The Mother Road (17 page)

And there it is, the male bond that I can’t penetrate. Women usually can wrap their loins together to build a force field that men are unable to even splinter, but men, they shit out cement and form a wall that no woman wants to touch with a ten foot dildo.

“I see what’s happening. Did you three have a little talk while I was sleeping? Plan this out, did ya?”

“And we made pancakes,” Porter offers, holding up crinkled aluminum foil with a couple of pancakes stacked on top.

Casually, without shoes on and still in my pajamas, I walk over to Porter, who is still holding the pancakes out to me. With one fast swipe, I smack the pancakes out of his hand and listen to them flop on the ground as I stare him in the eyes.

“I don’t want your mangled and charred pancakes that I’m sure taste like rotten, gluten-filled liver snaps. What I want is for you three to clean the bathroom so I don’t have to wear a hazmat suit when I go in it.”

I can tell Porter doesn’t like being disgusting, but from the way Paul is poking him with a stick from behind my dad’s back, reminding him who’s side he’s on, he won’t budge.

“The bathroom is fine,” Porter says through clenched teeth, clearly being coached by Paul to say such wretched things.

“We’re men, Marley…”

“I would hardly call yourself that,” I counter to Paul.

Paul holds his hand up in defense. “Yes, I might scream like a high pony-tailed twelve year old girl who just had her one and only arm pit hair plucked when I see a spider, and yes, I might get emotional at seeing my bro after months apart, but that doesn’t negate the fact that I used to dig holes in the desert and shit in them when I was in the Army or the fact that I can go days, even weeks, without a fresh pair of underwear. The bathroom is fine.”

“Okay.” I nod my head, eyeballing them. “I see how it’s going to be. That’s fine. We will live in filth. I don’t care. We have a few more days together; let the bathroom stay as it is. I have no problem with the way it looks. If you will excuse me, I have to get ready for my day.”

Without giving Paul the satisfaction of seeing me stomp on the ground like a child and pull my hair out, screaming like a lunatic, I go back in the RV, shut the door, and then bury my head in a pillow to let out my frustration.

My entire life, I had to share a bathroom with Paul. It was torture, especially since he’s a slob and I’m not. In middle school and some of high school, when Paul was still living with us, I would occasionally get a new beauty product that I would be extremely excited about, since my dad wasn’t keen on getting me cosmetics. I would spend so much time in the bathroom testing my new item out whether it was a curling iron, new shampoo or even a brush. I cherished those moments…and then Paul came along. Basically, he thought his pubes were the tester for everything new I received.

Eye lash curler, could it make his pubes curlier?

New razors, could it handle his man bush?

Teaser, how much could he tease his pubes without crying?

Stay-in conditioner, could his pubes be softer?

Curling iron, well, that one ended badly for him.

You get the idea, so being transported back to the days of sharing a bathroom with Paul infuriates me, especially since the RV bathroom looks just like Paul’s side of the counter growing up. When Paul said it was war, he wasn’t kidding. He knows my weaknesses…my heart stops.

I run to the bathroom and grab my bag of cosmetics, sifting through everything, making sure it is accounted for. All my brushes and shadows seem to be intact except…

Once again, I throw the RV door open and storm up to Paul, who has a smarmy look on his face.

“Can I help you?” he asks, knowing full well what I’m looking for.

“Where is my mascara?”

“Oh, you mean this?” Paul pulls my Lancôme mascara from his pocket and dangles it in front of my face. I want to swipe it away, but I’m terrified of where it has been.

“What did you do with it?”

Paul starts walking in circles around me as he talks, like a diabolical man-gina. “You see, the other day I shaved my sac clean, wanted to see what it would look like bare.” Paul must have talked to my dad about this story beforehand, because I can’t seem to fathom why my dad is just standing there with his arms crossed, not adding his two cents from hearing about his son’s bare balls. “I wanted to give something special to Savannah for our wedding…”

“And that’s a twelve year old’s nut sac?” I ask, Porter snorting to the side of us.

Ignoring my comment, Paul continues. “After a couple of days, I wanted to see how my balls were doing, so I grabbed your compact…”

“Ew, gross!! Paul, I use that!”

“Yes, I know. That’s what was so appealing to me. I took a look at my balls, kind of using it like a dentist’s tool. Worked great, got to see my taint and everything. Savannah picked a top grade piece of loins to marry. That taint of mine is a fine piece of weird skin.”

My throat constricts and nausea rolls around in my belly. Taint talk is never charming. “I’m dry heaving.”

Paul ignores me. “Anyway, I did notice that my balls were looking a little too smooth, a little too metro. So, I grabbed your mascara and brushed some fake hair on my balls with it.”

“You what?”

My snarl does nothing as he continues to circle me. “I couldn’t get the right stroke, the mascara was too clumpy and it was just smearing. I think you should really look into some new mascara, something a little more high-end.”

He holds the tube in front of me, which I knock out of his hand so it joins the pancakes on the ground.

“You idiot! That is the best mascara on the market right now! Do you know how much that costs?”

“Eight dollars?” he asks, completely naïve of today’s beauty product prices.

“No, you turd-sickle! It costs $36.99!!”

“Really?” His surprised expression is genuine. “For mascara? Dude, you’re getting ripped off. I couldn’t get an individual lash stroke out of that brush to save my life. They should really consider a new formula or maybe a different set of bristles.”

“Maybe it’s because you were using it on your wrinkly coin purse,” Porter suggests. Paul acknowledges his point with a turned down lip and slight nod.

“I’m going to kill you.” I lunge at Paul, but I’m stopped by my father, who turns me back toward the RV.

“Let’s just call this even. The war is over. We have to hit the road if we want to stay on track, and as much as I would love to see you try to beat up your brother, we need to get going. Get changed so we can go.”

The Bernie Man has spoken. He might be easily swayed on occasion, but when it comes to sticking to schedule, you don’t mess with him or else the eyebrows will appear. And you don’t EVER want the eyebrows to appear!

****

The mascara on man balls fiasco is still stinging my vibe, but the toxic fumes coming from my nail polish, which is enveloping the small space of the RV, causing Paul to cough every two seconds, is making me feel slightly better.

I’m not going to lie, Paul’s balls on my mascara brush was a blow to the gut, but Porter’s switching to the dark side, now that was like an elephant farting in my face and blowing off my fake eyelashes. I thought we had a deal, but I can see he’s easily swayed now to flip-flop sides, just like when we were growing up. I should have remembered he was a flip-flopper.

Now, as we drive along the New Mexico landscape, I can see him out of the corner of my eye continuing to flash glances at me.

Look all you want buddy, you switched to the dark side!

Paul coughs, well more like hacks in my direction. “Marley, you’re killing us!”

I blow on my nails while looking at the nail decals I’m going to try out.

“Then open a window. I told you when I agreed to this trip that I have to continue to work on my blog. Today’s entry is all about nails. I received nail decals from Monica Hues to test. Look how cute they are! Look at the little hot dog.” I flash the nail decals that I’ve heard nothing but good reviews about to the boys.

“Did you have to paint your nails if you’re using decals?” The whine in Paul’s voice is so unattractive. I really wonder sometimes what Savannah sees in the pre-pubescent man-girl that I call my brother.

I rest my hand on the table in front of me and talk evenly to Paul. “I’m not about to put a cute little nail decal on an unpolished nail. What am I? A barbarian?”

“Excuse me,” Paul holds up his hands. “What’s the point of a nail decal anyway?”

“What is the point?” I steady my voice, ready to lay one on Paul. “Paul, have you ever seen a poor set of un-manicured nails?”

“Sure.”

“Have you?” I ask, my voice rising. “I don’t think you have. Picture this, you’re hanging out with Savannah, she starts rubbing your head with her nails. It feels good. Like a horny cat, you start rubbing your head into her hand, trying to get her to scratch you where you want it the most. Just when she’s about to hit that spot on your head that will make your leg bounce up and down like a randy dog, she pulls away. You turn to see what’s going on and there she is, hand to her mouth, gnawing on her three-toed sloth-like nail claws, trying to get out a piece of dandruff that got stuck. Now, tell me, wouldn’t you rather her munch down on perfectly manicured nails with a pretty little nail decal? Or would you rather her chomp down on her decayed claws with fungus growing out of them?

Porter and Paul exchange disgusted looks. “She paints a beautiful picture,” Porter points out.

“I’m telling ya,” I blow on my hands. “Decals are where it’s at. It’s a little extra something to keep people remembering those hands.”

“I think I can think of another way I would remember hands,” Porter laughs, drawing a scowl from me.

“Good one.” Paul bumps fists with Porter.

Neanderthals.

“How much longer do we have until we arrive?” Paul asks. “I’m starving.”

“Starving? Really, Paul? Do you know what the word starving means? It means you are suffering and about to die from hunger.”

Paul turns in his seat, a know it all look in his eyes. “Thank you for the vocab lesson, Marley, but when one uses the word starving in the English language, it also can be construed as a way to express your feelings in an exaggerated way, therefore putting emphasis on your current state of mind. When you say, I was so scared I almost shit my pants, did you really almost shit your pants? Doubtful, we use these expressions to elaborate on our feelings, so…”

“Oh, shut up!” I cut him off, not wanting to hear his babbling anymore. I toss a bag of Funyuns at him. “Please just stop talking and eat those.”

“I can’t eat these unless we play the game.”

Growing up, Funyuns were a hot commodity in our household. If not regulated, we could take down a bag of Funyuns in a matter of seconds. There’s something about the circular onion flavored corn chip that got our juvenile engines revving…and no, not in a creepy way. Freaks!

During our travels, my mom realized the Funyuns stock depleted faster than the crackers and pretzels in the cabinet, so instead of making sure we always had Funyuns, she made them a special treat to have, one that she turned into a game.

“What game?” Porter asks, a little crinkle to his nose that my lips want to kiss away.

“Would you Funyun!” My dad shouts, clearly excited from the prospect of playing the game my mom created.

“Would you Funyun? How do you play?”

“It’s just like would you rather, but to make things fun, Mom said, ‘Would you Funyun?’ if we answer, we get a Funyun.”

“That seems easy,” Porter says.

Paul and I exchange glances.

I lean over the table and talk sternly to Porter. “Would you Funyun? is not easy, Porter. Would you Funyun? rips you open and exposes your darkest secrets that you would never want anyone to know. The questions dig deep, into your inner mini-jock strap wearing-self, it tears into your innocence, rupturing it from your soul and laying it out on the table for all of us to see and make fun of. And if you want a Funyun, then you have to answer the question to get one.”

A grin spreads across my face as Porter shifts his feet. Would you Funyun? has left both Paul and me in tears, having to answer my mom’s impossible questions just to feel the salty, tear jerking vegetable taste on our tongues.

“Are you in?” I ask, one last blow to my nails to dry them off.

“I’m in,” Porter smiles back at me, his eyes lighting up from under the brim of his red hat.

“Yes!” Paul fist pumps the air. “I’ll be the moderator, since I’m the one holding the bag of chips and no one wants nail polish chunks on their Funyuns.” Paul eyes me.

I shrug. “Fair enough.”

“Are we ready for the base taste?”

“What’s the base taste?” Porter is slowing down the game already.

Paul, being the compassionate best friend that he is, he explains the rules of the game. “The way the game works is we will go one by one asking each other would you rather questions, if they answer, they get a Funyun, if they don’t, the question asker gets their Funyun. We do a base taste to get the palette wanting more, because any Funyun lover knows, you can’t just have one. So, we whet the whistle to spike your craving.”

“And, no drinks,” my dad points out.

“Yes, almost forgot, thanks, Dad. No drinks, you savor that onion flavor.”

“So, it’s going to get pretty ripe in here with four bouts of onion breath,” Porter laughs.

“It’s part of the torture,” I add.

Paul gets out of his seat in the front and sits across from me at the dining table, a more central location. As if we were at church, we perform the Would you Funyun? ritual. Paul presents the bag to each individual, we bow in front of it, rub the Funyun name and then stick our tongue out for Paul to place a ring on. We don’t bite right away, just like the Body of Christ, we let is dissolve on our tongues. It’s torture and it makes you want more. There’s a science to the game, to make people desperate enough to give away their secrets for a highly over-processed piece of onion.

“Marley, since you’re experienced, do you want to start?”

“I think I will.” I sit up in my seat and lean over the table, excited to see how far we can push Porter. “I will kick it off with an easy one. Would you Funyun get slapped in the face by a porcupine or put a cactus in your armpit and slam your arm shut?”