Thou Shalt Not Road Trip

by Antony John

  I can’t think of the right thing to say, so I just shrug. “Okay, well… I guess that counts as breaking serve. How does it feel?” I’m trying to be light.

  Fran doesn’t play along; she just taps her watch. “You’ve got thirty seconds left. Why don’t you just ask me?”

  “Ask you what?”

  “The biggest question of all.”

  “What are you talking about?” I croak.

  She sighs. “Fine. Have it your—”

  “Why do you look like that?” I ask, the words tumbling out.

  She has a smile prepared, but still her eyes betray the hurt. Or is it surprise? Was she expecting me to ask something else? “Because I want to remind people how bitter disappointment feels,” she says.

  Her words hang in the air for several seconds. I replay them over and over, trying to make sense of them. And then, finally, I think I understand. “Including me?” I whisper. “Do you want me to know that too?”

  She looks away and breaks the connection. Her eyes drift across the room, as though she’s trying to find something steady to latch on to. Eventually she gives up and looks at her watch again.

  “Sorry,” she says, almost too softly for me to hear. “Time’s up.”

  THURSDAY, JUNE 19

  Lessons 25: 13–15

  13. And though the boy was lonely and confused, yet he knew that patience was good. And so he knelt down and prayed, even as the children around him played. 14. The next day his faith remained strong, and he cast out all evil thoughts and prayed again that he might yet understand. Even as the children around him played. 15. The next day, still lonely and confused, the boy gnashed his teeth and cried out, “Why am I forsaken? Why am I alone? Why is my world undone?” And only the sight of children playing reassured him there was any joy left in the world.

  8:20 A.M.

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Matt starts today’s journey by announcing a detour to Santa Fe. He says it matter-of-factly, as though no one will mind. I can’t tell whether it’s a calculated move, or if he’s simply clueless. I’m guessing the former.

  Before I can complain, Alex rubs her hands together and opens the guidebook: “Santa Fe, Spanish for ‘Holy faith,’ is the state capital of New Mexico.” She continues with a list of invasions and occupations that blend into one massive bloody mess covering several centuries. Despite the catastrophic loss of life that stains Santa Fe’s history, Alex’s narration never once loses steam.

  “That’s all?” Matt says, when she’s finally done. “What about it being the Healing Stone capital of America?” he teases. “What about artist studios for rent at Manhattan prices?”

  Alex doesn’t reply.

  “Doesn’t your book even mention the phrase ‘upmarket kitsch’?” he continues.

  Alex closes the guidebook with a loud snap.

  “I’m just joking, Al.”

  No reply.

  The sign over the highway announces the turn for Santa Fe. If we skip the detour, we’ll be in Texas by lunchtime, and I’ll have time for a nap at the hotel, and a shower. I’ll be able to get my head straight, and after last night, that’s my top priority.

  “Can we just keep going, Matt?” I ask.

  No response.

  “Please? I could really do with an easy day.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. It’s weird, but he sounds like he means it too. “We need to…”

  Need to what? I want to ask. But Matt glides toward the turn and we’re on our way to Santa Fe. A sign shows we have sixty miles to go.

  “I didn’t mean that stuff, Al,” he says. “I was just being silly.”

  “I know,” says Alex. “I think I’d prefer to look around by myself, though.”

  Now it’s Matt’s turn to be silent. Alex responds by leaning over and pecking him on the cheek. He doesn’t react at all.

  “Good idea,” agrees Fran. “It’s bound to be a long ride this afternoon. We could all use some alone time.”

  It suits me, suits Alex, suits Fran. But Matt sinks deep into his leather seat, his shoulders slumped. Turns out, the person responsible for the detour is the least happy that it’s happening.

  Calculated? Clueless?

  Definitely the latter.

  10:10 A.M.

  Santa Fe, New Mexico

  There aren’t enough synonyms for sand-colored to describe Santa Fe. Old and new buildings creep up the hills like a haphazard stack of LEGO bricks. And though we’re at 7,000 feet and the air feels paper thin, mountains dominate the horizon, peaks still capped with snow.

  I’m aware of the beauty of this place, and the energy generated by the bustling crowds. But it’s the first time I’ve been by myself since the trip began, and although I ought to enjoy the solitude, instead I just feel lost and lonely.

  I’m tired too, so I start looking for a coffee shop—somewhere to sit and rest. I stop a passerby, but before I can ask for directions I’m distracted by something in the window of the store across the street: a life-sized cardboard cutout of someone I recognize very well.

  Me.

  “You okay?” asks the man, mustache twitching. “Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I cross the street in a daze and stare at the smiling cardboard version of myself. Only it’s not exactly me. Gone is the mole on my chin, and my skin is flawless. My teeth look a thousand times brighter than they’ll ever be in real life, and even my eyes have an unsettling vibrancy, like I’ve consumed a dozen shots of espresso. In short, I’ve been Photoshopped. Me, given the cover model treatment, as though my appearance has anything to do with what I wrote. I’d be appalled if I weren’t so jealous of my cardboard alter ego.

  I wander inside the store—a bookstore, it turns out—where an entire table has been covered with copies of Hallelujah. For a moment I just stand there, gawking at the artful way they’ve been stacked. Then three kids my age approach—two boys and a girl—and instinctively I walk away and hide behind a bookshelf. I don’t want them to see I’m not that person. It’s bad enough that I feel like a fraud for claiming to believe all the things I wrote; now I’m suddenly ashamed of my tiny mole and my less-than-perfect teeth as well.

  Through a gap in the shelf I watch them flipping through the pages of my book, stopping every now and again to read something aloud. They laugh, which ought to be a good thing, but every quote ends with an insult. I’m a “dork” and a “moron” and a “loser,” apparently. The abuse continues until an employee drifts by. Then they lower their voices and bow their heads and produce heartfelt ma’ams, laughing again only when the coast is clear.

  Outside the store, Fran’s purple hair catches my eye. She stands statue still, blindsided by the cutout, her upper lip curled. When she shakes her head in disgust I want to tell her it’s not my fault. I wish she’d never seen it at all.

  The main door swings open and Fran approaches the table of books slowly, almost reverentially. She picks up a copy and turns to the back, the flap with my biography and the black-and-white passport photo.

  “Can you believe this crap?” one of the boys asks her.

  Fran doesn’t respond.

  “You’re not going to buy it, are you?” asks the girl.

  Fran looks up now, tilts her head.

  “It’s just… have you heard this kid?”

  “Yeah,” says Fran. “I have.”

  “He’s a freakin’ mutant, right?” This from the other boy, desperate to have his say. “There was this interview yesterday—the guy grilled him. Total humiliation.”

  Fran smiles, but it’s cold, almost lethal. “How inspiring.”

  “Yeah, right?”

  “Takes a lot of intelligence to ambush someone in an interview. Very mature behavior too.”

  The boy narrows his eyes. “Wha—?”

  “Have you actually read this book?”

  “Hell no.”

  Fran grips her copy tightly. “Check out page seventy-seven. There’s a passage on bullying, and
how to keep your faith and rise above it. It’s funny, and it’s some of the truest stuff I’ve read. Believe me, with all the jerks at my school, I’m a freakin’ expert.”

  She hands the book over to the shell-shocked boy, turns on her heel, and strides out of the store. I half expect the trio to break into laughter, but they don’t. Instead they remain rooted to the spot.

  I take a deep breath and emerge from behind the shelves. They all look at me, but it takes a moment before they make the connection. Even then, no one speaks.

  “Here,” I say, reaching for their books. “I’ll sign them for you.” I pull out my trusty Sharpie and autograph the first two, but as I’m finishing the last, someone tackles me.

  “That’s it!” my attacker shouts. “I’ve had it with you kids defacing my stock.”

  The three kids are already slipping away, but the woman isn’t interested in them. I’m the one in her sights, and she doesn’t look as though she’s in a sympathetic frame of mind.

  “Being rude, mis-shelving books, and now graffiti. I’m calling the police,” she says.

  “I was only signing copies for them,” I explain.

  The woman leans closer, inspects my face and compares it to the photo on the flap of my book. “Oh,” she says. She releases my arm. “Well, then, keep going. And let me know when you’re done. I have another five boxes out back.”

  My arm hurts. It feels as though the tendons have petrified. “I’d love to, but—”

  “Great. Hurry up, then.”

  “I’m sorry, but my arm hurts. And my hand.”

  “Your hand hurts.” She mulls each word. “Forty days and forty nights did our Lord sojourn in the wilderness with wild animals—wild animals, you hear?—but your hand hurts.”

  “Mark, chapter one, verse thirteen,” I say.

  She fixes me with an icy stare. “Exactly.”

  “But I have to meet my brother soon.”

  “Then you’d better get started.”

  “I’d really like to help, honestly I would, but…”

  She rubs her chin rhythmically. “I understand. Just wait here while I call the police, okay?”

  “What?”

  “You defaced my property.”

  “I autographed it. It’s my book.”

  “No, Luke. It’s my book. You just wrote it.”

  Her look of triumph makes me want to scream. I would have signed her stock if she’d just asked nicely, but not now. If I do, it’ll be because I’m weak and scared. But Fran wasn’t weak when she stood up to those kids and spoke her mind. She said that what I’d written actually meant something to her. I don’t know how to process that right now, but I do know that if Fran is willing to stand up for me, the least I can do is stand up for myself.

  I re-cap my Sharpie, carry the three books to the checkout, and hand over a hundred-dollar bill to the timid-looking man standing behind the counter. By the time the woman realizes what I’m doing he’s already rung me up and handed over the receipt.

  “I want those back,” she shouts.

  I put the books under my arm and head for the door. By the time it closes behind me I can’t even hear her whining anymore.

  12:55 P.M.

  Parking lot, Santa Fe, New Mexico

  I get back to the car just a few steps behind Fran. She leans against it and rests her hand above her eyes, blocking out the sun.

  “So,” she says, “see anything interesting?”

  “Sort of. How about you?”

  “Not unless you count overpriced boutique stores as high culture.”

  It’s so unbelievably hot, but she isn’t even perspiring. Perhaps I should join the cross-country team next year.

  “So what rocked your world?” she asks.

  “A life-size cardboard cutout of yours truly in a bookstore window.”

  I tilt my head slightly so that I can watch her response, but she doesn’t even blink. “Of you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Huh. Sorry I missed it.”

  She’s completely unreadable. If I hadn’t seen her at the store I’d honestly believe she’d never been there. I want to talk about what she said to those kids. I want to ask her why she didn’t tell me she’d read Hallelujah—liked it, even. But I don’t know how to begin.

  Matt and Alex head toward us, arm in arm, reconciled once more. When Matt sees me, he gives a thumbs-up. “Dude, there’s a cardboard cutout of you in a bookstore!” he says.

  “I know.”

  “If it wasn’t so freaky, it’d be kind of cool.” He unlocks the doors. “So what’s next? Luke Dorsey: the mini-series? Luke Dorsey: the IMAX experience?”

  Fran pauses at her door. “Luke Dorsey: the IMAX experience,” she repeats in a movie-trailer voice. “Hey, I can think of worse things.”

  She gets into the car, while I wonder exactly what that means.

  5:15 P.M.

  The MidPoint Café, Adrian, Texas

  Matt points a finger at the upcoming mileage sign for a town called Adrian. “Guess we’ll be making today’s signing in plenty of time. Now, repeat after me: Detours are good.”

  I’m not sure which of us he’s speaking to, but no one says a word.

  We pull off I-40 at the next intersection and join Route 66. I guess this is how we’ll make our triumphant entry into Adrian. I’m sure the crowds will be lining the streets for us.

  Or not. Turns out, Adrian is a small town. Really small. But at the side of the road, like an oasis in the desert, is a giant sign pointing to the MidPoint Café. The number of cars in the parking lot suggests that things are looking up.

  “Mecca,” cries Matt, and Alex and Fran nod in agreement. I think it might be the first time today we’ve all agreed on something.

  We order quickly—burgers and fries, followed by a slice of the tantalizingly named “ugly crust pie”—and wallow in our good fortune.

  A lady at the next table leans over and waves a too-tanned arm. “You kids passin’ through?” she asks.

  “Sure are,” says Matt.

  “Paying homage to the Mother Road.” She smiles, which seems to activate a hacking cough she can barely control. “Know why this is the MidPoint Café?”

  “Presumably because it’s the midpoint of Route 66,” says Alex.

  The woman raises her penciled eyebrows. “Well, ain’t you smart as a whip. Yep, this place is one thousand one hundred and thirty-nine miles from Chicago. Care to guess how far we are from Los Angeles?”

  We all exchange glances.

  “I’m just foolin’ with ya,” she says, laughing and coughing again. “But it’s good to know you’re halfway, ain’t it?”

  “We’re stopping in St. Louis,” says Alex.

  “You ain’t gonna make it all the way to Chicago?”

  “No.”

  This news sends the lady into a funk so deep that she turns away and downs her coffee in a single gulp.

  The food arrives and we tuck in. It’s sublime, and the headache that’s been building since my run-in at the bookstore finally disappears.

  No one speaks until pie time. Then we all lean back as if to make a little more room for the impending caloric onslaught.

  “So where exactly is this bookstore?” I ask Matt, fork poised to attack the pie.

  “Sixth Ave. Which, I seem to recall, is also Old Route 66.”

  Suddenly the lady rejoins our conversation as though she’d never left. “Sixth Ave., you say?” She runs her tongue across her teeth. “Hmm. Ain’t no Sixth Ave. here, hon. You mean Sixth Street, not half a mile away. Tell me what you’re looking for.”

  Matt frowns. “Some Christian bookstore. Can’t remember the name. I just remember noticing that it’s on Old Route 66.”

  “Sixth Street ain’t on Route 66, hon. Now, Sixth Ave. in Amarillo—that’s on Old Route 66. You sure you’re in the right town?”

  “Yeah, we’re sure,” I say. “Aren’t we, Matt?”

  Matt frowns. “Shh. I’m thinking.”

&nb
sp; “What about?”

  “Shh.”

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” says Fran. The look on her face makes me to drop my fork and follow.

  She stops beside a guy who is typing on his laptop. “Hi,” she says, waving. “Sorry to bother you, but we really need to use the Internet. Would you mind?”

  The guy seems mesmerized by her hair. “Uh, sure,” he says.

  Fingers flying across the keys, Fran pulls up my publisher’s website. It claims that my signing is at The Goodly Shepherd in Amarillo, not Adrian, which is really strange.

  “Check the bookstore website,” I say.

  Fran does a quick Google search for The Goodly Shepherd. Their homepage loads in breathtakingly slow motion. At the top, in big red letters, is a flashing announcement: “One night in Amarillo: Luke Dorsey!”

  I sprint back to the table. “Maaaaaatt!”

  All the diners turn to face us.

  “Dude, you seriously cannot shout my name,” Matt hisses.

  “Dude, I seriously am. Why does my publisher’s website say tonight’s signing is in Amarillo?”

  He clicks his tongue. “Ah, dang it. I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  “You were afraid? When were you planning to mention it?”

  Matt stands, but his mouth is too full of pie for him to answer.

  “Now, calm yourself, hon,” says our neighborly lady. “Amarillo’s practically the next town over. Just a straight shot on I-40.”

  “Oh.” I offer a silent prayer of thanks.

  “Yeah, that’s cool.” Matt sits back down and gobbles more pie.

  “So how far is it?” I ask.

  “About sixty miles,” she says cheerfully. “Dead on an hour.”

  For a moment we all freeze. Then Matt slaps a wad of cash on the table and we’re out the door, piling into the Hummer. He fires up the engine as Alex pulls out the map and spreads it across her lap.

  “It’s five fifty-three,” I wail. “How the hell did this happen?”

  “Chill. Alex is doing her best.”

  “Hey, Luke, did you just say hell?” mumbles Fran.