that I’d bumped. Actually,
just tapped.
I almost crapped
when this not-quite-male,
not-quite-female bailed
out of the car I’d nailed.
He/she was decked out
in a glitzy ditzy itsy-bitsy
prissy pink dress
with pearls. Swirls
of curly furled hair
showed through the nude
pantyhose on his toes
and legs. He was wearing,
I swear, a Rapunzel wig
from the Disney Store,
or somewhere.
If he’d had a sparkly wand,
he could have been
a twin of the tooth fairy,
hairy legs and all.
“Leave it to you,” hissed Twig.
“Your fender bender
had to be with a gender bender.”
“Ssh,” I said.
The Newark Tooth Fairy
teetered and tottered
in too-high spiked heels,
and leaned down in his nifty little
glittery gown with not a hint
of a frown.
“It’s only a homely
old Pinto,” he said,
waving his hand.
“A rusty fusty
old bucket of bolts.
No damage.
Don’t worry about it,
girlfriend. It’s not worth
the expense of an
insurance increase.”
“Geez,” I wheezed.
My knees were knocking,
rocking with
choked-back hysteria.
I blushed, or flushed,
got goose bumps,
and then gushed
with so much
appreciation.
It was my initiation
into the world of weird.
“We are way far
from home,”
I pronounced
as Mister Pink Dress
flounced away,
swaying, sashaying.
“Yeah,” said Twig.
“We’re not in Kansas
anymore, Toto.
We’re not even
in SoHo.”
“It went without a hitch,” I said.
“Just a glitch, a tiny stitch
on the fabric map of where
we’re going.”
“Speaking of maps,”
Twig said, “are you lost?”
“I’m the boss,” I said.
“Hold onto the hoss, cowgirl,
because we’re almost
in New York.”
With those words,
I made some tight right
turns as a fly-by bird
splattered a
shattered souvenir
of Newark smack-dab
in the middle
of the windshield.
Maybe that’s why
I missed the YIELD
sign.
Or maybe it was
the sun
in my eyes.
Or the fact
that I couldn’t stop
cackling about
the pink-dress
guy.
I don’t know why,
but in the blink
of a winking
eye,
my Firebird
was smashed,
crashed,
bashed
on the driver’s side
full force
by a Mustang
that was no dang horse.
When the universe
stopped spinning,
I thought maybe
I was dead
and in heaven.
But then again,
my wrecked head
was dizzy
and fizzy from
the crash.
Twig groaned,
and I heard the
ding-a-ling ring
of a cell phone.
“I guess this isn’t heaven,” I said.
“You don’t need
to call people
when you’re dead.”
Twig and I kicked
wickedly
with our Doc Marten
boots,
pushing
our way
through
the ruckus-buckled
doors,
and the roars
of traffic
whooshing,
rushing,
whizzing past,
hissing,
blasted fast
into my head.
“What the heck
is up with all
these accidents?”
Twig asked,
and I shrugged.
“Beats me,” I said.
“Are you sure
we’re not dead?”
Twig asked.
“All I saw was blue,
coming at you. Whew!”
Twig’s knee was bleeding,
tiny droplets of blood leaking
through her skin.
I didn’t know where to begin
figuring out how the crash happened.
“What the hell?”
somebody yelled.
“Everybody all right?”
I saw the white light
of fight, and was in
the mood for super-bad attitude.
“How rude!” I shouted,
but then doubted
my sanity and bit
my lip when I
caught a glimpse
of the cute dude
in the blue Mustang.
Dang, he was hot.
A lot. We don’t
often see good-looking
guys in the boondocks
of Banesville.
I stuttered,
words spreading like butter,
heart fluttering,
muttering something
about how manically
sorry I was
to have blurted
impulsive stuff
to such a hunk.
I was such a punk.
The guy’s eyes
were kind of like
green lime, except sweet.
Avocado-hotto green,
the shade of Kool-Aid
with sugar.
I’m a sucker
for hunky guys
with green eyes,
and was suddenly
struck shy.
“Hi … wh …what’s
your name?”
I was so lame.
My claim to fame
isn’t playing the game
of flirtation.
The sensation
of numbness
and dumbness
made my brain
fall asleep.
I was a geek.
I was weak
in the speaking
department.
“My … my
name is
Laura,”
I mumbled,
stumbling, fumbling
for something
not bumbling.
“Sister Slam
on this trip,”
said Twig,
and I jabbed
her with
my elbow.
“Oww!” howled Twig.
The guy smiled,
and his teeth
were like a
tooth whitener
commercial,
or an ad in a magazine.
I was smitten, bitten
by a love bug
or something.
I didn’t
even care
that I’d
just been hit.
I was in deep smit.
Lesson 13
Always Be Ready to Be Struck by the Love Bug
My car (it had been Mom’s car, too,
which made me k
ind of blue)
was totaled, and a passing tow truck
stopped to hook it up.
Soon, they’d be taking my Firebird
away to the Graveyard
of Crashed Cars.
I had a vision that my car
would rest in peace,
and that at least
I would get
a big insurance settlement
from the wreck.
“How are you
getting home?”
asked the guy
of the sweet green eyes,
and I shrugged.
The love bug
affected my tongue,
and I clung to Twig’s arm.
I was charmed,
struck speechless.
“We’re going
to the city,” said Twig.
“Me, too,” the guy said.
“I live near here,
but I’m meeting my parents
for a week of vacation.”
I still couldn’t speak.
“You’re, like, eighteen,” Twig said,
“and you still go on trips
with your parents?”
The guy shrugged.
I could have hugged
him; that’s how cute the dude was,
with duck fuzz on his chin
where a goatee should have been.
“Hey,” he said,
“we stay at the Waldorf,
okay? It’s cool.
I’d be a fool
to turn down a free week
at the Waldorf-Astoria.”
I was filled
with euphoria.
This was phantasmagoria:
a dream come true.
Not only was he
cute, but the dude
had bucks. It sucks
not to have bucks.
“What luck!” I said.
“It’s a coincidence!
That’s kind of like
where we’re going, too!”
“Laura,” said Twig.
“What about SoHo?”
“Oh, no. No SoHo.
Waldorf all the way. Hey!
Do you have room for two more?
We’ll sleep on the floor.”
“Sure,” said the guy.
“My parents won’t mind.”
I started to climb
into his car.
“Laura!” said Twig.
“We need to wait
for the police.
And at least
you should know his name,
for heaven’s sake!”
“Jake,” he said.
I liked the shape
of Jake’s head:
big enough to hold
a good brain.
“It’s great;
it totally rates
to make your acquaintance,
Jake,” I said.
Manners are a banner
advertising a good upbringing,
so I shook his hand.
Man, it was electric,
metric-system mathematics
full of static shocks
when our eyes locked.
One plus one equals two
out-of-the-blue
in love, or lust, busted.
Twig was disgusted.
She sighed
and rolled her eyes.
Jake had two
ear hoops
and a fine tattoo
of a Chinese
squiggle-symbol
on his arm.
“You look like
a poet, don’t
you know it?” I said.
Jake smiled,
and I went wild inside.
“A musician,” he said.
“Guitar strummer, drummer,
writer of songs.”
“You can’t go wrong,” I said.
Twig just shook her head.
“A drummer,” she said.
“What a bummer.
Remember the Mummers
in the Philadelphia parade?
I would’ve paid
those drummers to shut up.”
I was mortified,
embarrassment fortified
by Twig’s wacked
lack of respect for Jake.
Sirens shrilled,
and I could have killed
Twig. I willed
myself filled
with a balm of calm.
“Here come the cops,”
said Twig. “Hey, maybe
they’ll throw us in jail.
It never fails,
in the movies,
that the groovy
people end up
in jail, no bail.”
“We’re not going
to prison,” I said.
The officer wore dark shades,
and he asked our names,
butt-strutted around to
look at our plates,
then got on his radio
walkie-talkie thing
to call in to somebody
who cared about stuff
like this.
Static crackling,
the officer started cackling
when he heard
that I got a ticket
for hitting a pig.
I don’t know how
you get a gig
where you can make a big
deal out of stuff like this.
But he did.
“Kid,” said the cop,
“you have too many
Pennsylvania points
on your license. By
the way, I need to see
your license.”
“It’s in the glove compartment
of that crushed car over there,”
I said, and the officer shook his head.
“Is she going to prison?”
Twig asked.
The officer shook his head.
“You should’ve just stayed in bed
this morning,
because you’ve crashed and bashed
your way
into losing
your driver’s license, young lady.
It’ll be revoked.”
Holy smokes. I was so not stoked.
But then I remembered:
I didn’t have wheels anymore anyway.
It was my big day.
I’d have to just ride away
into the blazing sunset with Jake.
This was no mistake.
This was fate.
My first date,
and I couldn’t wait
one minute more.
Lesson 14
Always Look Your Best Because You Never Know Who You’re Going to Wreck Into
Jake’s car was
dented but driveable,
and I’d never
felt more alive
in my life.
I felt like fluff,
a bubble,
floating, buzzing,
no more trouble.
My senses were on
high alert, and even
though my head
and neck hurt,
I fretted about my
breath and kept
getting mint Certs
from Twig.
“Stop bumming,”
said Twig,
who was humming
the Beatles song
“Let It Be.”
(I beat
her to the car,
so my seat was up
front, with Jake.)
A bundle of stress,
I sweated and fidgeted:
a midget in the
presence of greatness
with Jake-ness.
Jake had six
bags of candy
in the backseat,
and he reached
back and fished
out a bag for me:
spicy red cinnamon hearts.
“You’re so nice.
I love spicy
candy,” I gushed.
I wished I’d worn
some glamorous
purple eye shadow
and mascara,
so I could bat
my lashes
in a passion
of flirtation,
but I’d been too lazy
for makeup.
That proves
that it grooves
to always look
your best,
because you
just never know
who you’re going
to wreck into.
I hoped that Jake
wouldn’t notice
my lack of cosmetics,
and that he’d get
romantic about my
intellect instead.
I dumped a handful
of candy
into my mouth,
then shoved the bag
in the pocket
of my vest.
It was best
if I didn’t invest
much attention
in sweets.
(“Hi. My name
is Laura
and I’m a sugar-holic.”)
The skyline of the city
shimmered, glimmered,
mysterious in the distance,
and I started to sing
that goofy old tune
“I Love New York.”
Jake drove like an expert,
never once swerving.
I funneled
my emotions,
pouring out boring
words, rambling
on and on.
“So I was born
in Banesville,”
and stuff like that.
The motion of the Mustang
was a potion of relaxation,
and the sensation of floating
took over.
In the dimness
of the Lincoln Tunnel
of love, snug as
a thumb in a glove,
I hovered over
the shifter and whispered,
“You are so totally cute.”
“How rude!” Twig fussed.
“That’s lewd, just crude, to
swoon all moon-faced
with Jake, who you just met,
like, sixty minutes ago.”
I looked at the clock.
“Eighty minutes,”
I said. “And ten seconds.”
“I’m guessing that you must
be in shock,” Twig said.
“Maybe we should stop
at a hospital.
A mental hospital.”
“I might be in shock,” I said,
“but Jake rocks.”
“Ignore her,” said Twig.
“She’s not usually like this.
She’s never
even kissed a guy
in her entire life.”
“No way,” said Jake.
“Yes way,” said Twig.
“You’re full of shit,” said Jake.
“No way,” said Twig.
“Wait a minute!” I said.
“What is this?
The Jerry Springer show?
My first kiss, you know,
is my business!
It’ll be kismet, destiny,
what-will-be-will-be,
the best freaking ever
for me, happening
when it’s meant to be.”
“Maybe when
she’s eighty,”
said Twig.
We shot
from the tunnel
and into the city,
and I was feeling ditzy.
“What’s up,
Big Apple?
What’s happenin’?”
Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip Page 5