by Dan Gutman
Fortunately, there was a nice place directly across the street from Graceland and next door to the campground—the obviously named Heartbreak Hotel.
As they walked toward it, Coke and Pep turned around to take one last look at the smoldering wreckage of the RV. Nobody could ever find out that Aunt Judy—disguised as Evil Elvis—had been inside.
Chapter 4
SWEET RIDE!
The Heartbreak Hotel in Memphis has an Elvis Presley theme, of course. There are pictures of Elvis all over the walls. Elvis songs blare out of hidden speakers. There’s a TV in the lobby that always has an Elvis movie playing on it. From the looks of the place, you would never know that The King died back in 1977. It looks as though he’s still alive.
Everywhere Coke and Pep turned, there were constant reminders of Evil Elvis. It made it hard to forget what happened with Aunt Judy just a few hours earlier.
Still, the twins slept soundly. It was nice to be in a regular bed for a change. After a few weeks, the RV had begun to feel like a rolling jail.
In the morning, everyone was famished. The food in the RV had been incinerated in the explosion, of course. The McDonalds came downstairs at nine o’clock and took a table in the hotel restaurant. Apart from a few lonely Elvis impersonators, the place was almost empty. A giant-screen TV on the wall was showing the young Elvis dancing with Ann-Margret in the movie Viva Las Vegas. The waitress took everyone’s order and went to the kitchen.
“Family meeting!” Dr. McDonald announced. “I’ve been thinking—”
“Uh-oh,” Coke muttered.
“You know I’ve been trying to come up with a topic for my next book,” Dr. McDonald continued. “I’ve decided that I don’t want to do an Elvis Presley biography after all.”
“Good idea, Dad,” Pep said, visibly relieved.
“Yeah, there are probably a thousand books about Elvis,” Dr. McDonald told them. “I was thinking that maybe for my next book I might try a novel.”
“A novel?!” Pep said, almost spitting out her orange juice.
“Ben,” said Mrs. McDonald, “you’re a respected scholar, a university professor!”
“That book about coal and the Industrial Revolution was awesome, Dad,” Coke said. “I couldn’t put it down.”
“See?” Mrs. McDonald said. “And you tackled an important subject. And now you want to write . . . a novel?”
“What, you don’t think I can do it?”
“You can do anything you put your mind to,” Pep told her father. “That’s what you always say to us, right?”
It was obvious that Dr. McDonald’s feelings had been hurt. It may have been the 21st century, but he was still insecure over the fact that his wife was more successful than he was. It didn’t seem fair to him that a million people visited her silly website every day to find out about ridiculous museums, giant balls of twine, and the like.
Meanwhile, his book had been a flop. Sadly, not a lot of people care about the impact of coal on the Industrial Revolution. The book sold less than three thousand copies. He wanted to write something that everybody would read and talk about. He wanted to see his name on the bestseller list.
“All I need to do is write a nonfiction book and add a story to it,” Dr. McDonald said. “Throw in some action. Some adventure. Some conflict. How hard could that be?”
“Do you have an idea for a novel, Dad?” Coke asked.
“No. I’m just thinking about it.”
The family looked at him skeptically, and Dr. McDonald decided it would be best to drop the subject for now. He pulled out his trusty Rand McNally road atlas and opened it to the big map of the United States. Leaning over it like a general planning an invasion, he stabbed his finger at Memphis, Tennessee.
“Okay, gang, here’s how we’re going to get home,” he said.
Dr. McDonald traced a southern route west with his finger sliding across the states of Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. Then they would drive up to Las Vegas in the southwestern corner of Nevada, and up through California until they got back to the San Francisco area.
The food arrived just after Mrs. McDonald opened her laptop and plugged in the starting and ending points for the trip. It would be about 2,200 miles, according to the computer, plus any detours they would make. The total travel time would be one day and eleven hours, if they drove it straight. But, of course, Mrs. McDonald had no intention of traveling all those miles without stopping off along the way.
“There are some cool things right here in Memphis,” she informed the group. “The National Civil Rights Museum is at the site where Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. And Sun Studio is here too. That’s where Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, and all those other singers recorded their first songs.”
“I say we blow this pop stand,” Coke said.
“I second that,” said Pep, glancing at her brother. “It gives me the creeps.”
After breakfast, the McDonalds went to the front desk to arrange for two taxis to pick them up—one for the boys and one for the girls.
Pep and her mom went to the Southland Mall, just two miles from Graceland on Elvis Presley Boulevard. They filled a couple of shopping carts with clothes, toiletries, bathing suits, and other necessities to replace what had burned in the RV. Pep took advantage of the situation to pick out a new wardrobe for herself. Like most girls her age, she was starting to care about fashion and the way she looked. She also bought a little notepad and pen that could fit in her pocket so she could jot down thoughts on the go.
Some might say it was sexist for the girls to go shopping and the boys to look at cars. But the fact is that Pep and her mother loved to shop, and Coke and his father loved cars. It was as simple as that.
The boys got into their taxi and told the driver to take them to the nearest car rental dealership. After a few minutes, the cab pulled up to a place called 4 Cheap Car Rentals.
“How about we get a Ferrari, Dad?” Coke asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.
“We’ve been through this,” his father replied. “Mom would throw a fit if we came back with a Ferrari.”
It doesn’t hurt to ask.
The middle-aged salesman with a name tag that said FRANK led them out to the lot, which was filled with hundreds of vehicles. After looking over three or four dependable, four-door, family-friendly cars, Frank walked past a low-slung candy-apple-red sports car parked off to the side.
“What’s that?” Coke asked.
“A Ferrari,” Frank said. “The 612 Scaglietti. But I can’t rent you that one.”
“Why not?” Coke asked.
“That’s my car. But you can sit in it if you want.”
“Shotgun!” Coke called, hopping in.
Dr. McDonald slid into the driver’s seat. Frank leaned in the window.
“It’s a V12 engine,” he said casually. “They improved the fluid dynamic characteristics of the intake and exhaust manifolds, so it can generate 540 horsepower at 7,250 rpm.”
“I bet this baby can go from zero to a hundred in like five seconds!” Coke gushed.
“Four point two,” Frank said.
Dr. McDonald put his hands on the steering wheel and started to feel chills running up and down his spine. He remembered the time they had stopped at the Bonneville Salt Flats back in Utah. It had been so exciting to push the accelerator all the way down to the floor and see how fast the clunky RV could go. A Ferrari would make the RV seem to drive like a glacier.
“Hand-stitched leather interior,” Frank continued as he turned on the radio. “Sweet sound system. Three tweeters on the dash, two woofers and two tweeters on the sides of the rear seats, an amplified bass box in the front, and a hundred-watt subwoofer in the rear.”
“You can blow your eardrums out if you want to,” Coke said, as if that was a good thing. He fiddled with the knobs and techno music thumped out of the speakers. The salivary glands in Dr. McDonald’s oral cavity began secreting liquid. His eyes were glaz
ing over. He closed them.
“All-aluminum space-frame chassis,” Frank said. “Aerodynamic lines. Twin xenon projector headlights. I’ll tell ya, I love my wife, but this car is—”
“I want it,” Dr. McDonald said.
“What?!” Coke said, a mixture of joy and alarm on his face. “But you said that Mom—”
“I never had a cool car before,” Dr. McDonald said. “I’ve never even driven a cool car. I always bought ‘practical’ cars. Cars that were dependable and reliable, and got good gas mileage. Cars that got you from point A to point B. Boring cars. But I feel like I was destined to own this automobile.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” Frank chimed in. “It’s one sweet ride.”
“This car is your manifest destiny, Dad!” Coke said.
“The seat even feels like it was molded to the shape of my body,” Dr. McDonald marveled.
“This is awesome,” Coke said, clapping his father on the shoulder. “You are totally sticking it to The Mom.”
And maybe he was. Deep inside—maybe subconsciously—he still felt some anger that his wife had just about laughed at him when he said he wanted to write a novel. Maybe he couldn’t do it. Maybe he was destined to be a boring history professor for the rest of his life. But he could drive this car. He wanted this car. He worked hard. He deserved a car like this.
Little did Coke or Dr. McDonald know that Frank didn’t actually own the Ferrari. 4 Cheap Car Rentals always kept a Ferrari off to the side specifically to entice men who were going through their midlife crisis. As soon as one of the Ferraris was sold, another would take its place. The lot sold more Ferraris than anything else.
“Well, like I told you, I can’t rent this car,” Frank said, “but if you’d be interested—”
“I’ll take it,” Dr. McDonald said, slapping hands with Coke.
“What about a test drive?”
“I’ll take it.”
Pep and her mother were waiting in the parking lot of the Heartbreak Hotel after getting this text from Coke: BACK IN 5 MIN WITH CAR. When they saw the Ferrari pull into the driveway, their jaws dropped open.
“I don’t believe it,” Pep said.
“You rented a sports car?” asked Mrs. McDonald.
“No, I bought a sports car!” her husband said proudly. “And it’s not just any sports car, Bridge. It’s a Ferrari 612 Scaglietti.”
“Chicks totally dig Ferraris,” said Coke excitedly. “This is a chick magnet.”
“Women!” Pep yelled at him. “Not chicks! And how would you know what chicks dig anyway, doofus? You’ve never had a girlfriend.”
“Don’t call your brother a doofus,” Mrs. McDonald said, her jaw still open.
“Can I drive this bad boy around the parking lot, Dad?” begged Coke.
“Don’t even think about it,” his father replied.
“How about when I get my license in a few years?”
“We’ll talk about it in a few years.”
“It’s not very practical, Ben,” Mrs. McDonald said, her hands on her hips.
“Yeah, I know,” Dr. McDonald replied. “The RV was practical. It was so practical that it practically burned to a crisp. I figured that after what we’ve been through, we deserve to have a little fun. Am I right?”
“We deserve to have a little fun, Ben?” asked Mrs. McDonald. “Or you deserve to have a little fun?”
“We all deserve to have a little fun,” he replied.
“There’s hardly any luggage space,” she countered.
“Perfect!” he replied. “We have hardly any luggage.”
“I’m sure the gas mileage will be terrible,” she argued.
“Do you know what kind of mileage the RV got?” he shot back. “Eight miles to the gallon.”
In any case, the deed was done. They had essentially traded in a hulking behemoth of a recreational vehicle for a tricked-out chick magnet that was capable of going from zero to a hundred miles per hour in 4.2 seconds.
Mrs. McDonald shook her head and checked out of the hotel while Coke, Pep, and their dad loaded their stuff into the little trunk.
“Are you guys ready to blow this pop stand?” Dr. McDonald asked when everyone was belted in.
“Yeah,” Pep said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Dr. McDonald revved the engine, and the Ferrari came to life with a purring sound that regular old boring cars don’t make.
“You hear that?” he said excitedly. “This baby wants to run!”
“Put the pedal to the metal, Dad!” Coke yelled.
“This is your midlife crisis, isn’t it, Ben?” Mrs. McDonald asked.
“Yes!”
“Please don’t go over the speed limit,” she warned. “You’ll get a ticket.”
He revved the engine one more time, and pointed the Ferrari west.
Chapter 5
THE DIVIDING LINE
At this point, you may be starting to wonder when Coke is going to be shoved into a spinning clothes dryer. Please! Have a little patience. Our story is just beginning, and the journey has not even begun. Stick with it, dear reader, and your unhealthy thirst for blood, gore, and tragedy will be satisfied.
By the way, if you’d like to follow the McDonalds on their trip back home to California, it’s easy. Get on the internet and go to Google Maps (http://maps.google.com), MapQuest (www.mapquest.com), Rand McNally (www.randmcnally.com), or whatever navigation website you like best.
Go ahead, I’ll wait.
Okay, now type in 3717 Elvis Presley Boulevard, Memphis TN and click SEARCH MAPS. Click the little + or - sign on the screen to zoom in or out until you get a sense of where the twins are. Did you find Graceland? That’s our starting point.
Now click Get Directions. In the A box, type Graceland, Memphis TN. In the B box, type Little Rock AR. Then click Get Directions.
Dr. McDonald made a left turn onto Elvis Presley Boulevard heading north and accelerated smoothly to merge onto I-55. He enjoyed the admiring glances he was getting from the drivers in the cars as he passed them. Especially the young female drivers.
“Keep your eyes on the road, Ben,” advised Mrs. McDonald.
“This car totally kicks butt, Dad!” Coke said.
“Stick with me, pal,” his father replied, pushing the gas pedal just a little farther than necessary to impress the family and feel the vrooooom of the Ferrari as it nosed over the speed limit.
Soon they were on I-40 and the ramp of the Hernando De Soto Bridge, with a large body of water in front of them.
“Feast your eyes, y’all,” Dr. McDonald announced in a ridiculously exaggerated fake Southern accent. “Yonder lies the mighty Mississippi. The largest river system in North America. Gateway to the West. Home to Huck Finn, Lewis and Clark—”
“We get it, Dad.”
“Ol’ man river,” Dr. McDonald began to sing, “dat old man river . . .”
“Please, Dad, not that,” advised Coke, with an eye roll to the left.
“Mississippi Queeeeeeeeeen!” belted Dr. McDonald. “If you know what I mean . . .”
“Please stop singing, Dad,” advised Pep, with an eye roll to the right.
“Do you kids know anything about the Mississippi River?” asked Mrs. McDonald. She, of course, knew that her son had a photographic memory and recalled just about everything he had ever seen, read, heard, smelled, or tasted.
“The name Mississippi comes from the Ojibwe Indians,” Coke informed the others. “They called the river Misi-zibi, which means ‘Father of Waters.’”
“Here we go again,” Pep muttered, clearly annoyed.
It’s not easy living with somebody who has total recall, and especially when he’s your twin brother. Pep’s teachers always seemed a little disappointed that she didn’t have her brother’s incredible ability to remember information.
Coke had read about the Ojibwe Indians on the back of a cereal box five years earlier, and couldn’t resist sharing the information.
“You prob
ably know that a raindrop falling into Lake Itasca in Minnesota will travel the length of the Mississippi and arrive at the Gulf of Mexico about ninety days later,” he said.
Now he was just showing off.
“Thank you, Mr. Boring!” Pep muttered, unable to restrain herself. “You probably just made that up.”
There was still a long way to go before the McDonald family would be home, but the Mississippi River seemed like a sort of symbolic dividing line between east and west. Pep turned around to glance out the back window and see the Memphis skyline getting smaller in the distance. They were finally on their way back to California. Like the Memphis skyline, their troubles seemed to be fading from view.
As soon as they crossed the Hernando De Soto Bridge, this sign appeared at the side of the highway:
“Woo-hoo!” Coke shouted. “Arkansas! The Natural State! The birthplace of Walmart! Did you know that in Arkansas it’s against the law to push a live moose out of a moving plane? That’s a fact!”
“Ah reckon I won’t be pushin’ no live mooses outta no air-o-planes then, pardner,” said Dr. McDonald.
“That accent is lame, Dad,” Coke remarked.
“It’s also insulting to the good people of Arkansas,” said Mrs. McDonald. “They don’t speak like that.”
“Then ah reckon ah better shut mah cakehole,” her husband replied. “Don’t wanna get no Arkansasians all riled up or nothin’.”
“So I guess there’s some weird Arkansas museum or tacky tourist trap you’ll be taking us to,” said Coke, to change the subject. “Maybe the largest peanut in the world?”
“No, that’s in Oklahoma,” Mrs. McDonald said as she picked up her Arkansas travel guide, which was conveniently titled Arkansas Travel Guide. “But they do have the world’s largest wind chimes, in Eureka Springs. Hmmm, let’s see. The town of Alma, Arkansas, calls itself the Spinach Capital of the World. In Mountain View, they have their Annual Bean Fest and Outhouse Races. And once a year in Yellville, they have a turkey drop. They toss live turkeys out of airplanes. That would be pretty interesting to see, don’t you think? But Yellville is pretty far north of here.”
