Authors: Edmond Manning
Thick towels and baby wipes emerge from the magic tarps, and after some quick changes and rubbing our heads, we’re as dry as can be expected, so we kiss again, to signify the conclusion of our beach adventure. I massage his cock through his next pair of jeans, and he does mine.
He says, “You haven’t come yet.”
“Not yet.”
Perry doesn’t bother to follow up, perhaps realizing some caves lead nowhere.
I store the cooler, wrap the soggy shipwreck ropes and wet clothes in one of the tarps, revealing nothing remains under that one. After I decline his offer to assist, Perry watches me until I’m almost done and then moves to open the passenger door.
I say, “Why don’t you hold our little duck friend? Get settled in the front seat and I’ll bring him to you.”
“Can we do that? Take him out of the cage?”
“Sure. His owners told me he likes being held.”
“Awesome.”
Good. Glad he’s on board. I want Perry to bond with our little friend, to feel his soft and vulnerable body.
I liberate Mr. Quackers and wrap him loosely in an unused bath towel. His head surfaces amid the deep blue folds, and he peers around anxiously.
I whisper, “Sorry, pal, no snails.”
By the time I reach Perry, he’s already buckled in, and he has arranged his brown bomber jacket in his lap as a nest of sorts. I watch Perry enjoy the pleasurable discomfort of not quite knowing how to hold and protect a living creature this way, and we discuss various duck-holding strategies until Perry feels confident Mr. Quackers has settled. We both agree that the van windows must stay mostly up, so as to avoid tempting our front seat guest. Once the three of us are situated, I pull out on the highway, heading back the way we came.
“What if he poops on me?”
“Then I guess you’ll have duck poop on you.”
Perry says, “Do I at least get a T-shirt that says ‘I spent a weekend with Vin Vanbly and all I got was this lousy duck poop’? Speaking of which, I didn’t get my Alcatraz T-shirt yesterday. I thought you were gonna buy me a souvenir? Why do I always have to buy the souvenirs?”
“Oh, so we’re complaining now? Let’s discuss Mr. Quackers’s name. How unoriginal is that?”
“I thought he was stolen property. That doesn’t exactly inspire creativity. Does he already have a name?”
“Doug.”
Perry says, “Seriously? Mr. Quackers is way better.” He peers more carefully at my face and says, “Are you lying about his name being Doug?”
“Yes.”
He snorts. “Of course.”
As we retrace our van’s journey from earlier this afternoon, Perry talks about the bank, his favorite coworker, and he asks me a question or two about life in Minnesota. This leads to conversation about different places we’ve lived, and Perry shares that he loves it here, this golden state, but he does miss the desert.
He stares out the window at the never-ending parade of leafy greenery.
“My mom used to say that we’re desert people. My dad grew up in Ohio, and while he loved Tucson, he hated not having a lawn. He actually bought a used lawn mower, and once or twice a year, he’d wheel it around the rocks and cacti in the backyard, just pretending. Mom would watch from the kitchen, laughing, and he’d wave whenever he caught her eye.”
I nod and chuckle at this.
“He showed me how to start it, but I’ve never actually used a lawn mower.”
This story was no accident; he’s giving me an opening. Perry continues to fuss with Mr. Quackers and keep an eye on the beauty speeding by, which I interpret as a slight reluctance to make eye contact.
This is good.
“Pear, have you ever been down to Santa Cruz? I’ve been a few times, but I still don’t know the area well.”
“Just a winery tour with an old boyfriend. We spent a day.”
“Chuck?”
“Yes.”
“I think I’m jealous of Chuck.”
We chat and love each other as the sun slips further west. 5:05 p.m. Good, we’re exactly on track. Well, within an hour. We are exhausted explorers, men and a duck who have had one hell of a day, and it’s starting to show. We’re getting goofy.
“Who wants pasta in Sausalito?”
“
We do
,” Perry shouts, raising the duck in his arms and trying to get Mr. Quackers to lift up his left wing.
Mr. Quackers will have none of it and asserts himself angrily until Perry quits fussing. We both have to listen to a quacking lecture on why you should not fuck with the duck.
I say, “Do you think Mr. Quackers is using the f-word on us?”
Perry says, “Sure. I would. He’s probably calling you an asshole.”
A few miles later at a strategic spot overlooking Sausalito, I say, “Can you hear that clinking in the engine?”
He turns his head and says, “No. Well, maybe something.”
“This is one of the professional hazards of being a garage mechanic. I can never rent a car. Something always sounds wrong. Gimme a second to check this out.”
Nestled comfortably into the foothills of Mount Tamalpais, Sausalito provides spectacular views in every direction. From where we are, near the topmost street looking straight down, your gaze flies straight to the cobalt bay and the sleek-sheeted sailboats wobbling about this ocean niche.
The van checks out fine, I explain, just a bit noisier than I prefer, and we zigzag to the bottom of town where I look up and enjoy the pleasant recognition. Hundreds of cheerful white homes recline into the steep hillsides, waiting expectantly for a fireworks spectacle. Sausalito reminds me of the people who show up first. Sure I’m irritated they got the best seats, but I have to concede that they wanted it more, this gorgeous life beyond the Golden Gate.
All along the main drag, art galleries and pricey seafood restaurants brag their wares with false modesty, attracting tourists eager to pay for a California experience. The shops specialize in expensive, eclectic clothes, upscale knickknacks, and a few crystal pendant shops. Perhaps Sausalito is the beach town’s upscale cousin.
“Are we here to buy some paintings of dolphins?” Perry says, “Maybe something tasteful for The Dolphin King. That is, if we can find anything tasteful.”
I flip on my turn signal to head over to a parallel street, Caledonia, the real main street where locals shop and hang out. I park us near the center of town, and Perry gingerly carries Mr. Quackers back into his cage. We have brainstormed several possible renames, including Perry’s favorite suggestion, Darwin, after a former college chemistry TA, a doomed crush. But Mr. Quackers sticks. Sometimes a name simply reveals itself and there’s no point in fighting it.
I guide us to my favorite Italian café in Sausalito, and we seat ourselves at a mosaic table near the front windows where we can watch the late afternoon street traffic. Perry looks pleased with the selection of this restaurant and happily excuses himself to wash up. Out the enormous front windows, I stare at the slow-moving cars. A girl on a bike confidently navigates sluggish pedestrians, and I find myself jealous of her because she lives here; she’s headed home. We could have selected outdoor seating to better study the Sausalitians, but I selfishly want to inhale the combination of spice, meat, and sweet emanating from the kitchen. Whenever I eat here, smell and taste merge; each inhale feels like both.
While I await his return, I reacquaint myself.
At this early dinner hour, Anna Marie’s café is half-empty. By 8:00 p.m. tonight, the restaurant will be packed to capacity with hungry locals and tourists who happily discovered this spot. The tables are close together, requiring a most intimate relationship between patrons and staff, and often inviting cross talk between diners. Despite the tight fit, a large piano commands the front corner, right behind me, always inviting great mystery as to how it once arrived. I could ask, but I prefer to speculate. The peach-rose walls match the small flames on every table, tea lights protected by beveled glass. The simple, blank walls reinforce the simple, good cheer, which modestly suggests you seek elsewhere for more nuanced ambiance. This, of course, creates the perfect ambiance.
Could I forgive Billy?
Maybe.
Maybe, Billy, but don’t crowd me. I’ll give it some thought later tonight. I find it challenging to nurse deep resentments in the presence of someone I love, and today, I’m in love. Who am I kidding? I will love Perry for a lot longer than this single weekend.
Could I forgive, though? Would I?
Forgiveness is a puzzle that’s easy and hard, requiring both focused intention and abject surrender, obvious in its execution and yet often a big surprise. To do it, you just forgive. I like the phrase “just forgive,” as if forgiveness is a twenty-dollar bill you reluctantly slapped into some homeless person’s hand and were done with it. It’s never that easy; on the next corner another hand comes out, another affront from the same source, requiring more forgiveness, then another hand, another demand, more, more, more—until the only way you can walk free is with your pockets completely empty of resentment. There is no such thing as “just forgive.” There is only forgiveness.
Perry’s father did nothing requiring forgiveness.
True.
But people underestimate how a father’s death impacts a young boy. They don’t understand what it means when the man you assumed would teach you everything suddenly doesn’t exist. He doesn’t die exclusively that one time when everyone wore black and cried. He dies every birthday. He dies at school award presentations when he’s not beaming amid the proud parents, and when that horny teenager has no one to avoid for awkward discussions of wet dreams. His father dies every time Perry says, “Don’t worry, that happened back when I was a kid. I’m over it.”
Oooh—those people are getting the tiramisu. I hate being here and not having tiramisu. It’s like a food crime. Maybe I could buy some and leave it—no. Stop right there. Don’t make this about you. Focus on Perry.
I loved that he told me that story about the lawn mower. He’s ready.
Perry’s not back, so I cross the three feet to the flyers and announcements taped to the glass door. Next Saturday’s fundraiser benefits someone named Randy, no last name needed, raising money to pay for hospital bills after his accident. A half sheet with scribbled handwriting promises Li’l Shirley will sing jazz later tonight with her husband accompanying on the piano. This isn’t advertising; it’s simply an announcement because everyone knows Li’l Shirley and her nameless husband. A kid’s unpracticed lettering promises a reward for a returned skateboard and promises “no questions asked,” underlining the last part as proof of his sincerity. There’s a ’93 Buick Skylark for sale. Hate those. Piece of crap.
I turn to catch Perry headed back from the restroom.
Wow, he looks sexy.
His hair isn’t long enough to get tangled or disheveled, but it’s stiff and sideways, a Saturday morning feel to this late Saturday afternoon. His top two buttons remain unbuttoned on his hunter-green shirt, revealing his golden-brown skin. At this moment, he could easily pass as a surfer himself. This morning at St. Anne’s, we looked ragged and rough. He still looks that way, dark circles under his eyes, but it works now, as if he didn’t quite inhabit his vagrancy this morning and now he does. When he spies me at the door, his face lights up, a blazing fire in his countenance, the reward for a day well spent, played hard.
We meet back at the table.
He says, “Check out the walls, it’s never exactly the same color twice.”
I say, “Looks like tangerine skin.”
“I can see it. I think it’s redder than a tangerine, though, rosier. The bathroom is cool too. It’s Roman themed, with real marble,” he says, and pauses. “But you know that.”
“Yeah, I usually eat here before I head north to go deer hunting.”
“You hunt deer?”
“Sure.”
“You go out there and shoot deer?
You.
”
“I don’t shoot them; I chase them. I mean, it’s mostly a lot of sitting and watching, letting them get close. That’s what I was doing last weekend. A few years ago, I followed these five deer for about a mile. They saw me, and they let me follow. I only hunt deer in protected forests, so I don’t get shot. Plus, I couldn’t kill a deer. Blood.”
“Are you a vegetarian?”
“You saw me eat bacon this morning.”
He laughs. “That was not meat.”
“Well, maybe I don’t mind a little blood in service to a good hamburger. I always feel like I shouldn’t eat meat, but I love steak and ahi tuna. And chicken pot pie. And pork loin. Turkey, too. Oh, and ham, flavored with garlic or cloves… and bacon.”
He says, “That pretty much covers it.”
“I don’t think I could eat venison, though. I’d keep thinking that maybe I chased this one through some forest.”
He smiles in a new way, bashfully almost. It’s not a sexy smile, it’s not flirty, it’s the “I like you” smile you offer when you’re sure it’s going to be returned. I wonder why that particular smile.
Oh.
We’re on a first date; this is our first public appearance. We’ve spent a lot of time together wrapped in our private cocoon for two. Well, Golden Gate was public, sure, but we were duck thieves back then, hiding out amidst an entire world of vacationers. This is our first meal in public. Besides breakfast, I guess. But I don’t think that counted for Perry.
I answer a few more deer-hunting questions, and he asks which state parks I frequent, though I don’t think any of my answers satisfy the one question he can’t quite fathom: why?
I say, “Hey, not trying to change the subject, but I’d like us to share an entrée.”
Perry nods. “Fine. You order.”
He points out a stationery store across the street, something in their display window he wants me to see. Maybe Perry doesn’t recognize the full impact of letting me order for us; he trusts me completely.
I suggest, “If you like bacon, their carbonara is delicious.”
“Perfect.”
“It’s a big plate. You won’t go hungry. How about you order a wine to go with it. I’ll drink anything.”
After we order our single entrée, two forks, I ask his permission to get something from the van, and Perry readily agrees. I want him to trust that when I say I’m off to the van to retrieve something, I will return.