by Meghan Quinn
“There’s my girl. Enjoy the stars last night?”
“I did, thanks, Dad.”
“Are you ready to hit the road? Today’s the day!”
“I’m ready.” I give him my best “go get ‘em” smile.
My dad pulls away and grabs a bag that’s sitting on the steps of Tacy. “I took the liberty of washing all of our Route 66 shirts for today. I thought it would be fitting for us to match while we have the mother of all hot dogs.”
Being twenty-two and matching my family is not on the top of my list of things to do, but today isn’t about me. It’s about my family and honoring my mom, so I grab the T-shirt from my dad and put it on over my long-sleeved shirt; Paul and Porter do the same. My dad is already wearing his and looking absolutely stunning, as usual.
We look around and Paul asks, “Picture?”
“Picture,” I confirm, running into Tacy to grab my Polaroid and the frame of my mom.
The owner of the KOA is kind enough to take the picture of us so we don’t have to attempt another selfie with a Polaroid camera.
Porter wraps his arm around me and plasters me across his side as we all look at the camera and smile.
My dad clears his throat and says, “Say cheese!”
****
Trying to blog with Porter only a few feet away isn’t easy…at all.
The first stop we had in Illinois was in Atlanta. It wasn’t a very big town, but it had one giant thing we’ve been itching to take a picture with. No, it’s not the Gemini Giant, which would have been a great play on words, but it’s his cousin: Paul Bunyun—yes, spelled like that, like Funyun, but with a B.
Paul Bunyun in Atlanta, Illinois is one of the “Muffler Men” from Route 66’s heyday. He used to sit out in front of a café, welcoming weary travelers from across the United States. In 1965, he moved from Cicero, Illinois to Atlanta, Illinois, where the owner changed the spelling of the giant’s name to avoid trademark complications with the café. Now he’s an attraction on the Mother Road with his red shirt, blue pants, and get ready for it—his GIANT sized hot dog.
That’s right, I said hot dog.
Standing at nineteen feet tall, he’s a fiberglass man of epic proportions with a slayer of a wiener gracing the roadside of Route 66. And when I say wiener, I mean hot dog.
Thanks to Paul, I know all about Paul Bunyun, which I hate to admit, I kind of liked learning about the Muffler Men of Route 66. They were fiberglass attractions that families stopped to take pictures with. They drew in customers for businesses and quickly became trademarks of the road. Johnny B. Goode is playing on the radio, Paul and my dad and are drumming the dashboard and playing the air guitar, while I tap my foot to the beat; it’s hard not to when it comes to Chuck Berry.
I’m staring at my computer, figuring out how to write about using wine as a way to soften your skin—thank you Teri Hatcher—when a text message pops up on my phone. I look down to see a number I don’t know.
Opening my phone, I read it.
Is it weird that I think you look hot in that shirt when your dad and brother are wearing the same one?
I smile at the text message, realizing it’s from Porter. Without looking at him, I save his number to my phone and then text back.
Marley: Yeah, it’s like you want to do my dad or something. Didn’t know you were into burly men.
He texts back instantaneously. I glance a look over at him before reading it. He’s slouched in his chair and holding his phone low on his lap with both hands, waiting for me to write back.
Porter: It’s my weakness. A good beard and root beer belly gets me every time. Don’t tell anyone.
Marley: Your secret is safe with me.
Porter: You know, when I’m not trolling the streets for husky men in cargo pants full of packs of spearmint gum, I do have an eye for beautiful brunettes with blue eyes that eat you alive with one glance.
Marley: Are you flirting with me?
Porter: Is it working?
Marley: Nah, I’m not that easy.
Porter: I beg to differ.
“Hey,” I say out loud before clamping my hand over my mouth.
“Yeah, Buttons?” My dad turns down the music and Paul turns around. Porter sits to the side laughing, his shoulders moving up and down.
“Uhh, I thought I saw a deer.”
“Have you lived that long in Los Angeles that you get excited about seeing deer? You know you grew up in upstate New York, right?” Paul asks.
“I guess I’m just so used to seeing over-highlighted surfer boys stuck in the palm leaves eating In-N-Out burgers back home.”
That’s so not true, but I don’t know what else to say.
“Okay…”
They turn the music back up and I look down at my phone to see another text message from Porter.
Porter: Over-highlighted surfer boys in palm trees eating In-N-Out burgers? I can see them hanging out in palm trees, but not so sure about the burger part, unless…are they animal style? I can totally see that then.
Quick note, for those of you who have never been to In-N-Out, first of all, put it on your bucket list; secondly, they have a secret menu. Search it on the internet. They act like they don’t have a secret menu, but they are a bunch of liars! They do. In-N-Out has a secret menu and on that secret menu is a special little thing called Animal Style; it’s a way to dress your burger and fries. If you ask for a double double animal style, you’re looking to receive a double patty burger, mustard-fried, drenched in their secret sauce and grilled onions, along with tomato, lettuce, two slices of cheese, and pickles. One of the best things you will ever put in your mouth.
Marley: Pretty sure they were animal style.
Porter: Then that totally makes sense. Tell me, Marbles, what are you working on over there?
Marley: Blog entry. Teri Hatcher claims that wine softens your skin if you take a bath with it. You just add a little to your water. I haven’t tried it yet, but I will when I’m back home.
Porter: Wouldn’t mind assisting with that project. I’m really good at holding naked women in bathtubs.
Marley: Oh, really? Do that often?
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him cringe.
Porter: Kind of put my foot in my mouth on that one. No, I’ve actually never taken a bath with a woman.
Marley: That surprises me. You seem like the kind of guy who would be really experienced in that area.
Porter: You would be really surprised to know that I have very little experience. I’ve only been with a total of three women, including you.
I read his text probably five times before I can clear my head. Porter’s only been with two other women? How is that possible? I don’t even want him to know the amount of men I’ve slept with then…hell!
Porter: Don’t believe me?
Flabbergasted, I text him back.
Marley: Umm…I just never expected that from you.
Porter: Never been into the sleeping around thing. I like sex and I like relationships; I usually only put the two and two together.
That little tidbit makes my heartstrings soar and sing odes of romance to the heavens above. He only fools around with people he is in a relationship with. That boosts my spirits of what might happen to us when the road trip is over. Will he try to make this work between us?
Marley: That’s very commendable of you.
Porter: How many men have you been with?
Crap! What man wants to know that? My palms instantly start to sweat as I think about what to say to him. There is no way I want to tell him my number when he’s only been with two other women.
Marley: Don’t you know never to ask a woman about her number? It’s not very polite, Porter.
Porter: I don’t mind being rude on occasion. Come on, tell me.
Mmm…I want to stomp my foot like a three-year-old boy who just got his construction truck taken away from him for ramming into his mom’s shin. This is a conversation I don’t want to have, but from the
look on Porter’s face, he’s not going to let this go, so I succumb.
Marley: Fine, two men.
Yup, I lied and I don’t feel bad about it one bit.
Porter: You are such a liar. Try again, baby.
Damn him!
Marley: I hate you. Ten men, including you, are you happy?
I see Porter look up at me as he mouths “Ten?” with an amused grin. Without thinking, I flip him off and he chuckles, typing out another text.
Porter: Wow, didn’t know you were such a hussy. Since I was lucky number ten, you have to answer me one thing.
Marley: Why does being number ten entitle you to ask me a question?
Porter: It’s the way the world works. So, answer me this, who’s the best you’ve ever had?
Marley: You’re such a man.
Porter: Thank you. Now answer my question.
Marley: You really want to know? Okay, it was Brandon in college. He had a dong the size of Paul Bunyun’s wiener. One night with him can last a girl a lifetime. Twenty orgasms in one night, a Guinness record for sure.
Porter: Actually, according to your brother and the Guinness book of World Records, a woman had sixteen orgasms in one hour, times that by eight and that surpasses your twenty. Doesn’t seem like he’s all that good after all.
Marley: You’re annoying, you know that?
Porter: I’ve actually been told I’m a delight to be around.
“Hey, let’s play the whistle game,” my dad says, turning down the radio. “We haven’t played all trip.”
The whistle game. It’s a blood bath of a sport, the reason why Paul received his first black eye and the one and only game our mom restricted us from playing. Feelings get hurt, insults are thrown and arm hairs are at risk from being ripped out. It’s not safe, but it’s the most entertaining game you will ever play with your siblings.
“But Mom banned the whistle game from all road trips after Marley banged my head against the table and draped an empty bag of Funyuns over my face.”
“You tried to cover my mouth so I couldn’t answer, and after the fourth time of licking your sweaty boy hand, I had to take action.”
“I only covered your mouth because you kept kicking my shin with your butchy steel-toed boots you used to wear everywhere.”
“Don’t knock my boots. I only wore them so I could kick you hard enough so you would remember your mistakes.”
It’s true; I used to kick Paul a lot, especially in the balls. If he’s unable to have kids with Savannah, he can legitimately blame me. As a little sister, watching your brother buckle over in pain from getting hit in the crotch is just too precious. I promise, he deserved every blow to the nuts. You should know Paul by now, tell me he hasn’t deserved a couple of blows to the pebbles a few times during this trip, if anything just to remind him of the fact that he is a man.
“There will be no kicking; this will just be a friendly competition where everyone wins.”
“No way,” Paul shakes his head. “If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right. Marley, grab the blue whale gummies. We’re playing for congealed fructose sugar.”
“You’re on!” I go to the kitchen cabinets and grab the gummies, while Paul takes the seat next to mine on the bench. He plays with my phone while he waits for me and fear takes over me as he looks at it. “Don’t touch my things.” I smack his forehead with a “bop” and take my phone away.
Instantly, Paul grabs his forehead and says, “Hey, we haven’t even started yet.”
“Well, let this be a reminder of what I’m capable of; don’t mess with me.”
I close my computer and push it to the side. I take a seat next to Paul and pour out the gummies.
“We’ll each start with ten. Whoever doesn’t guess the song correctly has to give a gummy to the opponent. If you guess correctly, you get your opponent’s gummy and one of your own from the pile. First to thirty whales wins.”
“Uh, am I a part of this game?” Porter asks from the side. He turns his hat backwards on his head and leans forward. “I’m pretty confident in my ability to take you both out.”
Paul and I look at each other and then bust out in laughter. “Okay, Porter, sure, you can play,” I say monotone. I give him some whales as well and change up the rules. “If you guess correctly, you can pick whose gummy you will take and you can take one from the pile. Let’s see who wins.”
“How are we going to guess the song?” Porter asks.
“Oh, forgot that part. Dad is going to whistle a song, first one to shout out the title wins the round. Dad, are we going for the singer’s name as well?”
“I think we’ll just stick with titles, since we haven’t played in a while.”
My phone vibrates in my hand, and before we start the game, I look at it real quick to see a text message from Porter.
Porter: Sorry to say, but you’re going down, baby. Loser has to give the winner a lap dance. You in?
My heart flips in my chest and I refrain from giggling out loud, knowing I would draw attention from Paul, who is way too nosy right now.
Marley: I’m in. Don’t get too cocky. I’m amazing at this game.
Porter: We’ll see.
“Okay Dad, we’re ready,” I call out.
Taking the term wet your whistle to heart, my dad grabs his drink and swishes around some water before swallowing it—eck, gross, I know—and then he clears his throat.
“Did you assign sounds?”
“Oh, yeah. Paul what sound do you want?”
Paul taps his chin with his finger as he thinks. “I’ll take cow.”
Rolling my eyes, since he always picks cow, I say, “Cow as in a female whale or cow as in an actual cow? Two very distinct, yet different noises.” I hate that I remember Paul’s tirade about female whales and how they are called cows. It’s annoying but his facts stick with you.
“Good call,” Paul replies and clarifies. “Cow as in an actual cow.”
“Then I will take duck. Porter what about you?”
His face is the perfect combination of confusion and kissable as he tries to understand what I’m talking about. “Can you repeat that?”
“You’re supposed to choose an animal sound to make when you know the answer my dad is whistling. That way he knows to call on you. We’re not Jeopardy here, we can’t quite afford buzzers.”
“So, you resort to farm animals?”
I shrug my shoulders. “It works. I promise.”
“Okay, I guess I will be oinking to get your dad’s attention.”
Dad clears his throat and says. “Wise choice, Porter, but just make sure you don’t hog all of the attention.”
In unison, we all groan from the horrible pun.
“You made it all the way to Illinois without saying a pun, you couldn’t have waited a little longer?” Paul asks.
Dad is notorious for telling puns. For some reason, the McMann family tree is a producer of pun tellers. Luckily, Paul and I haven’t explored the vile gene yet, but I’m sure once we hit our thirties it will kick in.
“Oh, relax, Paul, and have some swine,” Porter adds, making my dad practically bust a gut from laughter.
“Have some swine, oh, that’s a good one.” My dad wipes under his eyes, clearing his ‘tears.’ “I need to remember to keep that one in my vault. That’s just good farm humor.”
“Can we move on?” I ask, and then turn to Porter. “Don’t encourage him; he’s bad enough as it is with the puns.”
Porter’s response: a wink and a smile with that dimple of his.
Turn away, Marley, turn away. He’s only trying to distract you.
Listening to my rationale, I turn away and focus on my gummies. It’s game time.
“Round one. Moo, quack, or oink if you have the answer.” Silence falls over the RV, the wheels spinning over the road is the only noise echoing through the cabin. My dad starts whistling…
“Quack, Quack, Quack,” I shout, pounding the table with my hand.
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“Marley, name that tune.”
“I Will Always Love You!!”
My dad pauses for dramatic effect before saying, “You’re correct!”
Fist pumping the air, I turn to Porter and ask him for a gummy. He points at his chest and tries to act all cute, but I don’t buy it. I grab his gummy and then one from the bag.
The next song is up.
“Moo. Moo.” Paul hops up and down in his seat just as I quack.
“Pauly, name that song.”
“Witchy Woman.”
Another long pause. “That is correct.”
“Don’t mess with me; I know songs.” Paul looks at me and asks for a gummy. I roll my eyes and toss one at him as he grabs one from the bag.
“You going to play too? Or are you just going to sit there and look pretty?” Paul asks Porter.
The cocky bastard relaxes in his seat and spreads his legs, a position only a man of his stature could pull off. “Just observing; don’t worry. I got this.”
The next two songs, Paul and I battle over, Porter occasionally oinking, but never really participating or getting any right.
“Why are we going after each other?” I ask Paul. “We should be going after Porter.”
Our heads snap to Porter, who is eating one of his gummies. EATING IT! Is he crazy? Gummies are valuable possessions you shouldn’t mess with until after the game.