The Key to Circus-Mom Highway

The Key to Circus-Mom Highway

Allyson Rice

The Total Human Publications

The Key to Circus-Mom Highway is work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 by Allyson Rice

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

Noël Coward quote, from Blithe Spirit, ©1941, used by permission of Alan Brodie Representation Ltd.

Three’s Company theme lyrics, written by Joe Raposo and Donald Nicholl, used by permission of The Joe Raposo Music Group, Inc.

Dorothy Parker quote, from the story But the One on the Right appearing in The New Yorker magazine, ©1929, used by permission of Condé Nast.

Lyrics from Human Sexual Response’s song Jackie Onassis, by Larry Bangor, Rich Gilbert, Rolfe Anderson, Dini Lamot, ©1980 Future Fish, used by permission of the writers/band members.

Kai Skye (Brian Andreas) StoryPeople quote used by permission of StoryPeople.

Key to the Highway Words and Music by William Lee Conley Broonzy and Chas. Segar, Copyright ©1941, 1944 SONGS OF UNIVERSAL, INC., Copyright renewed, All Rights Reserved, Used by Permission. Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard, LLC

Excerpt from The Open Door by Helen Keller, © 1957 by Helen Keller. Used by permission of Doubleday, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.

The Lewis Carroll quotes from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Jabberwocky, the Tom Lehrer lyrics from Be Prepared, the Jacques-Charles and Albert Willemetz lyrics from "My Man" (translated to English by Channing Pollock), the Charles Dickens quote from Martin Chuzzlewit, the Ralph Waldo Emerson quote, the Amelia Earhart quote, and the William Blake quote are all in the public domain.

Every effort was made to trace and contact all copyright holders. Any oversight will be immediately corrected.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022910346

ISBN 978-0-9821855-4-4 (paperback)

ISBN 978-0-9821855-5-1 (ebook)

ISBN 978-0-9821855-6-8 (audiobook)

First paperback edition January 2023

The Total Human Press, Los Angeles, California

Book Cover Design by Allyson Rice

Cover Layout by Robert Zoltan

Book Cover Background Photo by Luckypic, licensed through Shutterstock

www.AllysonRice.com

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

"After the verb ‘to love’,

‘to help’ is the most beautiful verb in the world."

-Bertha von Suttner

I would like to thank my father, Paul R. Rice, who urged me to write solo rather than always in collaboration. I’m very sad he’s not around to see this book in print—I know he would be proud. And thanks to my teacher of 20+ years, Judy Abell, who is also gone from this physical plane. I trust they are watching from somewhere…

In terms of this book, specifically, there were so many people who have helped along the way. Most of them read versions of the manuscript (or screenplay) as I wrote and revised: Jane Rice (who read every version over the course of several years), Ginny McArthur, Amy Benedict, Donna Ray, Tina Fisher, Donna Thal, Susan Frank, Romy Rosemont, Tom Wiggin, Dash Taylor, Alet Taylor, Andy Taylor for his songwriting advice, and Robert Zoltan for his tireless assistance with the book cover. I’d also like to thank the following writing professionals for their input: Sarah Cornelius, Danny Manus, Mark Malatesta, Philippa Donovan, Jessica Powers, SarahBelle Selig, and fellow Northwestern alum, author Robyn Peterman. Finally, a shout-out to Bobby’s Coffee Shop in Woodland Hills, California, where I get some of my best writing done.

I am profoundly grateful to you all.

For my mother Jane Rice

and my son Dash Zane Taylor.

I love you with all my heart.

Contents

1. PROLOGUE

2. DAY ONE

3. Tuesday Afternoon

4. Tuesday Evening

5. DAY TWO

6. Wednesday Morning

7. Wednesday Afternoon

8. Wednesday Evening

9. DAY THREE

10. Thursday Afternoon

11. Thursday Evening

12. Thursday Night

13. DAY FOUR

14. Friday Morning

15. Friday Afternoon

16. Friday Night

17. DAY FIVE

18. Saturday Morning

19. Saturday Afternoon

20. Saturday Night

21. DAY SIX

22. Sunday Morning

23. Sunday Afternoon

24. Sunday Evening

25. DAY SEVEN

26. Monday Morning

27. Monday Afternoon

28. Monday Evening

29. DAY EIGHT

30. Tuesday Morning

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

"We have no reliable guarantee

that the afterlife will be any less

exasperating than this one, have we?"

-Noël Coward

Twenty-two-point-four miles, one Bud Light, and a third of a bottle of Fireball later, they had just passed through Alamo and were approaching Glenwood. Jennifer was trying to concentrate on anything other than Sy’s unfortunate singing. She was focused intently on the map on her phone. It was only 113.8 more miles to Savannah, though that wasn’t much comfort to her considering that the relatively short drive from Milan had been the Longest. Twenty-two-point-four-miles. Ever. Sy’s driving had become more freeform in direct correlation to his impressive alcohol consumption; and his off-key singing was boring a hole through the temporal lobes in Jennifer’s brain. Especially after he insisted on replaying the theme from Bonanza seven times in a row (for luck).

Jack rifled through a first aid kit that he found on the floor behind the driver’s seat. You know, in case Sy rolled the truck and they needed a Band-Aid or two. Jesse dozed peacefully between Jennifer and Sy. She had fallen asleep almost immediately after leaving Milan.

The theme song from The Courtship of Eddie’s Father ended and was followed by the theme song from Gilligan’s Island. Jennifer stared at Jesse resentfully, thinking, God, I hate her sometimes. How can she sleep through this? Just like always, she sleeps and I’m wide-awake dealing with everything unpleasant. So typical! Stop it, she’s pregnant. Jesus, I’m a horrible person. No wonder Sean is cheating on me. No, wait, no, I’m not. They’re the problem. I’m—

Then the song switched again and Sy attempted some ill-timed harmony.

"Come and knock on our door...

We’ve been waiting for you...

Where the kisses are hers and hers and his,

Three’s Company too."

OH MY GOD, JUST SHOOT ME ALREADY! yelled Jennifer reflexively.

Sy stopped singing and looked over, Jack glanced up from his triage prep, and Jesse awoke with a start.

What is it? What’s happening? Jesse asked breathlessly.

Jennifer, embarrassed, replied, It’s nothing. I’m sorry, go back to sleep.

Jack leaned over the seat and said to Sy, C’mon, friend, why don’t you let me drive for a while? It was the third time he had offered since Milan.

You got some kind of problem with my driving?

No, no, I just, uh, get a little car sick sitting in the back seat, Jack lied. It helps me if I’m at the wheel.

I’VE got a problem with your driving! Jennifer exploded again. Her impulse control was completely shot. "You’re weaving down the road like a drunken snake! I don’t think you’ve stayed inside the yellow lines at all since we left Milan! AND you’re driving seventeen miles over the speed limit!"

The truck was silent for a moment until Sy said, Damn, you’re uptight, woman.

Tell me about it, mumbled Jesse.

Shut up! Jennifer snapped.

Good God, said Jack. "Does everything with you two end up in an argument??"

Yes! the two female J’s replied in unison.

Jennifer seethed. Jesse yawned. Ronald Reagan drooled on Jack. Before anyone had time to respond and further exacerbate the situation, Sy caught a glimpse of a rusted yellow and white Dodge pickup truck out of the corner of his eye, rapidly passing them across double yellow lines. The man and woman inside were canoodling dangerously in the front seat.

"That bitch! I knew it!" Sy yelled.

Four hundred yards ahead of them in no time, the other pickup truck turned off Route 280 and onto 2nd Street in Glenwood, heading due south. Sy sped up, turned right, and followed them, burning considerable rubber as he went. His passengers all toppled left when he turned, chaotically shouting over one another.

What are you doing? Slow down!

Where are you going?! This isn’t the way to Savannah!

I’m serious, Sy, stop the car and let me drive!

Are you kidnapping us?!

I swear to God, Sy, I’ve got my finger on the 911 emergency button. I’m about to push it!

"Woof!"

By the time they were speeding past the Glenwood Church of the Holy Mother on their left, the yellow and white pickup truck was disappearing from sight.

Okay, they’re gone now, we lost them, so slow down. You wanna tell us what all of this was about? Jack asked.

They’re not gone, Sy answered darkly, his foot still on the accelerator. That was my lying, two-timing, soon-to-be-ex-wife and my ex-best-friend. I know exactly where they’re going!

"You’re married?" asked Jesse incredulously.

Just before Preacher Ledbetter Road, Sy hung another rubber-burning, two-wheeled turn to the right onto a bumpy, dirt service road that followed Larry Creek. If it weren’t for their seatbelts, they’d have hit the roof of the truck cab when they hit the bumps at that speed. It was fortunate for the dogs, who were launched into the air like popcorn, that Jack’s reflexes were as quick as they were.

Oh, my God, I think I’m gonna be sick, Jesse groaned.

Don’t you dare! yelled Jennifer. Put your head between your knees and breathe!

Once Jack had maneuvered the dogs safely onto the floor at his feet, he reached around Sy’s neck and put him into a rear naked choke, and said, You’ve got a pregnant woman in here, Sy.

I can’t breathe—I can’t breathe— Sy gasped.

Snap out of it and slow down, Jack continued rapidly, or I’m going to choke you until you pass out. Jesse, be ready to grab the wheel if he does, so we don’t go into the creek.

No, seriously, I think I’m gonna be sick, Jesse repeated.

Oh my God oh my God oh my God, whimpered Jennifer. We’re all gonna die... I should’ve taken Sean’s calls...

DAY ONE

That would be a good thing for them to cut on my tombstone: Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment.

- Dorothy Parker

Tuesday Afternoon

The aging strip club façade was bleak in the mid-day Chicago sun, with the unusually warm October heat intensifying the smell of urine out by the trash bins in the parking lot. The failing neon sign over the club should have read LIVE NUDE GIRLS, but the V was out and the R was flickering, though NUDE shined oh-so-brightly. LI E NUDE GI LS. Unrelenting, bad strip music pulsed inside. Yeah, it was Toxic. Britney Spears didn’t want to be there either, not even in musical spirit.

Thirty-nine-year-old aging bartender and freelance tattoo artist Jesse Chasen brushed her shaggy, shoulder-length black hair out of her piercing yellow-green eyes as she paced. She was smoking her fifth Marlboro unfiltered of the day as she spoke on her cell phone, leaving yet another soon-to-be-ignored message for her older sister Jennifer.

Jesse was dressed in a black miniskirt, a Black Keys tank top, strategically torn fishnets, and Doc Martens. Her arms were covered in elaborate tattoos. On her right arm was a large fire-breathing dragon. Its tail wrapped around her wrist and its long, serpentine body climbed her arm to mid-bicep. The fire it breathed extended up from there, enveloping an impressive, jagged scar that began at her right shoulder and extended along her collarbone. The left arm was covered with a colorful phoenix rising from the ashes, but so far, the desire expressed by the tattoo was just wishful thinking on Jesse’s part.

Despite her rapid descent into middle age, whip-smart Jesse still took pride in being relatively cute, but in an aging tough-girl, you-wouldn’t-hire-her-to-babysit-your-kids kind of way. Like if Joan Jett and Reese Witherspoon had a love child...

Hi, it’s Jesse. Again. Look, I get it, you don’t want to lend me any more money, but could you PLEASE just return my calls. I’m in a really bad living situation right now, and I need some help, Jen. I need to— Beeeeep.

Jennifer’s voicemail cut her off, just like it had during her previous six messages. Frustrated, Jesse hung up, tossed her cigarette onto the ground, and stomped it out amidst the broken glass that was sparkling like diamonds on the cracked asphalt.

Her break over, she headed back into the club, her mind swirling, desperate to figure out an escape from… well, pretty much every aspect of her current life. Her stomach lurched uncomfortably, probably because all she had eaten so far today was a handful of fluorescent Maraschino cherries from behind the bar, and nicotine didn’t count as a food group.

It was dark inside the club, so it took her eyes a few seconds to adjust. The throbbing beat of soul-deadening strip music assaulted her. God, I hate this place, she thought to herself for the thousandth time. But it had been the only job she could land after her extremely brief stint in the makeup department at Nordstrom’s. She had quickly discovered that the clientele there didn’t really want a bluntly honest answer to the question, How does this look on me? Though it wasn’t until she came to work in a sleeveless shirt one day, and her tats frightened the over-sixty crowd, that she was unceremoniously canned by her (over-sixty) boss, Noreen. Not even a free mascara as a parting gift. Cheap bastards was the farewell message that she had left in the employee feedback box. No was the farewell message they had left on her voicemail after she requested a job reference from them. So… hello LI E NUDE GI LS.

The sparse, middle-of-the-day Tuesday crowd was watching a stripper who had definitely seen better days absentmindedly going through the motions onstage in the background, thinking about those better days, no doubt. She might as well have been doing her laundry, except that probably would have been sexier. Jesse went back to work behind the bar that perpetually smelled like it had been wiped down with a sour rag. Because it had been.

Where you been? slurred one of the drunk Tuesday regulars. Gimme a shot of Benchmark.

You got it, hon, she replied with a smile.

And show me your tits, he added.

Without missing a beat as she reached for the bourbon, Jesse glanced over at Dwayne, the thirty-two-year-old, 300+ pound bar-back who was restocking the glassware.

Hey, Dwayne, this gentleman wants you to show him your tits.

Dwayne set down the crate he was holding. With a sexy pout at the customer, he lifted up his pit-stained Simpsons t-shirt, letting his man boobs and potbelly hang out in all their glory, and started gyrating his hips to the music.

"I’s talkin’ to you, girl," the customer said.

Aw, I’m just teasin’ ya, Barney, she said, winking at him. And I bumped you up to a double of Bookers, no extra charge.

Jesse was an expert at handling drunks in a way that shut them down without losing her tip.

Nice! he responded. With a little difficulty coordinating his stubby, intoxicated fingers, he peeled off a twenty-dollar bill from the sweaty wad of cash in his pocket and set it on the bar. Keep the change.

Well, aren’t you a sweetheart, she cooed with a smile, as she picked up the cash and slowly slid it into her bra for effect.

The scuffed-up olive-green bar phone on the wall, left over from the seventies but not in an ironic way, began to ring. Jesse didn’t answer it because she spotted her friend Tiny Tim, a big, hulking biker with a long ponytail, a handlebar mustache, and menacing neck tats enter through the side door. He whipped off his black leather biker jacket, threw it down on a barstool, and showed Jesse a cursive tattoo on his shoulder that said Mandy.

"Can you do something with this, Jess? I came home last night and that bitch was in bed breeding with our dog walker. Our dog walker, fercrissakes."

Hmm, she said studying it. I think I might be able to turn this into a snake, or maybe a flying—

No, a snake would be fucking PERFECT, he said.

Just then a perpetually-gum-chewing, bleached blonde, twenty-three-year-old with Daddy Issues stuck her head out from a side hallway, snapped her wad of cotton candy flavored Bubblicious, and yelled, Jess! Call for you on line two.

Take a message. I’m busy, Jesse said.

You should probably take this call. And Kyle said to tell you to answer the damn phone when it rings.

Shut up, Amber, she said dismissively, waving her off like she would a mosquito as she walked over to the phone. I’m off Thursday, Tiny, so maybe then.

Jesse picked up the receiver. Hello?... Yeah, this is Jesse, who is this? She listened to the voice on the other end of the line, her anger building. What the fuck kind of joke is this, asshole? My parents died five years ago in a car cra— ... What?... You’re fulla shit! … Well, then tell me something that proves it was—

Completely thrown by the information that came next on the other end of the line, Jesse’s face went slack and she sunk down into a squatting position behind the bar. Her back was pressed against the wall, the phone cord stretched to its olive-green limit.

Yes, she said softly. Yes, I understand... But is it... Yes, I understand. She thrust her hand out in Dwayne’s direction. Pen. I need a pen!

Dwayne grabbed the chewed-up ballpoint Bic pen from his back pocket and a drink-stained cocktail napkin off of the bar. Jesse took them from him, holding the phone receiver between her ear and her shoulder.

Okay, go ahead, I’m ready, she continued to the voice on the other end of the line. She set the napkin on her knee and began to write. Uh huh... uh huh... uh huh... Okay, got it. Thank you.

The only thing that moved was her hand back to the receiver, then it slowly dropped to the floor. Other than that, she stayed frozen in place, staring, unblinking, at the sticky bar floor in front of her. Dwayne and Tiny Tim watched her, concerned.

You okay, Jess? Dwayne asked softly.

No response.

She remained motionless, attempting to make sense of her entire life prior to a minute and a half ago—until the phone’s off-hook warning kicked in, jarring her back to her current reality. Lost in a daze and moving in slow motion, she stood up, oblivious to the blaring phone receiver still laying on the ground.

You alright? asked Tiny. You look like you seen a ghost.

Completely distracted, Jesse said to Dwayne. Can you cover for me for a minute?

Without waiting for his answer, Jesse ducked under the bar and headed down the side hallway to the back office, while Dwayne bent down to retrieve the phone receiver and place it back in its cradle on the wall.

It was a joke of an office with peeling, fake