The Mother Road (7 page)

“Damn it!” I flop to the ground, the hem of my shirt rising up around my neck, my entire front exposed just in time for Porter’s viewing pleasure.

Mid stride, he stops on the second step of the RV’s entrance when he sees me sitting on the floor, stuck in the table. He takes in the scene in front of him and his eyes turn a shade darker when his eyes land on my bare skin. If I didn’t think he was by far the hottest piece of male ass I’ve ever seen, I would have considered him a perv for the amount of time he took observing my appearance.

Scrambling out of view, I turn my back to him and fumble with the stupid leg again.

“Having some trouble?” I can feel his chest against my back, leaning over to see what I’m up to.

“Nope.” I scoot closer to the pole, my legs straddling it as if I’m borrowing the steel rod from a gnome’s strip club to conduct my own tantalizing dance.

“Seems like you’re stuck.” There is mirth in his voice and I hate it. His hand reaches around me as his head leans over my shoulder. “Let me see what you have going on here.”

“Do you mind? I have this under control,” I say, turning my face so our noses are millimeters apart. My eyes widen from how close he is. The urge to rub my cheek against his short beard is overwhelming. The thought of having beard burn all over my body is tempting, and like the fool I am, I can feel the words on the tip of my tongue, asking him to motorboat me with his scruff.

I convince myself it’s the hot dog talking.

“I don’t, actually.” He leans over some more and takes a look at the button I’m having trouble with. Our bodies are practically tangled together as he fits his rather large physique over my legs and under the table so he can help.

“I really have this handled.”

“Doesn’t look like it. It looks like you’ve got your shirt stuck. Nice bra, by the way. I didn’t know you could still fit in a training bra.”

A horrified gasp escapes me. “It’s a sports bra!” I defend.

“Really?” His head turns sideways. “Looks like the one you got from the bra fairy that one Christmas.”

Yes, you heard that right. The bra fairy.

I love my mom dearly, God rest her soul, but there are few moments in a little girl’s life that she will forever remember…like getting her period, rubbing her body up and down a poster of her generation’s heart throb…and getting her first bra. My mom destroyed one of those moments for me. Can you guess which one?

Being the tomboy I was at the time, I wanted nothing to do with a bra. If Paul and Porter weren’t wearing one, then I didn’t want one. My mom had a different idea though.

One Christmas Eve, when I was in fifth grade, we were having a gathering of sorts at our house. Our grandparents were present, as well as our neighbors, and, of course, Porter. I spent the whole day playing football with the boys out in the pastures and when we got back to the house, there was one single present under the tree where the entire party was gathered. My mom clapped her hands together in glee at our return and told me there was a gift under the tree for me.

Being the present monger I was, I fell to my knees and grabbed it in excitement, ready to tear it open. The card read, “To Marley, From the Bra Fairy.”

As the words registered in my brain, the package flew to the ground and I refused to open it. My dad, being the protective husband that he was, told me in a stern, but kind voice to appease my mom, despite the message on the card. Reluctantly, I opened the present, pulled out a cotton pink training bra, and held it up for everyone to see. The audience proceeded to clap while my mom told them it was my first and then asked me to model it for everyone.

It was emotionally scarring. I went to bed that night asking Paul why he didn’t have to wear a bra. His excuse was he had a penis and he didn’t have boobs. The boy was a porker back then…a bra might have done him some good.

“You think you’re so funny…” my sentence is interrupted by the incredibly loud grumble of my intestines.

Porter, who is messing around with the button, stops what he’s doing and looks down at my stomach. “What was that?”

My stomach churns again and I instantly break out in a cold sweat.

“Must be hungry.” I pass his comment off with a shrug.

Meanwhile, my lip trembles while it feels like there is a mini zombie apocalypse taking over my intestines. My mouth waters, my ass instantly feels heavy, and I know what is about to happen to me isn’t a good thing.

“You ate two hot dogs and half a bag of chips.” He studies me with concern.

“Fast metabolism,” I squeak out. Before my eyes, I see my skin turn to a light grey color as I attempt to force myself to stop sweating.

I convince my body that I’m not hot, that I’m actually in a frozen tundra, watching penguins get it on with their little penguin penises and polar bears enjoying handies from one another. I try to laugh at the visual in my head, but all I can picture is the flesh eating monsters burning up a storm in my guts.

“You don’t look alright…”

“Just get the button undone!” I shout, losing my cool, my stomach gurgling again.

“It’s really jammed in there, your shirt isn’t helping. What were you doing with your shirt in the button anyway?”

“It doesn’t matter, just fix it, for the love of God, fix it!”

Porter stops his attempt at my freedom to scan me up and down. “Seriously, Marley…”

Gurggle, grumble, grumble, perrrrrrt.

A questioning eyebrow raises on Porter’s perfect face. If I wasn’t so lost in what was about to come out of my ass, I would have reveled in the fresh soap smell coming off of him and maybe pressed my cheek up against his as if I was a cat marking my claim, but instead, I’m focused on being seconds away from sharting in my pants.

“Shit! Get me out of this thing,” I yell, yanking on my shirt, hating that I might have to rip it. “Get me out, get me out.”

“I can’t when you’re flinging your body everywhere.”

Guuuuuuuurrrrrgleeeeee.

“Noooooo!” I scream, shimmying out of my shirt by backing my entire body up toward the door. My arms are the last thing to exit before I sprint to the back of Tacy, slam the bathroom door shut, sit on the toilet, and completely humiliate myself from the noises escaping me that I have no chance at stopping.

Have you ever listened to a solo trombone play an ode to America in a perfectly echoed room? If you haven’t, try this. Eat a hot dog after being a quasi-veggie for a while and see what happens. My ass is convinced it’s a solo artist putting on a performance for the porcelain gods as it sings a little ditty of plops and toots to anyone who wants to listen.

My face rests in my hands in utter humiliation as I just let things happen to me, not stopping the entourage of hot dog trots. With each flex of my intestines, a new wave of undiscovered flatus escapes my body. Encore after encore of shit storms play for Porter, who is a mere few feet away. Too bad my instrument isn’t tuned…

The RV dips, indicating that my dad and Paul are back from the shower. Their presence is confirmed when I hear them ask, “Where’s Marley?”

“Uh, she’s in the bathroom. I don’t think the hot dogs are sitting well,” Porter answers. Hearing Porter talk about me having diarrhea really feels good. Loving this!

“Oh, no.” A knock comes at the door and from the gentleness in his step, I know it’s my dad. “Buttons, are you okay?”

“Noooo,” I whine, leaning my head against the bathroom door.

“Okay, well we’ll get your bed ready and grab a water for you as well, so when you’re done, you can just relax.”

“I think I’m dying.”

I can hear them whispering to each other, but I can’t quite make out what they’re talking about. I’m about to ask when my dad says, “Marley?”

“Dad, I don’t need a freaking audience. Can you all just leave until I’m done?”

It’s bad enough Porter knows what I’m doing in here. I don’t need all the men in my life standing next to the door, waiting to rate the next ode to the toilet bowl from the inspiring soloist, my asshole.

“Can I just tell you one thing?” my dad pries.

“What?” I moan, not in a good way.

Nervously, my dad clears his throat before he speaks. “I just wanted to let you know the toilet is on the fritz right now. It’s not flushing.”

My stomach bottoms out, my legs go numb, and I feel like passing out. From a distance, I can hear the distinct sound of Paul snorting and then getting whacked by my dad, causing him to grunt in pain.

“Freaking perfect,” I mutter, just as another round of the sweats takes over my body.

**MARLEY**

A loud rumble startles me out of my slumber. A cold gust whips over my exposed arm and I quickly grab my blanket to break the chill from freezing over my skin. I’m unaware of my surroundings, my back is stiff, and the distinct odor of human feces keeps breezing past my nose.

That’s when it all comes rushing back to me.

Hot dogs.

Shirt caught in the table.

Porter and his soapy goodness.

The kind of diarrhea no one should ever experience in a lifetime.

And to top it off, a broken toilet.

After a disgusting half an hour of begging the intestinal gods to be nice to me, I exited the bathroom to find the RV empty and all the windows wide open. The boys were out by the fire, talking quietly and drinking beers, my bed was made, and the blankets folded over as if I was staying in a five star hotel with turn down service.

Too humiliated to make eye contact with anyone, especially Porter—oh, what he must think of me—I put myself to bed, holding back the tears that wanted to flow from embarrassment. Coming on this trip was supposed to be a relaxing time with my brother and dad, but instead, it’s been a twenty-four hour stint of me basking in human excrements and fighting off the suicidal feelings I still have for Porter.

I hate him, but I don’t. Does anyone ever really get over their first crush?

After what happened last night, I have no doubt in my mind that Porter has zero feelings toward me. How could he when I’ve been covered in urine and sharting up a storm in one single day?

Keeping it classy.

Another rumble echoes through the early morning air, shaking Tacy. I roll to my side, bringing the blanket up to my neck and open one eye. I peek up top to the attic of the RV to see Paul’s bed made perfectly and him nowhere to be found. Next, I look over to my dad’s bed, the curtain that separates the space is open, and his bed is made as well.

I’m alone once again.

Knowing the boys in my family, they are preparing for the worst. Back in my teenage years, there was a secret code my brother and dad used when it was that time of my month. They used to look each other dead in the eyes and say, “The red moon is rising.” With that short little sentence, they were able to put on their protective armor and face the almighty velociraptor that popped out of my vagina every month.

Then there were those unique times that I wasn’t on my period, but had moments that made it seem like I was. My dad referred to those as the “red dot special.”

Try being a teenage girl, living with two men who spoke code to each other depending on your mood and the time of the month. Usually, their code talk made me angrier than anything, turning me into a red dot special anyway, so if there was any harm done to them, it was their own doing. I never once felt bad for punching Paul in the testicles multiple times for acting like a freaking Wal-Mart manager calling out to the house about the red dot special on Aisle 9, Marley’s room.

Bastard.

From the looks of it and the sounds of it, they were preparing for a red dot special.

Tacy shakes again, making me wonder what the hell they are doing outside. The smell of rotten ass is overpowering and I just pray it’s not the deposit I made last night still sitting in the toilet that is making my nostrils sew themselves shut.

Unable to go back to sleep and parched from not hydrating enough, I grab my blanket and wrap it around my head like a shepherd looking to herd his sheep, but instead of sheep, I’m looking to locate my dignity. Looking around the empty RV, I know I will come up short; it’s nowhere to be found.

My feet hit the ground and I instantly retract them. The entire RV is frigid and I have no socks on my feet. Scanning the space, I spot Paul’s football slippers that look like plush high tops made for a clown. Not wanting to get a fungal infection, but desperate for some toe cover, I slip them on. The blanket I’m holding is pulled tighter around my waist as I step out of Tacy, looking around for any signs of my family, but I don’t see anyone.

There is coal in the fire pit where the boys hung out last night, a light smoke still billowing from the burnt out embers. It must be early because the campground is quiet, only a few early birds are spotted walking their dogs. The rumble I heard while inside Tacy is still filling the quiet morning, so I head to the back of the RV, where I halt instantly.

Standing in his jeans only, bare chested with ruffled hair, is Porter. He’s holding a hose in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. His chest is broad, broader than I remember, and there is a light sprinkling of hair perfectly placed on his pecs, framing their strength. His muscles ripple over his stomach, showing off the defined six pack that no normal human should be able to obtain. And holy hip dips. You know the things that make a woman go crazy, the V that points to the goods, yeah he has those and they travel down below his low hanging jeans. The elastic band from his boxer briefs pokes out from his waistband, making me wonder what it would feel like to slip my hands under it.

I crushed on him when he was a boy, but right now, I’m craving on him as a man. My body wants to throw myself up against him to feel his soft skin, to remember what it’s like to be held by him, but my mind keeps replaying that one horrible night over and over again. I won’t let myself forget what happened, ever.

“Good morning,” he says, with a tilt of his cup in my direction, interrupting my thoughts. He holds up the hose and in his best Cousin Eddie impression from
Christmas Vacation
, he says, “Shitter was full.”