King Perry (16 page)

I extricate myself and drag my knapsack over, finding today’s tickets in a side pocket and ripping them in half. “Take this.”

Perry does as he is asked, shaking his head. “Why bother?”

“Jerome won’t turn us in. But if somebody observant notices that we weren’t on the first boat, they might. Jerome would be forced to arrest us, because I couldn’t let him lose his job. Actually, right now we’re in more danger than we were last night.”

He looks at me with renewed alarm.

Good. Tease out more resistance.

“Odds are slim anything will happen, but I always wait for the second boat. I don’t want to put any of the guys in an awkward position.”

“How did you get to be friends with them?”

“That took years. The morning Jerome and I met, they found my second floor cell where I’d wiped the dust from every surface in the room. I left behind my sleeping bag because I couldn’t risk being the only guy on Alcatraz carrying camping equipment. When Jerome hobbled to the front door to lock me in, I wrote a note that said ‘SORRY. DIDN’T MEAN TO SCARE YOU THIS MORNING.’”

“You’re polite to some people.”

“It’s true. I
am
polite.”

He says, “To
some
people.”

“I’m going to ignore that,” I say in a hurt voice. “Years later, I learned that in an emergency staff meeting that week, Jerome described me. Another guard, someone who no longer works here, reported that earlier that year he had come across a midnight figure, same general description, staring at the San Francisco skyline. But the figure seemed to vanish as the guard drew near. He never mentioned this to anyone because he wasn’t sure what he saw. Maybe a ghost?”

I pause and say, “With that other guard, I didn’t just ‘disappear’. I backed into the shadows and then ran my ass off, heart pounding against my ribs for like two hours. I spent the night hiding in the big rocks on the north shore, right by the water, freezing to death. I was sloppy that first year.”

“And they called you the Human Ghost. And now you’re all buddy-buddy with these guys.”

“The nickname didn’t come until later. For the next few years they regularly compared observations. One night, Howie noticed three smashed beer bottles, and then later that same night, the broken glass had been cleaned up. A year later, I watched another guard discover my secret campsite. By then they had started hunting for me, looking in spots not normally on patrol. I was forced to abandon my chocolate croissants and yet another sleeping bag. They were seriously pissing me off.”

“How long did this go on?”

“Few years. When I was twenty-six, they made contact.”

I kiss him, and although he responds, his lips betray he is distracted.

Perry’s eyes are open when we separate. “We have San Francisco urban legends, you know. Friend of a friend claims to have spent the night out here, wandering around. It’s always bullshit.”

I nod and lean in. He opens his lips in anticipation, but instead of kissing him, I speak into his open mouth. “
Perry, you’re the urban legend.
”

His entire body jolts.

We kiss with more passion for a moment, until he pulls away.

“Why Alcatraz?”

I feel as though I’m betraying a big secret, though the secret is mine to share. Don’t stop now.

I take a deep breath.

“When I was twenty-one, my older brother adopted me. We adopted each other, actually. Malcolm was forty-one and already had a brother who died in prison, so I now had two older brothers. I wanted to understand him better, the one who died. I tried to find a prison where I could spend a week or two locked up, to sleep every night in a cage. I could have gotten myself arrested, I suppose, but by the time I turned twenty-two, I was trying to turn myself around, become someone better.”

Perry touches my face.

“I came to the only prison I could think of that still had vacancy.”

That wasn’t so bad. I feel okay.

“How did they catch you? How long have you been bringing Nut Rolls?”

“Those first few years, they compared notes, kept a log. They were angry; they felt it was a fuck-you to their profession, and to them personally. But they also liked to guess about it and eventually joked about it. They developed theories about me, and they started calling me the Human Ghost.

“I never disturbed the bird sanctuary, as far as they could tell, and they appreciated that. They had set up little traps to see if I took shortcuts. While they never caught me or could predict my next arrival, they came to accept that some nights they were simply not alone on the island.”

Perry looks at me carefully.

Why did I fear telling him? Did I suppose he would laugh? When I told him about the rat bites in the art gallery, his face transformed right away from disgust to sorrow. Of course he would respond to my ghost story with compassion. I may not be good at many things, but I am very good at finding kings.

“The guards eventually agreed that if any of them ever felt the Human Ghost was on the island during a patrol, they would offer him a beer. Sit down and, no hassles, find out the score. Promise no arrest, no retribution. They kept a six pack of beer in the employee fridge for that purpose.

“One night while I chased him, Jerome knew something was different. He kept yelling, ‘
I know you’re here tonight. Come out and have a beer with me.
’ Throughout the night, he would spontaneously yell out stuff like ‘
No arrests. We just want to talk to you.
’”

Perry says, “No way.”

“Scared the shit out of me. Half the night he walked around yelling at the wind. The other guards always tease Jerome that he ‘got that vibe’ half the time he patrolled, but honestly, he is a legend for making this impossible contact.”

Perry shivers.

I suggest, “Let’s sit up. People are on the island. In case someone gets the idea to take a look over the stone wall, we don’t want to appear as though we’ve been here long. We’re well hidden, but still.”

“Last night, did you know it was Jerome?”

“After our first encounter, yeah. But I always think of him as ‘the guard’ to keep me attentive. Also, it’s more fun that way.”

“You already explained that.”

“Yeah, I’m deliberately repeating it. I’m telling you that it’s pointless to ask me about the next part of the weekend because I try not to think about it until we’re ready for it.”

“Fine. But that’s fucked up, by the way.”

“You’re probably right.”

He smiles anyway.

We kiss.

“The night Jerome called out to me, I could hear his invitation, but I didn’t trust him. He repeated his offer from several spots on the island, leaving unopened beer cans on different benches. While he patrolled inside, I left a note under one can which began, ‘I INTEND NO DISRESPECT TO THE PRISON OR STAFF’. The rest of my letter, written while I chased him that night, suggested leaving future correspondence under a specified rock in a plastic baggie and that it might take half a year before my next reply, depending on the price of airline tickets.”

Perry makes a sound, more huff than laugh.

“For the next three years, we became Alcatraz pen pals, leaving notes for each other under that rock. I vacationed here more frequently, just to pick up my mail. We joked back and forth. I asked them to change my sheets; they left a pair of handcuffs under the rock and teased me to turn myself in. They would dare me to step out and say hello some night. In return, I offered critiques of their patrol style and asked them for book recommendations. Once, in that second tier cell I liked to use, they left me a pillow with two mints on it. They were trying to make me laugh, make some noise.”

Perry smiles, but not quite the happy smile. This one is softer, more of an “I hear you.” It hurts a little, this smile.

“Two years ago, Howie found a six pack of cold beer on a bench. He sat down and opened a can. After he sipped more than half its contents, I emerged from the bushes. Now we have an understanding. A full beer can on the Charlie Brown wall means ‘I’m on the island tonight.’”

“I didn’t see any beer.”

“You were napping when I put it out. Plus, Wednesday I told Howie that I’d definitely come Friday night, possibly with a guest. I gave him written instructions and asked whoever worked last night to wake us in the Hammock. I also mentioned that if Jerome didn’t bring back an empty knapsack, I’d chuck his damn Nut Rolls into the ocean.”

Perry squints at me, creating something between a frown and a question.

“I shouldn’t have to buy a new knapsack each time. He’s got like four of them now.”

When we kiss, Perry puts more energy in it.

He says, “I’m getting hard.”

I get to my knees. “Save that boner for later. We should go sit on the Charlie Brown wall.”

“Boner? Are you twelve?”

We stand, shake ourselves out, the ocean roaring at our side. I feel the wet mist as if for the first time this morning, though it sprayed us all night. I think the ocean approves of gushing displays of erotic affection.

He groans as he stretches and says, “My legs are sore. Actually, a lot of me is sore.”

“All that crouching.”

He smiles. “Really? Is that why my ass is sore?”

We kiss again, standing close and fingers intertwined, morning lovers preparing to depart for work. Perry bumps his forehead into mine and leans in, our heads touching, our breath mingling.

After a long minute or two of breathing each other, I pry us apart. I pick up our remaining gear. We survey the space and remove any final traces of our presence. I collect the unused condoms. Holding hands, we climb the limestone blocks that have become our front sidewalk. I peek over the top of the wall and seeing no one nearby, scramble up. I offer Perry my hand and he takes it, looks around as I did, and then edges himself next to me, facing the bay.

We sit. We stare.

Our Alcatraz trip is over.

I do not enjoy admitting an awkward truth, that the Alcatraz guards are the closest thing I have to actual friends. Maybe Perry understands. Maybe he sees more of the Human Ghost than I suspect.

He says in a low voice, “I don’t think anybody saw us.”

Say it, Vin. Tell him the rest.

“During our pen pal stage, I wrote about my two older brothers, and specifically a few details about the one who died in prison. Last year, Jerome felt I deserved some acknowledgement, so in my upstairs cell, next to the sink, he used a pen knife to scratch out in capital letters, ‘THANK YOU, LITTLE BROTHER’. When I saw the words on my next trip, I bawled my eyes out. My adopted brother may not have scratched out the words himself, but the message felt as though it came from him.”

He squeezes my hand. After a pause, he says, “This is weirder than anything from the audio tour, Vin.”

Another horn signals the second boat’s arrival. It must be seven thirty. We should make it to breakfast by nine. We’re good on time.

We watch the sky, the sea, and the city, our legs dangling as they dangled yesterday afternoon. I try to think Charlie Brown-like thoughts, to get to that Charlie Brown space in my head, where life’s disappointments still feel fresh and not quite so expected. I do wonder how Sherman grew up.

Perry doesn’t say much. I suppose he’s drinking in the previous night, the chase, the story of the Human Ghost. He unwraps his Nut Roll and takes a few meager bites but stops. I don’t think he’s impressed. Maybe it’s just a Midwestern thing.

I shouldn’t have eaten mine right away. Damn you, Jerome. Why do I only crave them when I’m away from Minnesota?

“May I have a bite of your candy bar?” I say, closer to whining than I intended.

“Technically,” Perry says, handing it to me, “it’s not a candy bar.”

I am forgiven.

Seven

O
NCE
we dock and clomp down the soggy Astroturfed walkways, Perry announces in a quiet breath that he wants to stop by his place and shower.

“Later. Breakfast first.”

“We ate breakfast.” He speaks his quiet words into my ear, perhaps still shocked that we have somehow escaped Alcatraz without retribution.

“Continental breakfast doesn’t count. I need eggs. Bacon.”

He says nothing.

“Plus, we skipped dinner last night, so we earned a second breakfast today. I think we both agree that we should have gotten those hot dogs, but I thought once you found out we were spending the night, you might vomit, so I didn’t press the issue.”

Perry says nothing.

I think we reached the end of the hot dog joke. Somehow, it doesn’t fly today. Yesterday was yesterday.

Perry glances around us to see who might have overheard my casual tone. Once we’re free of the tightly packed crowd, he lingers a foot behind me, following as he did last night on the island.

As we pass the last of the Alcatraz employees and cross onto familiar city sidewalks, I swear Perry shudders with relief; the spell is broken. We have returned from a foreign land, an altered space of rock and earth, wasted lives and lonely deaths. We braved the night on a mystery island that he had forgotten to notice anymore, this jaded San Franciscan.

We return to concrete and metal, honking cars and blaring car radios. Irritated locals jog past us down the wide sidewalk, dodging clumsy, slow-moving tourists. I hear the distant sea lions bray on Fisherman’s Wharf.