Thou Shalt Not Road Trip (2 page)

Dad clamps a hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure you’re all right with this, Luke?”

“Yeah,” I say, though my voice betrays me. “I’m on a pilgrimage, right?”

“If you say so, son. But once you get to Los Angeles, it’ll just be you and your brother. It’s a great responsibility.” He bites his lip. I can see he’s having second thoughts about this. “I can take off work if you’d like me to come.”

“Me too,” interjects Mom. “Perhaps that would be
best,” she adds, nodding at Dad. “After all, not every path is as straight and narrow as it might seem.”

To be honest, I wish they would come. Pilgrimage or not, I feel like I’m caught in a whirlwind. Everywhere I go, people stop me. Every time I try to relax, there’s something I need to do, to write, to say. How is my brother going to help with that?

Yet, as soon as these thoughts cross my mind, I feel ashamed for my lack of faith. Faith is what inspired me to start writing
Hallelujah
in the first place. Which means that faith has brought me here. Surely faith will see me through.

“I’ll be fine. Honestly,” I say. My parents still don’t seem convinced. Since I have no idea how else to reassure them, I go with Default Setting Number One: a quotation from Psalms: “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.’ Psalm twenty-three, verse four.”

Mom frowns. “I wasn’t suggesting you’re going to get knocked off, sweetie. I just meant—”

I raise my hand to stop her. I know she cares about me, and she’s worried, but she’s really freaking me out. If I don’t go now, I’m afraid I might not go at all.

I kiss each of them once on the cheek, grab my backpack, and stride toward the security checkpoint. I don’t look back the whole time I’m in line. Finally,
when I’m through security, I give my parents a single courageous nod. They’re standing in the same spot, jumping up and down, waving madly. In Dad’s right hand is my blazer.

Los Angeles International Airport, Los Angeles, California

My brother, Matt, isn’t waiting in the baggage claim area, which is surprising. It’s not like him to flake out on me. As the minutes tick by, I’m not sure what to do first: call my parents for help, or get a taxi to my book signing.

Before I have to decide, Matt appears. He’s wearing a tight black T-shirt that shows off his not-inconsiderable muscles. Curly light brown hair flops over the lenses of his aviator sunglasses.

“I told Mom and Dad I’d meet you at the curb,” he says. “To save on parking.”

“They didn’t tell me.”

“Evidently.” He hugs me in a way that involves almost no body contact. “Another thing, just so I’ve said it: I never called you a freakin’ leprechaun.”

“I never said you did.”

“What about that part in your book?”

Before I can tell him it had nothing to do with him, a family shuffles toward us. “Are you Luke Dorsey?” asks the father.

“Uh, yes. Yes, I am.”

He nods for a second and then shakes his head. I’m not sure what this gesture means. “Is it true you wrote
Hallelujah
in two weeks?”

“Yeah. Well, more like two and a half. But, you know, Handel composed
Messiah
in two weeks, and that’s a lot more work.”

“Isn’t it amazing how God inspires us?”

I nod because it’s true—I had felt inspired when I started
Hallelujah
a year ago. School was out for the summer, and it was blisteringly hot, so I huddled beside the lone a/c vent in my bedroom and wrote. Over ten days and 150 pages the words just flooded out: an offering of thanks for my impossibly good fortune. No wonder that first part of the book was so humorous; what could I possibly have complained about? The momentum kept me writing through the church retreat, when words were harder to come by, and the jokes ran out—when I felt betrayed and alone. When everything changed.

“Modest too, see?” the guy tells his family.

I want to say thank you, only I don’t want him to
think I agree. Instead I just glance at Matt. Behind the sunglasses, his brows are furrowed so hard he looks constipated.

“Well, I should let you get on with your good work,” he continues. “I just wanted to tell you that you are one amazing human being. To have done so much already, had so many adventures…”

I’m not sure what he means by “adventures,” but he doesn’t seem to expect a response. So I shake his hand, and Matt and I head toward the exit, wheeling my cases behind us.

“Does that happen a lot?” he asks.

“Kind of.”

“Wow.” He makes a grunting sound. “That’s seriously weird. I just can’t imagine adults reading your book. Kids, sure. But
adults
… I guess it really is this big deal, huh?”

“Hmm. It’s hard to believe.”

“Sure is. I know the reviewers like that whole blend of humor and spiritual lessons and stuff, but… I don’t know… it just feels kind of freaky to me. Like, one minute you’re cracking one-liners, the next you sound like a suicidal version of Gandhi.”

There’s an explanation for that, but I’m not going to share it with Matt. Besides, once my editor mixed up the humorous and serious parts of the book, they balanced each other well. At least, that’s what everyone said.

“And don’t even get me started on your interview on
The Pastor Mike Show,
” Matt continues.

“Why? What was wrong with it?”

Before he can critique my performance, we leave the terminal and get slammed by a wall of smoggy heat. Just in front of us, a female police officer is writing a ticket for a rusty car parked illegally against the curb.

“No, no,” cries Matt, hurrying to her side. “Please, no. I’m just the humble escort for one of our nation’s spiritual leaders.”

The officer looks up. She’s wearing sunglasses too, so I can’t read her expression. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes, officer.” Matt grabs my arm and pushes me forward. “This is Luke Dorsey, author of the acclaimed book
Hallelujah,
and this is his current mode of vehicular transportation. Give him a ticket and his vital work will be compromised.”

I thought high school was humiliating, but Matt’s really raising the stakes. Uncertain travel plans and freaky silent families I can deal with, but I’ve always drawn the line at lying to police officers.

I wait for her to chew us out, but instead she leans against the car for support and points a shaking finger toward herself. “You see this face?” she asks, voice trembling. “This is the face of someone who doesn’t give a crap.” She slaps the ticket on the windshield and busts out laughing.

“So much for saving on parking.” Matt snatches the ticket from the windshield and hands it to me. “Here you go. Your first tour expense.”

Somewhere in Los Angeles, California

Matt stops at the nearest gas station. It’s kind of a relief when he turns off the engine, because his car is possibly the noisiest vehicle in Los Angeles, which is really saying something. “Where’s that credit card they gave you?” he asks.

“What?”

“Mom and Dad said your publicist gave you a credit card for tour expenses.”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“Gas is a legitimate expense, bro. Seeing as how it’s your tour and all.”

He’s right. But this will be the third expense of the day, and the last thing I want to do is upset Colin, my publicist. Perhaps it’s time I straighten everything out.

“Do you have a cell phone?” I ask.

Matt pulls one from his jeans pocket and hands it
to me. I take Colin’s business card from my wallet and dial the number.

“Yes?” comes the voice, hidden behind a mask of static.

“Colin, it’s Luke Dorsey.”

“Luke, my boy. Are you at the store already?”

“Uh, no. But we’re close,” I lie.

“Great. How are you doing?”

“I’m good. But I have a question about expenses. See, I had to pay an extra baggage fee for being over the weight limit. And then we got a parking ticket at the airport. And now we’re at a gas station—”

“Luke, Luke! Sorry to interrupt, but I trust you, okay? Besides, the way this puppy’s selling, you could’ve gone a hundred pounds over the weight limit and we’d handle it. Did I tell you we’ve already begun a fifth printing?
Fifth printing
… and the book’s only been out a week. Amazon has twenty-two thousand copies on backorder. The indie bookstores in New York are putting crucifix bookmarks in each copy. And Barnes and Noble is giving away
I’ve been touched by Luke and it was divine!
decals with the purchase of three copies.”

“Uh…”

“I know. Amazing, huh? So give yourself a break. Oh, one more thing: Can I reach you on this phone during the tour?”

“Hold on, it’s my brother’s phone. I’ll ask him.”

Matt nods, because he’s been eavesdropping the whole time. “Yeah, but it’s a pay-as-you-go phone,” he stage-whispers, tapping my credit card helpfully. “You’ll need to add minutes.”

“My brother says yes.”

“Great. Tell him to keep it charged; it’s the only way I’ll be able to contact you while I’m out of town. Oh, and remember what I told you about these events: Arrive early, smile lots, talk to everyone. You have a story to tell, and people want to listen. Just be yourself, okay?”

“Okay.” I hang up and hand Matt his phone, although I still hesitate before handing over the credit card.

He rolls his eyes. “Luke, my last paycheck from the café will be waiting when we get back to St. Louis, but that’s not much help right now. So let’s get comfortable using this card, okay? Otherwise, what’s the point in having it?”

I hand it over, and Matt gets out. He doesn’t rejoin me for five minutes. For a small car, this thing has a huge gas tank.

When he restarts the engine, there’s a new clanging sound. He turns up the hip-hop on his stereo, but it can’t drown out the noise. We lurch to the edge of the forecourt and wait for a gap in the traffic. The
car shudders in time with the clanging. I can feel my teeth vibrating in my skull.

And then, suddenly, everything is quiet: no clanging; no booming bass. It’s such a dramatic change that I can even hear the gentle in and out of our breaths as we share the same polluted L.A. air.

A car horn blares behind us. “Street’s clear,” I say.

Matt nods as he turns the key over and over. Eventually the street fills with traffic again. “Ah, crap,” he groans. “That damned mechanic said this might happen.”

“Said what might happen?”

He grabs my backpack from the backseat and pats my shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, okay. It’s only two miles to the bookstore. We’ll make it easily if we run.”

Born-Again Bookshop, Manhattan Beach, California

It is not two miles. We do not make it easily. Matt’s knowledge of Manhattan Beach is significantly less encyclopedic than he thinks. And the whole way we don’t pass a single other pedestrian. In the city where
everybody drives everywhere, St. Louis’s most out-of-shape kid is warming up for his first event with a half-marathon. Sheesh!

When we finally arrive—fifteen minutes after the event should have started—the place is in disarray. A line streams out the door and people are arguing. Worse still, paramedics carrying a stretcher are attempting to fight their way through the mob, which isn’t moving one bit.

“Let them through!” I cry.

At first there’s silence, and then a faint murmuring. All eyes are on me, and it’s clear that even though I’m drenched in sweat, everyone knows who I am. To my surprise they move aside, allowing the stretcher to snake through at last.

The poor person being carted off is an old lady in a brown wool suit. She wears an oxygen mask, but as she passes beside me I recognize her face. “Yvonne?”

The lady on the stretcher shakes like she’s having a seizure.

“Yvonne Thomas?” I say, jogging to keep up with the paramedics. “I saw your profile on the Born-Again Bookshop website. You’re a legend. W-what happened?”

Yvonne opens her eyes. Studies me for a moment. Makes the connection… and sits bolt upright and rips off the oxygen mask in one smooth movement.
“Thank you, gentlemen, that will be all,” she trills.

The paramedics exchange glances. “Lie down, ma’am,” says the oldest. He has a kind face and a gravelly voice. “We’ve got you now.”

Yvonne glances at the line around her bookstore. “The hell you have!” She swings her legs over the side of the moving stretcher, but when she tries to stand she has to lean against me for support. She’s shaking like a cartoon skeleton. “Luke Dorsey, you… you saved me!”

The paramedics freeze and the crowd falls silent again. I wait for someone to cry
gotcha!
and for the hidden camera crew to emerge so we can all share a laugh. Meanwhile, I have an eighty-year-old lady hanging in my arms. If I hold her too tightly, I’m afraid she’ll break.

She turns to face the crowd. “Did you see that?” she asks them. “Well,
did
you?”

The murmuring resumes, a low-pitched hum that grows and grows until the crowd has whipped itself into a frenzy.

She shouts over them: “Nothing this boy says could possibly speak louder than his actions. There will be no talk, no questions. We must simply be grateful we were here to witness this… this
miracle
.”

I can’t believe she just said that—it’s obviously untrue. Even Yvonne hesitates like she knows she
overstepped her mark and wants to take it back. I wait for someone to call her out, but the longer the silence goes on, the harder it is for anyone to break it. In the end, the word stands:
miracle
. It makes me queasy.

Yvonne tries to let go of me, but her legs aren’t up to supporting her. “Please form an orderly line,” she continues. “We are Christians, after all. And don’t waste this opportunity to buy copies of
Hallelujah
for your friends, and your children, and your friends’ children, and… anyone you
care
about.” She leans heavily on the word
care,
which gives everyone a chance to count the bills in their wallets. Some of them sigh as they pull out credit cards.