by Meghan Quinn
“Then open a window. I told you when I agreed to this trip that I have to continue to work on my blog. Today’s entry is all about nails. I received nail decals from Monica Hues to test. Look how cute they are! Look at the little hot dog.” I flash the nail decals that I’ve heard nothing but good reviews about to the boys.
“Did you have to paint your nails if you’re using decals?” The whine in Paul’s voice is so unattractive. I really wonder sometimes what Savannah sees in the pre-pubescent man-girl that I call my brother.
I rest my hand on the table in front of me and talk evenly to Paul. “I’m not about to put a cute little nail decal on an unpolished nail. What am I? A barbarian?”
“Excuse me,” Paul holds up his hands. “What’s the point of a nail decal anyway?”
“What is the point?” I steady my voice, ready to lay one on Paul. “Paul, have you ever seen a poor set of un-manicured nails?”
“Sure.”
“Have you?” I ask, my voice rising. “I don’t think you have. Picture this, you’re hanging out with Savannah, she starts rubbing your head with her nails. It feels good. Like a horny cat, you start rubbing your head into her hand, trying to get her to scratch you where you want it the most. Just when she’s about to hit that spot on your head that will make your leg bounce up and down like a randy dog, she pulls away. You turn to see what’s going on and there she is, hand to her mouth, gnawing on her three-toed sloth-like nail claws, trying to get out a piece of dandruff that got stuck. Now, tell me, wouldn’t you rather her munch down on perfectly manicured nails with a pretty little nail decal? Or would you rather her chomp down on her decayed claws with fungus growing out of them?
Porter and Paul exchange disgusted looks. “She paints a beautiful picture,” Porter points out.
“I’m telling ya,” I blow on my hands. “Decals are where it’s at. It’s a little extra something to keep people remembering those hands.”
“I think I can think of another way I would remember hands,” Porter laughs, drawing a scowl from me.
“Good one.” Paul bumps fists with Porter.
Neanderthals.
“How much longer do we have until we arrive?” Paul asks. “I’m starving.”
“Starving? Really, Paul? Do you know what the word starving means? It means you are suffering and about to die from hunger.”
Paul turns in his seat, a know it all look in his eyes. “Thank you for the vocab lesson, Marley, but when one uses the word starving in the English language, it also can be construed as a way to express your feelings in an exaggerated way, therefore putting emphasis on your current state of mind. When you say, I was so scared I almost shit my pants, did you really almost shit your pants? Doubtful, we use these expressions to elaborate on our feelings, so…”
“Oh, shut up!” I cut him off, not wanting to hear his babbling anymore. I toss a bag of Funyuns at him. “Please just stop talking and eat those.”
“I can’t eat these unless we play the game.”
Growing up, Funyuns were a hot commodity in our household. If not regulated, we could take down a bag of Funyuns in a matter of seconds. There’s something about the circular onion flavored corn chip that got our juvenile engines revving…and no, not in a creepy way. Freaks!
During our travels, my mom realized the Funyuns stock depleted faster than the crackers and pretzels in the cabinet, so instead of making sure we always had Funyuns, she made them a special treat to have, one that she turned into a game.
“What game?” Porter asks, a little crinkle to his nose that my lips want to kiss away.
“Would you Funyun!” My dad shouts, clearly excited from the prospect of playing the game my mom created.
“Would you Funyun? How do you play?”
“It’s just like would you rather, but to make things fun, Mom said, ‘Would you Funyun?’ if we answer, we get a Funyun.”
“That seems easy,” Porter says.
Paul and I exchange glances.
I lean over the table and talk sternly to Porter. “Would you Funyun? is not easy, Porter. Would you Funyun? rips you open and exposes your darkest secrets that you would never want anyone to know. The questions dig deep, into your inner mini-jock strap wearing-self, it tears into your innocence, rupturing it from your soul and laying it out on the table for all of us to see and make fun of. And if you want a Funyun, then you have to answer the question to get one.”
A grin spreads across my face as Porter shifts his feet. Would you Funyun? has left both Paul and me in tears, having to answer my mom’s impossible questions just to feel the salty, tear jerking vegetable taste on our tongues.
“Are you in?” I ask, one last blow to my nails to dry them off.
“I’m in,” Porter smiles back at me, his eyes lighting up from under the brim of his red hat.
“Yes!” Paul fist pumps the air. “I’ll be the moderator, since I’m the one holding the bag of chips and no one wants nail polish chunks on their Funyuns.” Paul eyes me.
I shrug. “Fair enough.”
“Are we ready for the base taste?”
“What’s the base taste?” Porter is slowing down the game already.
Paul, being the compassionate best friend that he is, he explains the rules of the game. “The way the game works is we will go one by one asking each other would you rather questions, if they answer, they get a Funyun, if they don’t, the question asker gets their Funyun. We do a base taste to get the palette wanting more, because any Funyun lover knows, you can’t just have one. So, we whet the whistle to spike your craving.”
“And, no drinks,” my dad points out.
“Yes, almost forgot, thanks, Dad. No drinks, you savor that onion flavor.”
“So, it’s going to get pretty ripe in here with four bouts of onion breath,” Porter laughs.
“It’s part of the torture,” I add.
Paul gets out of his seat in the front and sits across from me at the dining table, a more central location. As if we were at church, we perform the Would you Funyun? ritual. Paul presents the bag to each individual, we bow in front of it, rub the Funyun name and then stick our tongue out for Paul to place a ring on. We don’t bite right away, just like the Body of Christ, we let is dissolve on our tongues. It’s torture and it makes you want more. There’s a science to the game, to make people desperate enough to give away their secrets for a highly over-processed piece of onion.
“Marley, since you’re experienced, do you want to start?”
“I think I will.” I sit up in my seat and lean over the table, excited to see how far we can push Porter. “I will kick it off with an easy one. Would you Funyun get slapped in the face by a porcupine or put a cactus in your armpit and slam your arm shut?”
In order, Paul answers cactus, my dad answers porcupine, claiming his beard would cushion the blow, and Porter answers cactus as he rubs his armpit.
“I’m impressed, boys. Give me the bag, Paul. My nails are dry.” Normally, the person who asks the question blesses the people who answered with a Funyun; it’s my favorite part because I try to shove the Funyun in Paul’s mouth as hard as possible.
He suspiciously hands over the bag. “Be nice.”
I will at first, I think, as I gently place a Funyun in his mouth and my dad’s. When I get to Porter, I nervously grab a ring and put it on his out-stretched tongue, trying not to drool from the ways his eyes smolder up at me.
“My turn.” Paul rips the bag from me. “Would you Funyun have a head the size of a tennis ball or a head the size of an exercise ball?”
From the front of Tacy, we can hear my dad chuckling to himself. “Tennis ball, at least I would be in good company with Beetlejuice with the shrunken head.”
“Tennis ball,” Porter answers next with a laugh.
“Tennis ball,” I agree with my dad and Porter. “I think my neck would get tired from having a big head.”
“So does that mean your neck is tired now?” Paul asks with a smirk.
/> “You’re stupid,” I respond. Not my best comeback, but it does the job.
The Funyuns are passed around.
My dad clears his throat and picks me to be his Funyun tosser as he drives. “Would you Funyun crap your pants in public once a year for the rest of your life or crap yourself in private every day for the rest of your life.”
I roll my eyes. “Always with the shitting questions, come on, Dad.”
“They’re my go to. So, who’s shitting in public?” We all groan and answer, Paul wanting to shit in private, Porter and I opting for a one time public occurrence, not wanting to clean our shit pants every day.
“Porter, my boy, you’re up,” my dad calls out.
Nervously, Porter adjusts his cap on his head and grabs the bag of Funyuns. He looks around and asks, “Would you Funyun have sex with Carrot Top or Weird Al?”
“Ugh, gross,” I complain, while Porter waves the bag in front of my face.
Before I can answer, Paul says, “Weird Al for sure.”
Could he have answered faster? Porter lifts his eyebrow at his friend and then shakes his head and chuckles. His laugh vibrates through my body, warming me from the inside out and practically driving my hips toward his leg so I can hump the hell out of him. Thankfully, I have some self-control.
Unfortunately, I answer Weird Al as well, and so does my dad. For some reason, he seems like the lesser of the two curly headed evils. My dad claims a fire crotch would distract him too much to get things done quickly, the whole picture he paints in my head is too offensive to repeat, so I will spare you.
Porter gives my dad a Funyun first, then Paul, and then stops at me. He kneels down so he’s at my eye level and winks at me before saying in a seductively sexy voice, “Open up, Marbles.”
I swear to you, my tongue quivers as it sneaks out of my mouth, waiting for the Funyun to be placed on it. I’m not sure if it’s my onion addiction or the anticipation of Porter’s hand being so close to my mouth. Weird thought, I know, hands in the mouth are not my kinky fixation or anything like that…it’s just that being so close to him makes my body want to rev up like the Tasmanian Devil and spiral out of control all over Tacy, preferably accidently hitting Paul in the balls in the process.
Gently, he places the Funyun in my mouth and then quickly gets up just so he can wave the bag of Funyuns in my face.
Grabbing the bag and completely shocked out of the intimate moment, I ask, “Would you Funyun have your fingers be knives or your penis be a knife?”
In unison, the boys all say fingers without even giving it a second thought. It’s a can of corn kind of question, way too easy, because honestly, I’m still thinking about the way Porter’s body felt so close to mine and the way he winked at me while his finger ever so slightly caressed my tongue…
“Marley! Funyun!” Paul shouts, pointing at his wide open pie hole and startling the me out of my Porter induced thoughts.
Reluctantly, I place one on Paul’s tongue, hand one to my dad, and then turn to Porter, who is relaxed in his chair, his sleeves rolled up, his leg spread a bit and his hands resting in his lap. He looks casual, provocative but also…cuddly. I want to bury my nose in his chest and rub my face along his clavicle, reveling in the feel of the bone that connects his beefy arms to his body. I want to worship that bone in all kinds of freaky ways.
“You going to give me a Funyun or are you just going to stare at me and drool?” The smirk on his face erases all the sexual thoughts I was just having of him, replacing them with the urge to pinch his nut sac with a pair of tweezers.
I shove the Funyun in his mouth while he laughs. I sit back down in my seat, irritated with being called out—I was not drooling.
We play a few more rounds, the bag of Funyuns dwindling quickly and finding things out about each other that no one should ever know, like my dad wanting to give a lap dance rather than receiving one from Adolf Hitler. Or how Paul would rather lick Justin Bieber’s balls for an hour than take a finger in the ass. Or how Porter would rather have sex with Megan Fox, despite the fact that we gave her a penis and a set of hairy balls, than have sex with Betsy Garble from middle school—she had a mustache, a nose mole, and a scary set of braces, all at the ripe age of twelve, poor girl.
We pull up to Midpoint Café in Adrian, Texas, the halfway mark on Route 66, and my dad parks Tacy. We turn to Porter, who has the last question to ask. He has a huge grin on his face, as if he’s going to stump us all. I have no doubt in my mind he won’t. There is nothing I won’t answer, and clearly, Paul has no shame after claiming to the world that he could picture the Biebs having a nice sac to lick.
“For all the money,” Porter tosses the bag back and forth in his hands, a bit of an arrogant swagger radiating off of him. “Would you Funyun…” he pauses for dramatic effect. If I wasn’t so hyped up on artificial flavoring, I would yell at him to get the hell on with it, but the anticipation adds to the intensity of the game. I can feel my mouth watering, waiting to be rewarded with a tasty treat for answering a question. I’ve never channeled a dog so much in my life as I am right now. If I could, I would start cleaning my crotch with my tongue, making everyone uncomfortable with my loud slurping noises, you know that dog junk juice slurp I’m talking about, every dog makes the sound.
“Get on with it!” Paul says impatiently, bouncing his leg up and down.
Porter repeats himself, “Would you Funyun have sex with your sibling, but no one knows about it, or let people believe you had sex with your sibling when you really didn’t?”
The RV falls silent, bile raises up my throat as I look over at Paul; the taste of onion is no longer appetizing to me. I’m about to tell Porter he’s disgusting when Paul interrupts me. “I want people to know.” He then opens his mouth, pointing to it, showing zero remorse or humiliation for answering the question.
My dad taps out, leaving the car, while I sit there and stare at the Funyun bag, then I consider the question.
Nope, bile rises again. I’m out.
“You win,” I say, throwing my hands up in the air and heading out to the midpoint mark in the road with my Polaroid. Porter dumps the rest of the bag in his mouth in victory. Normally, such a loss would be devastating to me, but the thought of getting even close enough to Paul for that question to be true causes my nipples to split in half and disintegrate on the spot. I would take a loss over answering that question any day.
Sidling up next to my dad, I put my arm around him and say, “Half way point. Take a selfie with me?”
“You sure you want your old man in the photo? You don’t want one of yourself laying down on the halfway point?”
“No, I want one with you laying down with me.”
“It will take me about a day to get up and down from the ground.”
“Stop complaining and get down here.” I pull on my dad’s arm and get him settled, just as Porter walks up to us.
“Want me to take the picture for you?”
“That would be great.”
I hand him the camera, ignoring the chill that runs up my arm when his hand grazes mine. He watches us get settled into position and I can see a look of contentment on his face as he takes the picture.
“Say cheese!” my dad calls out, like always.
CHAPTER TEN
**PORTER**
After we had lunch at the Midpoint Café and took some pictures in the iconic restaurant with the old Route 66 souvenirs, we got back on the road. Paul was feeling nauseous from all the Funyuns and then lunch on top of that, so he decided to take a nap in the back on their dad’s bed. Bernie turned on the Beatles and started rocking out, using his fingers as drumsticks and the steering wheel as his drums while performing the perfect white man’s overbite. His Paul McCartney-like singing brought the whole performance full circle. My favorite is when he sings in a British accent, hitting the high notes like a man trying to get his balls to recede from his intestines. The Bernie Man makes good music, that’s for damn sure.
Th
en there’s Marley. She finished up her nails, applying the decals that she kept announcing to herself how easy they were to use. I’m not going to lie, the last half hour I’ve watched her little tongue stick out of her mouth, being an act of concentration for her. It was charmingly delightful. I’m not stupid; I see the way she looks at me, the way her body reacts to mine. It’s obvious there is a sexual tension between us that neither of us can deny, but will I act on it? No. She’s Paul’s sister, she’s Marley, the girl who will always be out of my reach. She’s too good for me, she’s going places and I know if I give into temptation, I will just hold her back. I would never want to hold her back. She’s worked incredibly hard to get her blog recognized by beauty retailers and companies to the point where they pay for advertising on her website and send her things to test and write about. She’s doing very well for herself; I don’t want to disturb that. Being her friend will do; at least as a friend, she will still be in my life.
Being on this road trip with the McMann Clan has been a blessing. I’ve felt lost lately, not sure where my life is going to lead me with the new venture I’m embarking on, one that only Bernie and Paul know of, and being on this trip just reminds me that if I fail, I at least have a family to rely on to pick me back up.
Casually, I look at my phone to see if I received any emails from the investors I met up with in California.
Have you ever waited to hear from someone about news that could make or break your future plans? You know that piercing feeling that rumbles through your gut, twisting and turning your intestines until you’re crapping out a brown fortress of shit for a small gaggle of toilet dwellers? Yeah, I’ve been living with that feeling ever since I left California. The only ease I’ve had from the constant ache has been when Marley glances at me, lightly touches me by accident, or looks at me with those soulful blue eyes of hers.
I would like to say Paul has the same effect on me, but our bro-mance doesn’t dive that deep, despite how Paul might feel.
I haven’t strived for much in my life, I’ve settled for what’s been handed to me not because I wanted to but because it was the right thing to do, so this is the first time I’ve put my soul on the line. The anticipation of hearing what my future holds is unnerving, sickening at times and straight up scary. I would never say that to anyone, especially Marley because she’s the bravest person I know, taking a chance on her future and grabbing it by the horns, owning her decisions and making something of herself. Compared to Marley, I’m a coward, a lonesome farm boy with one chance to make something of himself. I just pray I can pull it off.