Hit the Road, Manny

by Christian Burch

  6Keep on Trucking

  The morning that we were scheduled to leave on our road trip, Uncle Max came over. He was going to feed our dog, Housman, and stay at the house while we were away. He couldn’t come with us because he was having a showing of his paintings at a gallery at the end of the summer and needed to get some painting done. He said the manny distracts him. The manny distracts me when I’m trying to do my homework by doing handstands.

  This is Uncle Max’s first official show in a gallery, and he wants the paintings to be perfect. He showed one to me. It was a family around a dinner table. It reminded me of last Thanksgiving, when we had dinner around the dining-room table. When nobody was looking, Belly grabbed Dad’s glass of wine and drank it in one big gulp. She thought it was grape juice. There wasn’t very much in the glass, but she still talked like a drunk Teletubby for the rest of the afternoon.

  She kept saying, “Her loves you, DecapiTina,” except it sounded like, “Her lubyu D’captain-a.” Mom told us not to tell that story to other people.

  Mom had packed an ice chest full of water bottles, juice boxes, grapes, and string cheese. She put it under the table in the RV so we could snack on the road. It’s a family trait that we all get cranky when we get hungry. Mom calls it “low-blow sugar.” I think it means that you haven’t had enough sugar, so you start saying mean things to each other.

  We had so much luggage that it wouldn’t all fit in the storage closet. We had to pack the rest in the bathroom and jam the door shut. Dad said we needed to not use the bathroom unless it was an emergency, because it would be a pain to unpack all the time.

  Lulu sat in the seat she had called a few days before and refused to get up and help pack the RV. She was worried that someone (the manny) would steal her spot. She didn’t even get up to go to the bathroom when Dad yelled, “Last call. Use the restroom in the house before we start motoring down the highway. Over.”

  Dad had started talking in trucker lingo after he had picked up the RV. He kept saying things like “Keep on trucking” and “Over” whenever he was done saying what he was saying.

  Uncle Max hugged all of us good-bye. When he hugged me, he said, “Keats, please send me a postcard from all the places that you visit…and put interesting facts on them! I yearn to learn!” Then he laughed.

  I nodded and remembered the coconut that the manny had sent in my school lunch last year. He had written BE INTERESTING on it in Sharpie, and I kept it on my dresser. I bet we will visit a lot of interesting places, like the world’s biggest ball of yarn or a Krispy Kreme, where they make the doughnuts on a conveyor belt.

  Uncle Max stood up from me and gave the manny a hug. The manny kissed Uncle Max good-bye. It was really dramatic, like they were on Days of Our Lives and they were saying good-bye forever.

  “Not in the driveway,” screeched Lulu. “That’s so inappropriate.”

  Lulu uses the word “inappropriate” a lot. Usually when Belly jumps on the trampoline without pants on or when the manny tells Belly to pull up her pants because “Crack is whack!”

  “Be good,” Uncle Max said to the manny. “No teasing the children.”

  Just then the manny pulled Lulu out of her chair and dropped her on the floor and sat in her “saved” seat.

  “Noooo!” Lulu squealed so loudly that Mom looked back from the front seat.

  The manny jumped out of the seat and said, “Yessss, Lulu, you have to put your seat belt on, we’re getting ready to leave, and it’s the law.”

  Lulu gasped. She doesn’t like to be accused of a being a lawbreaker. She called the manny a troglodyte. India told me that a troglodyte is like a caveman. The manny does have hair on his knuckles like a caveman, but I don’t think he would ever wear a shirt with only one shoulder strap. In fact, the manny doesn’t even wear tank tops. He says that armpits shouldn’t be on public display. Lulu thinks it’s funny that the manny considers tank tops bad taste but laughs when Uncle Max makes the toot noise with his hand in his armpit.

  We waved to Uncle Max as we began pulling out of the driveway. He had Housman in his arms and was making him wave his little paw. Dad honked the horn until we couldn’t see Uncle Max or Housman anymore. The manny looked a little sad, like the little boy at the end of E.T. when E.T.’s spaceship has come back for him.

  “He’ll be right here,” I said, and pointed at the manny’s heart just like they did in the movie. Except my finger didn’t light up.

  That’s when we heard Uncle Max yelling, “Wait, wait,” and saw him running up to the side of the RV. He was holding Belly in his arms. She had gone in to the bathroom, and in our excitement we loaded up and started on our trip without her. And we almost made it.

  “I guess you won’t be getting the Parents of the Year award this year either,” said India, and the manny started to laugh. The manny had said the same thing a few months ago when Belly burped really loudly during one of Mom’s friends’ wedding ceremony. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Belly hadn’t thundered in her foghorn voice, “OH MY GOSH! THAT WAS A BIG ONE!” and tried to high-five Dad like they do at home.

  After Dad had honked the RV horn, Mrs. Waycott, our neighbor across the street, came out on her front porch. She blocked the sun with her hand, squinted her eyes, and watched Uncle Max hand Belly inside the RV. Mrs. Waycott shook her head as if she was disgusted that anybody could actually forget their child. She was hanging up a new wind catcher. She makes them herself out of the same yarn that afghans are made of. This one was orange and blue. There must be fifty of them on her front porch. They blow in the wind and make her house look like a Mardi Gras parade float. Dad used to call her Crazy Waycott when he thought we weren’t listening. “Crazy Waycott’s got some hairdo today.” “Looks like Crazy Waycott adopted another cat.” “Crazy Waycott backed her Buick into her mailbox again.” He stopped calling her Crazy Waycott last March when he rode his bicycle by her with Belly in the baby seat and Belly yelled, “PRETTY HOUSE, CRAZY WAYCOTT,” and started waving.

  As Mom shrugged and smiled at Mrs. Waycott, the manny strapped Belly into her car seat and then kissed Uncle Max again. This one was on the forehead, so Lulu didn’t dry-heave.

  Dad honked the horn and said, “We’re back on track. Over.”

  “Please don’t talk like that anymore,” Mom said, flustered. Mrs. Waycott was still on her front porch making judgmental faces. That’s what India said.

  “That’s how we talk in the big rigs, babe,” he said to her. I’ve never heard him call Mom “babe” before. He usually calls her “sweetie” or “hot mama.”

  Mom stared at Dad without blinking just to let him know how much he was annoying her. Lulu stares at me that way when she wants me to stop singing “Hey Ya!” by OutKast. It’s usually when I get to the “Shake it like a Polaroid picture” part and start jerking like a short-circuited robot. Lulu raises her forehead as far as she can and stares at me without blinking. She thinks I stop because I’m scared, but really I stop because it’s hard to sing and count the wrinkles in her forehead at the same time. She looks like a shar-pei puppy.

  Mrs. Waycott went into her house as we left our driveway, probably to call all of her friends to let them know about the second-rate parents who live across the street. That’s what India said. Mom looked worried.

  Conduct Marks7

  The RV was filled with the excitement of a road trip. Belly was talking nonstop and telling stories about her friend Justin. They weren’t really stories because they didn’t have a beginning or an ending or a point. They were more like little facts. Like about how Justin eats turkey and cheese sandwiches without the crust. How Justin wears cowboy boots. How Justin wants to marry her when he grows up.

  Mom and Dad were in the front seats, and they both had smiles on their faces while they talked about the last time they had gone on a road trip. It was in Dad’s little green Mustang that he had in college. They drove to Florida for spring break, but Dad forgot to make hotel reservations and there were no more rooms ava
ilable anywhere. They ended up staying with Mom’s great-aunt Jill at her retirement community. Dad was hoping for a spring break full of girls in bikinis who needed help rubbing on their suntan lotion. Instead, Mom and Dad spent most of their time playing bingo and taking water aerobics classes. Mom says that’s where they fell in love.

  “It already felt like we had grown old together,” Dad added, reaching over and squeezing Mom on the back of the neck. India says it’s their secret way of saying “I love you” without having to say it in front of all of us.

  India smiled, thinking she was in on their secret, and then went back to reading the book that she had brought on the trip. It wasn’t a Summer Reading Program book like Lulu had brought. It was Glamour’s Big Book of Dos and Don’ts. It’s a big pink book that has fashion tips for women and pictures of people in clothes that say either “Glamour Do” or “Glamour Don’t” underneath them. The pictures that say “Glamour Don’t” underneath them have a black bar on the person’s face, but you can still tell who the famous ones with the bad outfits are.

  India read, “‘Glamour Do: Dress up a casual skirt with a sweater and a blazer. Glamour Don’t: Don’t let a cruel skirt give you muffin top.’” India pointed at the picture. It was a skirt that hung low on a woman’s waist, and there was back flab pushed out over the top like the top of a muffin. Mom calls her back flab “backfat.”

  “‘Glamour Do: Make a hippie skirt look modern with citified boots.’

  “‘Glamour Don’t: Don’t show your thong underwear over the top of your jeans.’”

  Lulu wasn’t really paying attention to India’s Glamour Dos and Glamour Don’ts. Lulu was pulling out her “supplies.” A roll of masking tape, a small piece of white poster board, and a set of Magic Markers.

  At the top of the poster board she wrote CONDUCT MARKS in big red letters.

  “What’s a conduct mark?” I asked the manny.

  “It’s a spot drawn on the ground so a band conductor knows right where to stand so he doesn’t accidentally poke someone with his baton,” he said.

  “It is not,” Lulu said in a teacherlike voice. “A conduct mark is a mark against somebody for bad behavior or for not being prepared.” Then she wrote all of our names in a column on the left side of the poster board. Belly’s name was first and in blue. Mine was next in green. Then the manny, India, Mom, and Dad. Lulu didn’t put her own name on the list. She took the masking tape and taped her new sign on the window next to her.

  “What’s that for?” India asked.

  Lulu answered without looking up. She was marking off a big square around her chair with the masking tape as her personal space not to be crossed. She does this at home, too. We’re not allowed to walk close to her room.

  Lulu said, “The only way to keep some kind of organization and order on this trip is to make a set of rules and enforce them. I’ll make them up as we go, and I’ll enforce them. If somebody’s conduct isn’t appropriate, they will get a conduct mark next to their name as a warning. With every five conduct marks there will be a punishment.”

  “What’s the punishment?” Mom asked without a second thought that Lulu would be in charge of the rules of our trip.

  “It’s different for each person,” said Lulu. “Like if Belly gets five, she’ll have to give up DecapiTina for a day.” Belly’s eyes got big, and she clutched on to DecapiTina’s body and kissed the stub of a neck where her head used to be. “And if the manny gets five, he will have to be silent for a day. It’s a punishment, so I’m choosing things that will really challenge you.”

  “It is hard for me to be quiet,” the manny agreed.

  “How come your name isn’t on the conduct mark list?” I asked.

  “Oh, I won’t get any conduct marks. You should probably model your behavior after mine,” Lulu said confidently.

  India rolled her eyes and laughed. Lulu drew a red hash mark next to her name and explained that it was for eye rolling. She turned and looked around, and I could tell she was thinking, Anybody else? The manny could tell that’s what she was thinking too. He straightened up his posture and put his hands nicely in his lap. Lulu pointed to his foot that was partially on the masking-tape boundary line that she had made. He moved it back into his own personal space and asked Belly if she wanted to sing Disney songs. Belly loves to sing Disney songs.

  “NO, THANK YOU,” Belly said, looking at Lulu. “HER DOESN’T WANT TO GET ANY CONDO MARKS.” Then she waved at Lulu and said, “HER LOVES YOU, LULU.”

  Lulu took out a smiley-face sticker from her backpack and put it next to Belly’s name.

  8Good-Bye, Yellow Brick Road

  We had been in the car for only a few hours when we passed a big sign that said VALPARAISO, INDIANA, BIRTHPLACE OF ORVILLE REDENBACHER. SEPTEMBER 6: POPCORN FESTIVAL. There was a big picture of Orville Redenbacher on the sign. It was the same picture that’s on his boxes of microwave popcorn. He had white curly hair and wore black glasses, suspenders, and a bow tie. India said that Orville Redenbacher is a Glamour Do because he found a look that worked for him and stuck with it. He’s famous for making popcorn and for being in his own television commercials. Like the guy in the hotel commercials who says, “We’ll leave the light on for you.” Or the guy in the chili commercials who says, “Roll that beautiful bean footage!” to his dog. I love that commercial.

  I rolled down the window to see if the town smelled like buttered popcorn, but all I could smell was the exhaust and cow poop from a big trailer being pulled ahead of us.

  “Ewww!” squealed India as she plugged her nose. Belly checked the bottoms of her shoes to see if she had stepped in anything. Lulu held a pillow over her head until the truck turned down a side road.

  A few miles later there was another big sign on the side of the road. This one had a picture of a yellow brick road with Dorothy and Toto on it. In big gold letters it said THE “WIZARD OF OZ” MUSEUM: THE STORE WHERE IT’S NEVER TOO LATE TO HAVE A HAPPY CHILDHOOD!

  I was getting ready to ask if we could stop, but the manny beat me to it. “Can we stop? Can we stop?” he begged, shaking his fists together in front of him like he was begging for mercy. He pretended to be overcome with emotion and added, “I’ll never ask for anything again. I promise!”

  Lulu shook her head and called it “a pathetic display of immaturity.” “Pathetic” is the word Lulu called me when I cried because my cowlick wouldn’t stay down on picture day at school last year. India said that I looked kind of like Donald Trump in my yearbook photo.

  “You mean rich?” I asked, but I knew what she meant.

  Dad pulled over in front of a building that had wooden cutouts of the Wizard of Oz characters stuck in the front lawn. There was Glinda the Good Witch, Dorothy, the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion, the Scarecrow, Munchkins, and even flying monkeys. The Wizard of Oz comes on television every year around Christmastime, and we always watch it. Mom sets up sleeping bags on the floor, makes popcorn, and turns out the lights. Up until a few years ago I used to leave the room when the flying monkeys came on because they scared me. But that was when I was little. Now I just hide my head under a pillow until that part is over.

  We raced from the RV through the wooden cutouts. The manny was the first one up the porch of the museum. There were speakers on both sides of the doors that were playing, “We’re off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz.” India said it was kind of freaky. I’m glad she said it first because I thought it was kind of spooky too. I looked back to make sure Mom and Dad were close by. They were coming up the sidewalk with their arms linked and were skip-dancing the same way Dorothy and her friends do down the yellow brick road in the movie.

  “Stop it right now!” yelled Lulu, looking up and down the street to see if there were any cars driving by. Mom and Dad did stop, but started again when Lulu wasn’t looking.

  The manny and Dad both reached into their front pockets for some money at the same time. There was a sign on the door that said it cost twenty-five cents per pe
rson to enter the museum. The manny put his hand on top of Dad’s arm to stop him from getting his wallet. He said, “I’ve got this one covered. You can get dinner,” and he pulled out two dollars from his silver money clip.

  The museum was one big room with Wizard of Oz cookie jars, Dorothy and Toto figurines, and flying monkeys hanging from the ceiling. Even though I’m not as scared of them anymore, I didn’t walk underneath them just in case there was an earthquake and they fell.

  At the back of the museum was a big red curtain over a blocked-off area.

  “Don’t go back there, hon!” said the lady who owned the museum when she saw me reaching for the curtain. I told Lulu that maybe the Wizard was back there with his big control panel, but when I peeked through the side of the curtain, all I saw were stacked-up chairs and old rusty bicycles.

  Lulu saw the storage room too and started singing, “If you only had a brain.”

  There was a video of The Wizard of Oz playing on an old wooden-framed television set. It was at the part where Dorothy had returned home and was pointing at her friends and saying, “And you were there, and you were there.” Belly watched it without blinking. When the movie was over, the museum woman walked over to the VCR and started it all over again. Belly took off her shoes and sat down in front of the television like it was our house. She even put her bare feet against the glass of the television set until Mom saw and made her stop. Our television at home always has Belly’s dirty footprints all over it.

  Dad asked the woman why she’d chosen Chesterton, Indiana, to have her museum.

  The woman walked from behind the counter, and I noticed that she had on ruby red slippers just like Dorothy’s. She also had two braids in her long gray hair. I’ve never seen somebody that old wear braids in her hair. Buns yes, but not braids.