamming after him. “You got the bitch bed, sis.” Climbing up on the overhang of the RV, Paul claims the comfortable bed once again.

  Mom and Dad always declared the bed in the back of the RV, for obvious reasons, leaving Paul and me having to fight over who was going to sleep in the overhang bed and who was stuck with the bitch bed; guess who always lost? Thumb wrestling for beds was never a winning sport for me. I’m a petite girl and Paul has Shaquille O’Neil man hands. His thumb alone is the size of my arm. Humoring me, he would always act like I had a chance, but then annihilate me with his Thor thumb. My consolation prize: The bitch bed.

  “We didn’t even thumb wrestle for it,” I complain, eying the uncomfortable wafer thin table.

  Paul gives me a “get real” look. “Marley, do you even want to go there?”

  “No,” I huff, tossing my bag into the hidden compartment of the dining area bench seat. It’s always been my closet; I’m used to it. I sniff around and say, “You could have at least put an air freshener in here. What is that smell?”

  With his nose in the air, Paul sniffs around. “Oh, you know what? We found an old bag of hot dogs in the fridge before we left. We’ve been trying to air it out since. We drove through the day and night trying to get here. We haven’t had much time to clean.”

  “Pleasant,” I say sarcastically.

  Dad pops in the front driver’s seat and turns around to face us. “Did you give it to her?”

  “I was waiting for you, Dad.”

  “Give me what?” I ask, looking between their two shit-eating grins.

  Paul hops down off of the attic and reaches into the passenger seat. He tosses me a plastic grocery bag full of contents. “Sorry, we didn’t have time to wrap it.”

  Since it’s a plastic grocery bag, I can decipher the contents inside and I can already tell my eyes are offended. Reaching in, I pull out a neon yellow shirt and trucker’s hat—the same one Paul was wearing in the picture he sent me. On the front of both articles of clothing it says, “McMann Clan.” Just like the old days.

  “Sweet Jesus,” I mutter.

  “We got matching ones.” The boys hold up their shirts and put on their hats.

  I nod with my lips pressed close together. When I was in middle school, I would have been ecstatic to match my older brother; it was like a little girl’s dream come true. To say you were twinsies with your brother who was four years older than you was a magical moment for any little sister. But now that I’m twenty-two and a walking fashion ad for my blog, the last thing I need is to be caught dead in a neon ensemble stating what “clan” I belong to.

  “Go ahead, Buttons, put it on. Paul spent a long time ironing on these letters for us. Didn’t he do a great job?”

  The letters are no more than an inch high, making the shirt to letter ratio way off. Ever see that Friends episode when Ross makes a flyer for his band, “
Way, No Way?” He uses Helvetica Bold twenty-four point to really make the name stand out, but in actuality, you have to squint to see it; that’s what the shirts look like, Ross’s crappy band flyer.

  “Put it on,” Paul nods at the shirt just as he pulls his shirt off and dons the yellow atrocity. He tops the outfit off with his hat and a smirk.

  “I hate you,” I mouth at Paul, who chuckles to himself.

  There isn’t much room in Tacy, so I step into the bathroom, which could be compared to the size of an airplane bathroom, and I put the shirt on. Because Paul is trying to ruin my life, he bought me a shirt three sizes too big, so I make the most of it. I’m wearing a pair of capri yoga pants, so I go for the sporty look. I tie the shirt off to the side, eighties style, and roll the sleeves under, so the shirt is now sleeveless, and put my hat on backwards, braiding my long brown hair to the side.

  I glance up at the mirror and confirm my prediction; I look like I belong in a music video for the Spice Girls. It could be worse. We could be wearing matching pants. Believe me when I say, it’s happened before. Think nineties fashion in its Aztec heyday, when fanny packs were all the rage and scrunchies could never be too big. If I could, I would burn those photos.

  Accepting this as my life for the next week, I step out of the bathroom to see my dad and brother wearing the same outfit, minus the alterations.

  My dad scowls at my midriff showing and points at my exposed skin. “I don’t believe your shirt is really that short.”

  “Yeah, thanks to Paul, it goes past my knees. If you want me wearing the shirt, you have to deal with how I wear it.”

  My dad makes a “humpf” sound and then says, “Picture time.”

  Just like every other road trip, we start it with a before picture, all smiles and happy, and then as a joke, we take a picture at the end of our trip of us grabbing each other’s necks in frustration. We have countless Polaroids of our trips, framing these moments.

  “Should I grab my phone?” I offer, knowing full well Mom’s Polaroid is out of commission.