Pack Your Bag, Dear: A Man of the Spouse, #1

By Eliza Ester

Meet Miles Muckley...loving husband...caring father...faithful friend...successful writer...and world's biggest idiot. Of course, in Miles's insane mind, he sees himself as the world's biggest...well...hero. However, when Miles's wife insists they take a romantic drive from Vermont to Minnesota to spend Thanksgiving with her family, who are far from normal themselves, the man who is hated by his neighbors and loathed by an angry tom cat sets out to prove that he isn't an idiot...under duress, of course.

The trip begins with Miles getting tied up by his best friend, his clothes stolen by a group of mischievous teenagers, and a tow truck driver with a happy trigger finger. Determined to keep pushing forward—under duress, of course—Miles continues down the road desperately trying to leave the state of Vermont only to encounter a killer truck driver, a girl with strange colored hair, and a pair of old people who turn out to be drug dealers. Yet, through it all, Miles somehow turns out to be a hero...well, kinda.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Majestic Owl Publishing LLC
• Release date: May 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386853053

Book preview

One

Packing for the Road

Thanksgiving had arrived again.

And with those words, I will begin my story…pity me!

No, I begged and pleaded with my wife as she folded a pink blouse and placed it into her brown suitcase sitting on our bed. Honey, please, I’m begging you. Please don’t make me go.

Well, let me tell you, Molly Muckley doesn’t bargain when it comes to Thanksgiving. She spun away from our bed like a raging bull. Her beautiful blue eyes immediately began radiating heat. The soft, delicate face that I fell in love with was crumpled up into a terrifying nightmare. I nearly screamed and wet my pants. Miles Muckley, my parents have gone through a lot of trouble for us, she snapped at me. I stumbled back against the closet door and began to whimper. My end had come. Need I remind you who flew our two lovely children out to their home early in order for us to have some alone time, and the chance to share a romantic drive across this beautiful country? And need I remind you also, Mr. Miles Muckley, who helped us buy this lovely home we live in? Whenever Molly called me ‘Mr. Miles Muckley’ and reminded me that her parents had acted as cosigners on the house we bought, I knew I was in some serious hot water. I was always a little surprised when my body didn’t spontaneously combust under the intensity of her fervor.

It’s just that, well, your other family members will be there, dear, I said, fearing for my life. Your family can be just a bit... strange at times.

Strange? Molly asked me. She took a step forward. I crouched down and threw my hands over my head. Strange? she asked again, her tone suggesting I was about to be chopped into a million little pieces and fed to the neighbor’s cat.

Well, I whimpered, your Uncle Dave does blow milk bubbles from his nose at the dinner table. The guy is sixty-eight years old. And your Aunt Claire smells like cat pee and talks to herself…dear. I dared a glance at Molly whose golden blond hair was nearly standing straight up in the air, reminiscent of sharp ice picks waiting to stab a poor, defenseless husband. Your brother Ned, now it’s one thing to like Jimmy Stewart—I like the guy myself and think he was a fine actor—but it’s quite another to go around pretending you actually are him.

My brother is... colorful, Molly defended him.

He sure is, I slipped up.

Molly began gritting her teeth and I envisioned them ground to powder. What did you say about my brother? she asked, as lava was now seeping from her mouth.

I said that Ned is... colorful, I whimpered and crouched down into a ball. Please don’t make me go, I begging you. Last year I had to sit next to your sister. Molly… honey, your sister constantly farts. And she, I let out a miserable cry, she believes she is a time traveler from the planet Zibennobe. I don’t even know where the planet Zibennobe is! Oh please, don’t make me go!

Molly’s face slowly changed back into human form. Her teeth grew back as her beautiful eyes turned blue again. I know Veronica is, well... weird, she admitted. I can defend Nate because he’s taking acting courses, but Veronica, I concede that she needs to be locked away in a padded room. But Miles, please, my parents are expecting you to come. Daddy is very fond of you, and mother is always impressed with your work.

Your mother pinches my tush every chance she gets, I pointed out to my lovely wife and stood up. Molly, I thirty-five years old. A grown man. I don’t like having my tush pinched by a woman who gets a little... wiggly on the wine.

Molly let out a little giggle. She does get wiggly on the wine, doesn’t she? Then wrapped her arms around my neck and gave me a gentle kiss. Please, she begged, and pulled my face to hers. If you don’t go, she vowed and grinned into my eyes, I‘ll have to make sure the rest of your life is lived out in misery... honey.

Negotiations were now over. Husband, zero. Wife, everything. Pack my mental pills, I sighed.

Molly patted my face. That’s a good husband. Now, pack your green sweater. You look nice in that sweater.

Molly, look at me. Molly raised her eyes at me. What color is my hair?

Red.

Am I fat or thin? I asked.

Well, you’ve put on a few extra pounds, she admitted.

I went from 170 lbs. to 195 lbs. thanks to being laid up in bed with my back for three months.

Oh, come on, Molly said and threw her hands up at me, the girls have apologized for leaving their roller blades on the stairs.

I think they set a trap for their old dad, I grumbled. Anyway, my point is, I don’t feel like wearing that green sweater. It makes me look like a fat green light bulb with red hair.

Why are you being so difficult today? Molly asked me and pretended to cry. Oh, the tears. All I wanted was for us to have some alone time and take a nice drive to Minnesota to have Thanksgiving with my family.

Vermont to Minnesota. Icy roads, traffic, snow, colder than—

You don’t love me! Molly let out a loud wail and threw herself face down onto the bed.

I felt my hair falling out and the youth of my face being nibbled off by an early nervous breakdown. Now honey, I said, and sat down on the bed and rubbed Molly’s back. You know you’re my, uh, I looked around the bedroom to make sure no human ears were within hearing distance. You know you’re my Poochie Pooh.

Molly leaned up and wiped her tears away. I am? she sniffled.

You are, I said, in a cuddly voice, then kissed the tip of Molly’s nose.

Good, pack the green sweater and let’s hit the road. Molly smiled, patted me on my face, then jumped to her feet, and went back to her own packing. And oh, don’t let me forget the perfume Mother bought me for my birthday. If I show up smelling like anything other than a pine tree, she’ll never forgive me.

Out of all the perfumes in the world, your mother sends you a bottle of pine needles, I fussed, then climbed to my feet and walked over to the bedroom window. I pulled back a heavy green drape that Molly insisted gave our bedroom ‘depth’ and looked out onto a snowy and freezing morning. I spotted a neighbor shoveling his driveway. Old Man Murray is out shoveling snow in his peppermint robe again, I told Molly.

Oh, leave him alone, Molly fussed. The poor man is eighty-four years old.

He looks like a peppermint twist, now that I think of it, I told Molly. I watched as Old Man Murray bent down, swooped up a spoonful of snow onto his snow shovel, and slowly dipped it to the side. By the time he reaches his mailbox, the girls will be out of college and we’ll be retired.

Do you have to complain about everyone? If you’re not complaining about poor Mr. Murray, you’re fussing over poor Mrs. Brown.

The woman cuts her grass with scissors, I pointed out. If one single blade of grass is out of sorts, she has a mental breakdown. How many times has Mr. Brown had to call the men with the butterfly nets to come and take her away?

Oh you, Molly rolled her eyes and threw her hands up again. Get away from that window and finish packing.

I watched Old Man Murray dip up another spoonful of snow and toss it to the side. Then he looked around, lifted his leg, farted, and then walked back inside the two-story brick home that he claimed had more class than the ‘run-down’ Bavarian style home I lived in with my family. Why can’t we live near normal people?

Like yourself, I suppose? Molly asked me and patted a gray suitcase lying on the bed. Pack.

Yes, like myself. Exactly, I said, and walked back to the closet to grab the green sweater my wife insisted I bring. Examining the green sweater, I made a sick face and tossed it into my suitcase. I’m a very normal person, Molly.

Is that so? Molly asked, and put her hands on her hips. I immediately froze. The hands on the hips meant I was about to get a serious scolding. I began to whimper again. You, Mr. Miles Muckley, of all people, should not consider yourself to be ‘normal’ in any way, shape or form, Molly said, making air quotes with her fingers. You write movies for a living for one thing.

I—well, yes, so? Making a living writing movie scripts is actually very normal, I defended myself, a daring move, even though my voice came out weak.

You create all the people in your movies.

I, yes, that’s what a writer does. Character development is very important, I said, and backed out of arm’s reach, just in case Molly decided to slug me.

You create lots of different people .Funny, scary, boring, fat, skinny, dumb, smart, all types of people.

Yes, I agreed.

And the people you create, Mr. Miles Muckley, are never normal, right? Molly asked me.

I make the people I write about... colorful, I admitted, and took another step back.

Molly raised her finger and pointed at me like I was a condemned man receiving his last rites. Those people come from your mind, you twisted little man. So don’t stand there and claim to be normal when you write about people who make poor Mr. Murray look like the sanest man alive.

For example? I asked, feeling safe enough to run out of the bedroom before Molly could get a hold of me and twist my arms behind my back until I cried ‘uncle.’

For example, Molly pointed out as her eyes flickered red. Mr. Bowlsmith, the crazy scientist who turns himself into an insect and forces all the other insects in the world to attack humans. Yuck, not to mention creepy!

Hey, that movie made us a lot of money, I said, in a proud voice. Besides, ‘Insect Rights’ was one of my first movies. I was still a little green behind the ears. I’ve made great strides since then.

Green or not, you created a very disturbing person, Molly told me. You, Mr. Miles Muckley, are not normal. So stop fussing about poor Mr. Murray and Mrs. Brown, you sick little man. Molly shook her hands in the air. Insects. Yuck!

Molly had backed me into a corner. I wanted to argue my case, standing at the bedroom door, of course, but decided to shut my mouth. A wise husband knew when to stand down if he wanted to keep all of his teeth. I quickly changed the subject. We need to be on the road by noon, I told Molly. I figure if we can drive eight hours a day, we’ll make good time and—

Oh no you don’t, Molly exploded on me. She lunged forward before I could run, grabbed me by my shoulders, slammed me down onto the bed, and held my hands down. Now listen, we’re going to have a leisurely trip. We have a full week to drive to my parents’ house. We are not, I repeat, not setting a schedule. I want to stop at little stores along the way, do some shopping, eat pancakes at a truck stop, and maybe even get lost a few times. Is that clear?

How many times do we have to get lost? I whined.

At least three, Molly informed me. Now, I know you’re a time management type of guy, but I swear if you ruin our trip, I’ll clean your clock, you left brain weirdo!

Yes dear, I whimpered. And dear?

What?

I can’t breathe, actually, I said, struggling for air.

Oh, Molly said, and climbed off me.

I drew in a few deep breaths, climbed off the bed, and