The Mother Road

by Meghan Quinn

  “I wouldn’t say that’s lucky,” I offer.

  “I’m over this,” Paul calls out, downing the rest of his beer.

  “I’m calling it too.” My dad stands and stretches. “Porter, take care of the fire?”

  “You got it, sir.”

  Paul and my dad go into the RV, and from a distance, you can hear Paul talking to my dad about the closet story, hashing it out with him and the reasoning for humping the mattress. From what I can hear, he has some valid points, but what it all comes down to is he humped the mattress, he will never live that down.

  “Good story,” Porter says, bumping my shoulder again. “Can’t believe I’ve never heard that one before.”

  “I don’t tell many people, you know, to save Paul’s reputation and all.”

  “What a thoughtful sister, and here I thought you two hated each other.”

  I grow silent for a second, staring down at the embers in the fire. “We used to hate each other, but we’ve grown close over the past couple of years. He’s come to be the person I go to when I have a problem. Even though he can be a drama queen at times, he still gives good advice and would do anything for me.”

  Porter nods in understanding. “Does he know about prom night?”

  There were many times I thought about telling Paul about what happened; it was on the tip of my tongue during many conversations I shared with my brother, but I never said anything because I knew it would ruin his relationship with Porter, and even though I couldn’t stand the sight of Porter, I couldn’t do that to Paul. Porter was one of the main reasons Paul was able to get through the passing of our mom.

  Dad and I are incredibly close and Paul and mom were close. I think out of all of us, he took her death the hardest. I know it’s one of the reasons why he wanted to go on this last trip before the wedding. He wanted to feel close to her again during one of the most important times of his life.

  So, I never told Paul. I might have destroyed my relationship with Porter by going to prom with him and giving into my feelings, but that was my choice; it wasn’t Paul’s choice to lose his best friend.

  “No,” I shake my head. “I didn’t want to ruin your friendship with Paul; it’s too important to the both of you.”

  “You could have, you know. I deserved it.”

  “You did,” I casually laugh. “But Paul didn’t.”

  Porter nods in understanding.

  “Well, I guess I’m going to get to bed as well. Do you have everything you need for your tent?”

  “Yeah, I’m good to go.”

  We both stand together awkwardly. It feels like I should give him a hug goodnight, but we’ve never done that before, so I refrain.

  “Okay, goodnight.” I smile and then turn toward the RV, but I’m stopped when Porter grabs my hand and pulls me back around. He urges me closer and finally pulls me into a hug.

  At first, I don’t know what to do with my hands, they are pressed up against his chest with his strong arms wrapped around me, but when he rests his cheek on the top of my head, I decide to ease my hands out from between us and wrap them around him as well.

  My fingers glide across his well-defined back, the cotton of his flannel shirt mixed with the firm muscles in his side is a pleasurable combination. He smells woodsy but clean, like he used some kind of nature soap and rubbed it all over him; it’s intoxicating. As if we are in sync, I can feel his heart beat against mine, reminding me how much this man affects me on a day-to-day basis.

  Right as I get comfortable, he pulls away and pushes my chin up with his finger. His smile is infectious as he looks down at me.

  “Night, Marley.”

  “Night,” I gulp.

  In a daze, I walk back to the RV and slip into the bitch bed, the whole time wondering what that hug was all about.

  CHAPTER NINE

  **MARLEY**

  You know when people say the air is thick like pea soup? I’ve thought of that term many times, wondering what an actual room would look like if it was full of pea soup. I imagine myself with a pair of ski goggles on, a gas mask and a machete, cutting through the green goop of the air until I found safety. I’m scrappy; I could survive with the right tools.

  Now imagine that pea soup room and envision it in Tacy, our 1980s camper, the pea coming from two ends of the RV and meeting in the middle for a collision of an oxygen suffocating atmosphere.

  That’s what I’m living in, that is what chokes me awake and causes me to gasp for air out of pure survival. The air almost seems so thick that I can’t see as I scramble to the side of the RV, where I know there is a window big enough for me to stick my head out of. I struggle with the lock, begging for it to open, praying these aren’t my last moments on this earth.

  The faint click of the window becoming unlocked spurs my need for more fresh air. Quickly, I fling the window open, stick my head out the side, and take in a deep breath. I’m gasping for air, expunging the yak-a-licous fog from my lungs.

  I know what you’re thinking. It’s the hot dogs; they’re causing everyone to have serious gas. Wrong!

  Living away from my father and brother, I forgot what it was like to share a room with them. It’s not gaseous flatus that’s causing me to cough up blood from my lungs—yes, that’s an exaggeration. Nope, it’s something else.

  Have you ever woken up early enough in the morning to see the dew lift off the grass, a pretty fog filling the air? Well, that happens to men in the morning as well. There is a light fog that lifts off of their sleeping bodies and fills the room they’re resting in. It’s damp, moist—yes, I said moist, cringe all you want—and it is thick enough to choke a Clydesdale in its sleep.

  That’s what I’m dealing with right now, but it’s not just one man, it’s two, and the combination of their man fog in the morning has caused me to dry heave out the side of the RV.

  The first morning I woke up in the RV, I didn’t experience the fog because all the windows were open, that’s where I faltered. Windows should always be open at night when sharing a fifteen foot space with two men.

  “What are you doing?” Paul asks, looking at me from outside. He’s holding a cup of coffee in his hand, looking ready for the day.

  “Your stink has clogged the RV. It smells like dirty armpit and belly button in here.”

  “Man fog?” he asks. He knows, I used to complain about it all the time.

  “Yes!”

  “Serves you right.” He lets out a maniacal laugh while throwing his head back. “I kept all the windows shut on purpose, hoping to gas you out of your sleep. That’s what you get for telling that stupid story last night and stealing my beer. We’re even!”

  “I could have died!” I feel my eyes widen in fury.

  “Get over it. You’re fine. Get up. We’re going to pack it up soon. It’s already nine.”

  Nine? Really? Damn, it was late for us.

  “Why are you so chipper? Shouldn’t you be nursing a hangover?”

  “Nah, did some jumping jacks this morning until I violently puked in the bushes over there.” He points to a lovely arrangement of shrubbery. “Best way to get rid of the hangover is to get it all out.”

  I look over at the bushes and then back at Paul. “The KOA is so lucky.”

  He shrugs. “The way I see it is I’m helping out the wild life. I’m sure it will be a tasty little snack for squirrels and rabbits alike.”

  “Stop talking,” I beg, pulling my head back into the man fog.

  I get out of bed and go around Tacy, opening her windows and waving my pillow around until I feel like everything is cleared out. The boys are outside, talking about the pancakes they apparently made for breakfast and the plans for the day. I can smell burnt bread and I wonder who was in charge of flipping. I grab my cosmetics and go to the back of the RV, too lazy to walk over to the bathrooms the campground has to offer.

  The RV is starting to get a little dingy, but it’s not as bad as I expected, given the fact that I’ve been bunking with th
ree other men. I open the bathroom door and nearly scream as I flip on the light.

  Beard clippings are scattered all over the floor and the sink, dirty old clothes lay across the fake tile, and the toilet seat is covered in pee drops from poor aim. When was the last time I was in the bathroom?

  A pair of my dad’s whitey tighties rests next to the toilet handle, while aqua-colored toothpaste streaks are splattered all over the wall. Pigs!

  I storm out of the bathroom and fling the RV door open. I already know I look like a hot mess from just waking up. I’m not a pretty sight in the morning. I can never be one of those girls who rises from her bed looking like a daisy kissed them on the cheek and blessed them with a beautiful day. Nope, I look like a gaggle of nipple-gnawing woodchucks took me to their dam in the middle of the night and fucked me up with their buck teeth.

  My hair’s sticking out on all ends, my clothes are askew, and I have sleep lines indented across my face from the bitch bed that ate me whole last night.

  All three men have the decency to stop talking and prepare for what seems to be another red dot special, all their hands casually moving in front of their crotches.

  “Who shaved their beard in the bathroom?” Spit rains down from my mouth as I shout.

  I’ve never felt more attractive.

  All three of them look at each other and then point at one another. My dad is pointing at Porter, Porter is pointing at Paul, and Paul is pointing at my dad – the nerve.

  “I see. Whose clothes are on the floor, and, Dad, don’t lie, I know those are your undies in there. What about the toothpaste everywhere and the pee sprinkled on the toilet seat like you flicked your dicks at the seat, trying to spot paint it?”

  “Paul has a funky prostate,” my dad points out. None of us buy it.

  “It’s disgusting in there. You’re going to clean it!”

  “Actually, we don’t mind the bathroom, do we guys?” Paul asks, looking at both men with a smug face.

  My eyes narrow in on my dad and Porter, who don’t seem to understand the severity of the grossness trickling out of the bathroom.

  “We’re okay with it,” my dad states.

  I turn to Porter, the last man standing. I can see a slight hint of guilt in his eyes as he says, “Nope, fine with me.”

  And there it is, the male bond that I can’t penetrate. Women usually can wrap their loins together to build a force field that men are unable to even splinter, but men, they shit out cement and form a wall that no woman wants to touch with a ten foot dildo.

  “I see what’s happening. Did you three have a little talk while I was sleeping? Plan this out, did ya?”

  “And we made pancakes,” Porter offers, holding up crinkled aluminum foil with a couple of pancakes stacked on top.

  Casually, without shoes on and still in my pajamas, I walk over to Porter, who is still holding the pancakes out to me. With one fast swipe, I smack the pancakes out of his hand and listen to them flop on the ground as I stare him in the eyes.

  “I don’t want your mangled and charred pancakes that I’m sure taste like rotten, gluten-filled liver snaps. What I want is for you three to clean the bathroom so I don’t have to wear a hazmat suit when I go in it.”

  I can tell Porter doesn’t like being disgusting, but from the way Paul is poking him with a stick from behind my dad’s back, reminding him who’s side he’s on, he won’t budge.

  “The bathroom is fine,” Porter says through clenched teeth, clearly being coached by Paul to say such wretched things.

  “We’re men, Marley…”

  “I would hardly call yourself that,” I counter to Paul.

  Paul holds his hand up in defense. “Yes, I might scream like a high pony-tailed twelve year old girl who just had her one and only arm pit hair plucked when I see a spider, and yes, I might get emotional at seeing my bro after months apart, but that doesn’t negate the fact that I used to dig holes in the desert and shit in them when I was in the Army or the fact that I can go days, even weeks, without a fresh pair of underwear. The bathroom is fine.”

  “Okay.” I nod my head, eyeballing them. “I see how it’s going to be. That’s fine. We will live in filth. I don’t care. We have a few more days together; let the bathroom stay as it is. I have no problem with the way it looks. If you will excuse me, I have to get ready for my day.”

  Without giving Paul the satisfaction of seeing me stomp on the ground like a child and pull my hair out, screaming like a lunatic, I go back in the RV, shut the door, and then bury my head in a pillow to let out my frustration.

  My entire life, I had to share a bathroom with Paul. It was torture, especially since he’s a slob and I’m not. In middle school and some of high school, when Paul was still living with us, I would occasionally get a new beauty product that I would be extremely excited about, since my dad wasn’t keen on getting me cosmetics. I would spend so much time in the bathroom testing my new item out whether it was a curling iron, new shampoo or even a brush. I cherished those moments…and then Paul came along. Basically, he thought his pubes were the tester for everything new I received.

  Eye lash curler, could it make his pubes curlier?

  New razors, could it handle his man bush?

  Teaser, how much could he tease his pubes without crying?

  Stay-in conditioner, could his pubes be softer?

  Curling iron, well, that one ended badly for him.

  You get the idea, so being transported back to the days of sharing a bathroom with Paul infuriates me, especially since the RV bathroom looks just like Paul’s side of the counter growing up. When Paul said it was war, he wasn’t kidding. He knows my weaknesses…my heart stops.

  I run to the bathroom and grab my bag of cosmetics, sifting through everything, making sure it is accounted for. All my brushes and shadows seem to be intact except…

  Once again, I throw the RV door open and storm up to Paul, who has a smarmy look on his face.

  “Can I help you?” he asks, knowing full well what I’m looking for.

  “Where is my mascara?”

  “Oh, you mean this?” Paul pulls my Lancôme mascara from his pocket and dangles it in front of my face. I want to swipe it away, but I’m terrified of where it has been.

  “What did you do with it?”

  Paul starts walking in circles around me as he talks, like a diabolical man-gina. “You see, the other day I shaved my sac clean, wanted to see what it would look like bare.” Paul must have talked to my dad about this story beforehand, because I can’t seem to fathom why my dad is just standing there with his arms crossed, not adding his two cents from hearing about his son’s bare balls. “I wanted to give something special to Savannah for our wedding…”

  “And that’s a twelve year old’s nut sac?” I ask, Porter snorting to the side of us.

  Ignoring my comment, Paul continues. “After a couple of days, I wanted to see how my balls were doing, so I grabbed your compact…”

  “Ew, gross!! Paul, I use that!”

  “Yes, I know. That’s what was so appealing to me. I took a look at my balls, kind of using it like a dentist’s tool. Worked great, got to see my taint and everything. Savannah picked a top grade piece of loins to marry. That taint of mine is a fine piece of weird skin.”

  My throat constricts and nausea rolls around in my belly. Taint talk is never charming. “I’m dry heaving.”

  Paul ignores me. “Anyway, I did notice that my balls were looking a little too smooth, a little too metro. So, I grabbed your mascara and brushed some fake hair on my balls with it.”

  “You what?”

  My snarl does nothing as he continues to circle me. “I couldn’t get the right stroke, the mascara was too clumpy and it was just smearing. I think you should really look into some new mascara, something a little more high-end.”

  He holds the tube in front of me, which I knock out of his hand so it joins the pancakes on the ground.

  “You idiot! That is the best mascara on th
e market right now! Do you know how much that costs?”

  “Eight dollars?” he asks, completely naïve of today’s beauty product prices.

  “No, you turd-sickle! It costs $36.99!!”

  “Really?” His surprised expression is genuine. “For mascara? Dude, you’re getting ripped off. I couldn’t get an individual lash stroke out of that brush to save my life. They should really consider a new formula or maybe a different set of bristles.”

  “Maybe it’s because you were using it on your wrinkly coin purse,” Porter suggests. Paul acknowledges his point with a turned down lip and slight nod.

  “I’m going to kill you.” I lunge at Paul, but I’m stopped by my father, who turns me back toward the RV.

  “Let’s just call this even. The war is over. We have to hit the road if we want to stay on track, and as much as I would love to see you try to beat up your brother, we need to get going. Get changed so we can go.”

  The Bernie Man has spoken. He might be easily swayed on occasion, but when it comes to sticking to schedule, you don’t mess with him or else the eyebrows will appear. And you don’t EVER want the eyebrows to appear!

  ****

  The mascara on man balls fiasco is still stinging my vibe, but the toxic fumes coming from my nail polish, which is enveloping the small space of the RV, causing Paul to cough every two seconds, is making me feel slightly better.

  I’m not going to lie, Paul’s balls on my mascara brush was a blow to the gut, but Porter’s switching to the dark side, now that was like an elephant farting in my face and blowing off my fake eyelashes. I thought we had a deal, but I can see he’s easily swayed now to flip-flop sides, just like when we were growing up. I should have remembered he was a flip-flopper.

  Now, as we drive along the New Mexico landscape, I can see him out of the corner of my eye continuing to flash glances at me.

  Look all you want buddy, you switched to the dark side!

  Paul coughs, well more like hacks in my direction. “Marley, you’re killing us!”

  I blow on my nails while looking at the nail decals I’m going to try out.