Thou Shalt Not Road Trip Read online

  THOU SHALT NOT

  ROAD

  TRIP

  ANTONY JOHN

  DIAL BOOKS

  an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  DIAL BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Published by The Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland

  (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,

  New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632,

  New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand,

  London WC2R 0RL, England

  Copyright © 2012 by Antony John

  All rights reserved

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Book Design by Jasmin Rubero

  Text set in Garth Graphic Std

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  John, Antony.

  Thou shalt not road trip / by Antony John.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Sixteen-year-old Luke Dorsey is sent on a cross-country tour to promote his bestselling spiritual self-help guide accompanied by his agnostic older brother and former girlfriend Fran, from whom he learns some things about salvation.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-56176-8

  [1. Faith—Fiction. 2. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 3. Christian life—Fiction. 4. Authors—Fiction. 5. Brothers—Fiction. 6. Automobile travel—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.J6216Th 2012

  [Fic]—dc23

  2011015535

  To Ted Malawer and Liz Waniewski.

  Everybody needs an A-team. You’re mine.

  Table of Contents

  Saturday, June 14: Lessons 15: 7–12

  2:20 P.M.: Lambert–St. Louis International Airport, St. Louis, Missouri

  5:50 P.M.: Los Angeles International Airport, Los Angeles, California

  6:10 P.M.: Somewhere in Los Angeles, California

  7:15 P.M.: Born-Again Bookshop, Manhattan Beach, California

  8:20 P.M.: Born-Again Bookshop, Manhattan Beach, California

  9:50 P.M.: Freshman Residence Hall, University of Southern California, Los Angeles, California

  Sunday, June 15: Mishaps 9: 15–17

  8:10 A.M.: Freshman Residence Hall, University of Southern California, Los Angeles, California

  10:55 A.M.: Freshman Residence Hall, University of Southern California, Los Angeles, California

  12:05 P.M.: Somewhere in north Los Angeles, California (I can see the Hollywood sign)

  2:20 P.M.: The Christian Warehouse, Los Angeles, California

  2:45 P.M.: Parking lot of the Christian Warehouse, Los Angeles, California

  5:25 P.M.: I-40 at Ludlow, California

  11:10 P.M.: Tailfin Motel, Route 66, Arizona

  Monday, June 16: Realizations 6: 5–9

  5:30 A.M.: Tailfin Motel, Route 66, Arizona

  6:30 A.M.: Peach Springs, Arizona

  9:40 A.M.: Havasupai Trail, Supai, Arizona

  11:50 A.M.: Havasupai Lodge, Supai, Arizona

  3:20 P.M.: Havasu Falls, Supai, Arizona

  6:10 P.M.: Havasupai Lodge, Supai, Arizona

  11:20 P.M.: Havasupai Lodge, Supai, Arizona

  Tuesday, June 17: Mishaps 3: 4–9

  8:40 A.M.: Supai Café, Supai, Arizona

  11:10 A.M.: The Havasupai trail, Supai, Arizona

  3:15 P.M.: Route 66, west of Seligman, Arizona

  7:25 P.M.: The Good Samaritan Bookstore, Flagstaff, Arizona

  8:30 P.M.: The never-ending signing line at the Good Samaritan Bookstore, Flagstaff, Arizona

  8:50 P.M.: A coffee shop, Flagstaff, Arizona

  9:35 P.M.: Crater Hotel, Flagstaff, Arizona

  Wednesday, June 18: Lessons 12: 17–21

  9:20 A.M.: Somewhere east of Flagstaff, Arizona

  11:50 A.M.: Continental Divide, New Mexico

  12:15 P.M.: Continental Divide, New Mexico

  7:00 P.M.: Converted Bookstore, Albuquerque, New Mexico

  8:05 P.M.: Converted Bookstore, Albuquerque, New Mexico

  8:50 P.M.: Hotel Lobo, Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Thursday, June 19: Lessons 25: 13–15

  8:20 A.M.: Albuquerque, New Mexico

  10:10 A.M.: Santa Fe, New Mexico

  12:55 P.M.: Parking lot, Santa Fe, New Mexico

  5:15 P.M.: The MidPoint Café, Adrian, Texas

  6:58 P.M.: The Goodly Shepherd Bookstore, Amarillo, Texas

  9:10 P.M.: Panhandle Hotel, Amarillo, Texas

  Friday, June 20: Mishaps 11: 3–7

  9:00 A.M.: Just outside Amarillo, Texas

  1:55 P.M.: I-40, somewhere in Oklahoma

  2:20 P.M.: Somewhere strikingly hot, Oklahoma

  3:30 P.M.: Somewhere astoundingly hot, Oklahoma

  7:25 P.M.: The Divine Depot, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

  9:10 P.M.: The Divine Depot, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

  9:50 P.M.: Hotel Okie, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

  Saturday, June 21: Realizations 4: 22–25

  6:00 A.M.: Behind the Hotel Okie, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

  7:50 A.M.: Parking lot, Hotel Okie, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

  9:55 A.M.: Route 66, somewhere in Oklahoma (I think)

  10:05 A.M.: Catoosa, Oklahoma

  2:50 P.M.: Route 66 Hotel, Springfield, Missouri

  4:05 P.M.: On the way to Inspiration Bookstore, Springfield, Missouri

  4:40 P.M.: Inspiration Bookstore, Springfield, Missouri

  5:10 P.M.: Inspiration Bookstore, Springfield, Missouri

  5:35 P.M.: Inspiration Bookstore, Springfield, Missouri

  6:10 P.M.: The alleyway outside Inspiration Bookstore, Springfield, Missouri

  7:50 P.M.: I-44 at St. Robert, Missouri

  Sunday, June 22: Realizations 8: 12–17

  9:50 A.M.: The Dorsey Residence, St. Louis, Missouri

  10:45 A.M.: The Dorsey Residence, St. Louis, Missouri

  11:05 A.M.: The Embree Residence, St. Louis, Missouri

  11:15 A.M.: Half a block away…

  12:05 P.M.: United Christian Church, St. Louis, Missouri

  12:50 P.M.: United Christian Church, St. Louis, Missouri

  3:10 P.M.: United Christian Church, St. Louis, Missouri

  Acknowledgments

  SATURDAY, JUNE 14

  Lessons 15: 7–12

  7. For there were two brothers. And yea, one was shorter than the other, and weaker. 8. And though he bestowed upon his big brother gifts of kindness and thoughtfulness and love, yet did the taller boy mock him, lamenting, “Why art thou so short? Art thou a leprechaun?” 9. And the shorter brother was too much afeared to speak. 10. So the stronger boy laughed, and cried, “What art thou good for? What can thou do that cannot be done far better by a boy of true stature, whose mind and body are strong?” 11. And though he was still afeared, yet the smalle
r boy recalled the events of the previous evening, and so girded his loins and spake thus: “Remember thee, ’tis easier for a short man to pass through the eye of a cat flap when he misseth curfew, and thereby to avoid parental detection and retribution.” 12. And the taller brother knew that it was true, and shutteth up.

  2:20 P.M.

  Lambert–St. Louis International Airport, St. Louis, Missouri

  Letitia is biting the inside of her mouth. Her left eyebrow is arched. I get the feeling she thinks my e-ticket is a fake, but I don’t panic. After all, Pastor Mike—legendary host of TV’s The Pastor Mike Show—called my journey a “pilgrimage.” How can a pilgrimage go wrong before it has even started?

  “Your bag’s thirty-two pounds over the limit,” says Letitia, smacking her gum.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You can be as sorry as you like, honey. Don’t change a thing. That’ll be an extra seventy-five bucks.”

  I remove the case from the scale and open it carefully. Inside are dozens of hardback copies of my book—Hallelujah: A Spiritual Chronicle of a Sixteen-Year-Old St. Louisan. My editor complained that the title lacked “punch,” so the cover just says Hallelujah.

  I transfer ten copies to my second case, and return the original case to the scale.

  “Still twenty-two pounds over,” says Letitia.

  The man next in line groans. He mutters to the lady beside him, but I don’t hear what he says. I won’t try to hear either, because eavesdropping is sinful, and I need to be good. Plus, I don’t think he’s being complimentary.

  I move more books to the second case and the scale shows that it’s now just under the maximum allowable weight. I smile at Letitia, who rolls her eyes and drums her fingers. I drag the second case onto the scale.

  “Twenty-eight over.”

  Mental math tells me I won’t be able to avoid going over the limit, so I pull out the credit card that my publicist, Colin, gave me for all book tour expenses.

  Letitia studies it along with my ID. “Wait! Not the Luke Dorsey?”

  I glance over my shoulder in case there’s another sixteen-year-old Luke Dorsey beside me.

  “I saw your interview on The Pastor Mike Show,” she gushes. “The passage you read about the two brothers—that inspired me. I know you said it was written for kids and all, but my sister’s taller than me and she thinks she’s the big boss lady, so I said ‘Just you wait ’til you need to get through the cat flap, sister.’ And you know what, honey? She shutteth up!”

  Letitia reaches under her desk and retrieves a copy of my book. The cover is worn, as though she has read it several times. I guess I ought to be impressed, but instead I’m just uncomfortable.“Would you autograph it for me?” she asks, voice shaking.

  “Uh, sure.”

  It’s not the first book I’ve signed, not by a long shot, but I’m still not sure what to write. In the end I settle for: To Letitia, who embraces the light.

  She nods like a bobblehead doll, and hands back the credit card without charging a fee. I’m about to accept it too, but stop myself just in time. “I have to pay,” I tell her.

  “Oh, forget about it.”

  “I can’t. It’d be stealing. And stealing is—”

  She gasps. “A sin, yes. It was evil of me to suggest it. Please pray for me.” She runs my card through the machine and hands me the slip of paper to sign.

  “I, uh, pray for everyone,” I say—kind of a lame response, but she seems satisfied.

  “Are you done yet, book boy?” asks the impatient guy behind me.

  Letitia casts him a withering look. “Hey, mister, you shut your Goddamned mouth. This boy here’s Luke Dorsey.”

  The heckler looks shell-shocked—his mouth flaps open and shut like he has been struck dumb. When he repeats my name, a silence descends upon the mass of travelers. Their lines part like the Red Sea.

  As I shuffle between them, people reach out and touch my new blue blazer. I think Pastor Mike mentioned that something like this might happen, but that doesn’t make it any less weird.

  By the time I reach my parents at the security checkpoint, I’ve crossed myself ten times and signed three more copies. I’m sweating so badly, I take off my blazer and place it beside my backpack. All around me, people continue to stare, but now they’re checking out my parents as well. Mom and Dad are almost sixty, but look even older. They’re dressed in their Sunday best, even though it’s Saturday. Most people probably figure they’re my grandparents. Happens all the time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  5:50 P.M.

  Los Angeles International Airport, Los Angeles, California

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

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

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

  “They didn’t tell me.”

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

  “I never said you did.”

  “What about that part in your book?”

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

  “Uh, yes. Yes, I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Does that happen a lot?” he asks.

  “Kind of.”

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

  “Hmm. It’s hard to believe.”

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

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

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

  “Why? What was wrong with it?”

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

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