King Perry (20 page)

His voice shakes as he says, “I told you.”

“Yeah, you did. You did tell me.”

He takes a few deep breaths as we stare at the island catastrophe.

He says, “We’ve got to go get another cake.”

“Perry, they won’t have time to remake this cake.”

“Another cake. Smaller. They can print her name on another one. It doesn’t have to be this one.”

“Perry, there isn’t time. We have to go.”

“Why?”

“The next thing we’re doing has a specific start time; we have to arrive on time.”

He says, “I don’t care. We’ll make time. We’ll go to a bakery that’s closer. I’ll pay for it.”

I extract the plastic dome to see how much is salvageable. A chocolate earthquake split the island into five large chunks, ruining any hope of a unified land mass. Every ukulele player clearly choked on green frosting and drowned. It’s demolished.

His voice shakes as he says again, “I’ll pay for it.”

“It was a surprise. She won’t miss it because she never knew it was coming.”

“No. We have to make time, Vin.”

I wonder if he’s surprised by his own rigidity on this point.

I try to sound humble. “We have to go, Perry.”

He stands and at last looks into my eyes. The menace I see makes me realize I could get punched. This could become a face-punching situation, right now. If that is the case, I must give him full access. I owe him that.

“I should have listened to you, Perry.”

After a few extra seconds and shallow breaths, Perry turns and walks away.

“I’m going home,” he says over his shoulder.

“Wait.”

He spins around suddenly. “
There’s enough fucking time.
We get a cheap fucking cake and have someone squirt her name on it with some pink icing, Vin. There’s enough time for that.”

When I make no reply, he twists away.

“
Perry, wait.
”

He flips me off and then reaches the mouth of the alley, disappearing around a grime-colored building.

I look down to see my own hands shaking. This is it.

I broke him.

I’ve only got a minute to put the cake in the dumpster and set up for his return. Perry’s yelling woke the sleeping doorway woman, and as soon as she sees me heading toward the dumpster, she protests in loud incoherent sentences. Soon the ruined paradise sits in her lap, and although I apologize for Hawaii’s destruction yet again, she doesn’t seem to mind.

“My name is Vin. What’s yours?”

“Lisa,” she says, licking frosting off her fingers.

“Happy 10th birthday, Lisa. Wait, you’re not diabetic, are you? No? No, okay. Happy birthday.”

He’ll come back. He has to.

P
ERRY
strides back into view, plowing toward me again with determination, just like yesterday on Pier 33. With vigor.

Dammit, let the word shit go! Get serious; this is big.

When he draws closer, his entire body reflects rage: trembling hands, the borderline hate in his eyes, his inflexible posture. The flicker of fire I saw in him on Alcatraz now blazes dangerously.

I stand near the front right wheel well, the passenger door wide open. While I’m feeling fairly confident I can influence him enough to stay, my heart beats faster to see him so ferocious. Don’t get cocky, Vin. Show respect to this king as we navigate the third checkpoint.

“No, Vin. I’m not getting in. Gimme my stuff.”

“Car keys and wallet are on the dashboard. Your change is in the billfold. You gave me thirty-seven cents last night on Alcatraz.”

Perry, of course, must climb in the van to retrieve these items. But he remains in the alley, watching me cagily.

He says, “We should make time to get another cake.”

I frown. “Weren’t you embarrassed to be seen with these people an hour ago? Remember the bacon? How they smelled? Now you’re upset because one of them isn’t going to get a giant Hawaiian cake?”

“It’s a
kid
.”

“True. A homeless kid who wasn’t expecting a cake and doesn’t know what she’s not getting.”

He fumes without words.

I step cautiously the few feet until I stand directly before him. My face is soft and sad. I want him to see someone besides the cake dropper, the Vin he befriended, the man weaving a story about King Aabee.

“I dropped the cake. I was seriously a dickhead not to listen to you because you called it right away. I’m sorry I fucked this up. It’s my fault.”

He stares hard, his eyes merciless, but he lets me put one hand on his shoulder. Even through his thick jacket, I feel his body tense, as if my very touch is abhorrent.

It hurts a little that he hates me.

“Forgive me, Perry.”

I wonder sometimes why we don’t have more words to express forgiveness. The words we use are so trite, so limited. How do you describe that first melting of a friend’s face after a vicious fight, the moment when you suddenly know that eventually, you will survive this. I have experienced the forgiveness of prison guards who let their anger melt into curiosity. The body expresses forgiveness before the brain agrees. Where are the words for those shifts that later evolve into full forgiveness?

Though Perry offers no hint of a smile, I sense a softening, one with no real name.

“Back in the kingdom, everyone knows that forgiveness won’t fit inside a single word; it is, in fact, a castle. Constructed of the bluest ocean rocks, the Forgiveness Castle blasts into the sky as if towers leapt that high naturally. Its turrets are frequently shrouded in clouds, which means on a crisp blue day, it’s hard to make out the shimmering palace walls. The entire courtyard and massive interior sparkle, which is surprising because many who visit this fortress drag in their dirtiest laundry, their filthiest hurts that they could never share, and then they spill everything. Forgiveness sends them home with clean linen.”

His breath is quick, so I slow my words, coaxing him to follow my pace.

“The Forgiveness Castle remains open all day and all night, and the best thing is that there are so many entrances, usually found where you’d never think to look: behind potted plants, in crayon drawings, and on old birthday cards. I have it on good authority that one entrance is through a tree fort. Many of the Forgiveness Castle’s entry points remain secret, which is why you hunt around, press the blue walls gently, and wait. Sometimes saying the most obvious words, ‘I’m sorry’, opens a hidden door right where there seemed no possibility.”

He looks away.

“You’re welcome to visit this castle to wait for a friend, to sit in one of its orange and yellow gardens, or to find your own reflection in the polished blue rock and whisper, ‘Please. Come home.’”

I put my right hand in the middle of Perry’s chest and imagine deep blue granite. Through my hand, I feel his heart pounding. His chest vibrates.

“Forgive me, Perry.”

He allows his eyes to find mine, and I meet his cold stare with humility, but I also can see that there is once again room behind his eyes.

“No,” he says. “But if you’re so goddamn sure we’re going to be late for your next big event, we had better get going.”

“Thank you.”

Perry nods stiffly. It appears that Alcatraz counts for something.

I dare not press this advantage, so I head to my side in silence. As he climbs into the van, I use an apologetic tone to say, “The show starts exactly at noon. We have to leave now to get there on time. We’re cutting it close.”

Silence weighs awkwardly between us again.

I am sorry.

Sure, I dropped the cake intentionally, but I hate working him over this way. Perry’s a good man, and I must continue to knock the stuffing out of him. Two hours from now, he might fondly remember this incident as back when the weekend was going swimmingly.

Swimmingly
. Good word.

With meekness, I say, “I’d love to go back for another cake, but we can’t be late for the ducks.”

Nine

P
ERRY
remains silent as I drive the van toward the financial district. Feeling the need to offer more conciliation, I explain our next destination. I’m not bringing up the beauty of the word
conciliation
. I think I better let that one slide.

I say, “There’s a string of hotels across the south: Atlanta, Dallas, and North Carolina. They’re super fancy, and their gimmick is that they all have a family of ducks that live in the lobby fountain. Every day, at exactly the same time, they pipe in this John Philip Sousa march and the ducks parade from the fountain to a nearby elevator. It’s supposed to be adorable.”

He says, “Yeah. Heard about it.”

Other than a small clicking in the van’s engine and the city’s late-morning noise, we ride in silence. Even with Perry seething next to me, this Saturday suggests good cheer. Irregular-sized chunks of blue squeeze between skyscrapers, like puzzle pieces that happen to fit perfectly. We breathe in the late morning, the sun invisible to those of us trapped in cars but nevertheless creating a strong presence on every flat reflective surface. Sure, there’s angry honking on every block, but couldn’t the sound represent warm-up notes for a citywide vehicular orchestra?

And hey, Perry got into the van. That’s reason enough for cheer.

Nothing is assured on a King Weekend. He could have walked off his anger, forcing me to chase him down. But he came back; we passed the third checkpoint. This silence is healthy, meditative almost. I breathe and think of my hands, invite them to stop shaking.

Relax, Vin,
relax
.

Ten minutes later, I creep to a stop under an opulent covered entryway, Corinthian columns creating a white marble forest. A trio of white-gloved valets argue amongst themselves. One approaches to take my keys.

The valet says, “Sir, could you wait one moment, please?”

“Sure thing.”

I almost say, “You betcha,” but remember that Perry hated
Fargo
. Gotta let that go.
Fargo
makes me think of King Mai and wonder what’s happening on the farm today. No. Stay focused.

We sit and wait.

“This chain isn’t performing well financially,” Perry says at last. “Their San Francisco location was a big investment, and first and second quarters were far below expectations. They could close this site before Q4.”

“Is this big news on Wall Street?”

“Yeah,” he says, uncertainly.

I watch him and wait.

He continues with a quick blush, “People in the bank are talking because they want to see the duck parade before the hotel closes.” He tries to chuckle, but it won’t quite start naturally. “It’s the women, mostly.”

I say, “You’ll have something to report on Monday morning, then.”

He nods.

Slim conversation, but it’s a start.

Our valet apologizes profusely when he returns for my keys. I cross to Perry’s side of the van, and though he can’t smile at me, he looks at me to confirm our destination. We head into the hotel.

The enormous gilded lobby is already crowded, camera flashes blinding me as soon as I enter. I don’t understand how the ducks can survive this dizzying attention, let alone ignore it, but they paddle around the giant marble fountain as if it were a forest pond. Despite the masses of people, the lobby remains quieter than you might expect, more reverence than I would have expected. Even children darting along the fountain’s perimeter whisper their excitement; their hushed exclamations are swallowed by the thick crimson carpeting. Velvet ropes mark off the ducks’ exit route.

Plenty of hotel staff mingle discreetly, and I immediately note two men, plainclothes guards, whose sole responsibility is to make sure people don’t fuck with the ducks. Both have earpieces, and black cords snake into their casual shirt collars. I like to study crowds to see who’s in charge and who is positioned to influence the group dynamic. I always find a few folks like me, carefully studying others. We sometimes spot each other and nod in recognition.

Despite the opulent chandeliers and ornate, plush furniture, most people are dressed like Perry and me, or less weathered versions of us. The more expensively dressed patrons enter and head straight to the elevators. That’s not true, Vin, you big snob. Those people over there are staying and they’re dressed well. Those people too. He’s wearing Armani and looks mightily entertained by the duck party. Don’t be a classist dick.

A woman in a black dress brings an older couple orange juice in champagne flutes, which must mean mimosas. For some reason, this makes me think of waffles. I could go for a waffle.

“
Waffle
is a funny word,” I suggest.

He says, “You have word issues.”

Perry tries to say this in a casual tone, but I think that’s a little fake-it-till-you-make-it attempt to get us through this rough patch. Still, I appreciate the effort.

I lean into him and say, “Waffle.”

Several overeager tourists lean in too far, causing the webbed clan to quack in scolding tones and paddle away. Each time, the security guys bristle to attention, ready to intervene if some invisible boundary is crossed. Cameras continue to twinkle right up until the appointed minute, when suddenly, a jolly march bursts through a bunch of cleverly disguised speakers, music blaring from behind ficus trees and enormous bird-of-paradise flower arrangements. Hundreds of starbursts explode around me, destroying my vision until I must stare at my shoes to regain a sense of balance. This feels like a king’s coronation.