King Perry (40 page)

The accidental rapist.

No. He
raped
; they
raped
! That verb doesn’t get any softening adjectives. Fuck that.

Wait, I can do this, I can forgive.

Forgiveness?
I was chewed on by rats.
That’s, like, God-hates-you biblical punishment. Except it happened every third Wednesday and nobody cared. Billy was sheepish Thursday and Friday, so maybe he felt bad. Maybe it was okay—

OK. OK.

Uh oh. Not OK, not okay to think of him. I knew this would happen if I thought about Billy, I knew it would definitely not be OK. Took me long enough to drive his name out of my head. But I have to believe he’s probably okay, okay out there somewhere, Other Kid.

I told him it was okay, that you get used to them biting you, not that you enjoy it, but I had a theory that the poker men wouldn’t like it, that maybe fucking a twelve-year-old covered in bloody rat bites might not feel victorious. I had just learned that word.

I wanted to win, to be victorious.

OK, OK, OK.

I didn’t know Other Kid wouldn’t be able to handle the rats.

I tried to tell him Billy and the poker men were waiting, just waiting up there. Billy knew all the good hiding places in the house and yard, and her next door house too. The one place he would not venture was the basement; he hated the rats.
Other Kids.
I tried to tell him that there were Other Kids; though I covered my ears, I heard them screaming. I argued, I pulled on his arm and tried to keep him down with me, but he fought and pushed me down the remaining stairs. Other Kid couldn’t handle the rats.

It’s my fault he got raped.

And that is why, Billy, despite doomed destiny’s pushing you to arrange group rape on poker night, I will not forgive you, you sick, motherfucking asshole. I was
twelve
when you made me an accomplice to gang rape.

Enough.

My hands are shaking, and I don’t need to see rats to feel their vibration, to relive those prying teeth against my skull. My fingers seek out my bite scars to feel if this was real, did this really happen to me? Did I really lie there on that basement floor and let them chew on me? My middle fingers touch the soft crinkled flesh, my own Keith Haring imprint from the 1980s. I yank my hand away.

It’s disgusting.

I am disgusted touching myself. What kind of freak lies there and lets rats bite him?

Breathe, Vin.
Breathe.

I can’t forgive you, Billy. Other Kid won’t let me.

And so, I remain a Lost King.

The Forgiver King sleeps forty feet away, golden sparks of power radiating from him, zipping around his body even while unconscious. I can see it. All the love we have shared this weekend and yet, I still cannot forgive. How messed up is that?

I can walk a king through the eastern gates. We can have a big party, and we love each other with all our love for the whole weekend. But I never get to stay. I couldn’t possibly date Perry or make a life with him; I’m too fucked up. He will always be a better person than me.

My Lost King name is the Human Ghost.

Quit it, Vin. This isn’t helping.

It doesn’t help to get all worked up.
Breathe.
It’s not that bad being a lost king. I got to rescue starfish today, and I finally realized a dream of mine, to take the right man to Alcatraz. Plus, that ocean blow job was hot. I am a lucky man: I got to love Perry Mangin this weekend. My heart is full of him. I will love every minute with him tomorrow, trying not to focus on how sad I will feel after we part, miserable that I am not good enough to be his true love.

I won’t forgive Billy, not yet. Maybe not ever. I don’t know. I’ll keep trying every now and then, I guess. I suppose it helps to get this stuff stirred up, because I wept for a while tonight. I’ve never been one to enjoy a dark night of the soul, where a man is destroyed and replaced by another man, better or worse than the one who fell to his knees. But who does love it, necessary as it may be?

Get out of this funk.

Look at Perry.

I stare at the strong, graceful man sleeping not far away.

Think of Perry.

Perry won’t ever say, “That night on the mountain was one of the best nights of my life.” He may love this night eventually. Hell, as early as tomorrow he may love this night. But he’ll never claim it as one of his best nights. Too raw.

I learned a beautiful new king story, several in fact, woven into the fabric of The Lost and Founds. I got to visit King Aabee, whom I love. And hey, maybe I’m a better man now than the one who wept earlier. Maybe I’m a better man for loving Perry. It’s not over for me: even a lost king can find faith in Bolinas. He is the Forgiver King, after all.

But I think downtime is over.

Stretch out your arms, you moron, your legs too, and limber up. Get back focused on the man slumbering within view.

Thank you, kings, for letting me visit your side this weekend, to inhale the azure sky, to stand amazed in the green grass and see how much love is around me. I’ll try to let a little more in. I’m not coming home, I guess, not today. I don’t mean to complain. Today will be a pretty good day. Later, there’s going to be french toast and cherry crepes.

Okay, fine. I
was
complaining. I’m tired of being the Human Ghost. I want someone to see me.

But enough bitching; this pity party is over.

Before I set up for sunrise, I’ll go check out the other side of the perimeter for traces of nightlife, but I’m sure I will find nothing. That piss was potent. I wonder if those two guys I introduced on Wednesday hooked up.

I advance toward him in silence, boulder crawling until I am a few feet above him. Not too close, of course, but I lean forward so I might see his expression.

His face is relaxed, yet retains a certain intensity, intention perhaps, as if he’s looking down a long hallway but his eyelids happen to be closed. Those sharp planes of his handsome face are so crisp I want to run my finger over his jawline. It’s not hard to imagine the Forgiver King inhabiting his fortress, the veiny stones glowing brighter as the master draws near. He strolls through wide castle hallways, his hand occasionally stroking the walls and blessing those who gasp in surprise.

I place an alarm clock six feet away and begin my perimeter tour.

The scene is set.

Less than two hours from now, the sun rises.

In the meantime, the Forgiver King wanders his ocean-blue castle, helping lost tourists, listening to their woes.

Twenty

G
OLDEN
G
ATE
, Golden Gate, it’s an early morning date.

I remember my Golden Gate years, obsessing over the bridge’s letters and relation to the structure’s actual shape, its grace and gusto, guilded gyrations, and all the explorations into the letter
g
that even I can muster. And boy, can I spend a lot of time with that sultry, squiggly little bitch. Oh yeah,
g
, you’re the middle of an orgasm, gushing and goofy. You’re giggly and girly, but you’re gentlemanly too, a fedora-wearing letter when need be. With your guttural ja-ja, you’re gentle and genuine, unassuming soft touch. Legs uncrossed and recrossed right before us, so we get those sexy goose bumps. Show me those curves,
g
.

Okay.

I am punchy. I’m punchy now.

This, Vin, is why we value sleep in the land of the sane. Sleep revs down the crazy that might knock someone over if they saw me full strength. Snap out of it. But I can’t help it. I love Sunday morning when I no longer have to be a dick. He’s a delicate pear, graceful planes, soft but strong and surprisingly juicy. I loved a pear. Plus, I’ll sleep like the dead for the next few weeks, my reward for service to the realm. There’s that to look forward to.

When the alarm clock shrieks its horrible clang, Perry wakes yelling, “
Damn it, Vin.
”

The sound is distorted almost instantly as Perry knocks it across a rocky surface.

I hear him scrambling to the alarm clock, one of those cheap gold ones that creates a deafening jangle of unpleasant screeching, and is therefore, by definition, the most wildly fucked-up way to awaken. The new Castro Walgreens: $7.99. Seriously, who buys those?

Thankfully, he finally hits the right button, and the metal hammering ceases.

Wow, that really echoes.

Light streaks through the sky making last minute preparations for The Big Entrance. It’s possible to believe the house lights are coming down, gradually descending, except for the small shifts incrementally dragging in the new day.

I imagine he crawls back to the sleeping bag and then checks on the duck. I would. On top of the duck’s cage, he will find a purple-wrapped package with a purple ribbon and bow, addressed to King Perry the Forgiver. Inside, his king shirt. I figured he’d make the connection last night; I worked it awfully hard. I just like to cross the
t
’s. It’s the least you can do for a friendly ol’
t
.

Ah, I hear paper shredding.

He laughs a short laugh, a ‘
g
’ laugh, a guffaw. Guffaw! Guffaw!

I bet the gold spangles are sparkling off his face. Gold, gold, gold, goldgold. Goldgold. Quit it with the
g
thing, Vin. Keep it together.

Gold spangles are perfect if you do drag or crave glittery attention. Perry may not fit either category, but somehow this shirt suits him, the dazzling gold lamé called out his name. Always lots of king shirt options in the City of Fog. The real challenge was not including a matching feather boa. He’s gay; he’ll accessorize on his own.

I do not know what he does the next few minutes, waiting for dawn. It’s quiet over in Perry’s camp. I tried to time the alarm with the expected sunrise, but it’s tough because the Farmer’s Almanac doesn’t give you the time estimate for mountaintops. But he won’t have to wait more than ten minutes.

After a few peeks around my latest hiding spot, I spy our sun, as expected, peeking back, a slim curve over the horizon, already a buttery yellow, but tragedy has struck, as vandals have doused him in gasoline and thrown down a match.

It pokes up higher.

My brain can’t even comprehend its size, but with the actual horizon so many hundreds of miles away and our favorite star blasting yellow flames over the earth’s curve, I can only—wow.

Wow.

The scorched butter color becomes a body sensation, but unfortunately the sensation isn’t warmth. Daylight means a certain unclenching of my muscles as a new vulnerability ripples over my skin, reminding me the night was hard, but it’s over. I am spent and chilly, shaking, exhausted, and yet free to roam the world again. The captain has turned off the seatbelt sign.

The orange disc rises another inch. Ah, orange now in addition to scorched yellow. I peek my head up, curious to see how yellow becomes gold, gold becomes orange, and watch hazy red streaks of light, like reluctant lighting dragged behind this thing, this star out in space.

Star, star, star, star—

I forgot to play Star Game last night, I was so happy watching Perry, thinking about him. Well, that and thinking about Billy. I gave it a shot, kings. I really did try.

I guess that Perry also digs this morning, perhaps seeing something out of the ordinary, because while the sun blesses the faraway hills, I hear someone nearby, could be anyone, I suppose, yell, “
I am King Perry The Forgiver.
”

I feel wonderfully bleary right now, sleepy and happy.

Last night, misery. Today, french toast.

The sun is not quite a quarter over the horizon.

He says, “I love you, Dad.”

I imagine that all the kings who scream and cheer during a dawn celebration get quiet as a father reunites with his son.

He yells other affirmations that mean nothing to me, but obviously something for him. I don’t know everything about this guy; we just met Tuesday. A lifetime shaped him, sculpted him, some of those events are stodgy recliners scattered around his heart. Right now, at dawn, it sounds like he rearranges the furniture instead of tripping over it. He’s making room.

I shouldn’t have axed that part about the dragging your beat-up furniture to the curb and having it carted away to Castle Forgiveness. I liked that. But I worried about laying it on too thick, prompting Perry to ask direct questions. Malcolm likes to remind me that subtlety is not my forte.

Tomorrow, when I call him to tell him I found another king, I bet the first thing he says is, “What did you make him steal?” My brother knows me too well.

I try to muscle around some of those couches every now and then; I’ve left a few resentments out on the curb. Who knows, maybe I moved something a foot or two last night.

Enough randomness; focus up, man. It’s showtime.

Suddenly, another alarm clock jangles the morning air. It’s the same irritating sound as his Walgreens clock. What are the odds?

Perry barks out a short laugh.

I turn off the alarm. “
Grab the duck. Take off the cover and pick up the cage.
”

He says, “Okay. Gimme a sec.”

A moment later, I hear him say, “
Ready.
”