King Perry (4 page)

Someone nearby asks, “What are the cross streets?”

Shit.

Ignore that. Smile and ignore. Get out of here.

My voice sounds mournful as I hear the words pop out of my mouth. “I can’t believe I don’t have any business cards.”

Shut the fuck up!

Business cards? What is wrong with me? I’m drunk. What if there’s an actual Realtor in this crowd? Get out of here, you moron.

I think I’m drunk on Perry.

I extricate myself and take a moment or two to think things through. I step away to the glass-topped desk in back.

Our caterer friend appears in my peripheral vision; she looks forlorn, glancing toward the front door. I bet she thought Perry liked her. Well, I’m sorry about this one, Amanda, but he plays for my team. I think Perry and I are going to spend the weekend together having great sex. But much gratitude, my Queen, for bringing us together.

The gallery will call him to inform him of the two paintings purchased; I’ll confirm that. I’ll tell them what to say; I have to make sure they say “Mr. Mangin, your friend left you a note. He believed you might want it right away.” Those exact words. How much to tip for something like that? Twenty dollars? Forty dollars? Too much might seem creepy.

I chat with the still-surprised Cute Twink, breathing a little king energy into him, congratulating him on creating an event certain to be discussed tomorrow in Castro wine bars. He jokingly asks me if I want a job, but then he says, “Seriously, was all that stuff true about the Mangin paintings?”

While he flutters around the desk creating sales bills, I take some of their squiggly-scripted stationery and dangle the pen over the blank page, waiting for the right words to emerge. While considering, I realize my decision is already made: Perry is most definitely the man I introduce to the Human Ghost; he’s the one. Goose bumps rise on my arm.

In regular lettering, I write about how much I love
Siren Song
and how I wish I had the resources to purchase it myself. I suggest he may want to reprice his father’s paintings, as they might be worth more than he realizes. On the second page, in block letters I write a variation of my standard invitation.

My eyes linger over the words “PACK A SMALL WEEKEND BAG.”

Who am I kidding? He won’t pack a weekend bag.

But he’ll think about it.

Not packing one will give him the freedom to show up on the pier, convinced he’s not coming with me. The weekend bag line works, a tried-and-true commitment test. Always tells me how hard to push.

I finish my business and tip forty dollars to Cute Twink, who is now Jason, Vin. Jason. Remember him. He promises to call Perry with my exact specifications. We make plans for my follow-up.

As I head toward the gallery exit, I wonder how to best reach Mr. Perry Mangin, investment banker. Will he forgive my little speech? Will he show? Maybe I’ve overestimated our connection. Perhaps I am not the one to reach him. I probably assume too much. I’m like that sometimes.

Don’t think that way, Vin. Love this man.

Past experiences race through me, recycled motifs with new possibilities. My brain flashes to racing through an Illinois cornfield, slogging through New York sewers, and of course, dancing with kings at Burning Man. Colors whisper; names appear and then dissolve. Blue like his eyes? Chili red? Could we do something together in North Beach, like at Coit Tower? And there’s always
this
neighborhood.

As I emerge into the Castro night, three or four androgynous gigglers are forced to alter their course around me, and one of them mutters, “Damn bears.”

His friends laugh.

Welcome to San Francisco.

Help me, kings, guide me. Give me enough humility and grace to find Perry Mangin, the painter’s son. If we’re meant to spend the weekend together, please help me pull this off, figure out how to make this work. I got a hit back in the gallery. Does that king name fit with our launching point from Pier 33? Oh yes, yes it does. I do believe we have a king name, ladies and gentlemen.

Wow, that drag queen is gorgeous. As she saunters by, I can’t resist saying, “You look fantastic.”

She says, “I know, sugar.”

Practical concerns.

I need weather reports, a few more backpacks, and a homeless shelter for Saturday. Things to buy: night vision goggles, a dozen alarm clocks, PVC piping or something similar. King Aabee is necessary this weekend, which is awesome. I love King Aabee. A giant birthday cake? Hang on, let’s rework this, Mr. Vanbly. No need to race. Let the landscape rearrange itself.

It’s fun to be a surrealist.

But seriously, where the hell am I going to find a duck?

Three

R
OUGHLY
ten minutes before 6:00 p.m. on Friday, Perry Mangin, investment banker, strides toward me with what I must describe as vigor. I like the word
vigor
. It makes me think of an English clergyman pedaling a bike.

I try to see how Perry comes across to his clients: strong-jawed, trustworthy, kind face. He’s that kind of handsome you want to trust, a regular guy who is accidentally handsome. As he draws closer, I see his kindness has been replaced by a distant menace.

Wait. That’s a vicar, not vigor.

Perry’s stride conveys his confidence that he’s definitely not going with me, so this should only take a moment. Unless he is going with me. But no, no, he’s sure he’s not doing this. No weekend bag over his shoulder. And yet here he is. It’s hard work to be a Lost King, requiring a lot of mental agility.

As he draws near, he slows and makes his face blank. I’m sure he wants me to know showing up meant nothing, no big deal. He reaches me and squares off. No glasses. I notice dark crescents beneath his eyes; I wonder if he slept much last night. I put my hands in the pockets of my black leather jacket.

“Hey, Perry. Chilly, huh?”

“Yeah, hi,” he says, confused for a second. “Thanks for the creepy invitation, but I’m going to pass.”

“Okay.”

Perry frowns, his mouth open.

He seems ready for me to attack him with reasons, but I have none. If he doesn’t want to play, it’s cool. But nevertheless, I keep drilling him with my eyes, burrowing king energy into him.

Remember, Perry.

“I wrote—here.”

He thrusts a cashier’s check into my hands. It’s a hefty little sum. I mean, I couldn’t vacation for a month on this, but it’s enough for first-class tickets somewhere, and I do like to travel.

“Thank you,” I say, resuming my hard gaze. “That’s quite generous.”

“Yes,” Perry says, and he looks confused again. “The art gallery told me that your speech prompted, you know, a bidding war.”

We stand in silence, looking at each other.

He says, “I’m grateful.”

He’s lying.

He doesn’t appear grateful. Or if not lying, withholding. Or if not withholding, confused. Or if not confused, there’s definitely a question mark dangling near. Something’s happening in him, because a certain energy goes with true generosity, a quiet excitement ripples over a person, making them shimmer. Actually, anything but this posture, arms limp and dangling, face hard and cautious.

Thanks, Big Bro, for teaching me to read people. I’ll call Malcolm Monday night and tell him about my vacation. I will tell Malcolm about how Perry showed up to bring a total stranger a generous check because his heart was so eager to love again.

“It’s very generous.”

Perry nods. “One of the two buyers already paid, and the one who bought
Siren Song
is going to pay the balance this afternoon, so I’m asking you to wait two or three days—”

I rip the check in half and then in half again. Perry sputters, and when the pieces are clearly destroyed beyond scotch tape’s capabilities, I dump them inside my flannel shirt pocket against my heart, never breaking eye contact.

“Okay,” Perry says, the word dropping out of him like a brick. “I only brought the one check, so that was your shot, dude. That amount was more than fair.”

“Dude? You’re really calling me
dude
?”

“You’re not getting more money from me.”

I smile. “I understand. Dude.”

Perry starts to sneer, but his face won’t quite conform; his expression keeps melting into something else. He wants to remain angry, but it won’t stick.

Perry’s not going to spend the weekend with me? Fine. But if he didn’t know Pier 33 launches the ferry to Alcatraz when he received my invitation, I’m sure he figured it out during the intervening days. This island is arguably the wettest, chilliest spot in San Francisco, influencing the prison’s eventual closing. Perry’s wearing a worn brown leather bomber jacket and two heavy shirts underneath, jeans, and thick hiking boots. He dressed for Alcatraz.

Everyone thinks California sunshine automatically equals warmth, but San Francisco is damn cold. I blame those raisin commercials. They should name themselves the Southern California raisins, or the LA Raisins, or something. It’s fucking misrepresentation.

He frowns at me. Well, not frowns. But what’s the word between
frown
and
confusion
?

I stare into his eyes.
Remember, my king.

“I can’t do this,” he says, pleading. “I don’t go out and have sex weekends with strangers. I work in a bank; I have an office. It’s not big, but there’s a real glass door that closes. I’m not a kinky sex guy.”

“I understand. No judgments.”

He says, “We could go to a winery or something instead. I know a guy who works backstage at Beach Blanket Babylon. I bet I could get us tickets for tomorrow night.”

“I wish you well, Perry Mangin.”

I take his right hand and turn over his meaty paw so the soft, vulnerable interior is available to me, his fingers weak and exposed. I raise his hand and lower my head to meet it, kissing the palm right by the thumb. My kiss is slow and gentle, yet Perry does not jerk away.

I release him and nod my goodbye.

I turn away to watch the Alcatraz ferry chug slowly toward our dock.

Every corner of the sky awkwardly showed up wearing the exact same thing, a moody gray dress accessorized with flat clouds. If North, South, East, and West were drag queens, this would be bad, very bad. Unfortunately our day is not foggy, which, I must admit, disappoints me. I hoped Perry would have to make his decision while mystic vapor caressed us. You can never count on the city’s fog when you need it.

Still, in this gray afternoon light, Alcatraz looks downright menacing—a lonely ghost tower rising defiantly from a crumble of island boulders; a hazy, floating castle right on the ocean, one in which the dungeons were kept topside instead of hidden in caverns below. The wind bites, reddening my cheeks. I enjoy it, but then again, I like the cold. I’m a Minnesotan now.

Silently, the ferry duck-waddles back into Pier 33. Eventually the gangplank is secured, and tourists escape with vigor, happy to have earned their parole back into society.

Uh oh. That word.

From the corner of my eye, I see Perry hasn’t walked away.

Funny. I imagine that Perry walked away from many things in his life: friendships, opportunities, boyfriends, fear. I don’t know this is true; it’s a guess on my part. But he couldn’t stay at the art gallery the other night. I bet he keeps others away more than he knows. Does Perry say “I’m not putting up with this shit,” and leave before he gets seriously hurt? My hunch is yes.

“Was it true?” he asks in a sharp tone. “The rat scars story? Or some bullshit to trick me?”

“It was true.”

Perry zips up his jacket and looks away.

“Why did you do that? The secrets game? And why did you ask me if I… when you said, ‘Are you ready to get kinged,’ is this what you meant? This sex weekend?”

We both turn to watch the tourists disembark as they clomp through the chain maze toward the exit.

“I think I deserve an answer,” he says, even more linear than before.

This sounds like his professional voice, the steely one used to convince his bank customers that he is trustworthy.

“Of course you deserve answers, Perry. But you’re not getting any. Sometimes an invitation appears and you say
yes
or you say
no
. This is your…”

Billy.

“… your moment to decide.”

Wait, where did that come from?

He huffs at my side, clearly not happy.

Billy? No, no. Random thought. Nothing more. Focus on Perry.

We watch a moment longer, listen to snatches of passing conversation as tourists brag about their photos, the hilarious “behind bars” shots that will be perfect for Christmas cards.

He doesn’t look happy, watching the last stragglers saunter down the gangplank, the ones who refused to partake in the mass exodus, preferring a more relaxed departure. I study his face as he ignores me, and the irritation I see helps me breathe easier. Irritation, frustration, impatience… all good signs.

Every little bit of jangled confusion helps guide this big moment, the split second where he decides. When an engine refuses to start, you have to ask what’s needed right in this second: fire, air, or fuel? I have decided this is less of a fuel issue than… no.