The Mother Road

by Meghan Quinn

  The neon yellow shirt and hat she’s wearing should have been a total turn off for me, especially since Paul and Bernie were wearing matching outfits, but it had the opposite effect. Her yoga pants frame her petite body and her tight stomach is on display, thanks to the knot in her shirt. Her cocoa colored hair is much longer now, down to her breasts, and her eyes seem even brighter than I remember. Her sweetheart face and little button nose portray her as adorable, but her full lips make her fucking hot.

  And what a fucking greeting I got from her too. I’m not talking about the cold shoulder and the “what the hell is he doing here look” I received when I stepped into the RV. Nope, it was the full moon she blessed me with before I climbed on. The urge to toss her up on the attic bed was tempting, despite her dad and brother being in the same vehicle.

  Even with my strong need to feel her against my skin, to touch those lips with mine, I knew it wasn’t an option with the “go fuck yourself” vibe she was clearly shooting my way. I consider myself to be a tough man, I shovel shit and milk goat teets for a living, I can handle anything that comes my way, but with the way her upper lip snarls and the little blue vein in her neck pulses rapidly, I truly feel nervous for my future on this RV.

  Last time I saw her, I might have fucked things up big time; correction, I did fuck things up, royally, but we won’t get into that right now.

  “Maybe we can switch the topic from big boobs to something more intellectual,” Marley offers.

  “Jealous?” I ask with a raised eyebrow at her, pressing my luck because that’s the kind of man I am. Plus, even though the unpredictability of her pulsing vein scares me, I still like to light a fire under her. I’m an instigator and I’m proud of it.

  She ignores me, pulls out a nail file from her purse, and starts going to town on her fingers. I chuckle to myself as I try to envision the pig raising girl I used to know filing her nails. Years ago, Marley wouldn’t have been caught dead filing her nails, but now, it comes so naturally to her. A lot has changed in four years.

  “Why don’t we go over the schedule for our trip?” Bernie offers. “Your mother put together a solid itinerary for us. I’ve made sure to book rooms and RV spaces for each overnight stay. I think after this trip, I’ll get my free night at the KOA.”

  Mr. McMann and his KOA obsession, it’s unreal. Ever since I’ve known him, he’s raved about the comradery and luxury camping only a “Kampground of America” can offer. To me, you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all, but I can appreciate the man’s loyalty.

  “Okay, Dad,” Marley huffs.

  She shifts in her seat and unfolds a map. From afar, I would know that handwriting anywhere as Mama McMann’s. A warm and comforting peace falls over me from seeing the familiar loopy letters.

  Mrs. McMann was the mother I always wanted and the mother I never really had. The moment she met me, she took me into her arms, gave me a safe haven, loved me unconditionally, and treated me like one of her own. Losing her was just as devastating to me as it was to Paul and Marley.

  “From what Mom mapped out, it looks like we’re staying at a KOA every night except one.”

  “That’s my girl,” Bernie says with a honk of the horn.

  Marley rolls her eyes and says, “What’s the Wigwam Village?”

  Paul turns in his seat, sticks his finger in the air and answers Marley. “It was a series of hotels built by a man by the name of Chester E. Lewis. Between the nineteen thirties and nineteen fifties, he built six villages along Route 66, all replicas of what Americans thought Native Americans resided in. There are only two villages left along Route 66,” Paul says with a hoity tone to his voice.

  “Thank you, Captain Know-it-all.”

  Paul shrugs his shoulders. “You asked. Want me to go into the history of Route 66? How it served as a major road of transportation for those migrating west during the Dust Bowl?”

  “Please, God, no.” Marley stands up and stretches.

  Pure torture stands two feet in front of me, stretching to a measly five foot five height, exposing enough skin to make any man a little tight in the crotch.

  Secretly, I wish I was wearing a pair of sunglasses so I could watch her lithe body stretch in all its glory without making it look like I’m being the biggest pervert in the world. Instead, I take a quick glance at her lifted shirt and low riding yoga pants, committing the sight to memory. Basically, I’m a masochist because I know nothing could ever happen with Marley, not just because she’s Paul’s sister, but because of the way I left things with her.

  Want to have a conversation about royally fucking up one of the best things in your life, come talk to me. I have some good pointers.

  Marley walks to the small kitchen and says, “Are there drinks in here, Dad?”

  Parched myself, I walk up behind her to grab a drink as well. She sneers at me and shivers away from my body.

  “I don’t smell that bad, do I?” I ask, sniffing under my arm.

  “Neanderthal,” she huffs. “What are you doing? Why are you hovering around me?”

  “I’m thirsty too. You’re not the only one who requires hydration in this recreational vehicle.”

  “You’re just as annoying as I remember.” Her body language is reading “get the fuck away from me,” but the light swipe of her tongue across her lips gives me a tiny bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t entirely hate my guts.

  “And you’re more uptight than I remember.”

  With a devious smile, Marley opens the fridge harshly, her elbow flying right into my stomach with the door. “Ooops, watch out.”

  I bend over and grab my stomach while she giggles to herself.

  “Dad, what is this? You don’t have soda? Just apple juice?”

  “What’s that, sweetie? I can’t hear you. Turn down the music, Paul.”

  “It’s alright. I was just asking about the apple juice, but this will be okay.” She turns to me, hand on her hip and glass jar in her hand. “Want some apple juice?”

  I survey the liquid, and for some reason, it doesn’t look right.

  “Uhh…”

  She doesn’t wait for an answer from me. “Ugh, get it yourself if you want one. I’m not going to wait forever for you to make up your mind. It’s apple juice or you wait until the next stop.” She slams the door shut and walks back to the bench, undoing the top of the Snapple bottle in her hand. “Did someone drink out of this? There was no Snapple pop.”

  “What are you talking about?” Bernie calls out. “Paul, what is your sister talking about?” Bernie whacks Paul on the leg to grab his attention.

  “Dad! I’m trying to email Savannah. God, can’t a man email his fiancé? Marley is a big girl; she can figure it out.”

  “Marley, I don’t think you should drink that…” I say, now looking at all the bottles in the fridge.

  Marley turns in her seat and says, “Why? Because you want to drink it? Seriously, Porter, you’re so lazy.”

  “What are you drinking back there?” Bernie asks, looking behind him. “Paul, what is your sister drinking?”

  “For fuck’s sake!” Paul slams his phone on the front console and turns to see Marley bring the bottle of ‘apple juice’ to her mouth, pure horror flashing through his eyes. “Nooooo!” he screams, scrambling out of his seat and pushing the drink out of Marley’s hands, the corner of the table flying directly into his nut sac. “Fuuuuuucccc…”

  In succession, the ‘apple juice’ flies against Marley’s chest, Paul screams at the top of his lungs from his nuts being crushed against the wood of the table, and Bernie’s foot slams on the brakes, bringing the RV to a halt on the side of the road.

  “Jumping George Washingtons!” Bernie yells, scared half to death from being startled by Paul’s lady squeal.

  Let’s freeze this moment for a second. As an onlooker, sometimes you watch actions happen in slow motion; they stop in time, and all you can think is why my body is not moving to do anything…that’s what’s happening to m
e right now.

  Paul is mid-leap, hand stretched, pushing the ‘apple juice’ out of Marley’s hand, but instead of pushing it to the side, he pushes it onto her chest, spilling it all over her neon yellow shirt. Marley’s arms fly in the air, shocked from Paul’s attack, steam about to burn out of her ears.

  And then there is Bernie, gripping the steering wheel in terror, his shoulders shrugging because he doesn’t know what else to do with the anger/horror running through his body.

  Warning, don’t EVER startle or piss off Bernie or three things will happen. One, he will shout a president’s name, which is his form of swearing. If you hear a president’s name fly out of his name, run for your life. Two, his body will shake uncontrollably from fury pulsing through him. And three, his eyebrows will turn into machetes and cut you down, bringing you to your knees in the matter of seconds. I never thought the shape of an eyebrow could cause a grown man to cry, but that was before I met Bernie McMann. Believe me when I say the man has some terrifying eyebrows that will make you drown in your own liquid stool.

  Terrifying.

  At this moment, I can tell from Bernie’s posture that he is about to let the eyebrows loose. I suggest you run for cover.

  “Paul!” Marley screams, horrified from being splashed by the ‘juice.’

  “What the Jimmy Carter is going on back there? We’re on the road for a few hours and you two idiots are already at each other’s throats. I will drive this RV straight back home!” Bernie yells, turning in his seat to see Marley drenched, broken glass on the floor of his precious Tacy, and Paul writhing in pain on the ground.

  “She was going to drink the toilet bottles, Dad.” Paul calls over his shoulder, gripping his balls in agony.

  Toilet bottles?

  And then it clicks.

  “What is that smell?” Marley sniffs around.

  I can tell the minute she figures it out because she springs out of her seat, throws the door to the RV open, sprints out and rips her shirt off her body like the soccer player Brandi Chastain, minus the celebratory cheering. Instead, she screams, “There’s pee on me! My brother’s pee is on me!”

  What I expected to be the wrath of Bernie turns into a turmoil of guilt between him and Paul as we all stand outside the RV, watching Marley sprint in circles screaming about how she’s been “urined.” There’s nothing that we can really do but stand and wait. We don’t blame her for her reaction; she has day old pee on her chest. She almost pressed her lips against the same bottle her bother and dad’s penises were on. She has every right to be flopping around on the ground, rolling in dirt, and kicking tumbleweeds across the desert terrain of East California.

  “We forgot to throw out the bottles before we left Marley’s apartment,” Paul points out, still slightly hunched over from his table to the balls incident.

  “Yup, looks like it,” Bernie nods his head, the anger simmering once he figured out his kids weren’t being obnoxious for no reason.

  “I’m just glad it wasn’t me,” is all I can say, trying desperately to hold back my laughter.

  “I hate you all,” Marley screams, still running around with a mud-pee drenched body.

  Paul looks around and says, “Think I should get the Polaroid?”

  Bernie looks down at the ground and then nods his head. “We promised to document everything, the good and the bad. Your mother wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Resigned, Paul walks into the RV and pulls out the Polaroid, getting just close enough to Marley to take a picture, but not close enough to be seared by the dragon flames flying out of her nostrils.

  It’s going to be a long way until our first stop.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  **MARLEY**

  “Stare at me one more time, see where it gets you.” I kick Porter’s bag and mutter, “Pervert.”

  We’re standing outside of the RV, waiting for my dad to finish checking in with the KOA in Needles, California. If I wasn’t so bitter from being doused in piss, I would actually enjoy the desert and the feel of the campground with its towering palm trees and variety of cacti. Growing up in upstate New York, a campground consisted of a jungle of trees, broken trunks you used as benches, and running brooks. This campground was slightly different with its gravel pathways and swaying palms, with grass nowhere to be seen.

  “I’m not staring at you,” he replies, talking out of the side of his mouth.

  “Does this look like staring?” I stick my tongue out like a dog and tilt my head to the side while I stare at his chest, his extremely well-developed chest. The same chest that I swear he’s using to communicate with me through pectoral flexing Morse code…or maybe I’m seeing things.

  “I’m not looking at you like that. I’ve just never seen someone wear pee so well.”

  Flipping Porter the middle finger, I turn to see Paul walk toward me. I hold out my hand for the quarters he was supposed to gather, but he has nothing.

  “Where are the quarters? You had one job…to get me quarters so I can take a shower.” The whine in my voice is incredibly unattractive.

  “No quarters.”

  “What?” I whine some more, wanting to flop on the ground, but I hold off on the temper tantrum, since Porter is standing right next to me. Losing my cool in the middle of the desert during my rant was enough crazy for one day.

  “It’s free,” Paul smiles.

  “God.” I push past him, my toiletries and towels in hand. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

  Paul calls out to me. “It was more fun the way I did it.”

  The path to the bathrooms is easy to follow. I’ve stayed at enough KOAs in my day to know the routine of taking a shower. As I’m about to walk into the bathroom, my dad calls out my name. His sorrowful look makes me feel bad about the silent treatment I gave him and the other two idiots all the way here.

  He goes to pull me in for a hug and then stops himself, remembering what I’m covered in. “Buttons, I’m sorry. We were supposed to throw those bottles out before you had a chance to see them.”

  “Why did you even pee in a bottle? Why is that something two grown men decide to do? You’re not twelve with the maturity level of a gnat. You’re better than that, Dad.”

  “I know,” he nods. “We were just trying to make record time. There was no stopping on our way out to pick you up. Plus, it turned into a challenge…”

  I hold up my hand to stop him. “I don’t want to hear about creepy wiener challenges. Just tell me I’m not going to find anything else in the RV. No poop pillows? No barf bags that you froze to look like hash?”

  “No,” my dad shakes his head with a smirk on his face. If he wasn’t my father, I would threaten a punch to the man boob.

  “I got you something.” He pulls a shirt from his back pocket and holds it up to me. “The front desk has a lovely little gift shop. I thought you might like this.”

  The shirt is black with a giant Route 66 sign on the front. He actually purchased me the correct size and I can’t help but love the nostalgic feel of the design and the thought behind the gift.

  I offer him a hug as a thank you, but he steps back before I can wrap my arms around him. “Maybe you take a shower first, Buttons.”

  My smile falls to a frown as I storm off to the bathroom, my dad chuckling behind me.

  Campground bathrooms are all the same, a few toilets and a few showers to match, all encased by wooden stalls. The inside smells like an old camper and the little touches of a frilly curtain over the small window and the light rose stenciling on the pink walls makes it feel like a Grandma’s cottage, mauve colored tones and all.

  The showers offer little privacy with their four foot doors that are supposed to cover you while you shower. Basically, if you’re not an average height of five-five, you’ll be showing tatas or puss puss. Thankfully, I’m covered as I scrub my body diligently at least five times before washing my hair and then conditioning.

  When we were younger, I can remember Paul whining like a littl
e bitch about how the men’s showers didn’t have any covers. Not wanting to show off his little peen, he always had to shower in a bathing suit, washing his junk under the nylon lycra fabric of his shorts. It was one of the little victories I had against Paul.

  When we pulled into the KOA, I announced to the men that I would be taking a shower and I expected dinner on the table when I got back. I didn’t care what we ate, as long as I didn’t have to cook it. Every single one of them were in the dog house after what happened. Porter tried to tell me he had nothing to do with me being urinated on, but I claimed he was guilty by association, and then gave him my death glare. He seemed to shut up after that.

  Before an elderly woman can pop in the shower area and stare me down, I dry off and put my Route 66 shirt on and a pair of little shorts, rolling them once because, why not? Might as well torture Porter if I can.

  My hair is still wet as I braid it into two French braids. It’s my go-to hairstyle when I want a light wave in my hair the next day, but don’t want to bother with a curling iron. The next day I just spray a little sea salt mixture in my hair to add texture and let it air dry, giving me the perfect beach hair. Please note, I keep my braids loose; if you keep them tight, then you will get a bit of kinky wave…keep them loose and you are bound to have that beach hair.

  You’re welcome for the tip.

  The walk to the RV is pleasant. The sun is setting, casting an orange glow across the sky, kids are chasing each other around their campsites and the gravel crunching under my feet only reminds me of the multiple KOAs we stayed at while growing up.

  I might have been peed on today, and the man who ripped me apart years ago might be sitting within feet of me in a tiny old RV, but I’m still enjoying my time on the road. I missed my family, no matter how much they drive me insane.

  From around Tacy, I can hear my dad talking to Porter and Paul. I pause to hear what he’s saying. “Now when she gets back, we are going to treat her like the princess that she is. No piss jokes and no comments about her lapse of sanity out in the desert. You got me?”