by Jeff Zentner
“If I get big, I’m going to use all of my money to arrange improbable animal encounters.”
“Like…”
“Baby elephant meets baby dolphin. Chimp feeds bottle to baby sloth. Baby kangaroo and baby hippo take nap cuddled on pile of straw. Et cetera, et cetera.”
“I went to a state fair once where they had monkeys dressed as cowboys riding dogs like horses,” Trish says casually, like it’s a normal thing to have witnessed.
“Get. Out.”
“Swear.”
“Well, that goes on the list.”
“Trust me when I tell you that you haven’t lived until you’ve eaten a fried Snickers bar on a stick while watching monkeys in tiny cowboy hats race around a track riding dogs.”
I feign offense. “You’re telling me I would love eating a fried candy bar while watching cowboy monkeys ride dogs? Literally, that is my personal brand.”
I don’t have many heroes, but Trish is one of them. She started a comic-book shop in Jackson, Tennessee, that has not only survived, but has done well enough to employ me and another guy. There’s something inspiring about people who stay in just-okay (or even not-okay) places and build things that make those places better.
I pick up a volume of Harrow County and read for a few minutes, until Josie appears at the glass front door, Lawson watching protectively behind her in his truck to make sure she gets in. I hurry over and unlock the door and open it, waving at Lawson, who waves back and drives away.
“Hey,” Josie says.
“Hey,” I say.
Trish nods in Josie’s direction and wipes her mouth.
“I need you to weigh in on baked potatoes,” I say to Josie.
She shrugs. “Love ’em.”
Trish hee-haws like a victorious donkey.
“Traitor,” I say.
“What? Put cheese and sour cream on it? Delicious.”
“Thank you,” Trish says.
“Answer me this, both of you: if baked potatoes are so great, why did humanity ever advance past them?” I say.
“Huh?” Josie says.
“I assume the baked potato was the first way potatoes were ever made. Why keep going past that to fries and mashed potatoes and hash browns and potato chips? If baked potatoes are so good?”
Trish and Josie erupt, talking simultaneously, their words blending together in an unintelligible cacophony. “Sorta like, ‘We have this perfectly good Earth to stand on, why send astronauts to the moon?’ ” Josie says, breaking through the outraged clamor.
“Humanity has a restless spirit of exploration,” Trish says. “We always seek something better.”
“Maybe we should hash this out on this week’s show,” Josie says, winking.
Trish and I groan loudly. “And on that sour note,” I say, “we’re gonna jet.” We walk out to Mom’s and my battered yellow Ford Focus. Josie brushes some chip crumbs off the passenger seat and gets in.
“How was your day?” I ask.
“Slept in until eleven. Applied for a couple server jobs.”
“Ugh. Where?”
“Cheddar’s. Logan’s Roadhouse.”
“Worst.”
“Seriously.”
“What were you and Law-dogg doing? Besides tons of smooching, of course.”
“Went to Books-A-Million, got his new G. M. Pennington book.” Josie suddenly seems nervous. She brushes her hair back and looks at her feet. “Hey, so…while Lawson and I were at the bookstore, I maybe…invited him to come with us to Orlando?”
I start churning inside, like when you’re stirring a big bowl of something but suddenly change direction. My first impulse is to anger and jealousy, that she would invite along Lawson—who I can’t compete with in certain areas—to be our third wheel, especially without asking me first.
But then another thought: If Lawson comes, your biggest excuse for not going to visit your dad—not wanting to leave Josie on her own—is gone. A thin film of sweat rises on my forehead as I turn it over in my mind, trying to decide if the out is even something I want.
“DeeDee? Say something. We good? I can disinvite him.”
I hear in her voice that she doesn’t want to disinvite him.
“No,” I say softly. “It’s cool.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Totally? Because—”
“Totally. Don’t worry about it.” Adrenaline is splashing around inside my chest, burning like acid where it lands. I have a nervous-twitchy-lower-intestine feeling.
“He’ll be a good bodyguard if we run into creepers at the con. And we can make him carry our bags and stuff.”
I nod.
“Plus,” Josie continues, “he really is fun to be around.”
We drive for a bit in silence. Finally, I say, “This trip is starting to feel like Frodo taking the Ring to Mount Doom.”
“In that—”
“A lot is riding on it, you know? Feels like our destiny.”
“Like the universe wants us to do it.”
“Exactly.”
“What if we make something huge happen?”
“We might make it so that this is our job. Hanging out together. While people go and become accountants and stuff.”
“Imagine us in a TV interview, telling how we got our start. This is gonna make such a good story.”
“I’m so glad I have you,” I say, the anxiety over whether to go see my dad softening into a far more welcome buoyancy. “I could never have done this show without you. What are the odds of us finding each other in Jackson, Tennessee, and making such a good team?”
Josie shakes her head. “It’s amazing.” But she suddenly seems to have taken a dip of her own, troubled in the way I just was. As if we swapped places.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She shakes her head again and smiles wanly.
“Can you believe what we’ve made together? We built a TV show. That people in other cities watch.”
“I never imagined I’d already be on TV by the time I was in high school. This has been my dream since I was old enough to remember.”
“I mean, this is how people get their start in the entertainment business, right? You get a lucky break.”
I’m getting so excited and sidetracked thinking about it, I have to slam on the brakes to avoid running a red light.
“Oof, DeeDee.”
“Sorry.”
“You are the squirrelliest driver.”
“I said sorry! So are you and Lawson going to make out in front of me the whole way down to Orlando?”
“What? No.”
“He has no idea what he’s getting into, being trapped in a car for twelve hours with the two of us.”
“Is that how long the drive is?”
“Yep.”
“Whoa.”
“I know. We need to start working up playlists.”
“Poor Lawson. This is gonna be the test of our new relationship.”
“If it survives this, I guess you’re meant to be.” And please be meant to be. Please be one more stake in the ground that ties Josie here.
I wonder a lot if I’ve made a mistake by letting myself need Josie so much. Life would be so much simpler if we didn’t allow ourselves to need anybody. We wouldn’t go through this world so easy to wound, our hearts beneath some paper-thin layer of skin.
The light turns green, and I go.
“So you heard back from Divine’s assistant?” Josie asks.
“Yep.”
“When are we meeting him?”
“Saturday afternoon around lunch.”
“We’re gonna be so tired by then.”
“Exhausted.”
We sit for a moment in our blossoming jubilation.
�
��This could happen,” Josie says. “This could make us big.”
“I know.”
“Like this could determine the entire course of our adult lives.”
“I know.”
“If we get big, I’m going to be really smart about money. I won’t be one of those celebrities who you hear about going broke.”
“If we get big, I wanna pay off my dad’s house. Make him feel super guilty.” I say it out my window, almost to myself.
“That would be the most amazing burn ever in the history of mankind,” Josie says.
“But the catch would be that he has to paint a mural across the entire front of it that has me as this benevolent queen.”
We laugh and laugh. It’s not all that funny, but that doesn’t matter. We like the sound of our laughing in harmony.
“We’re the worst,” I say, sighing through another peal of giggles.
“The absolute worst.”
“If we blow up, we should buy mansions right next door to each other.”
“With a tunnel connecting them that you get to by pushing aside a grandfather clock or a suit of armor.”
“So basically one huge mansion.”
“More or less.”
“And a big movie theater behind our houses where we screen our movies,” I say.
“Better yet! We just park you and your mom’s trailer behind our houses, and we’ll screen our movies there like the old days. To keep it real.”
I clap quickly, making the car swerve, and squeal. “And even though we could walk over to each other’s mansions through the tunnel, we should still text a lot, for old times’ sake.”
We sigh in unison. Envisioning this life gives me so much pleasure, it’s terrifying, thinking about how much it’ll hurt if it doesn’t come about.
“That’s a wrap,” Arliss calls. “Another completed masterpiece. Another piece of my legacy to the world. Another couple of hours closer to death.”
“Let’s go!” Delia yells. We race off the set to the restroom and frantically scour off our spackled-on vampire makeup, then jump out of our Rayne and Delilah costumes into long-road-trip clothes. We fold the costumes neatly. The plan is to possibly wear them at the con, depending on how we feel.
We hurry out. “Go!” I call to Lawson, who’s still picking up random board splinters. “Get changed!”
“Okay! Damn!” Lawson grabs his bundle of clothing from a chair and rushes into the bathroom.
Arliss winds up a cord. “Why y’all acting like you got burning spiders in your panties?”
“Remember that con we got invited to?” Delia says.
Arliss grunts and shrugs.
“ShiverCon? You’re the one who gave us the invite.”
Grunt and shrug.
Delia rolls her eyes. “Anyway, we’re going to ShiverCon and meeting Jack Divine to talk about the show’s future.”
“Is there a possibility this will lead to my getting fired?” Arliss asks.
“I mean…maybe?” I say.
Arliss nods and picks up the end of another stray cord. “In that case, good luck. Where is this thing?”
“Orlando,” Delia says.
“Y’all are leaving here and driving to Orlando, Florida,” Arliss says.
“That’s why we’re in a hurry,” I say.
“That’s a twelve-hour drive. Have y’all lost your damn minds?”
“Lost our damn minds like a fox,” I say.
“How’d you know that distance off the top of your head?” Delia asks.
“Toured with a band for enough years that I can tell you the driving distance between any two cities in America. Also did it long enough to know that people stay falling asleep at the wheel, so you two goofballs be careful.”
“Aw, Arliss! You don’t want us to die!” I say. “Delia! Arliss cares if we live or die!”
“Don’t get carried away. Why didn’t y’all leave sooner?”
“Because we know you set your work schedule around the show,” I say, “and we both thought the other one had told you about our trip, and we figured if we told you too late to change it, you’d be pissed and/or possibly try to murder us.”
Arliss looks off, thinking. “You’re right. But if y’all die in a car wreck on some godforsaken sixteen-lane highway in Florida, I’ll eat a bunch of asparagus, dig you up, and then piss on your corpses. If there’s anything left after the gators have had their way.”
“I’m gonna cry,” Delia says. “It feels good to be loved.”
Arliss isn’t done. “Don’t drink any of that Five-Hour Energy snake oil or anything else invented by the Nazis and now sold in little plastic vials at truck stop counters along the great American highway. It’ll all give you a stroke.”
“Okay,” I say.
Arliss catches my eyes and points for emphasis. “Good honest coffee.”
“What about lying coffee?” I’m pushing my luck here, and I know it.
“Don’t sassmouth. And take turns driving.” Arliss nods in the direction of the bathroom. “Make Jean-Claude Van Damme carry his weight.”
“Oh, we will.”
“And speaking of, you said y’all are meeting with showbiz types down there?”
“Right.”
“Keep Jean-Claude with you for every meeting with those guys. They think they can do anything. I’d like to see them get kicked in the head if they try. I don’t want any Hollywood creeps messing with you two.”
“Okay.” I’m genuinely moved a little bit. Arliss probably comes across as a cranky loser to someone who doesn’t know him. And certainly neither of us knows him well. But I’ve always sensed a world-weariness in him that makes it seem like his advice has come at the cost of hard experience, so it’s more valuable.
Lawson leaves the restroom at a sprint. “I’m ready. Let’s roll.”
Arliss opens the back door for us. “Y’all be safe.” He sounds almost paternal. Or maybe like a prison guard wishing a long-time inmate farewell. “Remember that Florida is a land of weirdos and bizarre happenings, and conduct yourselves accordingly.”
•••
Hour One
I’ve gotten my car somewhat less looking like a troop of baboons makes its home there. But still, with three people in it and all of our luggage, it’s cramped.
“You can have shotgun,” Lawson says to Delia.
“I mean, obviously,” Delia says, getting in.
Lawson folds himself into the back seat. He’s about six feet tall, so it’ll be a long ride for him. Fortunately, he loves pain and suffering.
“Get some music going,” I say.
Delia plugs in her phone. “Okay, first up, I have this playlist Jesmyn made us. It’s like ninety percent Dearly songs.”
“Who’s Dearly?” Lawson asks.
“Listen and learn,” I say, setting my phone’s GPS for the convention center in Orlando. I put my car in gear, and we start to drive. “He’s from some hick town here in Tennessee, so he should be right up your alley.”
“If we run out of stuff to listen to, I have a bunch of music on my phone,” Lawson says.
“Wait,” I say. “Like Lawson-trying-to-impress-me music or Lawson-left-to-his-own-devices music?”
“The second one. Probably. I think.”
“Dude, we are not listening to Carrie Underwood.”
“Not Carrie Underwood.”
“Or Dierks Bentley or Kenny Chesney or—”
“Groat Scroggins or…Pam…Weenus,” Delia says.
“I’ve never heard of Groat Scroggins or Pam Weenus,” Lawson says.
“Because I made them up. You get the point.”
“The point is that at no point in this trip will we be listening to any music that sounds like someone hollerin’ int
o a pair of jean shorts,” I say.
“We will not be listening to any music that sounds like someone walking angrily down the street in flip-flops, holding a cigarette between their lips with their hands free, sir,” Delia says.
“We will, at no time, be listening to any music that sounds like a sentient John Deere hat trying to have sex with a duck call, sir,” I say.
“In no way, shape, or form will we be listening to any music that sounds like going barefoot into a Walmart to buy a new pair of panties because a possum made off with your last clean pair, sir.”
Lawson claps his hands over his ears in good-natured exasperation and surrender. “Okay, okay, okay!”
Delia and I cackle.
“Have you noticed that if you switch the first letters of every country singer’s first and last name, you end up with an amazing Star Wars name?” I ask. “Like, Slake Bhelton. Prad Baisley.”
“Barth Grooks.”
“Rhomas Thett.”
“Belsea Kallerini.”
“Are you two sure you aren’t sisters?” Lawson asks.
“No,” we say simultaneously, giggling.
Lawson facepalms. “Lord almighty, what have I signed up for?”
“You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, going on a road trip with us,” Delia says. “Hope you like Beyoncé songs.”
“And gas station nachos,” I add.
“And stopping to pee a lot,” Delia says.
We talk as though we’re seasoned road-trippers. In truth, Delia and I went to Memphis once for a concert and Nashville once to go shopping. I’ve driven to Atlanta to visit my aunt. That’s the extent of it.
“That’s all right,” Lawson says. “I won’t regret coming.”
I glance in the rearview mirror and catch his eyes. He gives me a little smile that tells me he isn’t lying about no regrets. I give him one back, and a glowing rush passes through me.
Hour Two
The sun dips completely below the horizon, leaving the sky a lavender gray, and we roll down our windows and let the magnolia-blossom-and-warm-asphalt-scented wind buffet our hair around our faces, making our eyes water and forcing us to yell to hear each other over the road noise and the music we’ve turned up. It’s uncomfortable in the best way.