Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip (3 page)

and leaned over the pig.

“Come on. Get up,” she whispered.

And the pig listened!

Just like that, the chubby thing

struggled to its hooves

and waddled off,

just like this was any

ordinary carefree day.

Twig looked at me.

I looked at Twig.

We cracked up,

doubled over

with hysterical laughter.

“Hungry for pork and beans?”

said Twig.

“Ham and greens?

Maybe some bacon?”

We climbed back into

our poetmobile, and I squealed

out, leaving rubber skid marks

on the road.

If only we'd known then

what we know now:

Mister Farmer Brown

was writing down

every letter and number

of my license plate.

First rule

of the University

of Gray Road,

Blue Sky, and

Yellow Lines is this:

Never Run from

Hitting a Pig.

The cops stopped us

somewhere southeast

of Geasterville, Pennsylvania.

In blue uniforms,

with mirror sunglasses,

and Dunkin' Donut butts,

all two members

of the police department

of Geasterville

pulled me over.

They even used sirens

and red flashing lights,

and I wouldn't be surprised

if they'd had their fingers

on the triggers.

“I'm not exactly

America's Most Wanted,

you know,” I informed

Officer Cream Puff.

He just kept writing stuff,

biting his bottom lip,

probably because he had

to really think hard

to write a ticket for this.

I got a ticket—a big ticket—

for something like reckless

endangerment of swine,

and leaving the scene

of a pig that's been hit.

“Oh, shit,” I said,

dropping my head

onto the steering wheel.

“Let's make a deal.

I don't hit any more pigs,

and you don't give me

this ticket.”

The officer

added something

to the ticket.

Twig hissed,

“Keep your big mouth

shut, Laura. Cockiness

will get you nowhere.”

But the injustice

of him busting us

for something like this

had Sister Slam pissed.

“This,” I said, “was an act of God.

It was like lightning,

or a tornado,

or an earthquake.

I didn't make that pig

go on the road.

God made him waddle

out there,

right in front of me.

There was no time to stop,

Officer.

In fact, I did stop, but

the pig was already hit.”

I was in deep shit.

I should have just

kept my mouth closed.

If only I'd known.

Second rule

of the University

of Gray Road, Blue Sky,

and Yellow Lines:

Never Try to Talk Your Way

Out of a Ticket When You've

Already Admitted That You Hit the Pig.

And then the cop

got his dig.

It was almost as mean

as the cool group could be,

back in the old days

at Banesville High.

“Body for Life

is a good diet.

You should try it.”

That's what he said.

I wished I were dead.

Just shoot me now,

before I hit a cow.

My jaw must have dropped

because the cop

rubbed his double chin

and tried to suck up.

“I wasn't intending to insult you.

It's just that the diet has helped me,

and I want to help others.”

Oh, brother.

What a loser.

Probably a boozer, too,

when he wasn't

in that uniform.

The cop patted his gut.

“Best shape I've ever been in.

I feel great.

Now be on your way.

Don't hit any pigs.”

Ha, ha.
Sarcasm isn't attractive

in an officer of the law.

I took off, wheels screeching,

peeling out.

With a pout,

Twig sighed.

“I could've died,” she said.

“
You?
What about me?

I need a diet.”

“What a riot,” Twig said,

spastic and sarcastic.

“This
is
a trip.”

I bit my lip.

“Twig,” I said,

“do you ever

care whether

I'm fat or thin?”

Twig grinned.

“Laura . . . I mean,

Sister Slam.

I like you just

as you are. I

even like your car.”

Twig's gift

is being able to lift

my spirits

when I'm sad.

“It's bangin'

to be hangin'

with you,” I said.

Then we sang along

with the radio,

which was playing

a Barenaked Ladies song.

We got most of the words

wrong. Those guys are poets.

“How far to Tin Can?”

Twig yelled to a man

at a shabby gas station

we passed.

“Hey,” I said.

“We're way low

on gas.” It's amazing,

all the gas

you have to buy

when you're in charge

of the trip.

I did a U-turn, quick,

showing off,

burning black rubber.

“Yee-haw,” Twig yelled.

Now she was getting

into the spirit of the

thing. She flapped her arms

like wings.

“Don't hit a chicken!” she squawked.

When we got out

to fill the gas tank,

this skank of a yellow-headed,

dad-aged, cabbage-shaped

dude got really rude,

saying something crude

about my boobs.

I flicked him the middle finger,

figuring that would make him

go away.

He couldn't take a hint.

“I can't believe this,” I said

to Twig.

“People in the real world

are as messed up as

kids in school.

It's bull:

all that stuff they

say in school

about maturity

and real life

will be different

and all that.

It's bogus.”

The obscene geek guy

opened a lemon pie

and shoved it in his venom-trap,

chewing with his mouth open

like some kind of

Conan the Barbarian

moron.

“Fat pig,” he blubbered,

his flubbery gut

bouncing as he lumbered

away.

“Dork,” I responded.

That's when the retard

retaliated by bombarding

my car with his smushed-up

lemon pie.

And then I

knew Rule Number Three

of the university:

People Are Rude in the Real World, Too.

Without a clue

as to what to do,

I just turned and threw

a hunk of chewed-up gum

at the dude's fat buns.

Lucky he didn't have a gun,

because I would've been one

dead poet.

But don't you know it,

when we left the station,

Mister Hideous Lemon Pie Idiot

followed right on our tail,

never failing to turn

onto every road we followed.

The Lemon Pie Guy

followed us all the way

to Tin Can,

and man, was I mad.

“Who do you think you are?”

I called to the pathetic

maggot-gagging

dweeb

crawling out of

his yellow VW.

“I know who
you
are,

missy,” said

Mister Hissy Fit,

all pissy.

“You're the poet

who doesn't know it,

but you have no chance

of winning

this slam.”

“Oh, boy,” I shot

back, cracking up.

Twig and I,

cackling like chickens,

followed his bubble-gum butt

and flubbery gut

into the brick building.

Registration was taking place,

and most poets were patient,

waiting in line and smiling kindly,

but Lemon Pie Guy

didn't know how to smile.

He just muttered and mumbled,

grumbling, rumbling, fumbling

in his pocket

for a pencil, and then

stumbling on something

nobody else could see.

“How annoying can one person be?”

Twig commented, and a chick

in tinted-pink glasses laughed.

“I'm going to smack his

big ugly head,” I said.

It wasn't what I meant,

but I said it anyway.

“That's not nice, Laura,” said Twig.

“I mean, Sister Slam.

That's not nice, Sister Slam,

to tease the man.”

“It's not a man,” I said.

“It's a thing.

If I could sing,

I'd have a song

about how it's just wrong

to exist in this world

if you're surly

like him.”

Twig grinned.

“You're the Queen of Surly,”

she said.

“I know,” I agreed.

“I am edgy.”

“So write a poem,” said Twig.

“Forget about Gloom Pillows

and Huge Boobs.

Write about Lemon Pie Guy.”

Twig is my life raft in

every hurricane,

my Tylenol for every ache

and pain.

She saves

me from going stark-raving-crazy

insane.

“Okay,” I said.

“What rhymes

with Lemon Pie Guy?”

Twig shrugged.

By that time,

Lemon Pie Guy

had disappeared

into his weirdness

somewhere,

and we didn't care where,

as long as he was out

of our stare

and our air.

Festering with indigestion

in the Sleep Best Inn

on that night in question,

I was desperate

for the white light

of revelation

that would lead

to the creation

of the best

lemon pie poem ever,

but I was suffering

from inspiration constipation.

The slam began

at 8 A.M.

the next morning,

and I was pouring

everything I had

into writing a poem.

Twig wanted to rent

videos, but I said,

“No. Poems are groovier

than movies.

Now be quiet,

so I can think.”

In the pink

stink of the

cigarette-stenched

room,

Twig was digging

the sixty-six

channels on the

television screen,

and I was as green as spinach

with frenzied envy

that her poem was finished.

“This isn't a pajama party,

Miss Smarty,” I said.

“I need to think!

I'm on the brink

of wearing mink

and riding in a limousine

if I win this slam.

I want to be on the

cover of
People
magazine!

I need to be the queen

of beat,

the sweetest heat

where words are concerned.

I want to burn

ears and turn

the audience to tears.

It'll be better than

a big sale at Sears.

I want the cheers!”

Twig was miffed,

and sniffled and sniffed,

and I caught a whiff

of her being pissed

at Sister Slam.

“Twig,” I said,

“we're here to compete.

I don't want to be beat.

I don't even know what the prize is,

but it's got to be sweet.

Look at all the license plates

from so many states: people

coming from all over the U.S.

for this slam.”

“Okay,” said Twig,

and she lifted her chin.

“Write your poem.

I'll leave you alone.”

She turned off the television

and made the decision

to mope. I hoped that

she'd be quiet now, but Twig sighed

and sniffed and flipped around.

The bed creaked

and Twig moaned,

sending me into

an irritation zone.

Twig huffed,

and I'd had enough.

I couldn't cope,

and my insides twisted

like old rope.

“Why,” I cried,

“can't I have peace and quiet?

Let's just try it.”

Twig sniffed

and hugged the pillow

to her nose,

and I wrote:

Lemon Pie Guy,

with your pee-yellow hair dye,

gut pudged as uncut pork pie:

the judges won't fudge,

so don't begrudge my win,

buzzing like a cussing

fruit fly,

Mister fly-by-night,

bow-tied, bone-dry

poet.

This is my war cry,

my psychic black eye,

indivisible, with liberty

and justice for me.

You see,

Mister Lemon Pie Guy,

my money supply

isn't high enough

to buy this contest,

so I'll win it honestly,

with supersonic

phonics, Mister Moronic.