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Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“The Church of the Holy Visage”

            As Dad flew along Route 666 full-tilt, he dug through one of the bags we filled at the gas station and tore into a big bag of chips. When he was nervous, he liked munching on things.

“James, you need to stop eating and keep your eyes on the road,” Mom said.

            “I can eat and drive at the same time, Mary.”

            That was true. My old man could eat Thanksgiving dinner in his lap while flying down the interstate a sixty-five miles an hour. Forget cup holders; he just shoved his drink between his legs and didn’t care if it looked like he wet himself when he got up. His flat lap served as a tabletop where he could lay out a cheeseburger, French fries, and catsup on some napkins and not be distracted by less-important things, like the traffic before him. On those occasions he pulled a sixteen-hour haul and needed more food than the average drive-thru could provide, he used everything from the armrest on the door, the space between him and Mom, to the dashboard for holding food and drink.

            There was no stopping his appetite for eating and driving at the same time—he believed in moving down the highway at all costs. The only thing he stopped for were side-of-the-road attractions, and those times we could no longer hold it and really had to use the bathroom (even then, he’d see if we could “hold it another fifty miles to the next rest stop?” even if we were a mile from one at the time. And if it was Elvis or me simply needing to pee, he was known to pass back a bottle or cup and tell us to fill it. He stopped that practice, though, the time we were driving to Yellowstone and Elvis decided it would be funny to “accidentally” spill a Coke bottle full of urine on me. The ensuing fight was one of the rare instances I actually defeated Elvis, and it took everything Dad had to separate my hands from my little brother’s throat!).

            Mom normally asked Dad to stop on the side of the road when he wanted to eat on a trip, but to pull over would be admitting some kind of defeat in my father’s mind. As long as he had a car packed with the children he sired and a fast-food meal in his lap as he maneuvered a huge, gas-guzzling American-made automobile down the road, he was a man!

            Dad used Lucky’s possession as a valid excuse to see just how fast the Inferno would go. Mom was so concerned about Lucky’s well-being, she wouldn’t have cared when he brought the car over one-hundred miles an hour had he not been munching on chips while struggling to open a can of soda. She prayed out loud when he had us going one-forty on a straightaway, though.

            “James, I’ll open the pop for you; hand it here. Just keep your eyes on the road.”

            “I’ve got it,” he said. Right as the pop-top made a little FWOOSH sound, Dad lost control of the Inferno!

            We bounced from one side of Route 666’s shoulder, to the other at over a hundred miles an hour! Dad dropped his chips and drink on the floorboard; he gripped the steering wheel like Gilligan and the Skipper on their fated three hour tour, just holding on for dear life and hoping for the best. He totally lost control, sending us into a spin. I don’t know how many three-sixties we did; all I remember was hearing Mom pray. We skidded to a sudden stop in a poof of dust, and when it cleared, we found ourselves safe and sound in the parking lot of The Church of the Holy Visage.

            “Is everyone okay?!” Dad said.

            None of us could speak. He looked at Mom, then in the rearview mirror at the rest of us, seeing we were all fine, just very shaken. We stared at the church.

It was a tiny mission at one time, the kind of place most towns restore and turn into tourist traps, but years of neglect told the story about this old church. Even the sign, a painted face of Christ meant to look like a stained glass pattern, looked ancient.

Dad grabbed the sleeping bag with Lucky inside and stepped from the Inferno. He looked back at the highway, smiling. Racing along a lonely old road with the engine wide open and living through an out of control skid with the needle on the speedometer almost pegged as far as it went made him feel manly, I’m sure—the kind of thing he only dreamed about. When the rest of us regained our composure, we piled out of the station wagon and went inside the church.

            The interior was a continuation of what greeted us outside. The place echoed, creaked, and had a dusty look that reminded me of a movie set. Scavenged pews, chairs, and a podium before the altar were taken from other churches. As we walked up the center aisle, antique, ornate Catholic pews sat beside plainer, Protestant pews. Folding wood chairs with faded, stenciled names like “FIRST METHODIST CHURCH, BISBEE,” and “MARY IMMACULATE” sat beside dented steel folding chairs. There were definitely plenty of places to sit, but I had the feeling none of the pews and chairs had seen the backside of a disciple in decades.

            The altar consisted of a podium that was probably scrapped from one of the churches where the old chairs or pews were found. Behind the altar, a plain, white T-shirt was placed on the back wall about ten feet up. I thought I was seeing things, but if you looked hard enough, you could see a faint—almost glowing—image of Christ on the T-shirt. The image didn’t appear to have been printed on the shirt; I looked around to see if there were any stained glass windows in the church where maybe a beam of light was shining through from outside, casting a stained glass image on the shirt. All the windows were boarded up—only a couple cracks let tiny beams of light shine through, illuminating particles of floating dust.

            Flanking each side of the podium were pedestals surrounded by clear, acrylic cases. I walked up the aisle to see what the cases contained. In one case was a tortilla with a Shroud of Turin-looking Christ face on the surface. The other case contained a red mechanic’s rag with Christ’s face appearing in an oil stain. I almost laughed.

            “Hello?!” Dad said. “Hello?!”

            Nothing.

            “Is anybody here?!” Mom said.

            A figure in a hooded robe stepped out from behind the altar, startling me. I wanted to run back down the aisle and into Mom’s arms, but stood my ground and looked. The robe was fashioned from the rag-tag dregs of what appeared to be holy robes from several denominations. As the figure stepped toward me, I could see the rubber fronts of green canvas sneakers poking out with each step.   

            “Greetings, weary travelers and welcome to the church,” the figure said. “How may I help you?”

            “We need an exorcism,” Mom said.

            He pulled the hood back, revealing his scruffy face. I don’t think he was dirty, but he sure looked dirty. A scraggly beard stopped at his chest and when he shook his head free from the robes, waist-length hair (some of it matting into dreadlocks), flopped all about. He looked homeless and reminded me of Jesus for some reason.

            “I am Brother Rob,” he said. “I can help you. You may look at me and see a madman, but remember: there were those who believed Christ a madman, too.”

            “This has to be a joke,” I thought.

            “No, Michael—no joke,” Brother Rob said, locking eyes. “I am for real.”

            I felt sick. “How did you know my name?” I said. “How do you know what I’m thinking?”

            “There are things I just know; a gift from Him,” he said, pointing to the T-shirt. “I was bathed in His light seven years ago to the day. I was a janitor in a church and an unbeliever just like you, but that would all change.”

            He took a deep breath and went on.   “I was wearing that very T-shirt when it happened. I mopped all the floors and scrubbed all the toilets in the church where I worked. After locking the doors for the night, I went to the chapel and turned the lights out. The streetlights outside cast the images from the stained glass windows across the chapel floor. The unbeliever that I once was, I began laughing and dancing on the images of the saints and the Savior. When I stopped, I noticed his visage was cast onto my white T-shirt from the lights outside. I laughed at Him and left the chapel, but His image stayed on my T-shirt. I was bathed in His light and given sight. With His gift, I know things. That is how I know you saw a message on the wall of a bathroom stall signaling the battle that lies before you. That is how I know your name: Michael, the name of the Archangel who drove Satan out of Heaven.” He looked at Mom and Dad. “Your parents named you well.”

            I’m sure Dad thought the story was all well and good, but we were there for a purpose. “Can you help with the exorcism?” Dad said, hoping to get started before Lucky woke up.

            “Indeed. May I see the afflicted,” Brother Rob said.

            I stepped back, behind Mom and Dad. Dad opened the sleeping bag enough for Lucky to poke his head out and struggle. The instant he saw Brother Rob, his eyes glowed red and he said, “DIE!!!” in a deep, gravely voice. Had it not been so terrifying, it would have been humorous!

            “I see…” Brother Rob said. He stepped to the tortilla at the side of the altar and removed the case. He placed it in the palm of his hand and made his way toward Lucky, who started fighting Dad. The room went cold, like someone opened a door in the middle of winter.

            “In the name of Jesus Christ, our God and Lord…” Brother Rob said. “…strengthened by the intercession of the Immaculate Virgin Mary, Mother of God; of Blessed Michael the Archangel—“ When he said “Michael,” Lucky’s head spun around backwards and looked right at me.

            “MICHAEL…” Lucky said in the deep voice. A wind picked up from out of nowhere, almost knocking me over. “MICHAEL, IT’S TIME TO DIE!”

The whole church started shaking. The cracks in the boards covering the windows grew larger, bathing the interior of the church in white-hot beams of light. Chairs and pews flew through the air, heading straight for Brother Rob, who calmly ducked out of their path; he shouted above the wind, continuing.     

 “…of the Blessed Apostles Peter and Paul and all the Saints; and powerful in the holy authority of our ministry, we confidently undertake to repulse the attacks and deceits of the devil.” Lucky, now frothing at the mouth and snapping his jaws, flew from the sleeping bag, through the air, straight at Brother Rob, who parried with the tortilla. He slapped Lucky in the head and shouted, “Be gone, demon!”

            The force knocked Lucky back into Dad and me, sending us both to the ground. Lucky and the tortilla fell to the floor as well. The first thing I thought about was being on the floor with Lucky. I was convinced, in an instant, I’d have a possessed Chihuahua ripping my throat out and no one—not even Brother Rob—would be able to save me. There was no attack, however, but I did hear chewing.

            “Lucky, no!” Mom shouted. Lucky was wolfing down the Jesus tortilla.

            “It is okay,” Brother Rob said. “He is healed.”

            “It’s like a big holy wafer!” the twins said, laughing.

            I sat up in time to see Lucky taking his last bite of the flour sacrament. “Is he normal again?”

            Dad looked at me. “Was he ever normal to begin with?” He helped me to my feet.

            Mom bent over, clapped her hands, and Lucky jumped into her arms. He licked her face and wriggled about. He was still the rancid little creature he always was, but we all knew whatever had a grip on him was finally gone…we just sensed it and somehow knew he was free.

            “Is there anything we can do for you?” Mom said.

            “Nothing,” Brother Rob said. “Just be careful. The demon may be gone from your dog, but I see a greater evil ahead for all of you.”

            “The car!” I said.

            “What about the car?” Brother Rob said.

            Mom answered. “Our car is also possessed. ‘Least that’s what they say—I think it’s just a piece of crap.”

            “Think you can fix that, too?” Dad said.

            “I am not a mechanic,” Brother Rob said. “I only perform exorcisms on living beings. There is nothing I can do for you, there. I am sorry.”

            “That’s fine,” Dad said, shaking his hand. “You’ve done more than enough. Thank you.”

            “You are welcome.”

            We all said goodbye to Brother Rob and thanked him at least three times before leaving. I lagged behind as we made our way up the aisle. Dad opened the front door and the church flooded with radiant light, practically blinding us. I had to turn away. I thought it was my eyes adjusting, but with one turn of my head, all the pews, chairs, and other things tossed about during Lucky’s exorcism were right back in their place. For that moment, the church was one of the most beautiful things I ever laid eyes upon. It didn’t matter that the pews were mismatched; I didn’t matter that the chairs were a hodge-podge from other places. There was just something that seemed so right to me at that moment…something I couldn’t put my finger on, but welcomed.         

Brother Rob looked at me. He winked and said, “Remember this, Michael. Remember, you have the power. Godspeed…”

* * *

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Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Of Half Buried Cadillacs and Fully Possessed Chihuahuas”

            When I woke up the next morning, I heard Mom and Dad talking—it was still dark. The episode with Bubba really got to Mom, and she was laying down the law to Dad, telling him how it was going to be.

            “James, since I won so much playing bingo and you’ve lost your wallet and have nothing,” she said, “I think what I say is gonna stand from now on. And I say from tonight, forward—for the rest of this trip—we’re sleeping in hotels.”

            Dad looked as disappointed as a little kid called in early on a summer evening. Ever since the visit to Yellowstone years before, he couldn’t convince Mom to take traditional camping trips anymore, so he had to settle for second best: sleeping in tents on road trips, or in the backyard with me.

            “Okay,” he said. “But can we at least sleep with the windows open?”

“No,” Mom said. He knew pushing the issue would get him nowhere, so he shut up.

            Breakfast that morning was gas station junk food: strawberry Zingers, Honey Buns, and doughnuts washed down with chocolate milk. It only took a few minutes to make it to Cadillac Ranch. The sun was just peeking over the horizon; Dad wanted to get there before anyone else.

            “I don’t think this place gets crowds, James,” Mom said on the drive there.

            “It’s famous, Mary,” he said. “You never know with these things…” He just used it as an excuse for an early start. The more time spent on the road was more time for adventure in his mind.

            There’s just something about ten Cadillacs buried face down, halfway into the flat earth in a wheat field in the Texas Panhandle—you either love it or hate it. Mom hated it, of course. Had it been a field full of pink lawn flamingos, she would have stood in awe, insisting Dad take plenty of pictures. But Cadillac Ranch offered nothing for Mom, except a chance to complain some more.

            “This is crap!” she declared. “A total waste of good cars! Cadillacs are classics, not like that station wagon you bought.” Dad could have argued that point; I’m sure he saw the Inferno as a distant cousin to the Cadillacs, but he knew better than give Mom what she wanted. “We should bury that piece of junk car of yours totally! None of this half out crap.” She lit a cigarette and Aunt Margie moved her way like a moth to flame, hoping for a handout.

            You could count me in as one who loved Cadillac Ranch; it was one of the neatest things I had ever seen—the kind of thing kids love. To Dad it was so much more—to Dad, it was a testament to humanity. Burying Caddies in a wheat field and calling it art was what separated us from animals, like Lucky. That someone even thought about burying cars in the earth, and that people came from all over the country to have a look—to Dad it was a thing of beauty. No admission; this was a gift to mankind for free, making it “truer” art in Dad’s mind than something one would pay to see in a gallery. No one even selling souvenirs on the site—just ten Cadillacs face-down in the dirt!

            “Isn’t it beautiful, Michael?” Dad said.

            “Yeah, Dad.” I didn’t see the beauty in it, but knew it meant a lot to him so I went along. “It’s neat.”

            He peeled his T-shirt off and handed it to me; something came over him. “Hold this, please.”

            He went up to the ’59 Coupe DeVille and ran his hand along its body, as though it were a horse and he were asking for permission to climb aboard for a ride. And that’s precisely what he did: in a flash, he climbed atop the car and stretched his arms toward the sky. He looked like a pagan god, standing atop the half-buried car, calling the sun from the horizon to do his bidding, the master of his own Stonehenge of rubber and steel and spraypaint. He let out a primal “YAAAWWWWWWWP!!!!!!!” then inhaled deeply.

            “What’s wrong with Jimmy?” Aunt Margie asked, blowing smoke into the morning air.

“He’s nuts is what’s wrong!” Mom said. She turned her attention to Dad. “James, you get down from there right now.” She said it like she was scolding one of the twins, or me.

As if ripping his shirt off and climbing on top of one of the cars wasn’t weird enough (even for Dad), what he did next was even more surprising. He turned toward the horizon, so his back was facing us, and he leaped backwards, pulling into a little ball—he was doing a backflip! He was no gymnast, though. He spun too much and landed flat on his ass and slumped forward.

“Jimmy!” Aunt Margie shouted.

“James!”

“Dad!”

We ran up to him and I thought he was crying, but he flopped on his back in the dirt and laughed.

“That’s not funny, James!” Mom said. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

He kept laughing.

“Stop that right now!” she said, but he didn’t. She stomped off with Aunt Margie trailing behind. “I’ll be waiting in the car…”

I wondered what made Dad act the way he did. I thought maybe he was simply stressed and needed a release, that all the years of living with Mom and taking her crap had welled up inside him and communing with the sun on top of the epitome of American machinery was the only way he knew to let it go. A religious experience. My theory wasn’t far from wrong.

“Are you okay, Dad?”

“I’ve never been better, Michael.”

I handed him his T-shirt and he pulled it on after knocking dirt from his back. “Why’d you do that?” I said.

He looked at me with intense purpose, like he was bestowing some ancient secret. “Michael,” he said, “there are moments bigger than our thoughts that can’t be explained. That was one of those moments and it was special. I can’t explain it anymore than that. It’s healing…”

We both stared at the sunrise. Over the years, I’ve heard many people talk about Texas having the best sunsets, but the sunrises are pretty impressive, too. To begin the day looking at something so beautiful…it sent us on our way energized and ready to tackle all that lay ahead.

            We had hardly made it into New Mexico when Dad saw a sign advertising a reptile farm. BIG TEX’S RATTLESNAKE PIT AHEAD—10 MILES!

            “James, we can’t stop—we don’t have time,” Mom said. “Haven’t we seen enough reptiles on this trip already?” Mom should have known better than to give Dad an option.

            “These are snakes, though!” he said. “Rattlesnakes! We got an earlier start than usual, and the kids would love to see it, I’m sure. Right kids?”

            Elvis and Olivia went nuts—the thought of seeing something as venomous as themselves appealed to them, and I’m sure their minds instantly set to work figuring out a way to get copious amounts of snake poison into their big brother’s body, while making it seem accidental. I wasn’t as enthusiastic.

            “How ‘bout you, Michael,” Dad said, looking at me in the rearview mirror. I was still thinking about Bubba penned up somewhere; how if I wanted to see rattlesnakes, I should go out on the plains among the rocks and see them as they’re meant to be seen. “Rattlesnakes, Buddy! How cool is that?”

            I knew we were going to end up stopping, regardless, so I said, “Yeah.”

            The reptile farm wasn’t nearly as big as Clyde McAllister’s Gator Village and Civil War Memorial, but how big does a side of the road attraction featuring a pit of vipers need to be? Judging by the one other car in the parking lot, they did twice as much business as Clyde McAllister, with maybe one fifth the square footage.

            We wandered in and were greeted by a rail thin guy carrying an almost full Dr. Pepper bottle. Just like Lance, he wore a belt buckle so huge, that it reminded me of a satellite dish. He had tobacco stains around the edges of his mouth, and introduced himself as “Big Tex” (even though we were in New Mexico and he maybe weighed a hundred pounds in cowboy boots and leather chaps). At first, I thought maybe he’d eaten a chocolate glazed doughnut and forgot to wipe his mouth, but as he talked, he constantly spit tobacco into the bottle (if you ever visit the American Southwest, a word of warning: never drink from a Dr. Pepper bottle that isn’t yours, or one that has left your sight—you just never know what may be inside).

            “Big Tex” took a headcount and told us admission would be twenty dollars. Dad instinctively reached for his wallet, quickly remembering he’d lost it. He looked at Mom, who was probably thinking she should have remembered she was the breadwinner du jour, and therefore, should have simply told Dad to keep driving when he saw the sign. Instead, she forked over the cash and said, “This is the last stop for something like this, James. Including the drive home…”

            Big Tex took her money and noticed Lucky between her breasts.

            “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we got a no pets policy. One of these snakes sees that little guy and they’ll think he’s dinner.”

            “I just gave you twenty bucks and you can’t make an exception?” she said.

            “Sorry, ma’am. Those are the rules.”

“Fine!” She set Lucky down. “Go to the car and wait for Mama, Lucky! Mama will be right there.”

He ran beneath the swinging saloon doors and hopped into the Inferno.

            Mom looked at Big Tex. “See if we ever come back here.”

            Big Tex’s Rattlesnake Pit was pretty much just that—a pit full of rattlers. He had a couple aquariums with other snakes lining the walls, complete with little signs like GARTER SNAKE: NON-POISONOUS—SAFE TO HANDLE; COPPERHEAD: PRETTY DURN POISONOUS—WATCH OUT!

            The highlight of Big Tex’s place was the old redwood hot tub he’d converted into “THE RATTLE PIT!” He built a little deck and railing up to the side of the hot tub—you climbed a couple stairs and looked down on his pit of poison. In what appeared to be an old pool cue holder, he had fishing poles with balloons tied to the ends so you could hang a balloon over a rattler’s head and watch it strike the balloon.

            “Rattlesnakes and balloons!” Dad said. “That’s a picture dying to happen. Go for it, Buddy!”

            Normally, I’d be going nuts over something like that, but I kept thinking about how wrong things suddenly seemed after meeting Bubba Bear.

            “Nah,” I said. “I’m not feeling so good. I think breakfast is catching up with me.”

            Across the pit from me, a fat kid with a crew cut, glasses that made his eyes look as big as baseballs, and a striped shirt was bonking a docile snake on the head, trying to get it to strike his balloon. When it finally did, Dad snapped a picture and smiled. He turned back toward me.

            “You sure? Just one picture?”

            “Okay,” I said, feeling guilty.

            I grabbed a fishing pole and waved the balloon over the snake pit, but the snakes seemed to not be into it just as much as me.

            “Agitate them a little bit…bonk ‘em on the heads, that should work!” Dad said, camera readied.

            I did, but the snakes did nothing. I let the fishing pole droop into the tank and stared at Dad. He wanted that picture more than anything—capturing the very moment a poisonous viper hit his son’s balloon, making a pop and scaring the snake half to death (no wonder the snakes didn’t want to strike). I zoned out until I heard Dad shout, “Michael!”

            He was yelling at me! I couldn’t believe it—against my own will, I tried getting the snakes to strike for his amusement, and now he was yelling at me!

            “Michael!” he yelled again. “Look out!”

            He wasn’t yelling because I didn’t get the snakes to strike; he was yelling because a rattlesnake had wrapped itself around the fishing pole and was crawling up it like a branch, toward my arm! I flinched, sending the snake off the end of the pole, through the air, and landing on Mom!

            “AAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!” Mom shouted as she rushed about, doing her best to keep the dangerous end of the rattlesnake as far from her as she could. Instead of tossing it from her shoulders and running away like a normal person would do, she thrashed about, running in circles like a cartoon character. She fished her lighter from her purse and tried setting the snake on fire! Mom figured that would do it, but in her panic, she couldn’t get the lighter to work. Dad rushed over to save her; the snake was about to strike! When it finally did, Lucky came to her rescue.

            He charged across the floor (how he knew Mom was in trouble is beyond me), and leaped with all his might, taking out the snake that would have struck Mom right between her eyes! He flopped to the floor with the middle of the snake firmly in his teeth, thrashing about like a feral little mongoose against a cobra. He got the upper hand, biting the snake several times and rendering it useless for a fight. He took it’s head in his mouth and swallowed the snake in a few quick bites, stopping for a moment at the rattle, where—I swear to God—he looked right at me and shook the rattle like a warning before swallowing the last bit of snake!

            “That’s why we allow no pets!” Big Tex shouted as he ran over. “That dog just ate one of my snakes!”

            Mom puffed out her chest, dwarfing Big Tex and sending a message to back down. “That dog just saved you from a huge lawsuit!” She looked at Lucky, making sure he was okay.

            “I think it would be a good idea if we left, guys,” Dad said.

*     *     *

            We passed a few more signs for side of the road attractions: caves, more reptile farms, and UFO landing sites. Dad knew better than to ask if we could stop.

            The incident at the reptile farm shook us all up—we drove along in silence, making our way across the state in record time. In a weird way, it was nice seeing Lucky save Mom—it meant maybe there was still a glint of the good Lucky in that little body after all (“good” being relative when it came to the mean little canine).

            Dad finally pulled in for gas late that afternoon. Mom grabbed Lucky and jumped from the car.

            “Gotta pee!”

            “I’ll be in after filling up,” Dad said, as she ran in. The rest of us got out to stretch our legs and see what the convenience store had to offer in the way of food. When I entered, I heard the cashier telling Mom, “Excuse me, Ma’am. You can’t be bringing your dog in here.”

            “What is it about this state and no dogs allowed?” she said. “Nobody else in this country has a problem with him. It’s not like he’s a drooling Great Dane, or something.”

            “Those are the rules,” the cashier said. “Sorry.”

            Mom opened the door and set Lucky down on the pavement. “Go to the car, Lucky! Go to the car—Mama will be right back,” she said. On her way to the bathroom, she huffed at the cashier and said, “That’s a stupid rule.”

            “Like it or not, it’s still a rule,” he said as she opened the door to the lady’s room.

            The twins went straight for the marshmallows. I grabbed good “road trippin’ food,” as Dad called it: pork rinds, tiny chocolate and powdered donuts, soda, bubble gum, and plenty of beef jerky; some sandwiches and chips, as well. Mom came out from the bathroom, grabbed what she wanted, and we all headed for the register. Dad timed the fill up perfectly and met us. He took one look at everything I held and gave me a thumbs up; I grabbed exactly what he wanted, too.

            “This all together?” the cashier said.

            “Of course,” Mom said, hoping to start something with the guy who put her beloved Chihuahua out. Everyone was smart and ignored her.

            “Yes. And the gas on pump four,” Dad said.

            “That’ll be fifty-three sixty-seven.”

            Mom pulled a wad of bills from her purse and handed them over. “We’re giving you all that money and you couldn’t let me bring my dog in? How’s that for gratitude?”

            The cashier ignored her. “Thank you.”

            “Yeah, right!” Mom snapped.

            The twins went right into their fresh bag of marshmallows as I divvied up my haul with Dad. Mom was the first into the car.

            “AAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

            “What’s wrong?!” Dad shouted.

            “Who let Lucky do this?!” she said, holding up the backscratcher. Lucky had chewed it beyond recognition.

            “Oh, sweet Jesus! No!!!” Aunt Margie said. “That thing done touched the King!”

            “Why didn’t somebody keep an eye on him?!” Mom bellowed. “How could youse guys let this happen?!”

            “Mary. Dear,” Dad said. “Please. Calm down.”

            I thought she was going to hit him. “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down, James David O’Brien!” she said. “Just when things start going good, this crap happens. Why didn’t somebody watch him, damnit?!”

            Dad started pleading with her. “Take it easy, Mar–”

            “I WILL NOT TAKE IT EASY!!!” she shouted. Her nostrils flared and her face turned beet red. She was about to explode; that was exactly what the Inferno wanted.

            “Mom, you’ve gotta stop!” I said. “Stop!”

            Everyone stared at me.

            “Mom, you’ve gotta believe me. Lucky chewed the backscratcher, but it wasn’t really Lucky,” I said. “It was a demon or something that’s possessed him. It’s trying to get us all to fight. So is the car. The car’s possessed, too!”

            “See, told you he was nuts,” Olivia said.

            “No duh!” Elvis replied.

            “What do you mean, he’s possessed?” Mom said.

            “I swear to God,” I said. “He’s possessed!”

            Aunt Margie said, “I thought you didn’t believe in God, Michael?”

            “Just trust me on this.”

            Dad backed me up. “Trust him, dear.”

            Mom looked at Lucky. It was like he knew what we were saying. He opened his eyes even wider than usual and did a little pant that looked like a smile. He was trying to look cute.

            “He’s not possessed, Michael.”

            “His eyes turn red, his head spins in circles. Trust me, Mom—he’s possessed!”

            She pointed Lucky at me. “I don’t see any red eyes.”

            “Try this,” I said, pointing to Dad’s plastic Virgin Mother on the dash. “Say some Catholic thing to Mary and touch Lucky to her.”

            “Huh?”

            “Dear, just try it,” Dad said, nodding.

            She went along with us. Whatever had hold of his soul knew something bad was about to happen. He started fighting. “Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with thee,” Mom said. “Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

            Lucky thrashed about in Mom’s grip. She was not about to let go.

            “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” she said even louder, ”pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.”

            Lucky began howling and his eyes finally glowed red. Olivia screamed and ran from the car. Aunt Margie was frozen in her seat, paralyzed by utter terror. Mom touched Lucky to the figurine. He yelped and his head smoked where he touched the Blessed Virgin.

            “Amen,” she said, letting Lucky go out of fear. He floated in mid-air, panting! I knew he was about to do something; before he had a chance to react, I grabbed an Elvis statue, took a big swing, and knocked Lucky to the floorboard, out cold.

            Mom was in shock—she wasn’t even mad that I may have hit his molera. “We need to find a church…” she said.

            Dad rushed into the convenience store

            “Can I hel—“

            Dad interrupted the cashier. “Is there a church around here?!”

            “A couple,” the cashier said. “What do you need?”

            “An exorcism!”

            The cashier tried not to laugh. “I don’t know of any churches in town that do that. Who do you need exorcised?”

            “Our Chihuahua!” Dad said.

            The cashier laughed—he couldn’t hold it back any longer. When he finally regained his composure he said, “There’s a place called the Church of the Holy Visage up on Route 666, between Tohatchi and Naschitti. Probably about half an hour’s drive. The guy who runs the place is a nutjob—he might help.”

            “Route 666?” Dad said.

            “Yeah, I’m not making that up, either. Just a ways up to the right,” the cashier said, pointing down the highway.

            Dad ran back to the Inferno and we sped away. As we raced down I-40 for Route 666, Dad suggested we wrap Lucky in a sleeping bag, in case he woke up. Elvis and Olivia handed a sleeping bag to me without an argument. Granted, it was mine, but for once, we were working together. I helped Mom wrap Lucky up—just enough to give him air so he wouldn’t suffocate, but tight enough to at least give us a fighting chance of controlling him if he woke up.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“A Visit from Bubba”

            I was so happy to hear Dad believed me. When you’re thirteen, it’s easy to think nobody gives you any credit, but I realized on that trip that it wasn’t so much that I was ignored, as much as I’d reached a level of maturity that adults began expecting more from me. “Dad, I think the car is possessed and I’m scared!” would work for a seven-year-old, but it’s not something adults want to hear from a teenager. So having my father believe me was a big thing at the time. I felt safer; in my mind, since Dad knew the car was possessed, nothing bad could happen. I felt great! Everyone seemed to be in an excellent mood, too. It was like we were all a real, model family. I had to give it another shot.

            “Hey, anyone wanna sing Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall?” I said.

            “Not now,” Mom said, recounting her money for the umpteenth time since winning.

            “No, shut up!” from the twins.

            “I don’t know the words and I ain’t no good at countin’.” Aunt Margie said.

            Dad said, “Looks like we’re out-voted.”

            Okay, so maybe we weren’t a model family, but we were making big strides.

            We rolled into the Texas Panhandle as the sun was going down. First thing, bright and early in the morning, Dad wanted to visit the Cadillac Ranch, where ten Cadillacs were partially buried in a wheat field and called “art.” To everyone but my Dad, it was something that could easily be skipped, but it was one of those places he waited years to finally see.

            We pulled off I-40 to a campground a few miles off the highway. Mom wanted to stay in a hotel, to celebrate her big bingo win, but Dad insisted he was too tired to drive any further. In reality, Dad wanted to sleep outside in a tent on hard-packed dirt. Mom did her normal, “What about bears?” speech and Dad assured her all was safe.

“The only bears in Texas are in zoos,” he said.

We paid for our space, pitched the tents, and started a campfire. Our space was at the back of the lot and the campground wasn’t very used; it was almost like roughing it for real.

            “Goody, we’ll get to finally roast marshmallows!” the twins said.

            “Yeah, you sure will!” Dad said, setting some twigs on tinder. It didn’t matter that we lived in a urban nightmare; on these trips, my father was just like Daniel Boone or Davy Crockett. He blew on the dried grass he’d collected, nursing a hot ash started by a flint and steel set he carried with him everywhere since his Boy Scouts days (be prepared—never know when an insurance salesman will need to start a primitive fire, after all). With a little POOF, the grass gave way to flame and spread to the twigs. He stacked bigger pieces of wood on until we had a good fire going. The twins pulled out a bag of marshmallows and sticks.

            “Youse two put those back!” Mom said. “You need to eat a healthy dinner, first!”

            The “healthy dinner” consisted of hotdogs, pork and beans, and greasy potato chips, all washed down with soda pop. I’m guessing, while a bag of marshmallows didn’t have much in the way of nutritional value, that meal wasn’t far behind. After dinner, Mom and Aunt Margie lit up and Dad kicked back, relaxing.

            “This is the life!” he said, rubbing his belly. “Nothing like a meal cooked over an open fire and a clear sky above. Can you hear that?”

            We all listened. “I don’t hear a thing,” Mom said, looking around nervously.

            “Exactly!” He laughed. “That’s what I mean! This is great—we don’t get this back home.”

            “We don’t get chewed on by bugs, either!” Mom said, swatting at invisible mosquitoes. “If I get malaria, you’re never going to live it down.” As she swatted at another bug only she could see, she knocked her Coke over, spilling the can’s contents all over the log she was sitting on. She stood up, Coca Cola dripping from her clothes.

            “This wouldn’t have happened if we stayed in a hotel!”

            The twins looked at Mom, ignoring her dilemma. “Can we roast marshmallows, now?”

            “Sure, go ahead,” she said as she grabbed napkins and wiped her bottom. Then she screamed!

            “What?” Dad said.

            The twins screamed and Aunt Margie joined in.

            “What?!” Dad looked at me. I screamed too.

            “WHAT?!” he shouted. I pointed to the two-hundred fifty pound black bear standing behind him! Not a monster by any stretch of the imagination, but in Mom’s eyes it was a two-ton, twelve-foot tall, fire-breathing Kodiak with a taste for fat women from New Jersey. It justified all her notions that if one sleeps outside—no matter where they are—bears will descend upon their camp and devour them in the night.

            “I told you, James O’Brien!” Mom shouted as we all ran for cover. “I told you bears would get us!” The only place to run was the Inferno.

            I got there first. “The doors are locked and the windows are up!” I yelled.

            “They shouldn’t be—we left them unlocked!” Dad said. It was the first time he saw the kind of things the car was doing to me all along. Just like the night it tried choking me to death, it was now trying to kill my family by not letting us in and leaving us to the bear. Dad picked up the twins and threw them in through the broken window, followed by me. Aunt Margie was next, even though Mom tried forcing her way toward the window after we were safe. When Dad tried putting Mom through the window, she got stuck!

            “James, if that bear bites my ass, you’re dead!” Her legs were kicking; her underwear exposed to the wilderness of Liam McGuy’s Campground. “Next time you’ll listen to me about the bears!”

            The bear was still at the campfire, though, rifling through our food. It devoured the twins’ marshmallows, filling its belly full of goopy, sugary goodness before moving on to hotdogs, potato chips, and desserts. When it was done devouring everything we had, it headed our way. Dad picked up a nearby stick to fend off the beast. As it lumbered toward us, I noticed it wasn’t nearly as large as it seemed when it suddenly appeared behind Dad.

            Dad stomped his food and thwacked the stick on the ground, trying to appear menacing. “Yo, bear! Get back, bear!” he shouted. Mom started screaming.

            “I’m gonna die in this crap car and it’s all your fault, James O’Brien!”

            Dad stood like a mountain man doing his best to fend off a feral beast. The bear stopped and stood on its hind legs; I thought for sure it was going to attack, but instead, it sniffed the air. It wasn’t looking to maul our family—it was looking for food! Dad caught on quick.

            “Michael, do me a big favor, Buddy. Grab anything from the cooler and slowly hand it to me.”

            I gave him some old sandwiches. He tossed them to the side and the bear ate them, bag and all. It made its way through the sandwiches in no time and turned its attention back to Dad. “Anything else?” he said.

            I handed him a stale marshmallow I found on the floor. Before he could toss it, the bear took it from his hand. Dad thought it was cool. The bear licked his hand and Dad said, “That’s it—nothing else.” The bear stood up and sniffed the air again; it was still picking up the scent of something sweet. It moved to Mom and licked Coke off her butt.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” she screamed. “IT’S MAULING ME!!!”

Dad pulled the bear back like it was a big dog trying to hump someone’s leg. From the trees near camp, we heard someone shout, “Bubba! Bubba Bear!”

A skinny guy in a cowboy hat stepped out. A belt buckle as big as a wrestler’s champion belt held his bootcut jeans at his waist. He walked right up to the bear and started petting it.

            “There you are, Bubba,” he said. “You messing with these nice people?” He pulled out a candy bar and fed it to his pet. For the first time, I realized Bubba had no teeth. Years of consuming sweets ensured he at least wouldn’t have been able to bite us if he were feral.

            “Your bear?” Dad said.

            “Yep—he got out of his cage. I’m really sorry.”

            “He’s tame?” Dad said.

            “Harmless as a bunny-rabbit.” He extended his hand to Dad. “Name’s Lance.”

            Dad shook his hand. “James.”

            “Nice meeting you.”

            Dad started helping Mom out of the window. Lance, realizing his bear was the cause of the problem, gave a hand without even asking. Bubba joined in, too, returning to lick more Coke from Mom’s rear.

            “You’re a dead man, James O’Brien,” she said. “Hear me? Dead! When we get back to Jersey, it’s ladle time for you!” I knew she would never hit me or the twins with the ladle, but even Dad looked like he wasn’t sure if she was kidding, or serious.

            Once Mom’s feet were back on solid ground and Lance had Bubba away from her, the rest of us got out of the car. Dad asked if we could all get a picture with Bubba; Lance took a picture of all of us, except Mom, standing with the stinky bear. Lance explained he bought Bubba several years before from a guy who owned a gas station. The gas station owner put Bubba in a cage near the pumps to attract customers; he had bought Bubba from a small circus that went under and couldn’t afford to keep him. Dad took a couple more pictures of us with the bear before Lance said he had to get back home.

            As I watched him walk off with Bubba, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the bear and all the other animals we’d seen along the way. In a cage or a wading pool on the side of the highway wasn’t the way animals were supposed to be viewed. I thought about the hawk and deer we saw at Aunt Margie’s back in West Virginia—that was the way things were meant to be.

I like to think Bubba escaped from Lance and wandered back to his birthplace in the hills, but the reality was he probably died with a belly full of sugar, on a concrete slab surrounded by chain-link fence.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“The Patron Saint of Bingo”

            Mom and bingo went hand in hand. She was convinced she could earn a decent living playing bingo, and for a short time, she was pulling in more money than my old man. If anyone could turn five dollars into enough money to fund the rest of the road trip, it was definitely Mom! We walked along the access road to the biggest bingo hall I’ve ever seen.

            I can’t remember if the Choctaw Nation, or the Chicasaws ran the bingo hall, but I do remember the image on the sign above the building. The words “HIGH STAKES” were prominently featured in several places, and the proud face of a tribal chief was placed over a bingo card. I remember thinking how tacky it seemed as Dad said, “When we come back by here, I’m definitely getting a picture of that!”

            We made our way inside and Mom was in heaven! She reached into her purse and pulled out her lucky card blotter—she never left home without it. The hostess knew Mom meant business.

            “Can I help y’all?”

            “One card, please,” Mom said, handing over the five. She pointed to Lucky, her third breast. “Is it okay if I bring him in? He brings me luck.”

            “I really shouldn’t let you,” the hostess said, popping her gum, “but I understand. Go ahead, but if you get caught, I didn’t say you could bring him in.”

*     *      *

            Mom and Aunt Margie fit right in with the bingo crowd; they were among their own kind. A thick cloud of smoke hung over the room, a sticky fog that wouldn’t go away. Over 25,000 square feet of tables, chairs, and people there to win money; it was overwhelming. Players lined up their good luck charms in front of them: rubber troll dolls, rabbit’s feet, crosses and other religious icons. One woman, wearing a T-shirt with a four-leaf clover on it, wasn’t taking any chances. She had stacks of pennies around her cards, a horseshoe, a baseball cap with a rainbow and pot of gold embroidered on it, stuffed animals, and so many Precious Moments angels it was creepy. The entire time we were there, she won nothing.

             Another woman’s good luck charm was something floating in a jar of liquid; the way she inhaled cigarettes, maybe it was part of her lung. Some people had chair cushions with everything from slot machine graphics on them, to old cartoon characters, like Betty Boop.

            Mom found a chair and we all gathered around to watch. The woman to her right and the guy to her left each were running multiple cards. They had them taped to the table and each time a number was called, they worked over their cards with two-fisted bingo blotters. A woman in the back shouted “BINGO!” while Mom got situated. By the time they verified the winner’s card, Mom had a cigarette burning, her card ready, and her sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, revealing armpits full of stubbly hair.

            They called the game and Mom was the first to shout, “BINGO!” She ran her sole bingo card like Minnesota Fats running a pool table. She won twenty-five dollars and immediately sent Dad to buy five more cards. When Dad returned, she set the cards on the table and pulled another blotter from her purse.

            “Wanna borrow some tape for those?” the guy sitting next to her said.

            “Thanks, but I don’t need ‘em,” Mom said. Bingo was like Zen archery to her; no matter how many cards she played and how fast she had to go over them, they stayed put and never slid around. All she needed to win was a scratch on Lucky’s head, a constant supply of nicotine, and room to throw her arms around like an octopus. In no time, she turned one five dollar card into ten—it was like watching a cell divide over and over. Soon, she drove her neighbors off and had one side of the table to herself. She was never one for exercise, but the way she ran back and forth checking all her cards, she exerted herself enough to last her months. She kept winning and winning. She took over the table like it was a small country. People actually stopped playing their cards and watched her in amazement.

            “She’s cheating!” someone shouted. I didn’t see who said it, but Mom did. She locked eyes with a bear of a man—easily six foot seven and three-hundred fifty pounds. He said, “Sorry,” grabbed his Funshine Care Bear, and shuffled away.

            “Hon, you need to stop buying cards,” Dad said.

            “Don’t tell me how to play bingo, James O’Brien. I know what I’m doing! If you remember, there was a time I made more playing bingo than you did at work.” She loved rubbing that in. “I’ve got enough cards for that!” She pointed to a “$5,000 POT THREE TIMES A DAY” sign. It was just about time to make her move.

            “All right, everybody…thiiiiiiiiiiiis is the moment you’ve been waaaaaaaiting for!” the caller said into his microphone. Up to that point, he was very serious, like a Secret Service agent, but now he was working the crowd over like an announcer at a monster truck rally. “It’s tiiiiiiime for the fiiiiiiiive thousand dollar jaaaaaackpot! Be sure to get your cards. This is a five minute breather. Goooooood luuuuuuuuuuuck!”

            Flashing lights and police rollers flashed. People ran to the counter to buy more cards. Mom sat in an almost meditative state, waiting for her big payoff.

            “Are ya really gonna win it all?” Aunt Margie said.

            “I don’t play to lose, Marge. You know that,” Mom said.

            Everyone took their places at their tables. Cards laid out, blotters in hand; it was like the line up right before a stock car race and Mom had pole position. The woman next to her was ready to give her a run for her money, though. They snarled at each other as the first ball was announced.

            “B-13,” the caller said.

            Mom and the woman beside her blotted several cards with the first number. They ran neck and neck, sometimes Mom would fall behind, other times she took the lead. Both women were large, sweaty, and smelling like menthols. The game seemed to last longer than others, but when the caller said, “O-25” I saw Mom had it! So did the woman beside her. They both went for the last spot; they both hit it at the same time, but only Mom shouted “BINGO!”

            The woman beside her slumped onto her card, clutching her chest—in the excitement of hitting bingo on the big pot, she suffered a heart attack! People rushed up to Mom to check her card, while others ran to check out the woman beside her. In all the excitement, Mom did the most deplorable thing I ever saw her do in my life—she reached over and rubbed the winning mark off the woman’s card.

            While Mom’s card was verified the winner, our neighbor was on the table, receiving CPR. With one quick lick and swipe of Mom’s thumb, not only was the woman going for a ride to a local hospital, she was going twenty-five hundred bucks poorer. Mom, however, was happy she wouldn’t have to split the winnings. The bingo hall paid out the pot, Mom stuffed fifty hundred dollar bills into her purse, and we left in time to see the ambulance heading off toward the nearest hospital.

            As we walked across the parking lot, Mom came to my side.

            “I’m sorry you saw that, Michael,” she said. I could see no shame on her face for clearing the woman’s card of the other winning spot. “Let it be a lesson: only the strong survive. We’d only have twenty-five hundred dollars right now, instead of five thousand.”

            “Wouldn’t twenty-five hundred have been enough?” I said.

            “Yeah, but five grand feels much better,” she said with a big smile.

            “That’s wrong,”

            “That’s helping the family, Michael.” She lit a cigarette and dropped back behind me to chat with Aunt Margie, who thought Mom was magic at that moment. I’m guessing the most money Aunt Margie ever saw at once was twenty bucks. In her eyes, Mom was a millionaire.

            We neared the gas station. Dad said, “Why don’t you guys head back toward the car. Michael and I will get the hose and meet you.”

            Mom peeled a Franklin from her stack and said, “Get some cigarettes and munchies…whatever you want.”

            “Marshmallows!” the twins shouted in unison.

            The rest of the family went back to the Inferno while Dad and I got a hose for the car, a carton of cigarettes for Mom and Aunt Margie, and a bag of snacks to last us the rest of the day. We walked back to the car, and even from a distance, it was clear Mom was talking bingo with Aunt Margie, who was eating up every second. Dad laughed; he looked at Mom with a glimmer in his eye.

            “Your mother amazes me sometimes, Buddy.”

            “Yeah, she really cleaned up,” I said.

            “I know people don’t see what I see in her, but back at the bingo hall…that’s what I love about her. When she sets out to do something, she does it and doesn’t let anything get in her way. I really respect that side of her.”

            I wanted to tell him I saw her wipe the other winner’s card, but didn’t want to ruin the moment for him. Instead, I just agreed. “Yeah.”

            “And I really respect you,” he said. “It took guts to slap some sense into me the way you did. No hard feelings. We’ll get this hose on the car and head back to Stuckey’s, pay for our meal, and hit the car wash. Sound good?”
            “Yeah, sounds really good.” I looked at the Inferno as we got closer; there was something I thought about on the way to the bingo hall and it was time to speak up. “I’ve been thinking about something, Dad.”

            “What’s that?”

            “The car. Lucky. I think they are somehow related,” I said.

            Dad was actually listening. “How so?”

            “I know it’s hard to believe, but I know Lucky is possessed. Not just kidding around, but really possessed.”

            “I thought you didn’t believe that stuff, though?” Dad said.

            “I’m beginning to change my mind.”

            “Why?”

            “The Inferno,” I said. “I know it was choking me the other night. I know it chased me down last night. I’ve been thinking…it seems the car only acts up when we’re all mad and yelling at each other. It runs just fine when we’re all getting along, but when we’re mad, it breaks down. And Lucky: it’s like he knows I’m figuring things out and he’s trying to stop me. I bet I sound crazy?”

            Dad didn’t say a thing. I thought he was going to ignore me again. When he finally spoke up and said, “I believe you,” I stopped dead in my tracks.

            “Huh?!”

            “I believe you,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about the way the car’s been acting, too. I’m still not sure about Lucky being possessed, but it’s all too weird for coincidence. I know you wouldn’t make things up if you didn’t believe they were happening, or seen them firsthand.” He looked me right in the eyes and said, “I believe you, Buddy, but let’s keep this to ourselves right now—don’t want to worry everyone just yet. We’ll just stay in a good mood and test your theory. Sound good?”

          “Yeah!” I said, giving Dad a hug. “Thanks, Dad!”

            “No problem, Buddy. No problem.”

We finished our hike back to the Inferno, where Mom was telling Aunt Margie, “There was even a time I supported this family playing bingo…”

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“The Writing on the Wall”

We drove along for a good hour before I summoned the courage to tell Mom what happened to Lucky. I was surprised she didn’t ask where he was before then.

            “Mom?” I said, hoping the tone of my voice wouldn’t give me away right from the start.

            “What, Michael?” she said.

            “Can I tell you something without you getting mad at me?”

            “What did you do, now?” she said.   

So much for easing my way into things—I cut to the chase. “Mom, I dropped Lucky into an alligator tank by accident and it ate him.” I cringed, expecting her to be one hundred percent serious when she told Dad to turn the car around to Jersey so she could beat me senseless with the sauce ladle. Instead, she was calm.

            “You dropped him into an alligator tank and it ate him?” she said.

            “Yeah. I’m really sorry—I didn’t mean to. He was fighting with me and slipped. Please don’t be mad.”

            “I’m not mad,” she said.

I pinched myself to see if I was dreaming. “You’re not?”

            “No,” she said. “But I do think there’s something wrong with you. Lucky’s right here.”

            She held the beast up where I could see him. He stared at me and I’ve never been more terrified in my life.

            “Lucky was back in the car, waiting for me,” she said. “I don’t know what you let him get into or why you let him loose, but he was fine once I cleaned him up.

            I closed my eyes and wondered if I was sane. Everything seemed disjointed, like I was disappearing, or floating in space.

            “We should drop Michael into an alligator tank!” I heard Olivia say. She sounded far away, or like I was underwater.

            Then Elvis: “Yeah, that would be fun!”

            I was going insane—that had to be it! I saw Honky eat Lucky whole; there was no way Lucky could have escaped! I had to know how Lucky got out of the gator, so years later, I returned to Clyde McAllister’s Gator Village and Civil War Memorial. I asked Bonnie and Clyde to tell me their version of the story. This is what Clyde told me:

            “Gator Breath called me into the Hall O’ Gators right after y’all pulled out of the parking lot.

            ‘Grip! Come here, quick!’ she done said.

            ‘What?!’

            ‘Just get yer ass in here!’

            I went to Honky’s tank to take a look. He was deader’n a doornail. It looked like something chewed its way out his side, through the ribs and everything!

            ‘Sweet Jesus in Heaven!’ I said. ‘What the hell happened there, ya reckon?’

            ‘I dunno,’ Bonnie said. ‘You think them folk did it?’

            ‘I don’t see how they could of. Damn thing woulda bit anyone that got near it.’

            ‘They been the only ones here, though,’ Bonnie said.

            ‘Aw, hell. They was good folk,’ I said. ‘Even if they did it…I can always catch another gator and paint it up really good.’” (I was right! Honky was the result of a couple cans of Krylon® Flat White Decorator Paint!).

            Had you told me then that Lucky ate his way free from the stomach of a gator, even after all I had seen him do, I wouldn’t have believed you, but that would all change. I still have nightmares about him to this day.

*      *      *

            We were nearing the Oklahoma border when we passed a sign advertising a Stuckey’s ahead, twenty-five miles. With a truck stop complete with facilities, at least there’d be a carwash. Finally cleaning the car was probably one of the last things on my father’s mind, however. To Dad, Stuckey’s was a beacon in the night. To my Mom, it was a cornucopia of crap!

Dad always left Stuckey’s with plenty of proof he spent some time on the open road. He’d gather up paper placemats, buy clear, plastic belt buckles with scorpions inside, and of course, he’d buy pecan rolls. To Dad, a Stuckey’s Pecan Roll wasn’t just a snack—it was eaten with all the love and care of a high-dollar New York cheesecake or fancy tiramisu. He’d buy as many as he could sneak by Mom. Once home, he’d pop them in the freezer in his den. Anytime living with Mom became too much to handle, he could retreat to his lair, thaw one out, and sit back in his chair and pretend he was driving cross country.

            We pulled into the Stuckey’s lot and the first thing Mom said was, “Clean this car right now, James! It smells like we’re riding in a toilet.”

            “That’s Michael!” Elvis said from the back, causing Olivia to laugh. I let it slide.

            “We can clean it after we eat, can’t we?” Dad said. “It doesn’t look that crowded inside and you know how it is: one second a place can be almost empty and the next it’s packed.” He just wanted to get in to buy stuff.

            “Okay,” Mom said, “but everyone eat quick!” She shoved Lucky down her shirt and we went inside.

            Dad fought the urge to head straight for all the souvenirs. A rude hostess seated us at a booth too small for us all. I was cramped and wanted some room; I was still reeling, wondering how Lucky had survived being eaten by a gator. I excused myself to the bathroom so I could mull things over a bit more in the privacy of a stall.

            The bathroom was cleaner than most truckstop johns, but the scent of human waste was still beating the smell of cleaning supplies to the finish line. I didn’t have to go to the bathroom—I just needed some time to reflect on things, but got sidetracked with bathroom wall graffiti. On the condom machine, someone had written THIS IS THE WORST GUM I’VE EVER TASTED, and above one of the urinals, YOU’VE GOT THE WHOLE WORLD IN YOUR HANDS. If the graffiti was that good in the open room, the stalls would surely contain a mix of wisdom and humor worthy of a Pulitzer Prize for Potty Prose.

            I found the stall with the best balance of graffiti and cleanliness and sat down to read. There were all the old standbys, sayings like:

THEY PAINT THE STALLS TO COVER MY PEN, BUT THE SHITHOUSE POET STRIKES YET AGAIN!

IF YOU CAN PISS ABOVE THIS LINE, THE FIRE DEPARTMENT WANTS TO SEE YOU

And that timeless classic: HERE I SIT ALL BROKEN HEARTED…TRIED TO SHIT BUT I ONLY FARTED…LATER ON I TOOK A CHANCE…TRIED TO FART, BUT SHIT MY PANTS!

There were also some clever pieces of graffiti I had never seen before:

ROSES ARE RED, VIOLETS ARE BLUE, MOST POEMS RHYME, BUT THIS ONE DOESN’T

STOP GRAFFITI!

PATRONS ARE REQUESTED TO REMAIN SEATED FOR ENTIRE PERFORMANCE

GOD IS LOVE…LOVE IS BLIND…RAY CHARLES IS BLIND…RAY CHARLES IS GOD!

URINE TROUBLE!

and IF YOU DON’T CARE WHERE YOU ARE, YOU’RE NEVER LOST

(I thought about how much Dad would have liked that one).

There were also gross ones:

EAT SHIT! 1.9 TRILLION FLIES CAN’T BE WRONG!

THE HANDS THAT CLEAN THIS TOILET ALSO PREPARE YOUR FOOD—SO KEEP IT CLEAN!

And the grossest one of them all: someone had smeared feces on the wall of the stall with their finger and written LAST NIGHT’S DINNER! beneath it.

            I closed my eyes and just relaxed; I don’t know for how long. I thought about all the bad things that were happening and had a feeling things would have to get worse, before they got better. I wanted to know what would happen next, I wanted to know what I needed to do to stop the Inferno.

I opened my eyes and just before leaving the stall I noticed a piece of graffiti I had somehow overlooked. Right in front of me were the words: AND WAR BROKE OUT IN HEAVEN: MICHAEL AND HIS ANGELS FOUGHT WITH THE DRAGON; AND THE DRAGON AND HIS ANGELS FOUGHT. REV. 12:7.

When I returned to the table, Mom was trying to figure out if it was Elvis, or Olivia (or both), who put marshmallows in her Tab while she turned away. After eating, Dad could hardly hold himself back from cheap trinkets and pecan rolls. The waitress returned to our table and said, “Can I get y’all anything else?”

            “No, just the check, please,” Dad said. He had his eye on a cheesy Indian headdress that read “Stuckey’s” in plastic beads.

            Mom noticed and said, “You already have one of those stupid things, James.”

            “Yeah,” Dad said, “but not that color!”

            The waitress slid the check onto the table and told us to be safe.

            “Ready?” Dad said, reaching for his wallet, but wasn’t there. Mom knew there was something wrong.

            “What?”

            “Did I hand you my wallet?” he said.

            “No.”

            “I must have left it in the car, then. I’ll be right back.” He left and returned a couple minutes later.

            “You’re sure I didn’t hand you my wallet?” he said to Mom.

            “I’m positive. Don’t tell me you lost it!”

            “I’m sure I just misplaced it. Maybe it slid out of my back pocket, through the seat, and is on the floor.”

            “Or maybe it fell out of your back pocket, was lying on the seat, and someone grabbed it through the busted window,” Mom said, probably right. “When was the last time you had it?”

            “Earlier, at the alligator farm,” he said. “I bought a few things in the gift store.”

            “Well maybe the car ate it, then,” Mom said sarcastically, but it set off alarm bells in my head—what she said reminded me how much I wanted to be as far away from the Inferno as possible.

            “Do you have any money on you?” Dad said to Mom.

            “All I have is a five.”

            “That won’t cover it.” He turned to my aunt. “How ‘bout you, Margie?”

            “I ain’t got nuthin’,” she said.

            “Kids?” He was desperate. We all shook our heads “no.”

            “What are we going to do?” Elvis and Olivia said. Dad handed Mom the keys.

            “Why don’t you all go out to the car and wait for me. Leave the engine running.”

            “What are you doing, James?” Mom said.

            “Just follow my lead. Please, just this once—go along with me.”

            We all headed toward the door and Dad said, “I’ll catch up with you guys in a minute. Gotta go to the bathroom and pay the bill!” He was talking loudly enough for the staff to hear, so they wouldn’t catch onto his plan.

            In the Inferno, Olivia said, “Mommy, is Daddy going to do something bad?”

            “I don’t know. Probably.”

            “Didn’t he want you to start the car?” I said. I was always looking out for my old man, even though his plans were often weak at best. Mom shook her head and turned the ignition. Nothing!

            “Oh, what the Christ?!” She tried again, but had no luck.

            “Here he comes!” the twins shouted. Dad was sneaking out the door, carrying a handful of paper placemats.

            “Mom—“ I said.

            “I’m trying, Michael!” she yelled. The car wasn’t turning over.

            A busboy came rushing out from the restaurant, right behind Dad.

            “Hey! Hey! Come back here!” Dad picked up the pace to a full-blown run for the car. I reached over his seat and opened the door for him.

            As Dad slid into the front seat, Mom turned the ignition one last time and the Inferno roared to a start. Dad floored it, leaving the busboy reeling in the car’s stench!

            Dad zipped onto the highway and drove like he was fleeing a bank robbery—we were in Oklahoma in no time. He kept looking in the rearview mirror. When the coast was finally clear, Mom said, “I can’t believe this crap! How could you lose your wallet?” She was trolling for a fight.

            “I had it with me earlier,” Dad said.

            “You’re always losing things. When are you going to stop losing things, James?”

            Dad ignored her. We were now well down the highway from Stuckey’s and I’m sure he was thinking of all the jackalope postcards and fake Indian jewelry he could have scored, had he not lost his wallet. Mom wasn’t about to give up, though.

            “You can be such a child, I swear.”

            Dad wasn’t biting, but I could tell he was about to lose it. Something just felt wrong in the car. There was always stress when Mom and Dad got into it, but on that trip, it seemed amplified by the Inferno.

            “James, I’m talking to you!” she said.

            “I hear you!”

            His reply even startled Mom. He began accelerating and sweating. Mom knew she was getting to him, though, and she lived for getting under people’s skin. She was like a bad tattoo.

            “You need to slow it down, James,” she said. “And tell me, how could you lose your wallet?”

            Dad lost it. “I don’t know! Maybe because—for once—you weren’t hen-pecking me and treating me like a child! Would you just let it rest, for once?! I’m sick of it!!!” he yelled.

            We were all shocked. Sweat rolled from his brow and a slight odor of sulfur filled the car. Olivia began crying.

            “Mommy and Daddy are going to get divorced!” she cried.

            “We’re not getting divorced!” Dad shouted.

            “Yes you are!” Olivia said. I told her to shut up.

            “You shut up!” Elvis said. Mom spun around.

            “Both of youse, shut up!”

            Dad couldn’t take it anymore. “ALL OF YOU, SHUT THE HELL UP!!!”

            The Inferno’s engine made a grinding, popping noise—steam shot from beneath its hood. Dad pulled over near a billboard, rested his head on the steering wheel. He began crying. His shirt was soaked in sweat, but it wasn’t that hot in the car.

            “Damnit! Is it too much to ask for us to go on a trip and all get along?” he said. “Is it expecting too much from a brand new car not to keep breaking down all the time?” He punched the dashboard in frustration. “I’m sick of this crap. Just sick of it!”

            I reached over his seat and slapped him in the face. If Dad’s outburst shocked everyone, me slapping Dad gave them all heart attacks.

            “What the hell?!” Mom said.

            “Yeah, what the hell?” Dad said.

            The twins saw an opportunity for a dig. “You’re in trouble now, Michael!”

            Dad ran his fingers over the part of his face I slapped. It was red and growing redder; my fingers throbbed in pain I hit him so hard.

            “What the hell are you doing?” he said.

            “Remember back at the rest stop when Lucky bit me? You said if you ever acted weird again to slap some sense into you. Well, I just did.”

            I could tell, in a roundabout way, he was proud of me. He started laughing. “Yeah, I guess you did, Buddy.” He looked at us all and wiped the tears from his eyes.

            “Look, I’m sorry, everyone. I just wanted this trip to go off without a hitch,” he said. “I shouldn’t have lost me temper like that.”

            “Same here,” Mom said, looking ashamed. She was still a little stunned from Dad standing up to her. “Sorry.”

            Steam from the engine rolled into the open windows; it seemed to make the outhouse stench even more vile.

We all got out of the car and stepped to the side of the highway as Dad looked under the hood. I made sure Mom and Aunt Margie’s cigarettes didn’t start another fire, while Elvis and Olivia finished off their last bag of marshmallows.

            “What’s wrong?” Mom said.

            “It’s just a hose,” Dad said. “If we had some money, I could get a new one and have us back on the road in no time. But we’re broke.”

            Mom looked at the billboard, smiled, and said, “Not for long. I’ve got five dollars”

            “Huh?” Dad said.

            She pointed to the billboard: “CHOCTAW BINGO – NEXT EXIT! $5/CARD – $5000 JACKPOT, THREE TIMES A DAY!

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Clyde McAllister’s Gator Village And Civil War Memorial”

            “Well a-hey!-hey!-hey! and a howdy!-howdy-do! Welcome to Clyde McAllister’s Alligator Village and Civil War Memorial!”

            Clyde McAllister was everything I imagined, a portly little guy, but beneath all the fat, you could tell there was a lot of knotted muscle for years of backbreaking work. A Korean War vet and self-proclaimed Civil War expert, he chomped on a cigar and wore a cowboy hat almost too big for his large head. His cheap suit didn’t fit quite right; the bottom half of the suit was too tight while the top half was too loose (except around his gut, where it must have been a struggle to secure). An alligator pin was attached to his lapel where most people place carnations, and his tie was patterned after a Confederate flag. He looked like he should have been selling used cars; nothing like the Inferno—more like old Gremlins and Pacers. I could almost hear him saying, “Yeah, it may have a few dings and pings, here and there, and the mileage may be high, but this car is an American classic!” He stood at a podium; behind him were curtained doors, one reading IN and the other OUT. He was a national treasure in my father’s eyes.

            “Nice meeting you, Clyde,” Dad said. “Your brother, Big Dick, told us we needed to stop by.” Dad reached out and shook Clyde’s hand. When Clyde shook back, my old man winced in pain.

            “Yep, Clyde’s the name, but my friends call me Grip!”

            Every sentence he said was an event with Clyde, loud and with purpose. It was like talking with Yosemite Sam, and I wouldn’t have been at all surprised had he produced two six-shooters, shot the floor, and floated above the ground, just like in the cartoon.

            Dad pulled his hand back, massaging it. “Grip…I can see why they call you that.”

            Clyde rolled up his sleeves, proudly displaying criss-crossed bite marks up and down his arms. “Yep! Gotta have a grip if ya wanna tame them wily beasts! Can’t tell ya how many times I’ve almost had my arms ripped clean off!”

            He wiggled his fingers—all seven of them.

            “They can have a few fingers, but I’ll be damned if I give one of them sons-a-bitches a whole arm!”            He rolled his sleeves back down, collected himself, and finally said something in a normal tone. “So y’all want the full tour?”

            “Yes,” Dad said. “There are six of us. Three adults and three children.”

            “I sees that. I may be dumber than bricks, but I can count to six!”

            “Sorry, Clyde.”

            “Grip! Call me Grip!” He messed up Dad’s hair with one of his heavy hands. “I’m just foolin’ with ya, Tex! It’s five bucks for old farts and three bucks fer the rugrats. Gimme a twenty and we’ll call it even, but y’all gotta promise to buy somethin’ before ya leave, okay?”

            Dad pulled a twenty from his wallet and handed it to Clyde. “I was planning to, Grip.”

            He slapped Dad on the back, almost knocking him to the ground. “There ya go! Me an’ you is buddies, now! Lemme find the little lady an’ we can start the tour. Bonnie!” he yelled.

            “Bonnie?” Dad said. “Bonnie and Clyde?”

            Clyde smiled. “Yeah, an’ all this time you thought we was dead!” He guffawed and went through the IN curtain. “Bonnie! Where is ya, Gator Breath?! We got a show to put on! Bonnie!”

            Clyde’s wife, Bonnie, wandered through the OUT door while shouting, “I hear ya! I hear ya! I ain’t the deaf one, you is!”

            Bonnie would have been a waitress in a dirty diner if it weren’t for her duties at the gator village. I imagined her moseying up to a table and saying, “What can I getcha, Sugar?” She was tall and skinny and popped her gum as she chewed.        

“Howdy, y’all,” she said before starting her speech. “Thanks fer visiting Clyde McAllister’s Alligator Village and Civil War Memorial. Behind this curtain lies a world unlike any you’ve ever seen.” Everything she said sounded rehearsed and stale; she definitely lacked the passion Clyde had for his job. “See ferocious gators fightin’, leapin’, and eatin’ while also learning about the Civil War,” she said. “In mere moments, we will enter. Prepare to be amazed.”

            “You ready back there, Grip?!” she yelled, startling us all.

            “Yeah, Gator Breath—I’m ready!”

            “That’s his nickname fer me,” she said. “Ain’t it just the cutest thing?” She fished a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lit one. Mom and Aunt Margie got excited.

            “It’s okay to smoke?” Mom said.

            “Of course, hon! Ain’t no laws against it ‘round here. Ain’t nobody ever gonna tell me where I can and can’t smoke. So smoke ‘em if you got ‘em!”

            Mom and Aunt Margie lit up as Bonnie grabbed a wireless microphone from the podium.

            “This way,” she said, heading through the IN curtain. Dad readied his camera and we all followed.

            The interior of the gator village was laid out like a cheap haunted house—in ways, it was every bit as creepy! Bonnie and Clyde believed in putting black curtains to good use; the curtains made up the hallways we walked through on our way to the first exhibit. High above us, old fluorescent lighting fixtures crackled and hummed, casting a sickly, flickering green glow on things. Bonnie stopped and pointed toward a taller curtain.

            “All right!” she hollered.

            Clyde’s voiced boomed over a cheap public address system. It faded in and out, but since he was just on the other side of the curtain, when it dropped out, he was still more than audible.

            “The American gator,” he started, trying his best to sound like the narrator on a legitimate nature program. “One of Mother Nature’s fiercest of beasts. For ages, man has tried taming these monsters.”

            Dad was getting excited; he lived for this kind of thing. He knew whatever was on the other side of the curtain wouldn’t be half of what it was hyped to be, but in its own schlocky way, it would be far better than one could ever imagine.

            “Growing to lengths of over twenty feet long, with a mouth fulla razor-sharp teeth,” Clyde said, dropping in and out on the speakers, “these beasts are akin to a shark on land. Only a complete fool would dare battle one of these hurking monstrosities! Beware, my friends…beware…”

            The timing wasn’t perfect, but Bonnie wrestled with the curtain, pulling it back to reveal one of Dad’s favorite pictures he ever snapped. Clyde, still chomping on his cigar, was in a large, plastic kid’s wading pool, wearing cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, and a Tarzan suit! He stood over a gator that appeared to be sleeping. Canned jungle sounds and drum music played over the PA as Clyde yelled and rolled around in the water with the gator. He was no Australian Crocodile Hunter, but he had more charm and showmanship. Not since seeing Jack Hanna wrestling with a docile anaconda on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom did we see a better show. The gator didn’t put up even a hint of a fight, but the way Clyde yelled and rolled around, one might expect he could die at any moment. Dad snapped picture after picture as Bonnie added to the spectacle.

            “Be careful, Clyde!” she said into the mic. “Watch out! Oh no!” She looked away, covering her eyes with both hands. “I can’t bear to watch! Tell me when it’s over!”

            Clyde rolled around with the gator, until finally prying its mouth wide open. He stuck his head between the teeth and yelled in victory, “YAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

            Bonnie looked back at us, feigning surprise. She slapped the side of her face and said, “Why look at that! Never before have I seen such a feat! Let’s give a huge round of applause for Clyde McAllister, y’all!”

            We all clapped as Bonnie reached behind the curtain and triggered canned applause over the PA system. Dad snapped one final picture before Clyde removed his head from the docile reptile’s mouth and stepped out of the pool. The gator fell right back to sleep as Clyde bowed.

            When the canned applause stopped, Bonnie closed the curtain, and in mock concern said, “Whew! That was too close for comfort! Clyde coulda lost a limb fightin’ that beast. Clyde was lucky, but in the Civil War, many Confederate soldiers weren’t. If an artillery shell didn’t rip their arms and legs from their torso, gangrene set in and they had to be amputated without the benefit of pain killers.”

Just like that, she totally shifted gears, dropping her head and sliding into a sullen voice. “There’s a lot more to this place than just fun. Not only do you get to see flying gators at Clyde McAllister’s Alligator Village and Civil War Memorial, but y’all’ll walk outta here havin’ learnt a thing or two. In the next room, y’all’ll learn about Yankee atrocities committed during the Civil War.”

She led us to a room where a large table, serving as a shoddy Civil War battle scene diorama, waited. The table was situated near a wall, below a dingy curtain where a cloudy sky was painted by clumsy hands. The battle scene had seen better days: the paint on the tiny soldiers was chipping and they were so dusty, it was hard to tell the Blue from the Gray. The figures were mounted on pegs that moved back and forth along the table, like an old tabletop hockey game from the 70s. A smooth, flat area was laid into the table, and if one looked hard enough, they could see the faded yard markings from a tabletop football game from similar times. Sagging paper maché hills and trees made from twigs rounded out the diorama. The lights dimmed and a spotlight shined upon the scene.

            “December thirty-first, eighteen sixty-two,” Bonnie said into her microphone. “It would not be a happy new year for General Braxton Bragg and his men. The new year would be rang in battlin’ that back-stabbin’ Yankee coward, Major General William Rosencrans and his men. Murfreesboro, Tennesee—site of the Stones River Slaughter.”

            Flashing red lights strobed the battlefield as canned gunfire, artillery blasts, and yelling played over the PA. The troops moved back and forth in their slots as little puffs of talcum powder “explosions” riddled the troops, covering them in more dust.

            “The battle had begun,” Bonnie said. “Attacks and retreats—both sides took heavy losses.”

            The flat section of the table began vibrating loudly and the figures standing there fell over, but still bounced around. Dad and I were hysterical, but Bonnie pushed on like a true Southern Belle, not letting our laughter get the better of her.

            “Artillery ripped through the mighty Southern Forces, but still…they fought on!”

            The table shook violently; explosions throwing painted chunks of paper maché at our unprotected faces.  Sparks flew from the ends of the soldiers’ tiny muzzleloaders, starting a tiny fire that spread quickly. Bonnie was visibly shaken—something was going wrong with the table, but like a mighty Southern soldier with a Yankee in their sights, she pushed on.

            “From December thirty-first to January second, the Confederate forces battled the Yankees fiercely. It was an ugly, ugly scene.”

            The fire consumed the tabletop—both Confederate and Union forces were engulfed by an out of control blaze! Clyde’s scarred arms poked out from behind the backdrop with a fire extinguisher. A couple short blasts saved both sides from imminent doom.

            “Headless horses…mangled bodies…mutilated mules,” Bonnie said as we watched plastic figures melt into grotesque blobs. “The countryside was littered with the carnage of 24,988 casualties. Strong, Southern soldiers died in a senseless battle with little tactical value. They died at the hands of cold-blooded Yankees. Let’s bow our heads in a moment of silence and remember these men; these Sons of Dixie.”

We bowed our heads; Dad’s face was so red from holding back laughter, it looked like it was about to explode, just like an evil Yankee taking an artillery round to the head. When we thought it was finally over, Bonnie led us through another curtain; we passed beneath a sign reading HOSPITAL. Canned moaning and screaming played over the PA. “I hope y’all haven’t eaten yet cause you are about to witness first-hand the horrors of Civil War medicine.” We were getting to the good stuff!

            We entered a room full of poorly sculpted life sized wax medics working on wax soldiers. The scene was meant to be overly gruesome; fake blood was used like house paint, covering everything. It was obvious the building’s air conditioning went out from time to time because both medics and soldiers were partially melted, making the faces of the wounded even more grotesque and pained, and the faces of those left standing even creepier.

            Large jars full of formaldehyde and body parts—fingers, hands, and organs—lined the shelves along the walls. I thought I made out a fetus in a jar near a far corner where the light didn’t reach, and thought about Little Dick. Mom and Aunt Margie were visibly shaken. I’ll admit, it was a ghastly sight; the smell of wax, musty costumes, and formaldehyde made it more sickening. Dad and I loved it, of course—it was worth the twelve hundred miles we’d traveled by that point. He snapped enough photos, he had to reload his camera. The twins, unaffected by it all, kept to themselves and their bag of marshmallows. Bonnie tried bringing us back to what she and Clyde thought was a serious, touching memorial for fallen Confederate soldiers.

            “Imagine the pain of being shot in the leg by a gutless, yellow-bellied Yankee,” she said. “Imagine that pain growing and growing as your leg swells and oozes, until finally turning yellow with gangrene. You can’t walk; all you can do is cry and drag your diseased limb through the hearty, Southern soil of your homeland.”

            It took everything Dad and I had to hold back the laughter. Patriotic music played over the moaning.

            “Finally, the battle is over,” Bonnie said. “You finally receive the medical attention you’ve been needing for weeks, had it not been for the lilly-livered Union holding you down.” She pointed to one of the wax medics sawing a soldier’s leg off. “There’s not much for a Southern doctor to do, but amputate.”

            Fake blood, remotely triggered by Clyde from somewhere nearby, spurted from the leg wound, splattering Olivia, who was looking at the scene with morbid curiosity. Elvis plugged the wound with a marshmallow and moved on. Bonnie obviously enjoyed working from the script she and Clyde probably spent months perfecting. To them, this was serious business.

            “You take it like a true-blooded Southerner as they saw through your infected leg and burn it shut with a hot iron. All you have to keep ya from passing out is a swig o’ whiskey and a strap of leather between your teeth.”

            She bowed her head as the moaning and music stopped, then paused for dramatic effect. “But still you die,” Bonnie said, hoping we understood how horrible it was fighting the North in the war. “Yer just another casualty of Yankee oppression on the South. Let’s all bow our heads in another moment of silence.”

            We all bowed again, but Dad and I couldn’t hold back this time—we laughed out loud, causing Bonnie to shoot us a cold glare. We shut up like two kids before the school’s principal and in trouble, until Bonnie finally said, “Well, enough of this sad stuff. Who wants to see more gators?!”

            Dad and I cheered, “YEAH!”

            We wandered through a curtained doorway with a sign above reading, GATOR SPLASH! Bonnie handed us all plastic garbage bags with head and armholes torn into them.

            “Y’all’ll need these,” she said, pulling one on, herself.

            We entered a room with a much larger pool than the wading pool where Clyde valiantly wrestled with the sedated gator, this pool was more like a stand-alone, backyard pool about four or five feet deep. There was an excitement in the air that we were actually going to see something exciting. Clyde stood on a ladder above the pool. In his hands were three lengths of rope with Cornish chickens tied to the ends. Bonnie triggered a drumroll over the PA and went into her spiel.

            “And now, the pride of Clyde McAllister’s Alligator Village and Civil War Memorial…won’t you all give a warm round of applause for Splashdown, the highest leapin’ gator in all the land!”

            More canned applause played over the speakers as Clyde swung one of the chickens near the surface of the water. A much more active gator than the first took a bite at it, missing by inches as Clyde jerked it away, building anticipation.

            “And now, the moment you’ve all waited fer…let’s see the gator fly!”

            Clyde lowered a chicken a few feet above the water. Dad snapped a picture right as the gator’s head poked up from the water and snatched the chicken up in a quick bite.

            “Come on, Splashdown!” Bonnie said. “You can do better than that for these kind folks! One…two…three—let’s see the gator fly!”

            This time, Clyde lowered a chicken high enough above the water that the gator’s body rose halfway from the pool, snagging the second chicken! A weak splash rolled over the edge of the pool, soaking our feet in a damp, swampy odor. Bonnie and Clyde were starting to ham it up, hoping to create some tension and excitement.

            “What’s the name of this here exhibit, Grip?” Bonnie said.

            “Gator Splash,” he said, acting surprised. “Why?”

            “Well, we aint’ seen no gators splashin’, have we, y’all?”

            Dad and I shouted “NO!” while the rest of the family looked on, bored to tears.

            “Do y’all wanna see the gator fly?!” Bonnie shouted into the microphone.

            “Yeah!” Dad and I said.

            “That don’t sound too enthused. Lemme try again: do y’all wanna see the gator fly?!”

            This time we shouted “Yeah!” a little louder, but it still wasn’t good enough for Bonnie.

            “I still can’t hear you!” she said. “That there gator’s underwater and he wants to hear y’all loud and proud. One more time: do y’all wanna see the gator fly?!”

            “YEAH!!!” Dad and I screamed at the top of our lungs.

            The canned drumroll resumed as Dad readied his camera.

            “Okay, here we go. One…two…three—let’s see the gator fly!”

            Clyde held the final chicken high in the air, and Splashdown showed us what he was made of. He came out of the water, flying through the air to the chicken, which he snapped up in his jaws before bellyflopping back into the pool, creating a sound splash that covered us all! Our cheers were joined with applause over the PA. Even Mom, Aunt Margie, and the twins clapped and howled! Dad gave me a hug. For one fleeting moment, a captive gator leaping from a stagnant pool to get a small chicken from the end of a rope brought us all together.

            “Whoo-wheee! That sure was fun, huh?!” Bonnie said. “All that’s left now is the Hall O’ Gators Gift Shop!”

She led us through another curtain, to another room. Aunt Margie began pulling her garbage bag splash suit off her heavy frame. “Lemme give ya this back.”

            “Oh, no, Hon!” Bonnie said. “You keep that. It’s a souvenir on the house! Months from now, you’ll still be able to smell the gator on them.”

            Dad and I sniffed our garbage bags. I don’t think it was so much gator odor, as much as stagnant, dirty water that was rarely changed; the gator was like a tea bag, just adding to the overall fishy odor.

            “I sure hope the Hall O’ Gators Gift Shop has a bathroom!” Mom said.

            “Nope, Ma’am,” Bonnie said, “but we has a porta-pot out back you can use.”

            Mom handed Lucky to me.

            “Hold him,” she said. “I’ll meet youse guys back in the car.”

            Mom zipped off and Aunt Margie followed.

            “I need another smoke!” she said, chasing her older sister.

            The rest of us meandered toward the gift shop. I lagged behind, checking out a room full of all kinds of gators in large tanks. Above each tank was a sign with the name of each critter and a warning: “KEEP HANDS OUT OF TANKS!”

            Dad went straight for the gift shop counter, to buy T-shirts, mugs, and anything else that would remind him he once visited Clyde McAllister’s Alligator Village and Civil War Memorial. Bonnie was joined by Clyde. The twins looked at a sandbox in the corner of the room. A sign on the wall read “FREE GOODIES FOR THE KIDS.” Beside the sandbox was a metal detector and small hand shovel.

            “What’s this?” Elvis and Olivia said.

            “That’s the relic dig!” Clyde said proudly.

            “The what?”

            “The relic dig. You use that metal detector there and it’s just like being on an old battleground, excavating for Civil War artifacts. I bet if you looked hard enough, you’d find something.”

            “Okay,” they said. They worked as a team, looking for whatever Clyde had hidden in the sandbox.

            Clyde turned his attention to Dad, who was pointing out a rubber alligator brandishing a muzzleloader to Bonnie. “Do they always talk like that?” he said. “Together, I mean.”

            “Yeah, they do,” Dad said.

            “That’s downright creepy.”

            “Yeah, it is,” Dad said, now holding the alligator in his hands.

            I was still in the HALL O’ GATORS, looking at a white alligator, wondering if it was spray painted, or came naturally without pigment. The sign beside the tank read “HONKY—RARE ALBINO GATOR.” I tapped on the glass, trying to get its attention, but it didn’t move; I wondered if it was stuffed. Tapping louder didn’t rouse the beast—something in me had to find out if it was real. I looked around and found a step stool and pole with a hook on one end (for feeding the gators chickens, I guessed). I put the stool beside the tank and climbed up. Before I could poke the gator with the pole, Lucky started putting up a fight.

            “Cut that out, or I’ll feed you to this gator,” I said. He struggled even more, until I held him tightly and stared him down. I shook Lucky, hoping to bring whatever I saw in the car out, but he just stayed still, looking like a rat.

            “I know you’re in there,” I said to him. “Come on out, or are you chicken?”

            Lucky kept staring.

            “I thought so. Don’t have the guts, huh?”

            I was hoping my taunts would bring out the demon inside Mom’s beloved Chihuahua.

            “I know what you are, you son of a bitch.”

            His eyes glowed red.

            “I knew it,” I whispered.

            His eyes continued burning and Lucky’s head spun around in a three-sixty, startling me. I didn’t know what to do; I just wanted some confirmation that I could communicate with whatever possessed Lucky, but it was too much for me to handle. I panicked, dropped Lucky into the tank, and found out that yes, the gator inside was alive…and hungry. With a quick snap of its head to the side, it swallowed Lucky in one quick bite!

            “Oh, shit!”

            I heard beeping from the gift shop; I thought there must have been an alarm in case something entered the tank, but it turned out to be the metal detector. I ran to the gift shop, the whole time looking over my shoulder for a sign of Lucky. There was none—he he was deep in the belly of Honky.

            Olivia dug a plastic skull from the sandbox. When she pulled it free, Elvis ran the metal detector across its surface. When the end of the detector went over the right temple, it beeped; there was a piece of metal in the side of the skull.

            “Looky there!” Clyde said to Dad. “Looks like yer young’uns done found a bullet in the skull of a dead Yankee. Y’all found it—y’all keep it!” he said to Elvis and Olivia. “Just another great thing about visiting Clyde McAllister’s Alligator Village and Civil War Memorial!”

            Bonnie put all the souvenirs Dad bought in two bags—he’d have plenty new additions to his collection in the den when we returned to Jersey. I wandered up beside him, wondering if talking about what happened to Lucky was a good idea. I said nothing.

            “Anything else, Hon?” Bonnie said.

            “Nah, that should do it!” Dad said. “I’d love to stay longer, but we really need to get back on the road.”

            “Well, hope y’all can make it back some day,” Clyde said. “Yer good folk.”

            “So are you,” Dad said. I could tell he didn’t want to leave, but he had no choice. “Let’s go, kids.”

             I took one last glance back at the gators as we left. I had no idea what I would tell Mom. The first words from Mom’s mouth when we got to the Inferno would be, “Where’s Lucky?” and I’d have to tell her. I walked to the car trying to figure out the best way to break the news that Lucky was swimming in stomach acids at that very moment. We got to the car, took off our “splash wear,” and got in.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Swelling Itching Brain”

            That morning while I was cleaning up, Dad paid for the damages caused by the station wagon from hell. He was able to catch a ride into town to get two new tires. While Dad was in town, I broke down the tents, but didn’t put them in The Inferno; there was no way I was going near that car unless the sun was up and I was accompanied by a large group of people. I finished just in time to hear Mom say, “Oh my God! Lucky!”

            For a moment, my heart raced; for an instant I thought she had found him dead and I’d no longer have to deal with him. While I wasn’t fond of the little dog, I never wanted to see him hurt, but once full-blown possession took hold, I didn’t care what it took to get him away from me…even if it meant Lucky taking his last breath. I was disappointed when I saw him squirming while Mom gently dug through the fur on the top of his head. I wandered over.

            “What’s wrong?”

            “This!” she said, holding Lucky out to me. “Look at his head!”

            There, in the center of his soft spot, was a swollen tick the size of a plump blueberry. With no skull protecting the top of his head, the tick had a shot straight to his brain.

            “This is far worse than your chiggers!”

            I wanted to say, “Why don’t you pour nail polish remover on his head and light a cigarette, then,” but I said, “What are you going to do?” instead.

            “I have to get my special tweezers from my bag and get rid of that thing, is what I’m gonna do.” She handed Lucky to me. “Don’t touch, and don’t you dare try pulling it out.”

            “Mom, can’t you get Elvis or Aunt Margie to help?” I said, but she was already gone.

            Lucky looked at me, but didn’t try biting—his mouth was closed and he looked like he was concentrating deeply. I waited for his eyes to turn red, but instead, blood vessels on the side of his head started rising beneath his skin and his eyes bulged. The blood vessels swelled and swelled and I noticed the tick was getting bigger! It grew at a steady pace, reminiscent of that carnival game where you shoot the clown’s mouth with a water gun and inflate a balloon. And just like those balloons, it was only a matter of time before the tick popped! I was able to shield my face with my hand, but I was still covered in blood when the tick finally exploded. Lucky went limp in my arms just in time for Mom’s return.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?!?!” Mom screamed. “OH MY GOD!!!” She pulled Lucky’s limp body from my hands and held him against her chest. “I TOLD YOU NOT TO TOUCH IT!!!”

“I didn’t, Mom—“

“DON’T LIE TO ME!!!” A small crowd was gathering.

“What happened?” Aunt Margie said, rushing from the only standing outhouse on site.

“Michael killed my dog is what happened!” she shouted.

“I didn’t touch him, Mom. Seriously!”

            “The evidence is all over you, Michael!” she said, pointing to the blood on my hands and splattered on my clothes. “Why did you do that when I told you not to?!”

            “Mom, I didn’t. I swear on the Bible—“

            “Don’t blaspheme! You don’t believe in the Bible,” she said.

            She was right; I didn’t, but I was trying something. I reached out to put my hand on Lucky’s floppy body, but Mom quickly smacked it away. Words would have to do the trick.

            “Lucky!” I said quickly, hoping to jar him awake. “Jesus…Jesus, Lucky! Jesus loves you, Lucky! Who’s your Buddy? Jesus is your Buddy! Jesus!” At the mention of Mom’s savior, Lucky moved!

“LUCKY?!” She hugged him like Dad hugged me after I was on fire; she didn’t want to let go.

            “See,” I said. “I told you. He’s okay.”           

            Mom dug through his fur, examining the area where the tick attached itself. A small bump had already formed where the tick was. “He’s not okay, Michael,” Mom said. “The tick’s head is probably stuck in Lucky’s brain! If it gets infected and he dies, Michael…” She stormed off.

            When Dad returned with the tires, Mom spent twenty minutes informing him how the tick—which was somehow my fault—almost killed Lucky. She reminded him Lucky would be all right if Dad stopped insisting we sleep outside, “like cavemen.” Dad rolled with the punches when it came to Mom’s bickering, but he really just wanted to get the tires on the car and hit the road; we were only an hour or so from an alligator farm, afterall. In Dad’s mind, if anything could bring us all back together, it was captive reptiles and souvenirs.

            We got into The Inferno…everyone but Mom. “This car smells like shit! I’m not getting in that car until it’s cleaned, James. Ask someone if there’s a carwash nearby.”

            “I already did—when I went into town,” he said. “We’re out of luck, though.”

It turns out there was a carwash nearby, but the water was out and the only business it saw were rural skatepunks who grinded their days away on the only friendly slab of concrete for miles.

            “Can’t believe this crap,” Mom said, getting into the car only after Dad opened the door so she didn’t have to touch it. “First my dog dies and comes back from the dead, and now I have to ride in The Shitmobile!”

            We rolled down the highway, suffering the stench of the Inferno. We rolled up all the windows, except Dad and Aunt Margie’s (now that we needed the windows up, her window was rolled down and stuck), and Dad cranked the air conditioner as cold as it would go, which was about the same temperature as it was outside.

            “If this heat and stink are gonna kill me, I’m at least smoking, damnit!” Mom said, taking a moment from checking Lucky’s molera for signs of infection and digging in her purse for a cigarette. Dad knew better than argue, and I have to admit, it was almost nice having the familiar stench of tobacco masking the smell of feces and urine from the outhouse.

            We pulled off the highway and onto the interstate. Dad hated traveling the interstates; he missed the good ol’ days when Route 66 was a major highway and not kitschy nostalgia—when the roads we traveled went through small towns instead of skirting them. Dad felt we, as Americans, lost something in that leap from winding roads, to major strips of concrete stretched across the country like long ribbons. No longer did everyday people take their shot at the American Dream on the side of the highway. The only people making money on the interstates, Dad said, were big corporations: gas companies, franchise restaurants, and motel chains.

            “I like knowing who I’m giving my money to,” he once told me, and I remember thinking it was a pretty noble ideal. “Why stop at McDonalds when you can stop at Big Billy’s Barbecue Barn? Why give your money to a huge, faceless corporation when you can give it to the guy behind the counter cooking your food? You wanna know what’s wrong with this country, Michael?” he said. I really didn’t want to know, but I knew he was going to tell me anyway. “No one makes things with their own hands anymore. No one thinks about fun anymore. All they think about is going public and making money at all costs. Then we complain no one cares anymore, but we don’t care enough to shop at the places that actually do care.”

            He really was onto something. I don’t know if it was something I noticed as I grew older, or if he really was prophetic, but in losing that love of the corny old guy who thought putting concrete, anthropomorphic hotdogs in Tarzan suits on the roof of his hotdog stand was a good idea, we lost something that made this country great. We went downhill as a nation when we stopped building fiberglass sculptures of hodags, giant artichokes, giant bees, and talking cows. Automobiles became something to simply shuttle us to and from work, and sometimes the mall. Hardly anyone packs their family into cramped cars anymore and heads off for days in search of American Adventure.

I knew somewhere in my old man’s mind, there was something bigger to those cross-country road trips than we all felt. He may not have viewed it as a pilgrimage, like I did, but I think to him, it was a way to at least appear like a normal family, come hell or high water. Packing everyone into a car and driving for a week will either bring them together, or drive them apart. I think it was a tiny victory for my dad when we got home and for one short moment, we all agreed, “That really wasn’t that bad, after all.” It may have only lasted a few moments before Mom would say, “Not that bad, except for my aching back!” and the twins wandered off to their rooms, but it meant something to Dad—and deep down—it meant something to the rest of us, too.

            I noticed Dad looking at Mom, who had fallen sound asleep in the front seat, snoring in unison with Lucky and Aunt Margie. He looked at the road, then back at Mom. He reached over and gently rubbed Lucky’s head and stoked Mom’s big arm. He then adjusted the rearview mirror and looked at the twins in the back, dozing among suitcases and sleeping bags. He smiled, knowing they were safe and sound. He looked at Aunt Margie in the rearview mirror before adjusting it and taking a look at me. He caught me watching him. I waved and he waved back before putting the mirror where it belonged and returned his attention to the interstate. In Dad’s mind, we were a functional family.

            I dozed off for a bit, but woke up just in time to see a huge sign on the side of the interstate. A cartoon alligator wearing a Confederate Civil War cap and carrying a muzzle-loading rifle stood beside this message:

            YOU’RE ONLY 10 MILES FROM CLYDE MCALLISTER’S

GATOR VILLAGE AND CIVIL WAR MEMORIAL!

GATORS – HISTORY – SOUVENIRS

            Five miles later, another sign; it was like a Burma Shave campaign—sign after sign, each playing off the one before. This sign read:

            GATOR WRESTLING – 5 MILES!

            A mile later:

GATOR SPLASH – 4 MILES!

            “Hey, everybody. Time to rise and shine!” Dad said. Mom instinctively went for her cigarettes as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes in time to see:

            CIVIL WAR RELICS – 3 MILES!

            “Goody!” she said, sarcastically.

            Aunt Margie took her seriously, though.

            “I hope they has some good ones,” she said. “Otis just loves the Civil War.”

            “I’m sure they’ll have plenty of good things, Margie,” Dad said. I knew he was picturing all the stuff he’d buy: maybe a Confederate flag with a gator silkscreened on it, or a rubber gator with a muzzle loading pop gun.

            GATOR FEEDIN’ – 2 MILES!

            That one got Dad going. Even if he wasn’t the one feeding the gators, just being there with a camera to capture it all was good enough for him!

            CIVIL WAR RE-ENACTMENT – 1 MILE!

            We were almost there! Dad could hardly contain himself when he saw the last sign:

            HALL O’ GATORS GIFTSHOP – NEXT RIGHT!

            Dad pulled the Inferno off the interstate and into the parking lot of Clyde McAllister’s Gator Village and Civil War Memorial! The building, probably once an IGA grocery store, was decorated with plenty of Confederate flags and gun-totin’ gators. Dad grabbed his camera and we all went inside

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Midnight Run”

It was dark by the time we reached the campsite—Dad, however, didn’t let that faze him. With a small flashlight held between his teeth, he had our two old Coleman tents up and ready in no time.

            “Daddy, can we roast marshmallows?” the twins said.

            “It’s kind of late for that, guys. Maybe tomorrow, okay?”

            Elvis and Olivia wandered into their tent, forced to eat cold marshmallows. Mom was ready to sleep; she didn’t even complain about having to sleep on the ground like a wild animal, again, nor did she bring up the possibility of impending bear attacks. Maybe she was still just in a different place entirely, having met her idol, the King.            

            “Where are you sleeping tonight?” Dad said to me.

            “The tent,” I said.

            “Again?”

            “Yeah.” I think he finally realized there was something really bothering me.          He gave me a hug. “Okay. Goodnight, Buddy.”

            “Night Dad.”

            I rushed into the tent without looking back at the Inferno.

            I didn’t have any trouble falling asleep that night, but I kept waking up every hour or so, fighting with my sleeping bag. One of the times, I was awakened by a crunching sound—something was just outside the tent. There was a snap and a pop, and eerie shadows flickered on the walls of the tent like tiny demons behind a blue screen. I looked around and only saw Aunt Margie.

            I went to unzip the tent flap, but it was already open. The cool breeze coming through the opening shook me awake, and for a brief moment, I never felt more alive. The moon shined down on me; it hung in the sky like a big apple slice. I could smell the crisp air and trees—things smelled better out in the middle of nowhere; back home, everything reeked of crowds and gasoline. I inhaled deeply and smelled smoke!

            Crawling from the tent, I heard the twins whispering. They were huddled around a small campfire away from our site, just on the edge of the trees, their shadows long on the ground. The two were huddled together with their backs to me, forming a little shield to block the light from the flame. For a brief moment, a fireball floated in front of Elvis’s face until he blew it out. I decided to sneak up for a closer look.

When I got right behind them, I could hear what they were saying and see what they were doing: roasting marshmallows and quietly talking about me. They had a bag between them, and Aunt Margie’s lighter at their feet. The “fire extinguisher” from the Inferno lay beside them—they used the gas to start the fire.

            “Michael’s such a dumb dummy-head,” Olivia whispered. “Yeah,” Elvis agreed.

            Olivia’s marshmallow caught fire and she watched it burn for a moment. She pointed at it and said, “That’s Michael.” Elvis covered his mouth and giggled.

            “You two are in trouble,” I said, loud enough to wake up Dad, who was a light sleeper when camping. Maybe deep down, he too had a fear of bears and was always just on the edge of sleep, listening for something to wander into camp. I startled Olivia, who kicked her legs out, knocking the “fire extinguisher” into their campfire. Elvis tried pulling it out, but somehow ended up triggering the nozzle, sending a jet of gasoline into the flames. In an instant, the fire grew to several times its original size, burning the tall grass around them and heading for the trees!

            “You two are in big trouble! DAD!!!!” I yelled. They stood with their backs toward me, staring at the flames.

            “DAD!!!” I cried, but there was no sign of him. Then I heard Olivia, in a deep, unholy voice say, “NO, MICHAEL. YOU’RE IN BIG TROUBLE!”

            They both turned their heads—they didn’t turn their bodies, just the heads, like Lucky in the car. And just like Lucky, their eyes glowed red! Olivia held her burning marshmallow before her and Elvis reached into the fire and grabbed the extinguisher. He sprayed it through the flaming marshmallow, sending a huge fireball my way. I ducked to the right—I could smell my singed hair, but I was safe. I didn’t know what else to do, so I opened the front of my pants…and urinated!

            I peed all over the place, putting the fire out like a hose knocking the twins back with a blast. I dropped to my knees and kept peeing until I realized I was dreaming. I knew if I didn’t wake up right away, I’d wet my sleeping bag!

            I woke up to the sound of Aunt Margie’s snoring. From the other tent, Mom joined in the nighttime chorus, the two sounding like a pair of two hundred fifty pound bullfrogs calling to each other from iron lungs. The twins were talking quietly in their sleep. Even when they were in dreamland, it was like their minds worked as one—they probably shared their dreams, as well. Olivia inhaled deeply and whispered “Michael’s such a dumb dummy head,” and Elvis said, “Yeah…” Maybe I heard them talking in their sleep; perhaps that’s what triggered my nightmare.

            One thing’s for sure—sometime in the middle of the night, all the soft drinks and juices I consumed that day got the best of my bladder. I had to pee, but didn’t want to leave the tent. I thought about unzipping the opening and hanging it out the flap, but I would have been mortified if Elvis and Olivia woke up and saw me peeing. I had to go outside, but decided to hold it instead. My bladder would explode and poison my abdomen before I’d go outside, in the dark, alone with the Inferno. I tried dozing off, but my body wasn’t going to let it happen without relieving myself. I had no choice; I had to go outside and find the outhouses.

            I unzipped the tent flap and ventured out. I told myself I wouldn’t do it, but I turned and looked at the Inferno. All its chrome glimmered in the moonlight like it was smiling at me, daring me to cross its path. It was up to something. I tried making some noise as I passed Mom and Dad’s tent. I figured if I could awaken Lucky into a yapping fit, or make Mom think she was about to be mauled by a bear, there’d be enough commotion—enough people awake for a moment, at least—that I could make it to the bathroom and back with that feeling of safety that comes knowing your parents are awake. All I was greeted by were deep, rumbling snores; even Dad, the light sleeper, wasn’t waking up, no matter how many twigs I snapped beneath my feet. My best bet was running.

            I ran as fast as I could, refusing to look back. An outsider would have laughed if they knew I was running from a parked car, but their view would have changed after what happened next. I listened to my feet smacking across the gravel and dirt; the outhouses were dead ahead. I was convinced if I could make it inside to close and lock the door, all would be safe. While peeing, I’d figure out what I’d do if the car were outside the door, waiting for me. That plan went to hell, however, when I heard tires on gravel. I ran faster, but the sound got closer. Whatever was making the noise was right behind me. I turned around and the Inferno was right there!

            I was about to be smashed between the grill of Dad’s beloved station wagon and the door of the outhouse. I had this image of my last moments: getting knocked through the door, bouncing off the back wall, and falling into a swamp of feces, urine, and whatever else lurked in the bottom of smelly outhouses. I felt the car literally right on my heels and dodged to my left.

            BAM!!!

SPLASH!!!

The Infernotook out the outhouse and went hood first into the waste pit, but I was spared! I heard Mom yell, “That better not be a bear, James O’Brien!” and the entire campsite woke up. Dad was the first to the scene of the would-be slaughter. I was nursing a scraped knee and looking at the car tipped into months of waste.

            “What happened?!” Dad said.

            I lost it. “The car, Dad! I told you the car is out to get me!”

            Dad looked at the Inferno; he actually gasped at the sight.

            “How’d this happen?” he said.

            “I was going to the bathroom and it came after me.”

            “That’s ridiculous! Cars don’t just stalk people, Michael.”

            “Well this one apparently does!” I said.

            “Mikey peed his pants! Mikey’s a big baby!” I didn’t see the twins approach, but there they were, laughing and pointing at my crotch.

            I looked down. In all the commotion, my bladder decided if I wasn’t going to comply with its request, it would take care of things on its own. The front of my shorts were soaked.

            “I’m going back to the tent!” I said, stomping away. I stripped out of my underwear and shorts under the privacy of my sleeping bag, slid into fresh clothes, and threw the soiled ones away. I’d take a shower in the morning and change again, but all I could think about was sleeping.

            Back at the outhouse, Dad looked at his car hood deep in muck. The back tires were well off the ground—had the pit been deeper, the Inferno would have gone in past the windows, filling its insides with the stench of hundreds of digested, barbecued meals.

            “I must have left the emergency brake off…that’s the only explanation,” he said.

            He pulled down on the back of the car, trying to rock it back on all four wheels. A couple people helped him out and the sound of the back end slamming down woke me from a premature sleep. Dad had the back of the car planted firmly on terra firma again, but it came with a cost: both back tires blew when the back end came down. A few big guys climbed on the back bumper, providing Dad with enough weight to at least back The Inferno from the pit. He secured the emergency brake, told the campground owner he was sorry and would settle up a price in the morning, and went back to bed.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Graceland”

            While standing in the grass looking at the sky, chiggers ate my ankles. The itching got progressively worse throughout the night, and by morning I had practically scratched my lower legs bloody. I tried hiding it from Mom. When it came to bumps and bruises, Dad took care of us because it pained Mom too much to see her precious children in agony, but if it was something Mom could apply some old family remedy to, she took control. She came out of her tent with a cigarette in her mouth and Lucky on her shoulder, like some four-legged, genetically-deformed parrot with a rat tail.

“Morning, Michael,” she said, blowing smoke.

“Morning, Mom,” I said. The itching was unbearable.

“Something wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You look uncomfortable,” she said.

I wanted to say, “I am uncomfortable. Bugs ate my legs!” but I knew better. “I’m fine.” My eyes were practically watering.

“If you say so.” She started walking away and I scratched my left leg with my right foot. Mom turned around.

“Ah-ha! I knew something was wrong with you.”

“Really, Mom. I’m fine,” I said, knowing some weird cure would follow if she had her way.

She looked at my ankles and said, “Are those chigger bites?” I was amazed she knew what they looked like, but I remembered hearing a story about how Dad took her camping once, before I was even born, and set up the tent smack dab in the middle of chigger central. The two were practically eaten alive, to hear Mom tell it.

“I think so.”

She pointed to a log near the firepit and told me, “Sit down.”

She wandered my way, digging through her purse. “Nail polish remover will stop the itching,” she said, pulling out a bottle.

“I think you mean nail polish,” I said.

“No, trust me, Michael. This will stop the itching.” She opened the bottle and poured the nail polish remover on my ankle. I can’t describe how badly it stung—she may as well have been pouring battery acid on me!

“OWW!!!” I yelled, getting Dad and Elvis’s attention. They were breaking down camp.

“Oh, maybe you were right,” Mom said. “Maybe it is nail polish—not remover—that helps.” I fought back tears as she used a free hand to find her nail polish. I hoped she had clear polish handy and not some strange greens, purples, or glittery metallics that would leave my ankles looking like sloppy graffiti. I lucked out; she had some clear polish. I held the bottle while she put the lid back on the remover. That’s when Lucky sprung into action. Mom later said it was all an accident, but I knew better; I knew he did it all on purpose.

As Mom started putting the lid on the nail polish remover, Lucky knocked the open bottle from Mom’s hands and into my lap, soaking my shorts. Then he pulled the cigarette from Mom’s mouth and dropped it on the remover! I was on fire!

“AAAAAAAAAAA!!!” I shouted. Elvis ran to the Inferno, grabbed the fire extinguisher, and came my way. He knew it was filled with gasoline, but he could pawn it off as a mistake; he could say he was trying to help me, when his goal of finally doing me in would be played out before my family’s eyes.

“NOOOOO!!!” I yelled.

Dad grabbed the extinguisher from Elvis and told him to get back; I stood up, panicking. Dad tossed the fire extinguisher to the side, tackled me, and rolled me over on my belly. He rolled me around in the dirt until the fire was out.

“See? I told you Lucky wants me dead!” I said to Dad.

“What?” Mom said when she saw I wasn’t hurt, just scared. “Michael, it was an accident.”

“That was no accident. That dog wants me dead!”

“You’re crazy. Lucky loves you—he loves all of you,” she said, as the little dog licked her cheek. Mom always saw it as a sign of affection when Lucky licked her, but she usually had something sticky and sweet on her face—Lucky was most likely mopping up after Mom’s last meal.

“Are you okay?” Dad said. He double-checked to make sure the flames were completed smothered.

“I guess so,” I said. He hugged me and didn’t let go.

After I cleaned up, changed, and we had all eaten breakfast, it was back on the road. Mom complained about the radio not working; she wanted to play Elvis tapes the whole way to Memphis. She let Dad know how disappointed she was.

“I finally get to go inside Graceland and the moment’s ruined because you couldn’t buy a car with a working radio, James.” Dad just ignored her.

“Marge, wouldn’t it be nice to be listening to the King about now?” she said.

“It sure would,” Aunt Margie said. Mom thought she’d be able to play her sister against Dad, too, until Aunt Margie said, “That’s all right, though. Jimmy didn’t know the radio was busted when he bought the car, I bet.”

Mom decided if she couldn’t listen to Elvis Presley sing, she’d force us to listen to her rendition of his tunes. She started with Blue Moon of Kentucky, in honor of the state rolling by, then she broke into Heartbreak Hotel; probably her way of letting Dad know how heartbroken she was that the radio didn’t work. We were forced to listen to her belt out Hound Dog, Viva Las Vegas, and All Shook Up. Her favorite tune was Love Me Tender; she would have sung it, too, but she felt it was blasphemy to sing a song no one could croon like the King. For hours, we were forced to listen to her sing everything from Elvis’s gold hits, to deep tracks only die-hard fans knew existed. It drove us all nuts—everyone but Mom and Elvis.

My little brother was a huge Elvis fan. He was convinced, since Mom named him after her idol and not me, that it was an obvious sign she loved him more. Whenever he heard an Elvis tune, he went nuts! I never understood it, but Rock-A-Hula-Baby was his favorite tune, and Mom loved watching him dance along to the song. She’d play it on her turntable and my little brother would dance a mix of the King’s first appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show—swiveling his chunky little hips and quivering his lip like his namesake—and a hackneyed hula dance, like a clumsy Polynesian cherub.

About an hour outside Memphis, Mom told us all to be quiet (nevermind none of us had talked for hours while she sang). She said she needed time to meditate and prepare; she was, after all, going to Graceland.

*     *     *

Mom and Aunt Margie stood at the King’s grave, bawling like huge babies. Lucky licked tears from Mom’s face as she stared at Elvis’s grave and cried.

            “It’s The King, Mary!” Aunt Margie said. “We’re standing before The King!”

            “I know, Marge. I can’t believe it myself.”

            They hugged, blubbering on like two upright sea lions.

            “I wish he was alive! Oh, Mary…how I wish he was here, still!”

            “So do I!”

            Dad had to interrupt.

            “Mary. Dear. I know this is traumatic for both of you, but you need to hide Lucky again. You can’t have him out in the open—the tour guide’s coming back this way.”

            “I know,” she said, sliding Lucky down the front of her top, between her breasts. He didn’t fight it; he was used to riding like that. “I just wanted him to see the King. I just want more time.”

            “The tour’s almost over,” Dad said.

            “Let’s do it again, then!” she said.

            Dad knew resisting her request would lead to more grief than good, so he gave in.

            “Do you think you’ll be able to handle it one more time through?” he said.

            “I think I can make it,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “Just give me a moment.”

            “Okay, we’ll do the tour one more time, but then we really have to leave.”

            Dad wandered over toward me; I was standing back from it all, still thinking about Lucky trying to set me on fire. Dad looked back at Mom and Aunt Margie.

            “Look at those two,” he said.

            “Yeah.”

            “I suppose I shouldn’t knock it. I’ve got my alligator farms, they have their King.”

            “Yeah.” I really didn’t want to talk about Mom, Aunt Margie, and some guy who died from complications on the toilet.

            “What’s wrong, Buddy?”

            I cut straight to the chase. “Lucky’s what’s wrong.”

            “What about him?”

            “Remember when I told you he was possessed?”

            “Yeah?”

            “I’m not kidding. He really is possessed, Dad. That was no accident this morning—Lucky really tried killing me. Don’t you believe me?”

“I believe you believe he’s possessed,” Dad said. “But you know me, I have to see something to believe it.”

            “You believe in God, though.” I thought I had him.

            “Yes, I do. And you don’t. So how can you believe Lucky is possessed?”

            “I don’t know. Forget it,” I said.

            “We’ll talk about it later. I better get your mother and aunt if we’re going through one more time.”

            Dad got up and went to get them while I waited. Elvis and Olivia were wandering around, eating marshmallows. I couldn’t believe Dad just blew me off. Thinking about it, maybe bringing God into the whole argument wasn’t a great tactical move on my part. And he was right: how could I believe Lucky was possessed when I didn’t believe in the very mechanics behind possession?

We lined up for the tour a second time, seeing the Living Room, Jungle Room, TV Room, and Trophy Room once more. Mom and Aunt Margie were in much better spirits, but something told me they were building up for the grave again. We all tagged along toward the back of the line, so Mom and Aunt Margie could take a little more time appreciating all the King’s things before being moved along by the guide. Lucky was riding shotgun between Mom’s breasts; he wasn’t as calm as the first time through. He started struggling. Mom patted her chest, hoping to calm him, but it made him fight even more. Mom was obviously bothering the woman in front of her. The woman turned around and said, “Shh!”

            “You shhh!” Mom whispered, struggling with her blouse.

            “Stop that! What’s the matter with you?” the woman said.

            “I have a tumor and it’s acting up!” Mom said. “Excuse me for living.”

            The woman turned back toward the group and walked a little faster. Mom struggled with Lucky, but lost the battle. He broke free from her chest’s mighty grasp and took off, up some nearby stairs. Mom chased after him and Dad just shook his head.

*     *     *

            Now, this section of the story is taken from an interview with Mom. I can’t vouch for its legitimacy, but I will say this: I believe her. I don’t know why, but stranger things happened on that trip. No one believed me most of the way to the canyon, so it wouldn’t be fair for me to believe Mom was lying. Regardless of her story’s validity, whatever was upstairs in the King’s mansion, it changed her life.

            When Mom reached the top of the stairs, a security guard held Lucky up by the throat. He caught sight of Mom.

            “You cain’t come up here, Ma’am. It’s off limits,” he said.

            “That’s my dog!”

            “Pets ain’t allowed, here. All pets must be boarded.”

            “Let go of him!”         

“Ma’am, I cain’t do that.”

            SMACK! Mom knocked him out cold with a right hook! Lucky fell to the floor, ran down the hallway, and entered a room through a partially opened door. Mom ran to the door, but stopped dead in her tracks when she heard a deep voice say, “Oh…hey there, little fella. Want some meatloaf?”

            The King!

            Mom pushed the door open and stepped inside.

            The years hadn’t been kind to the King of Rock-n-Roll. He took up most of the bed; a large blanket was tossed over him like a tarp covering a beached whale. But Mom didn’t care—she was looking at Elvis Aron Presley in the flesh, seven yearsafter his “death.”

            Lucky was on a TV tray beside the King, eating from a plate of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and tomatoes.

            “Yer one hungry little cuss, aint’cha?” Elvis said. He still didn’t see Mom.

            “Uhm. Excuse me,” she said, getting his attention.

            “Hey, Cletus! Whatcha doin’ lettin’ people up here?!” he said. “I’ve told ya not to do that!”

            “I’m so sorry,” Mom said. “My dog got loose and I had to get him. The security guard was hurting him and wouldn’t give him back, so I hit him.”

            “Where is he?”

            “Out cold on the floor.”

            “You knocked out Cletus?” The King said.

            “Yeah.”

            He laughed. “You must be one strong woman.”

            “I guess.”

            “Can you do me a favor, then?”

            “Anything for you,” Mom said.

            “Can you roll me to my side?”

            “Of course.”

            Mom went to the far side of the bed and pushed. Between the two of them, they had Elvis on his side inside a minute.

            “Thank you, Ma’am.”

            Mom almost fainted. “I can’t believe you’re alive,” she said.

            “Yeah, but don’t go tellin’ no one.”

            “Oh, I won’t!”

            “I just wanted time alone, ya know?” he said. “It’s hard being yourself when everyone wants to see you.”

            “I understand.”

            “Can ya do me one more favor?” the King said.

            “Of course!”

            He pointed to his dresser. “Over on my dresser there’s a backscratcher. Can ya get it and work my side over a good one?”

            Mom’s big knees buckled. “Oh, I feel faint.”

            “Yeah, I have that effect on women. Just breathe, honey.”

            Mom got the backscratcher from the top of the dresser and went to work scratching the side of The King. She went back and forth with it, maneuvering through course hair on his side and back, sending Elvis into ecstasy. Mom always told Dad if Elvis were alive and wanting her, she’d leave him in a heartbeat for a night with the King. That afternoon with the backscratcher was as close as she’d ever come. She scratched him for a good five minutes. She brushed the dead skin from his bed sheets as she worked; she even reached out and touched his back with her bare hand at one point.   

When Mom finished, the King said, “That was great! Is there anything I can do in return for the favor?”

            “Can you still sing?” Mom said.

            “Like a mockingbird,” Elvis said. “What’s your name, sugar?”
            “Mary.”

            “Well, Mary…I’m guessin’ you like this tune.”

            He sang Love Me Tender, Mom’s favorite. Her knees finally gave out; she sat on the bed as he sang to her. It didn’t matter that he weighed half a ton—his voice was still gold. It didn’t crack, he didn’t miss a note…it was absolute perfection. Mom was reduced to tears.

            When Elvis finished, he said, “How was that?”

            “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard,” Mom said, sobbing. “Prettier than angels singing.”

            “Thank you, Ma’am.”

            Mom stared into his eyes and swears to God they would have kissed had Cletus not rushed into the room.

            “King?!” He caught sight of Mom. “Oh, there she is! I’m so sorry.”

            “Cletus, leave us alone. I’m all right,” Elvis said. “She’s not gonna tell a soul, are ya, darlin’?”

            “No.”

            Cletus left.

            “Well, I better get going,” Mom said, hoping The King would invite her to stay a bit longer.

            “It’s been a pleasure,” he said.

            “I can’t believe this. It’s like a dream.” She held up the backscratcher. “Where should I put this?”

            “Keep it.”

            “Really?!”

            “Yep. It’s all yours,” he said. “I’m gonna get me some shuteye.”

            “Would you like me to turn off the TV?”

            “No need for that,” he said. He pulled a gun from under the blanket and shot the television. “Got my remote right here,” The King said, blowing smoke from the end of the barrel.

            Mom grabbed Lucky from the TV tray and made her way to the door. “Goodbye,” she said.

            “Bye,” Elvis said. “And remember, don’t go tellin’ anyone you saw me.”

            “I won’t!”

*     *     *

 “I’m serious—I saw him! He’s alive, Marge,” Mom said, keeping her promise to the King for almost half an hour. “He gave me this backscratcher and sang Love Me Tender to me.”

            “Yer lyin’!”

            “I’m not lying,” Mom said.

            “Are too!”

            “Are not!”

            “Yes you are,” Aunt Margie said. “He’s dead! I know it’s hard to accept, especially after standing right there on his grave and all, but he’s gone Mary.”

            Mom turned around, clutching Lucky to one breast and the backscratcher to the other. She locked eyes with Aunt Margie and I’ve never seen Mom look more sincere.

            “I swear on Mama’s ashes he’s alive, Marge. I saw him with my own eyes. You know I can’t look you in the eyes and lie.”

            Aunt Margie broke down in a deep sobbing fit.

            “Oh, Lordy—yer serious! He’s alive! You hear that, kids? The King is alive!”            

Aunt Margie chanted “he’s alive!” like a mantra for nearly an hour, until we finally found a campground for the night.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER TEN

“Lost Down Deep in the Belly of the Earth”

            Just when I thought I was figuring things out, something came along and ruined my theory.  So it wasn’t Little Dick in the jar after all, but a little piece of Big Dick’s digestive system.  I was sure I was still right about Lucky and the Inferno, though—at least I thought so.  I wrestled with my thoughts until Lucky threw up.

            He was sitting in Mom’s lap this time and just let loose, at least giving her the courtesy of hitting the floor.  Had I been holding him, he’d have been sure to cover my legs and arms at the very least.

            “Not the carpet again,” Dad said, reminding Mom he was still less than pleased about the hole she burned with her cigarette. 

            “The carpet’s probably the problem, James” Mom said.  “There’s no telling what chemicals are in that cheap thing and I think it’s making him sick.  Have some sympathy.”  She held Lucky, wiping his face with a napkin he tried eating.  When she was done cleaning Lucky, she handed him to me.  I didn’t want to hold him, but before I could protest, she was using a handful of napkins to clean the floor.

            I stared at Lucky waiting for his eyes to turn red.  I gently shook him as he struggled to bite me—I was going to prove once and for all he was possessed, but he behaved.

            From the front seat, I heard Dad say, “Mary, please, no!” but it was too late.  She had sprayed cheap perfume all over the spot where Lucky got sick. 

Mom was into covering smells she found offensive with smells the rest of us found offensive.  She carried in her purse a cache of air fresheners, deodorants, and “fancy” perfumes (if it was more than ten dollars a bottle and sounded French, it was high-quality stuff in my mother’s eyes).  I never understood the purpose of covering up a smell instead of properly cleaning it or letting it run its course and dissipate.  Whenever any of us left the bathroom at home, Mom charged in with a can of room deodorizer; she feared the odor of our waste would spill from the bathroom and stick to the rest of the house, never letting go.  “People would think they’re walking into an outhouse when they visit if it wasn’t for me!” she’d say.  I always wondered—if she was so concerned about smells—why everything she owned, including the bottles and cans housing all her fragrances, smelled like cigarette smoke.  All her bathroom cover-up did was make it smell like one of us had taken a crap in a flowerbed.

Mom may have thought she covered up the scent of dog vomit, but the resulting smell of cheap perfume and partially digested bits of bacon from Lucky’s stomach made the rest of us want to retch.  The saving grace was, with the driver’s side front window broken from the night before, we couldn’t run the AC, so all our windows were down, taking a slight edge off the scent. 

            With the exception of Lucky emptying the contents of his stomach, we made it to Lexington, Kentucky in silence.  After skirting town, it was back on the open road and I wasn’t about to drive another couple hours without anyone trying to make the trip worthwhile.  I was convinced, if the moment was right, I could get my family to sing!  I could hear the twins stirring behind me and tell Aunt Margie was restless.  Lucky was getting hungry again and it looked like Mom wanted to chat with Dad.  It was as good a time as any.

            “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall,” I sang.  “Ninety-nine bottles of beer…take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall.”

            It worked!  The twins joined in on the next round, as we went from ninety-eight bottles, to ninety-seven, but it quickly became apparent they weren’t interested in keeping the song going.  When I sang, “Ninety-seven bottles of beer on the wall…ninety-seven bottles of beer…” the twins sang, “Michael’s IQ is twenty-seven…Twenty-seven is Michael’s IQ…He is stupid—he is dumb…and looking at his face makes us spew.”  They high-fived each other and burst into hysterics.

            I continued singing, pretending they didn’t bother me.  Aunt Margie said, “I’d sing along with ya, but I ain’t no good at countin’ high.”  Dad joined in and we sang a few more rounds before Lucky decided he’d join the choir. 

            While Dad and I sang about the eighty-eighth bottle of beer on the wall, Lucky howled along like he was in pain.  Dad knew it meant something to me to have everyone sing that damn song.  He said to Mom,  “Dear, can you calm Lucky down, please?”

            “He’s just having fun!” she said.

            So Lucky sang along, growling and howling away.  Then it happened.  While Dad and I sang “Seventy-nine bottles of beer on the wall…” Lucky sang, “ROWRRROWR…DIE MICHAEL—BURN IN HELL…REEOWWRRRRRR…”    

It was clear as day—Lucky told me to die and burn in hell!  I stopped singing.

“Did you hear that?!”

“Hear what?” Mom said. 

“Lucky.  Did you hear what he said?”

“Yeah!” Elvis said, getting my hopes up.  My little brother, of all people, was about to validate all my fears and tell my family he heard Lucky threaten me!  I don’t know why I was surprised when he said, “Lucky says you’re a retard!” instead.

“Nevermind.” 

Dad knew something was wrong.  “What did you hear, bud?”

“Nothing.  You’ll think I’m crazy if I told you.”

“No I won’t,” he said.

“I just thought I heard Lucky say something.  It sounded like he was talking is all.” 

“Back in the fifties when the Today Show first started, “ Dad said, “it was hosted by a guy named Dave Garraway.  He used to get people on the show who insisted their dogs could talk.  The owners would get them all worked up, howling and carrying on.  Sometimes it sounded like the dogs said something a human would say, and the owners would get all excited.  ‘See?!  Did you hear that?!’ they’d shout—“

“It was probably just the wind, Michael” Mom interrupted.  “If we had the air conditioner on, you wouldn’t have heard a thing, but I’m forced to sweat and suffer the rest of this trip.  Trust me, if Lucky could talk, you wouldn’t be the first person he’d speak to.”  She made smoochy-lips at the little beast and said, “Isn’t that right, Lucky-Wucky.  If you could talk, you’d talk to Mama first, wouldn’t you?”  Lucky licked her lips, smearing her lipstick.  I used to wonder if the nicotine my Mom took in all day long was ingested by Lucky when he licked her, and if that could explain why the little dog was so hyper.

I looked at the rearview mirror and Dad winked at me.  “We’ll talk later, Buddy,” he said.  Indeed we would!  I knew there was no way it was the wind, the hum of the tires on the interstate, or anything like that.  It was Lucky, or whatever had taken hold of his squishy little brain, letting me know he was on to me, just as I was on to him and the Inferno.

*          *          *

We made it to Mammoth Cave National Park in record time.  Dad, of course, wanted to spend days there, wandering the woods up top and squeezing our way through the caverns and tight passages that went on for hundreds of miles beneath the earth’s surface, but we didn’t have much time.  Mom wanted to skip the cave entirely; she said, “Why the hell would I want to walk up and down in a dark, dirty hole?”  Dad reminded her it was nice and cool in the cave, and we probably wouldn’t experience cooler temperatures again until hitting the desert, at night.

“Well, if someone hadn’t knocked out the window, we’d have air conditioning,” she said.  I guess I was supposed to feel guilty. 

            We paid for our campground, and set up camp.  While the rest of us put up tents, gathered wood, and cleared the area, Mom smoked cigarettes and kept an eye out for bears.  I have to admit, camping in the Kentucky woods, even I was a little tense. 

            “Mary, we aren’t going to be killed by bears,” Dad said.  “There aren’t any bears in this part of the state.” 

            “Oh, I don’t know, Jimmy,” Aunt Margie said.  “There was a bear back home that kilt a lady hiking in the woods not far up the holler from us.  Done tore her face clean off and ate her guts, it did!”     

“Thanks for the help, Margie,” Dad said.

            “You’re welcome.”  Aunt Margie didn’t grasp the concept of sarcasm.

After camp was set up, it was off to the cave.  We took the general tour, just to get everyone underground for a bit.  Dad was right: the cave air was nice and cool—even Mom liked it.  Everything was going fine until Mom saw the sign in the visitor’s center.

“NO SMOKING”

When she saw the sign, she told Dad, “I’m not going down in that hole if I can’t smoke!  I’m going back to camp!”  All Dad needed to say to get her to take the tour was, “Okay, Mary.  When you get back to camp, remember—don’t leave food out or the bears will come.”  She was right behind us as we walked down the stairs.

            Mammoth Cave definitely deserved its name; knowing it went on for hundreds of miles beneath the earth’s surface was simply mind-boggling.  We wandered along the trail looking at stalactites, stalagmites, and columns where the two met after so many years of formation.  Being underground where it was cool, and realizing you were inside the earth was one of the greatest feelings in my thirteen years of living.            

Of course Mom didn’t see it that way.  When we had to climb stairs, she complained.  “Don’t know why we have to climb stairs just to look at some rocks that look like drapes.  If I wanted to look at drapes, I would have stayed home!”  Even though the path was paved and dry, she kept telling Dad, “If I slip and break my neck, it’ll be all your fault, James David O’Brien.”  Her only comfort was Lucky—she hid him in her blouse, riding between her breasts, so the tour guide couldn’t see him.  She refused to leave Lucky at camp for fear a bear would eat him, and no kennel was good enough for her precious dog.  Lucky stayed put, although the thought of him breaking free and running loose never left my mind.  I could see him finding his way deep into the far reaches of the cave, finding some cave animal, and breeding.  In a million years, blind cave Chihuahuas would be commonplace beneath Kentucky, wandering the cave floor with their beady little milky white eyes.  Fortunately for the sake of evolution, Lucky stayed put.

            The twins, however, didn’t.  We walked into a huge cathedral chamber, where the guide told us all to stay put as they turned out the lights to show us how dark it was in the belly of the earth.  You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face—it was total darkness.  Sometime in that total darkness, the twins slipped free.  When the lights came back on and we wandered the trail more, Mom realized they were gone.  “James, where are the twins?!”  She was in a panic. 

            Dad was visibly shaken, but remained calm.  “They have to be around here somewhere,” he said.  He walked up to the tour guide and told him the twins were gone.  The guide talked into a two-way radio and told a dispatcher there were two missing children in the cave.  The dispatcher told the guide they’d send a search crew immediately.  That wasn’t good enough for Mom—she was going nuts.  She called out their names.  “Olivia!  Elvis!  Where are you?!”  Dad rushed to her side.

            “Mary, we’ll find them.  They’ll be okay.  You need to stop worrying.”

            Mom was good at worrying, though.  If I was ten seconds late coming in from playing, she worried.  One minute late and she figured she needed to call the police and hospitals to see if I had been hit by a bus.  Ten minutes late, and she was convinced someone kidnapped me and had the police on full alert.  On the rare occasions I was an hour late, I don’t even want to think what went through her mind: probably stuff involving child-molesting clowns with shovels.  In her mind, there was more than cause for panic.  In her mind, the twins weren’t safe; they had fallen deep into the cave, perhaps to the very center of the earth!

            I was even a little nervous.  The twins made my life hell, but they were still my younger siblings.  I imagined Elvis and Olivia lost in the cave, wandering regions far off limits, places even the staff never saw.  I imagined them in places that hadn’t been seen in generations, maybe longer.  I imagined them overcome by bats, running from a swarm beating the twins back with leathery wings.  I imagined them impaled by falling stalactites, left to die and not found for millennia.

“Ma’am, you need to calm down,” the guide said to Mom.  “We have someone who will take you to the visitor’s center where you can wait.  This happens sometimes, and we’ve never lost anyone.  Your children will be safe.”

            “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down when my babies are lost in this God-forsaken place!  I’m not leaving until I see them.  If I have to crawl through those caverns myself to find them, I will!”  I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who found the thought of Mom’s wide body squeezing through the caverns—only to become stuck—humorous.  The search party came down and a female rescuer sat with us while the tour continued.  The search party went off to look for Elvis and Olivia.

            They didn’t turn anything up, though.  Mom heard one of the rescuers tell the woman sitting with us, “We’re going to have to gear up for deeper exploration.”  

            Mom lost it!  “What did you just say?!  Deeper exploration?!”

            “Please, Ma’am,” the rescuer said.  “I realize this is scary, but we’ll find your children.”

            Mom’s face went flush; she sat down.  I remember that being one of the few times growing up where I truly felt sorry for her and believed she was justified in her worrying.  She sat on the floor of the cavern, lost like a little kid.  She was thinking of her two youngest children, lost somewhere in hundreds of miles of passageways.  I wished I had never mentioned how big the cave was. 

Then Aunt Margie sat down beside her and made everything better.

            She sat beside Mom and hugged her.  “They’ll be okay, Mary.  Daryl once got lost up in the woods and I was a-scared to death, but we found him—“    

Before Mom could finish saying, “How’d you find him?” Aunt Margie interrupted with a brilliant idea.

            “Mary!  When my Daryl done wandered into the woods and got lost for days, Ol’ Buttercup got his scent and found him.  Maybe Lucky can track the twins.”

            “Yeah, Mom!” I said.  “You were holding Olivia’s hand.  Maybe he can smell it, get the scent, and track them.”

            The rescuers were shocked when Mom reached into the front of her blouse and pulled out a Chihuahua.  That had to be one of the most surreal things they ever saw; a huge woman pulling a rat-dog out from between her breasts.  She didn’t care, though.  She put the hand that held Olivia’s in Lucky’s face and said, “Smell that, Lucky?!  That’s Olivia!  Go find her, boy!  Go find her for Mama!!!”  She set Lucky down and he charged back the way we came.  We all followed, including the rescuers who were still trying to figure out where the Chihuahua came from.  Mom lagged behind, but continued shouting encouragement.

            “Thataboy, Lucky!  You find them for Mama!”  Lucky always liked the twins; proof-positive he was in cahoots with sinister forces.  He backtracked our every step, and for a moment, I thought he was just following the scent they left behind from our trip to that point, but in no time he had us back at the surface and in the Visitor’s Center.  Elvis and Olivia were eating hotdogs and marshmallows without a care in the world.

            One of the rescuers said, “Are these your child—“ but Mom shoved him out of the way and smothered the twins in a huge hug. 

            “You scared the crap out of me, you two.”  She was crying.  “I thought I lost you..”

            The twins said nothing; they seemed amazed Mom was making such a big deal of them retracing their steps and leaving the cave.  Once it sank in that the twins were safe and not lost in the center of the earth, the Mom we knew came through.  “Youse two are really lucky we’re not back home, cause it would be the sauce ladle for the both of yas!”  We were a whole family once again.

            Mom looked at Dad.  “James, I think we’ve had enough of your cave!” she said, lighting a cigarette beside a NO SMOKING sign and inhaling deeply.  Dad knew he had seen as much of Mammoth Cave as he’d be seeing that trip and quickly ushered us out of the visitor’s center before Mom’s smoke raised attention.

            Back at camp, Dad started a fire.  The twins were ecstatic—finally they would get a chance to roast marshmallows.  There was only one problem, though: they had eaten their last bag in the visitor’s center when they wandered off from the rest of us.

            “Can you take us to get more marshmallows?” they said. 

            “Guys, it’s getting kind of late,” Dad said.  “We’ll be stopping at another campground tomorrow night.  We can get some more and roast them then, okay?”

            “Okay,” they said, slipping into depression.  They went through withdrawal like heroin junkies when the school year rolled around and they weren’t allowed to eat in class.  Time away from marshmallows was worse than time away from family.  It was the one thing they truly looked forward to each and every day (aside from tormenting me).  As long as they had each other and a bag of marshmallows, it didn’t matter what was going on around them—the world could crumble and they’d be content.  That night had to be as hard a night for them as it would have been for Mom had she run out of cigarettes.

            We sat around the campfire while Dad told recycled ghost stories about escapees from insane asylums with hooks for hands sticking in car doors; about Taily-Po and other creatures.  The twins kept to themselves, sitting on a log and blowing bubbles high over the campfire (Mom still had them convinced bubbles were flammable).  They watched the heat carry them high into the treetops where they reflected a sliver of moonlight on their surfaces.  Dad told the same urban legends we heard every summer on trips—I was amazed how it seemed every state in America had a hitch-hiking ghost that wanted people to drop her off at the cemetery.  Dad loved those stories and could spend hours telling them.  They didn’t scare us, but I pretended they did, for Dad’s sake.

During a lull in the campfire stories, I thought about starting up a round of Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall, but knew only Dad and Lucky would sing along, and I wasn’t about to have a replay of Lucky telling me he was planning to kill me.

“I’ve got a story, Daddy,” Olivia said after Dad told us about a guy in a raincoat, some teenagers, and a bucket of pig’s blood—an old “Get out of the house now, before it’s too late!” legend.

“Is it scary?” Dad said.

            “Yeah, really scary” she said.

            “What?”

“Michael’s face!”  Elvis spewed Coca-Cola from his nose; he thought it was the pinnacle of fine comedy.

            Dad knew we had all grown tired of stories, so he resorted to another old campfire standby for our amusement: bodily functions.  He belched loudly, striking a pose like a statue of a Greek God. 

“That’s just absolutely disgusting!” Mom said, inhaling cigarette smoke at the same time she chewed a Twinkie with her mouth agape. 

Olivia tried topping Dad, but only managed a little “urp!”  Elvis, though, knew how to belch—he was built for it.  He chugged the rest of his Coke and jumped up and down, shaking his guts.  He swiveled his stomach around like a tiny, hula-dancing Buddha, then he rocked his head back, opened his mouth, and let out a belch that was probably heard for miles.  He looked at me and smiled.

Not to be outdone by my little brother at a campfire belching contest, I started slamming my Coke, but there was something wrong with it—I threw the can to the ground!  Elvis and Olivia were hysterical, and when Dad asked “What’s wrong?” and I pointed at my brother and sister and said, “They’re what’s wrong,” a bubble floated before my face.  They had poured the contents of their Wonder Bubbles in my Coke while I wasn’t looking!  I went for Elvis.

Before I could get on top of him and start throwing punches, Dad got a hold of me around the waist and held me back.  Elvis, knowing Dad had me, stepped up and mocked me.  I think he did it on purpose to teach Elvis a lesson, but Dad let go of me for an instant, just enough so I could step forward and get a good shot in on Elvis before Dad regained his hold.  While this was all happening, Lucky was lapping up my spilled Coke and liquid bubbles solution.

When Dad finally separated Elvis and me, we all heard Mom shout, “Lucky!”

Lucky stood on a log, looking at us all.  He exhaled, and a myriad bubbles popped out of his mouth.  He looked like a weird little bubble machine; like something Dad would buy on the side of the road and put in his den.

“I think it’s about time for bed,” Dad said to all of us.  Before Mom and Aunt Margie could start in about who got to keep Grandma’s ashes, I told them I’d take care of them the rest of the trip.  They shuffled off to their tents, the twins closely following Aunt Margie. 

I said goodnight to Dad after helping him put out the campfire.  I didn’t want to be inside a tent with Elvis and Olivia, but even that was better than sleeping inside, or near the Inferno.  The twins were already sleeping soundly by the time I slid into my sleeping bag.  It wasn’t long before I joined them in the land of dreams.

            I was awakened by Mom screaming.  My first thought was, “Bear!”  Maybe Mom was right, maybe bears did roam the area.  Maybe one was ripping into Mom and Dad’s tent at that very moment.  I sat still for a moment, listening for commotion.  Aunt Margie and the twins woke up and looked to me for guidance.  I heard Mom scream again and heard Dad shout, “Mary!”  I unzipped the tent and charged out in search of a tree branch, or anything else I could use to fend off a bear and save my parents.  When I got out, I saw Dad standing outside their tent with something cradled in his hands.

            “What’s wrong?” I said.

            He held out his hands, revealing a salamander.  “This woke your mother up.  It was on her face.”

            I started laughing and Dad cracked a grin.  From the tent, Mom said, “It’s not funny, youse two!”

            Dad walked to the edge of camp and set the salamander down near a rock.  The ground was wet and cool and the stars were bright and everywhere.  I stopped and looked up at the sky.

            “Don’t get that at home, huh?” Dad said.  “Too much light, but out here, you can see everything.  Wait until we get to the desert…most beautiful skies you’ll ever see.” 

I wanted to tell Dad about Lucky threatening me, but standing there was one of those special moments you don’t want to spoil by talking about anything at all; one of those moments that feels so right, you remember it the rest of your life, even though nothing remarkable happened.  Finally Dad said, “Night, Buddy,” and went back to his tent. 

“Night, Dad.”

            I don’t know how long I stood there in the wet grass, looking up at the sky, but I remember thinking about how small I was in the grand scheme of things.  I remember looking at the sky and thinking that the only big thing humans truly possess are our imaginations.  I remember thinking about so many things, until I realized how badly I was itching.

* * *

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