by Meghan Quinn
“You’re not supposed to eat them!” Paul practically screams in horror.
Porter looks at the half eaten gummy in his hand and shrugs. “Eh, I feel pretty good about it.”
“Oh, you’re going down,” Paul declares. “He’s not taking this game seriously. Marley, it’s time to take the Smith out!”
“Agreed.”
Like the nerds we are, Paul and I shake hands and get ready for the next song, while Porter chuckles to himself.
“Ready?” The next song is whistled, and before Paul and I can even put the first two whistles together, Porter oinks.
“How can you possibly know what the song is?” Paul asks.
Without looking at us, Porter says, “Piano Man.”
Nodding, my dad shouts, “Correct!”
Flapping his arms on the table, Paul throws a fit. “How did you possibly even guess that? You’re cheating.”
“Because of your accusation, you can hand over a gummy, dill-weed.”
The man is full of cock, as in a cocky attitude, but he is also full of cock, a wonderfully delicious cock with muscles that ripple with each breath he takes while pulsing in and out of you.
“You okay over there, Marley? You seem to be panting.” Porter’s grin shows off his dimple and I have the urge to punch him right in the schnozz. Knowing my luck, I would only make him more attractive, giving him an imperfection that’s actually appealing.
“I’m fine,” I shift in my seat, waiting for the next song.
Do you remember as a kid sitting around in a circle on the magic carpet, looking up at your teacher to see what kind of song you are all going to sing together in unison, the anticipation is killer. Then, they bust out the miniature boom box—for those of you too young to know what a boom box is, it plays music from large speakers, like an iPod, but much, much bigger. Back then it had the same excitement meter as a TV being rolled into your classroom; you knew things were getting real when a TV or boom box appeared.
As you were sitting on the rug, wrestling around for a good spot and sitting on your knees—because back then, joints didn’t exist in your body—you wondered what song was going to play. Was it going to be BINGO? You wiped your hands on your pants in anticipation to start clapping out letters. Then, though, you wait, is it Itsy Bitsy Spider? You started flexing your fingers to make them more dexterous…like a spider.
But then you’re surprised by the song that’s been picked by the instructor, and you can’t help but let out your little child screams, because, yes, you guessed it. The teacher chose Old McDonald. It’s the one and only time you get to show off to your peers your barn animal noises your mom made you demonstrate to her friends while you were growing up, as if you were a trained seal, flapping its flippers waiting for a fish, but instead, you get laughs and pats to the head. No “Moo” is worth a pat on the head, especially when you get on all fours to make the noise just to impress your parents’ friends, but we won’t go there.
The jovial child sing-a-long blares through the speakers and you belt to your little heart’s content, E-I-E-I-Oing with your arms swinging from side to side and your head bouncing up and down in tune with the music.
Why am I bringing this up, you ask?
Because, our fun game of Name That Song has turned into a devastating blow-out from Porter.
All we hear over the whistles is an oink-oink here and an oink-oink there, here an oink, there an oink, everywhere a FREAKING oink oink.
Yeah, no other animals even had a chance at making an appearance. Not a moo, nor a measly little quack.
Paul and I sit at the table, looking at our pathetic piles of gummies. Porter cleaned house, reaching thirty faster than I’ve ever seen. He annihilated us and is now popping gummy whales in his mouth, basking in his victory.
Accepting his defeat, Paul hops out of his seat, grabbing his meager pile of gelatinous sugar and heads back to his passenger seat. “I don’t get it. Dad barely whistled and you knew the songs.”
“I told you, I know songs.” Porter chews, still smiling.
“I have to say that was some of the best guessing I’ve ever seen,” Dad points out. “At one point, I thought, how in the Herbert Hoover is he guessing these songs? You didn’t get one wrong. If we were on a game show revolving around whistling and song guessing, we would have just won ten million dollars.” Excitement rings through my dad’s voice.
“Dad, I don’t think game shows give out ten million dollars…ever,” I point out.
“Well, we would get endorsements, naturally. We would have to come up with a cool name, like a combination of our names. Like Berter…or Pornie!” my dad says in excitement.
“You realize you just said porn with an ‘e’ at the end. Might not be suitable for families.”
“You’re right, we need to work on this. Porter, you in?”
“Of course,” Porter laughs, shifting his foot and knocking a CD case into the aisle of the RV.
Before Porter can grab it, I snatch the case from the ground and look at the back. It’s a mixed CD Paul and I made when we were kids. Once dad got a device that converted the cassette radio into one that accepts CDs, Paul and I went crazy with mixed CDs. This was one of them.
“Paul, look at this CD.” I toss it to him. “I can’t tell you how many times we played that. We could start singing the next song before it even started. Dad, remember you used to get so sick of us playing it?”
My dad just smiles while Paul examines the case.
“Such a classic mix. We were daring back then, opening the CD with Whitney Houston belting out the lyrics to ‘I Will Always Love You’ and then we shocked the crowd with the Eagles singing ‘Witchy Woman’…” Paul stumbles and then looks at Dad. “These were all the songs you whistled, in order.”
“And Porter was the only one who picked up on it.” Dad laughs. “Honestly, you two. I really wonder if you’re my kids sometimes. How many times did you torture me with that CD? And you couldn’t recognize the order of the songs I was whistling. Porter deserves the win for you two being morons.”
Standing up, Porter stretches, showing off a little bit of his stomach and then he walks to the kitchen, where he grabs himself a water bottle. “It wasn’t too hard to pick up once I saw the first two songs. I just hoped you didn’t go out of order.”
“Never,” my dad says. “Not after living through multiple sleepless nights with that CD playing over and over in my head. I would never forget that order.”
“I demand a re-match!” Paul calls.
“Have fun, I’m going out on a win.” Porter walks back to his seat, and on his way, he nudges me with his hand. He grabs his phone from his pocket and shoots a quick text message to me.
Porter: The minute we get to New York, I will be cashing in on that lap dance. Don’t think I forgot.
Groaning, I grab my computer and go to the back of the RV, where I sit on my dad’s bed and text Porter back.
Marley: You’re such an arrogant ass.
Porter: And you’re a sore loser, but that’s okay; I like seeing you all fiery like this.
Marley: I hate you.
Porter: No, you don’t, and we both know that. Can’t wait to get you alone again, those spandex pants you have on are lethal. P.S. Didn’t anyone ever tell you spandex aren’t pants?
Marley: Fashion advice from the man who knows one textile and that’s it: plaid. I think I’ll pass.
Porter: Don’t hate on the plaid, baby. It’s what you like best. Don’t deny it.
Marley: You’re annoying.
Porter: And you’re adorable. Come sit on my lap and snuggle into my chest so I can smell the strawberry in your hair.
Marley: Are you looking for a death sentence from my brother and dad?
Porter: It would be worth it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
**PORTER**
This day has been torture, and I mean that in the nicest way possible, since we’ve been honoring Mama McMann, reminiscing on her quirks, her
famous dishes, and the way she used to yell at us to go wash our hands before supper.
When we haven’t been driving, we’ve been scoping out every roadside attraction, which normally I would be cool about, but Marley is purposefully torturing me with all her bending over and hair flips—not a Justin Bieber kind of hair flip circa 2010, more like a Pamela Anderson just got out of the water hair flip.
Thanks to Paul’s history lesson and Bernie’s fascination with space, we spent a good hour standing in front of the Gemini Giant. A fiberglass statue, just like Paul Bunyun, but the Gemini Giant was made to pay homage to the Gemini space program that started in 1961. Instead of a hotdog in his hands, he holds a rocket ship and is wearing a space helmet, which, in all honesty, looks more like a welding mask than anything. Standing at thirty feet tall, he was quite the marvel to look at…for like five minutes. An hour was a bit much, but then again, I know more about the Gemini Space Program now, which unfortunately, the way I see it, was just the Cinderella of the space program, setting up missions for Apollo to come into focus and land astronauts on the moon, but we won’t get into that.
Now, we are a mile out from Chicago, and all I can think about is getting lost in the city with Marley. I haven’t touched her since this morning; my lips haven’t caressed hers in hours, and I’m itching to do something about it.
I know what you’re thinking, what the hell are you doing, Porter? And honestly, I have no clue. I lost all sense of control back in Oklahoma. My stomach has been twisting in knots since I kissed her for the first time, not knowing what’s going to happen when we get to New York. I want to talk to her, ask her if this is just a fling for her, or if she’s serious about a relationship, but frankly, I’m terrified to hear her rejection.
Marley is a kind, sweet girl, but I destroyed her four years ago, I wouldn’t put it past her to do the same thing to me, especially if she wasn’t that interested in me. Sometimes I think she is, from the way she looks at me and the things she says, but there is an annoying feeling in the back of my mind, telling me she is not the same girl I grew up with.
And she isn’t. She’s proven that this trip. There are parts of that girl I see when she interacts with Paul, but the country girl I used to know who would own the county fair with her barrel racing and her prize winning pigs no longer exists. She’s concerned about her looks, about her materialistic items—ahem, mascara—and she isn’t as tough as she used to be. She’s softer, sweeter, a lot like her mom.
Would she actually want to be with me? How would it even work living three thousand miles apart? Is this just a fling for her?
Fuck, I feel sick. My heart is hammering against my chest from the mere thought of having to say good bye to her once we get back to New York.
I fell in love with my best friend’s little sister – there’s no denying it. I’ve loved her for years.
“Get out of the way, Abraham Lincoln!” Bernie shouts, while throwing his hands in the air at a minivan in front of him.
Bernie McMann and traffic don’t mix well together. Pretty sure he’s worked his way down from Barack Obama to Abraham Lincoln, shouting president’s names in order. Still, “Get the Barack Obama off my GW Bush” is my favorite. When Bernie is shouting out presidential names, you keep calm and don’t laugh, but with that one, I had to excuse myself to the beard clipping bathroom because I was laughing too damn hard.
“There’s a spot!” Paul shouts, just as the RV veers to the side and parks.
It’s a little past five, the sun is starting to work its way down, and the panic in Bernie is real; he wants to eat a hot dog in Grant Park while looking over Buckingham Fountain and Lake Michigan.
“Let’s move, people!” Bernie grabs the picture frame and bolts out of the car, right into Max’s Take Out, a hole in the wall kind of place that apparently makes some of the best Chicago Dogs in Central Chicago.
We file out of the RV, lock up, and meet Bernie in the small restaurant. The place is so small, our little clan takes up all the space. Bernie has already ordered for everyone, not messing around. Within minutes, our food is ready. We grab our drinks, our bags, and walk east toward Michigan Avenue.
Pretty sure Mama McMann was looking out for us when it came to a parking spot because not only is it right next to Max’s Take Out, but it is a short walk to Grant Park.
The city bustles around us, horns honking and cars taking up the pedestrian walkways, a far cry from Jamestown. Marley is in her element, not even looking when she crosses the road, whereas I’m a scared fawn learning to walk for the first time.
“Come on, slow poke,” Marley says, grabbing my arm and propelling me forward across Michigan Ave to Grant Park.
Trying to hide the squeal in my voice, I say, “Big cities don’t sit well with me.”
Marley glances at me for a second, a hint of disappointment in her eyes before she focuses back on the mission in front of us, getting to Buckingham Fountain.
Bernie is a beefy man with a bit of a root beer belly. He gets around slower than normal people, a little limp in his step from falling through a hay barn when he was a teenager, but when it comes to honoring his wife, I’ve never seen such pep in his step or shake in his hips as he power walks across Grant Park.
Buckingham Fountain is a gorgeous multi-level fountain with copper faded horses and a pool surrounding it. I’ve seen pictures, but being in its presence is indescribable. Since it’s fenced off from visitors, we stretch out on the ground, sitting to the side of the fountain so we can look out at Lake Michigan and the fountain at the same time.
Bernie passes around the hot dogs, licking his fingers each time mustard gets on them.
“Did you know Buckingham Fountain is one of the largest fountains in the world with a diameter of two-hundred and eighty feet?” Paul informs us. “You see those four sea horses, immersed and surrounding the pool of the fountain? They are supposed to represent the four states that surround Lake Michigan. Can anyone name those states?”
Marley holds up her hand and starts counting off on her fingers. “Let’s see, there’s Paul’s Pubes, Sandy Nips, Browned Butthole and, gosh, what is that last one…”
“Needle dick,” I aid her.
She snaps her finger at me and points. “That’s right, needle dick.”
“Wrong,” Paul states, clearly not insulted. “They are Indiana, Wisconsin, Illinois, and Michigan, but valiant effort at making yourself look like a turd basin.”
“Enough,” Bernie interrupts us all. “Marley and Porter, thank Paul for his timely facts about the fountain. They were very informative.”
Yup, Bernie is no longer in a joking mood right now. It happens when he wants to be serious. Recognizing the change in attitude, Marley and I both apologize and thank Paul, then wait for Bernie to speak.
He cups the picture frame and rubs his thumbs across it. His voice is heavy as he speaks. “This is it, Glory,” Bernie says, using Gloria McMann’s nickname. “We made it. We picked up our little Buttons in California, traveled across the Mother Road, a bucket list dream you once had, and we’ve made it to Chicago. We had our ups and downs, Paul thinking he burned his butt being one of them,” we all laugh softly, “and we were privileged to bring Porter along with us, your second son.”
My throat chokes up and I look down at my hot dog, trying to hold back the tears. Marley squeezes my shoulder, just like her mom used to do, and I’m brought back to a time in my life where the Smiths might have been chaotic in nature with alcohol abuse, but I was truly blessed with the McMann’s and Gloria’s open arms. From the moment she saw me, she welcomed me into her home, treated me as if I was hers, and taught me life lessons I craved from my parents but never received.
“This trip was to honor you and the traditions we shared. The games on the road, the yelling matches we would get in over directions, and the home cooked meals you prepared for us in a 1980s recreational vehicle are missed terribly. But, most importantly, we miss your smile, your laugh, and your never-ending n
urturing heart. We hope we did you right on this trip and honored you properly.”
Bernie holds up his hot dog, and we do the same. Clearing his throat, he says, “To Gloria, our guiding light, mama bear, and beautiful artist who made our days brighter, she is missed. We love you.”
In unison, we cheers our hot dogs and take a bite, looking out over Michigan Avenue, just like Mama McMann always planned. We don’t talk; we just observe and enjoy the company of one another. Memories flood me of the small brunette with a sparkly attitude. She never took Bernie’s crap and was the mama bear of the household. No one messed with her, including me.
“I can’t believe we are finally here in Chicago. It seems like yesterday we were taking our first vacation in Tacy. Remember when Mom bought flowers to make it feel homier and on the first stop, they flew off the counter and scattered across the floor? I think that was the first time I heard Dad scream like a girl,” Paul laughs.
Bernie defends himself. “I thought it was the back window smashing in. Your mother and her flowers.”
Marley sighs and rests her head on my shoulder, I quickly panic and glance around to see if Paul or Bernie notice. They either don’t see Marley resting on me or don’t care, because they don’t cause a scene, so I take the moment to soak her in, marveling in the way the breeze coming off Lake Michigan kicks up the strawberry scent in Marley’s hair.
“Mom always used to say if you have flowers in your life then you’re protected and loved. She told me to only date a man who cares enough to bring me flowers because every girl deserves the smell of spring mornings in her life.” Quickly, Marley wipes a tear away from her face and my heart breaks in half for her.
“She was right,” Bernie confirms. “She always had an idea of the kind of man you deserved. A man who brings you flowers is one of them.”