before I talk
so stupid.”
My voice squeaked
like chalk
on a board.
“You can’t afford
to blurt out words
like puke, rebuking
everybody who rubs
you the wrong way,”
Twig said.
I nodded,
my body heavy.
“Rule Number Four
of this most-hip road trip,”
whispered Twig.
“Always check out the judges
before a slam.”
Lesson 9
Always Check the Gas Tank Before Leaving
We checked out
of the Sleep Best Inn
and headed
for the rotten-egg-scented
parking lot.
“Laura, your car!”
shouted Twig.
Somebody had written
witless shit, scribbled
in dribbled soap on the doors:
FATTY’S ROAD TOURS, it said.
I just shook my head.
Some people needed
to get a life.
I noticed that a bunch of
hunched-over pre-teenyboppers
were cracking up,
cackling hysterically
until they practically rolled
on the ground.
“Yo,” I yelled.
“Sticks and stones
can break my bones,
but words will never
hurt me.”
I was lying.
I pried
my eyes wide,
trying to look
cruel, but it was bull,
because I knew
I looked like a fool.
Twig played it cool.
She waved like a
beauty queen,
like Miss Teen America—
a barracuda of coolness—
like she was riding in a
lime-green limousine,
or inside a fine convertible.
“Let’s make an excellent exit;
don’t hex it,”
she whispered,
and we drifted sexily
in the direction
of my 1969 Firebird,
ignoring the door words.
We threw our suitcases
into the backseat,
gleaming, beaming
screamingly fake smiles.
I stared straight ahead,
at the steeple of a Jersey church,
and pretended that God
was throwing rocks
at the jerks, giving them
what they deserved.
The nerve of some people
who call themselves human.
I was fuming
and started the car
by racing the accelerator.
We left
the Sleep Best Inn
of Tin Can
with a squeal of wheels,
leaving rubber
skid marks
in the parking lot.
I laughed fearlessly
at the sight of the weirdos
in my rearview mirror.
“Good-bye and good riddance!”
I said. “Hope we never meet again.”
Then Twig said,
“Where to next?”
“I don’t know.
Let’s just blow
this clown town
and hit the road.”
“Laura,” said Twig,
“I mean, Sister.
We can’t afford to
waste gas.
You know, we’re low
on cash.”
“Nah,” I said.
“Don’t fret.”
But just then,
with a sputter
and a mutter
and a flutter
of a cough,
the gas tank
of my poor old car
went empty,
which was exactly
the most embarrassing
exit we ever
could have made,
one-eighth
of a mile
from the Sleep Best Inn.
“But we just got gas yesterday,” Twig
complained.
“Only eight,” I said. “I put only eight
dollars in.”
“Oh, that’ll get us way far,” Twig said.
So Twig and I set our sights
on the Exxon station,
making a vacation
of walking a mile
down the highway,
gas cans in our hands,
leaving the laughing people behind.
Lesson 10
Never Let Your Best Friend Attack Your Sanity and Your Vanity
By the time
we came back,
Twig had gas
on her hands
and a bug
up her butt.
She wouldn’t speak
to me.
“This is ridiculous, Twig,”
I said,
and she put her hands
over her ears.
“Now your ears
just smell
like gasoline,
too, Miss Poo-Poo Mood,”
I said.
Twig started to hum.
It’s so dumb
when she does that.
She was humming
the “Star-Spangled Banner,”
mangling, strangling
the notes.
“I think it’s sacrilegious
to our country to hum
our national anthem
when you’re
Miss Temper Tantrum,”
I said to Twig.
She ignored me,
pouring the gas from
her can
into the tank
of the car.
“Ooo-kay, have it your way,”
I said.
Cars were honking
as they passed by,
but nobody even tried
to find out if we needed help
or anything like that.
There we were,
one fat, one skinny:
two chicks
with an out-of-gas
Firebird plopped
along the side
of the road
in Jersey.
Twig finished with the gas
and threw her can
into the trunk.
Then the punk
flopped into the
backseat,
propped up her feet,
and crossed her arms,
the Queen of Charms.
Not frazzled,
just slightly hassled,
I nozzled gas
into the tank, thankful
that I wasn’t
as cranky as Miss Skanky.
Then she went psycho,
and for some crazy reason
kicked the back of
my car seat.
“Get over it,” I hissed.
Now I was pissed.
Twig just missed
being hit by the gas can
when I tossed it
onto the back floor.
I started the car
and took off with a roar:
the chauffeur of a backseat loafer
with a bad attitude.
“It’s really rude
to sit in the back,
like I’m some kind
of taxicab hack.
You crack
me up, Twig.
Well, actually,
I’m not laughing.
I’m mad. This is bad.
Way sad. My best friend
on the planet
acts manic-depressive
on me, which isn’t
impressive to me.
What are you,
bipolar or something?
like your mom,
going through menopause.”
Twig snapped.
“Don’t talk about my mom!
At least she
doesn’t hit pigs
or get tickets
or throw bubble gum
at the butts
of lemon pie guys
who turn out
to be judges
who hold grudges.
She doesn’t do stuff
like get all huffy
just because
she needs a cup of coffee,
or needs to write some mean—
spirited poem about
the judge of the contest
she wants to win.
My mom doesn’t spin
her tires leaving parking lots,
like that’s going to get her
attention or a mention
in the newspaper or something.
My mom doesn’t run
out of gas like some dumbass.
She’s not a crazy lunatic
in a polyester vest,
thinking she’s the best
at everything she attempts.”
That did it.
Twig’s words
were the straws
that broke
the Sister’s back:
a personal attack
on my sanity
and my vanity
and my driving
and the jiving
of my words.
I was burning,
turning hotter
under the collar
as my heart
pounded harder
and harder.
I tried to
make my mind reason
with my temper, but it
didn’t work.
I slammed, rammed
on the brakes,
making the car
scream to a
way-too-sudden
neck-wrenching stop.
I hoped
there was
no cop.
I took a fast breath,
filling my chest
with the air
of regret
that you get
when your very best friend
rips your skin
with sentences
that’ll never mend anything.
I twisted
the friendship ring
off my finger,
remembering
how Twig had given
it to me
for Christmas
the year we met.
I still wet my bed,
when we met.
I was nine,
and Mom had
just died.
Twig was my favorite savior
that year.
Ever after,
we were glued at the hips:
two chicks indivisible.
Inseparable,
until now.
“Get out,” I said.
“If you don’t like
me, just get out of the car.
Walk. Hitchhike.
Buy a bike.
Go home to your mom,
who’s more perfect
than me, thanks to
the wonders of Botox
and cosmetic surgery.”
I held my breath,
hoping that she wouldn’t go.
But she did. Twig
flipped her hair
like she didn’t care
about anything but herself,
as if she had her own club
of people who
worshipped her,
and then she leaped
out of her seat
and through the door.
“Good-bye,” she said.
“Have a nice life.”
Then Twig reached in
and lifted her suitcase,
sifting her face
into a blank slate,
the colorless
shade of
squid-squishy
fish bait.
I almost hated her then:
my ex–best friend.
“Been nice knowing you,” she said.
“Most of the time.”
And then Twig climbed
up a little thicket on a hill
by the side of the road,
sticking her thumb
in the hick-thick air
and not looking back.
Tears streaming
down my cheeks,
I put the car in drive,
feeling less alive
than ever before in my life,
leaving my friend behind.
Lesson 11
Expect That Some Things Will Be Crappy
Five miles later,
I no longer hated her,
so I turned around
and found
Twig, still hitching,
her dumb thumb
in the air.
Weak with relief,
and frantic,
I screamed.
“Don’t you care
that you could get
yourself killed?
Get in the car,
you retard,
before some creepy
brainless maniac
keeps you forever
shivering, starving
in the batty attic
of some old house
in Jersey.”
Twig tried not to smile.
She bit her lip.
She threw out her hip,
and her fishnets were ripped.
She turned down her mouth.
She scowled,
but it didn’t wow me.
I knew
that she’d been crying.
Twig is no good at lying
to me,
even if she doesn’t say
a word.
“You’re a spaz,” she said.
“I can’t believe
that you’d leave
me by the side of a road
somewhere in Jersey.
What a jerk
you can be.”
Twig ran fast
and opened the door.
“But I like you anyway.
I’m really sorry for the
stuff I said. Still friends?”
Twig said.
I thought for a second,
just messing
with her head.
“I guess,” I relented
with a grin.
Twig got in.
“I’ll just forget
that this incident
happened. It was a bunch
of crap. It wasn’t my bad;
it wasn’t your bad.
Too much togetherness,
I guess.”
“Two poets on the road,” I said,
“can’t always be happy.
Sometimes things will be crappy.
But don’t get all sappy.
Let’s rap, and slap the map
northward. Let’s move forward.
The bad stuff is done.
Let’s move on:
Sister Slam, Twig,
and the Poetic
Motormouth Road Trip!
Let’s rip!”
“Where to next?” Twig asked.
We were two crazy
ladies like in that movie
Thelma and Louise.
We could go anywhere,
without a care, on a dare,
baring our souls to the world.
Do anything!
We could just fling
our arms
and embrace
the universe,
filling our purses
by writing verses
that would win
every slam in America.
“So, where do we go?”
I said.
“Let’s go where
all goo
d poets go! SoHo!”
“SoHo?” Twig said.
“Like in New York City?”
“Yep!” I said,
nodding my head.
“SoHo, where all poets go,
in the city that never sleeps.
The bustling Big Apple,
where we’ll cripple-crapple
all poet opponents!
We’ll be boho in SoHo.
Ho-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.
You’ll wear a neon-pink wig,
but still be Twig.
This’ll be big, Twig!
What a gig.
We’ll take a voyage
through the Village,
and pillage trash cans
of the best restaurants,
getting good eats for free.
It’ll be easy, you’ll see.”
“Whoopee,” said Twig,
but she didn’t sound
convinced, since her voice
sounded more like a
whoopee cushion than a cheer.
“Have no fear,” I said.
“We’ll be like
those old Beat poets.
You know:
the finger-snapping,
happenin’ dudes,
except we’re chicks,
from the sticks
of Banesville, Pennsylvania.
We’ll be famous.
We’ll have our pictures
on the front page
of the New York Times:
The Queens of Rhymes!”
“Give me time,” said Twig,
“to think about this.
How will we exist
without money?”
“Honey,” I replied,
my eyes on the highway,
“you just leave it to me.”
“You know,” said Twig,
“the living is big
in New York.
A pork sandwich or a Manwich
costs six bucks or so.”
“Don’t lecture,” I said.
“Don’t worry your furry head.
Just enjoy the trip.”
Snippy as a whip,
Twig snapped open a map.
“You’re full of crap,” she said.
“But let’s go. SoHo, here we come.”
And then, she started to hum.
Lesson 12
Don’t Look at Your Hair While Driving
Confused in Newark,
New Jersey,
blurry-eyed and tired,
I drove
over and over
in a cloverleaf
of jerky circles:
around and around
the airport area.
“We’re bound
to get out
of this eternal circle
sometime,” I said.
I sneaked a peek
at my hair
in the rearview mirror.
It was wrong, way wrong,
not to pay attention.
That’s when it happened:
my bumper was just
tapping the fender
ahead of mine.
It wasn’t a crime,
just a little fender bender,
not the end of the universe,
but of course, Twig was
a nervous wreck.
Heck, it was nothing
to be frothing or
shouting about.
Fender benders are
common denominators
in Newark, New Jersey,
where people drive crazy.
We pulled over
to the side of the road—
where loads
of traveler’s trash
was dumped,
and so was the old
hunk of junk
Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip Page 4