Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip (5 page)

“But we just got gas yesterday,” Twig

complained.

“Only eight,” I said. “I put only eight

dollars in.”

“Oh, that'll get us way far,” Twig said.

So Twig and I set our sights

on the Exxon station,

making a vacation

of walking a mile

down the highway,

gas cans in our hands,

leaving the laughing people behind.

By the time

we came back,

Twig had gas

on her hands

and a bug

up her butt.

She wouldn't speak

to me.

“This is ridiculous, Twig,”

I said,

and she put her hands

over her ears.

“Now your ears

just smell

like gasoline,

too, Miss Poo-Poo Mood,”

I said.

Twig started to hum.

It's so dumb

when she does that.

She was humming

the “Star-Spangled Banner,”

mangling, strangling

the notes.

“I think it's sacrilegious

to our country to hum

our national anthem

when you're

Miss Temper Tantrum,”

I said to Twig.

She ignored me,

pouring the gas from

her can

into the tank

of the car.

“Ooo-kay, have it your way,”

I said.

Cars were honking

as they passed by,

but nobody even tried

to find out if we needed help

or anything like that.

There we were,

one fat, one skinny:

two chicks

with an out-of-gas

Firebird plopped

along the side

of the road

in Jersey.

Twig finished with the gas

and threw her can

into the trunk.

Then the punk

flopped into the

backseat,

propped up her feet,

and crossed her arms,

the Queen of Charms.

Not frazzled,

just slightly hassled,

I nozzled gas

into the tank, thankful

that I wasn't

as cranky as Miss Skanky.

Then she went psycho,

and for some crazy reason

kicked the back of

my car seat.

“Get over it,” I hissed.

Now I was pissed.

Twig just missed

being hit by the gas can

when I tossed it

onto the back floor.

I started the car

and took off with a roar:

the chauffeur of a backseat loafer

with a bad attitude.

“It's really rude

to sit in the back,

like I'm some kind

of taxicab hack.

You crack

me up, Twig.

Well, actually,

I'm not laughing.

I'm mad. This is bad.

Way sad. My best friend

on the planet

acts manic-depressive

on me, which isn't

impressive to me.

What are you,

bipolar or something?

You're acting

like your mom,

going through menopause.”

Twig snapped.

“Don't talk about my mom!

At least
she

doesn't hit pigs

or get tickets

or throw bubble gum

at the butts

of lemon pie guys

who turn out

to be judges

who hold grudges.

She
doesn't do stuff

like get all huffy

just because

she needs a cup of coffee,

or needs to write some mean-

spirited poem about

the judge of the contest

she wants to win.

My mom doesn't spin

her tires leaving parking lots,

like that's going to get her

attention or a mention

in the newspaper or something.

My
mom
doesn't run

out of gas like some dumbass.

She's not a crazy lunatic

in a polyester vest,

thinking she's the best

at everything she attempts.”

That did it.

Twig's words

were the straws

that broke

the Sister's back:

a personal attack

on my sanity

and my vanity

and my driving

and the jiving

of my words.

I was burning,

turning hotter

under the collar

as my heart

pounded harder

and harder.

I tried to

make my mind reason

with my temper, but it

didn't work.

I slammed, rammed

on the brakes,

making the car

scream to a

way-too-sudden

neck-wrenching stop.

I hoped

there was

no cop.

I took a fast breath,

filling my chest

with the air

of regret

that you get

when your very best friend

rips your skin

with sentences

that'll never mend anything.

I twisted

the friendship ring

off my finger,

remembering

how Twig had given

it to me

for Christmas

the year we met.

I still wet my bed,

when we met.

I was nine,

and Mom had

just died.

Twig was my favorite savior

that year.

Ever after,

we were glued at the hips:

two chicks indivisible.

Inseparable,

until now.

“Get out,” I said.

“If you don't like

me, just get out of the car.

Walk. Hitchhike.

Buy a bike.

Go home to your mom,

who's more perfect

than me, thanks to

the wonders of Botox

and cosmetic surgery.”

I held my breath,

hoping that she wouldn't go.

But she did. Twig

flipped her hair

like she didn't care

about anything but herself,

as if she had her own club

of people who

worshipped her,

and then she leaped

out of her seat

and through the door.

“Good-bye,” she said.

“Have a nice life.”

Then Twig reached in

and lifted her suitcase,

sifting her face

into a blank slate,

the colorless

shade of

squid-squishy

fish bait.

I almost hated her then:

my ex–best friend.

“Been nice knowing you,” she said.

“Most of the time.”

And then Twig climbed

up a little thicket on a hill

by the side of the road,

sticking her thumb

in the hick-thick air

and not looking back.

Tears streaming

down my cheeks,

I put the car in drive,

feeling less alive

than ever before in my life,

leaving my friend behind.

Five miles later,

I no longer hated her,

so I turned around

and found

Twig, still hitching,

her dumb thumb

in the air.

Weak with relief,

and frantic,

I screamed.

“Don't you care

that you could get

yourself killed?

Get in the car,

you retard,

before some creepy

brainless maniac

keeps you forever

shivering, starving

in the batty attic

of some old house

in Jersey.”

Twig tried not to smile.

She bit her lip.

She threw out her hip,

and her fishnets were ripped.

She turned down her mouth.

She scowled,

but it didn't wow me.

I knew

that she'd been crying.

Twig is no good at lying

to me,

even if she doesn't say

a word.

“You're a spaz,” she said.

“I can't believe

that you'd leave

me by the side of a road

somewhere in Jersey.

What a jerk

you can be.”

Twig ran fast

and opened the door.

“But I like you anyway.

I'm really sorry for the

stuff I said. Still friends?”

Twig said.

I thought for a second,

just messing

with her head.

“I guess,” I relented

with a grin.

Twig got in.

“I'll just forget

that this incident

happened. It was a bunch

of crap. It wasn't my bad;

it wasn't your bad.

Too much togetherness,

I guess.”

“Two poets on the road,” I said,

“can't always be happy.

Sometimes things will be crappy.

But don't get all sappy.

Let's rap, and slap the map

northward. Let's move forward.

The bad stuff is done.

Let's move on:

Sister Slam, Twig,

and the Poetic

Motormouth Road Trip!

Let's rip!”

“Where to next?” Twig asked.

We were two crazy

ladies like in that movie

Thelma and Louise.

We could go anywhere,

without a care, on a dare,

baring our souls to the world.

Do anything!

We could just fling

our arms

and embrace

the universe,

filling our purses

by writing verses

that would win

every slam in America.

“So, where do we go?”

I said.

“Let's go where

all good poets go! SoHo!”

“SoHo?” Twig said.

“Like in New York City?”

“Yep!” I said,

nodding my head.

“SoHo, where all poets go,

in the city that never sleeps.

The bustling Big Apple,

where we'll cripple-crapple

all poet opponents!

We'll be boho in SoHo.

Ho-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.

You'll wear a neon-pink wig,

but still be Twig.

This'll be big, Twig!

What a gig.

We'll take a voyage

through the Village,

and pillage trash cans

of the best restaurants,

getting good eats for free.

It'll be easy, you'll see.”

“Whoopee,” said Twig,

but she didn't sound

convinced, since her voice

sounded more like a

whoopee cushion than a cheer.

“Have no fear,” I said.

“We'll be like

those old Beat poets.

You know:

the finger-snapping,

happenin' dudes,

except we're chicks,

from the sticks

of Banesville, Pennsylvania.

We'll be famous.

We'll have our pictures

on the front page

of the
New York Times
:

The Queens of Rhymes!”

“Give me time,” said Twig,

“to think about this.

How will we exist

without money?”

“Honey,” I replied,

my eyes on the highway,

“you just leave it to me.”

“You know,” said Twig,

“the living is big

in New York.

A pork sandwich or a Manwich

costs six bucks or so.”

“Don't lecture,” I said.

“Don't worry your furry head.

Just enjoy the trip.”

Snippy as a whip,

Twig snapped open a map.

“You're full of crap,” she said.

“But let's go. SoHo, here we come.”

And then, she started to hum.

Confused in Newark,

New Jersey,

blurry-eyed and tired,

I drove

over and over

in a cloverleaf

of jerky circles:

around and around

the airport area.

“We're bound

to get out

of this eternal circle

sometime,” I said.

I sneaked a peek

at my hair

in the rearview mirror.

It was wrong, way wrong,

not to pay attention.

That's when it happened:

my bumper was just

tapping the fender

ahead of mine.

It wasn't a crime,

just a little fender bender,

not the end of the universe,

but of course, Twig was

a nervous wreck.

Heck, it was nothing

to be frothing or

shouting about.

Fender benders are

common denominators

in Newark, New Jersey,

where people drive crazy.

We pulled over

to the side of the road—

where loads

of traveler's trash

was dumped,

and so was the old

hunk of junk

that I'd bumped. Actually,

just
tapped.

I almost crapped

when this not-quite-male,

not-quite-female bailed

out of the car I'd nailed.

He/she was decked out

in a glitzy ditzy itsy-bitsy

prissy pink dress

with pearls. Swirls

of curly furled hair

showed through the nude

pantyhose on his toes

and legs. He was wearing,

I swear, a Rapunzel wig

from the Disney Store,

or somewhere.

If he'd had a sparkly wand,

he could have been

a twin of the tooth fairy,

hairy legs and all.

“Leave it to you,” hissed Twig.

“Your fender bender

had to be with a gender bender.”

“Ssh,” I said.

The Newark Tooth Fairy

teetered and tottered