King Perry (45 page)

“What about the snails?”

“I may have to work up to snails. If they don’t want to sell him, you might actually read about an honest-to-God ducknapping in tomorrow’s papers.”

I say, “Better take your ski mask.”

Perry chuckles and then is quiet for a moment.

“How often does this happen?” Perry asks, facing his side window. “The Detroit guy, the Dolphin King, and me.”

They usually want to know this. Was I special? Were we truly in love? Or did you simply get off on flipping my heart? These are vulnerable questions to ask, because a Found King will hear the truth even if it stings and still forgive.

I say, “Twice a year, maybe, but there’s no quota. Depends on timing, the guy, where the conversation goes, etc. I rarely get the right combination of spark and mutual attraction that suggests, ‘King him.’ Even with a great connection, there’s no guarantee he wants it bad enough to accept the invitation. One year I didn’t king anyone and two different years, four men. I was ready to spend the weekend alone if you didn’t show on Friday. But I hoped you would, because I really, really liked you and I wanted you to let me love you.”

Perry says nothing, but he puts his hand on my shoulder to let me know he’s okay with this answer. He mattered; this meant something to me too.

He says, “You’re kind of a slut, Vin.”

Our promising morning blossoms into a perfect California day as we coast down these emerald twisting roads, through this green and shimmery serpent, a writhing Chinese dragon. We snake through its mythological belly until at last we emerge from the dragon’s mouth, the Friendship Tunnel beyond Sausalito. For a split second, the tunnel’s circular mouth perfectly frames the mighty Golden Gate Bridge: white froth crashes against the orange girders and the cobalt blue fills most of the view, sparkles appearing and disappearing like glittering snowflakes.

We get quiet and hold hands.

It’s a good day to be a king, lost or found.

Twenty-Four

S
AN
F
RANCISCO
closes in around us again, wedding-cake mansions, corner grocers displaying wooden boxes heaped with fresh lemons and limes, and the inescapable car exhaust pulling us back from our fantasy landscape. We’re getting closer.

“Should I drop you off at home?”

Perry says, “Castro, please. I want to get to that gallery right away and try to buy back
Siren Song
.”

“Wow, you’re in a shopping frenzy today. First a duck, now this.”

“That damn painting sat wrapped in basement storage for eleven years,” he says, “dragged from apartment to apartment. I moved four times in the first two years I was in San Francisco. I can’t believe I’m going to buy it back.”

“How much would you pay for it?”

“Anything,” he says.

Perry looks surprised to hear the word emerge so vehemently.

“The Castro it is.”

“And you?”

I indicate the clattering serving pans behind us. “Returning stuff to Liam. Polish the back of the cello before I take that back.”

He laughs. “It’s not particularly high-quality wood, and pretty heavily varnished, so I don’t think you have much to worry about.”

“Good to know. Your duck handling means I’ll have time to stop and get my favorite San Francisco ham sandwich with cheese baked in, so thank you for that. Then, the airport. I’m on a late flight back to Minnesota. I’m going to snore so damn loud on that plane, everyone around me will be super irritated.”

He makes a fake gasp. “You, irritating? Is that even possible?”

We chuckle as we enter Lower Haight on Divisadero.

Perry says, “You’re really leaving, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

A moment later, he says, “For a while, I thought you lied about being a tourist. I thought you lived here.”

“Some days I still think I’d like to, but I’m a Minnesotan now. I have a certain responsibility to my state. Who knew that people cared about their state that way? I like it. Before I forget, I’m taking one alarm clock as a souvenir of our time together, but if you want thirteen others….”

“Thanks,” Perry says dryly. “I’d prefer the painting.”

My tone is appropriately apologetic. “Sorry about the bidding war thing. I was trying to get your attention.”

“Don’t worry about it. I photographed it plenty before the gallery show, so I don’t have to own it. Plus, I have more of Dad’s paintings at home. Plus, I’m trying not to get my hopes up.”

Perry’s smile lets me know I am forgiven.

Soon after that, two blocks beyond the giant rainbow flag at Market and Castro, I flip the hazard lights. It’s almost noon. The sidewalks teem with gay brunchers, chatting about last night’s adventures and plotting how to spend a golden California afternoon. I can only double park here for a minute or two, and honestly, forty minutes would not be enough time to say goodbye. It’s hard to find words, to strum the soul, to let out what is almost always ineffable.

King Quackers peers about now that we stopped moving. He’s eager to see what’s up.

Perry’s voice quivers as he says, “Do I ever get to… talk to you….”

I caress his face.

“I already left my contact information for you in your backyard. Under the third round paving stone. I taped another copy to the backside of your drainpipe in case condensation under the stones smeared the ink.”

“Oh my God,” Perry says, laughing, wiping his eyes.

“I had to stick around for a few hours to make sure you stayed in bed. You’ll find roughly eleven or twelve notes with my contact information hidden in that shared backyard space. Phone, email. My AOL website. Say hello sometime.”

Perry’s face is pleased as he says, “Freak.”

“I got bored watching you after 10:30 p.m. You’re an
investment banker
, for God’s sakes.”

Right in the moment he’s smiling widest, I take his right palm and guide it to my lips. I kiss the underside of his thumb.

His smile disappears and Perry’s face transforms to a grief-stricken ten-year-old boy. Yes, he’s about to get abandoned once again, yet his face transitions into a softer sadness almost instantly. Maybe the river of grief runs different, less bitter than it once was. Perhaps now his father’s love gurgles down this brook where it was always meant to be. When I finish, he mirrors my goodbye, kissing the underside of my thumb.

Never a required salutation, but lovely when executed with heartfelt intention.

The Forgiver King gets out of the van.

Our duck king gets reintroduced to his luxurious cage, and he immediately races to dunk his head. We load up two backpacks with wet clothes, acquired knickknacks from the weekend, including two rolls of film, a dried up starfish, and a ski mask. And his snow globe of San Francisco, of course. He relents, requesting an annoying alarm clock. I get him the paperwork on King Quackers and ask him to rip up my deposit check if they’re satisfied with the duck’s general well-being.

We look into each other’s eyes. Careful, Vin, the weekend is not over.

“Goodbye, Perry Mangin.”

“Goodbye, Vin Vanbly.”

Perry and I shake hands, and he lets go reluctantly because something remains unsaid. He looks at me with surprise, as if he can’t believe I’m leaving without listening to what he desperately wants to say. But he offers no words.

I wait.

He says nothing.

I return to my side of the van and pull myself into the driver’s seat. Snap on the seatbelt. Perry moves to the sidewalk, sets down the duck cage, the knapsacks, and stares at me through the passenger window. People point at the duck, and I catch some admiring glances in Perry’s direction. A few people chuckle at the sequined shirt under his bomber jacket and at what I’m sure looks like me dropping off last night’s trick.

His eyes are wild, but the words won’t come. Sometimes, even words with the letter
x
fall short.

I nod to him and prepare to turn into traffic, flipping my blinker. Cars behind me wait impatiently, so I have to pull away. Perry looks as though he’s going to scream until he finally does.

“
Vin!
”

I keep my foot steady on the brake and turn to the passenger window.

His hands reach high in the sky, clutching air and squeezing tight while his face contorts in a twisted, body-wrenching growl. He swings around, demanding space from the Castro walkers, and then attempts to destroy a nearby US postal box mauling it with his big, swaggering, bear claws.

“RRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAR.”

As far as I can see, the mailbox has done nothing wrong.

Sunday brunchers have to sidestep the gold-spangled Perry and his baggage because he commands so much space, staggering around, slashing the air. Damn. He’s good.

“Bitch, please,” says a drag queen behind him, a Latino beauty with honey-colored skin and some killer titties. “That’s no bear.
This
is a bear, you white-assed bitch.”

She growls toward him with ragged, high-pitched movements that threaten to topple her tube top. Admittedly, her long fingernails could tear human flesh; she’s got that on him. But Perry’s no quitter and he redoubles his efforts toward her, squatting and advancing like a Sumo wrestler. She swears in bear-swear, calling him a bitch, and the entire thing is ri-dikulous.

I love seeing Found Kings and Queens, the ones whose love simply refused to shut down. Sometimes I wish I had been born one of those who go first, those blessed followers of King Aabee.

Castro pedestrians must navigate around in an irritated way, or stop and stare at the street theater. Two scruffy guys, ragged baseball caps laid out for spare change, scoot away from the spectacle. A blond twink with frosted tips skirts their fight with complete indifference and in a lilting tone says loudly, “Get a room.”

King Quackers races back and forth in his cage, shouting, whether in a panic at finding himself surrounded by so many grizzlies, or perhaps doing his own bear imitation, I can’t really tell.

I throw the van into park, hop out, run to the front, and mine for fish in the gutter. I outroar all of them when I spot a speckled, silver-back trout swim by, and I dive, snatching it with my teeth from this icy, mountain stream on Castro and 19th.

A car honks behind me, and I hear a man yell, “
Goddamn tourist.
”

I thrash my head from side to side, chomping harder against the imaginary fish belly, the slippery creature flopping desperately for its very life.

Bear versus fish.

Totally surreal.

Epilogue

J
ASON
looked up eagerly from inventory paperwork as the front chime signaled a customer entering but felt instant disappointment. It wasn’t
him
. Jason lived with the
Siren Song
mystery for almost a full week and called Perry Mangin’s number repeatedly over the weekend. Would it kill Perry to return a call or make an appearance? Instead, a derelict bumbled through the front door, overloaded with knapsacks and what appeared to be a caged duck.

With crisp strides, Jason clacked noisily across the polished wooden floor, and his voice took on an intentional frosty tone as he said, “No pets.”

The derelict turned and smiled broadly; Jason experienced a thrill of shock.

“Oh my God,” Jason said before he could stop himself, “what happened to you?”

Perry laughed and said, “I got kinged.”

Jason found himself unable to speak. Beyond the features he had admired on Tuesday, nothing looked the same. Had Perry’s eyes been blue on Tuesday? Jason hadn’t noticed. Even the way that Perry stood was different.

“You may not remember me, but my name is Perry Mangin.” Perry’s smile melted into something more earnest, and his eyes grew wet. “You sold two of my dad’s pieces on Tuesday night. I was actually hoping to contact the new owner and buy back
Siren Song
.”

“Buy it back?” Jason said. “I don’t understand.”

As he re-explained, Jason studied Perry’s facial expressions, trying to understand where Tuesday’s aloofness had gone. Perhaps Perry had a twin brother, which would explain how someone else now inhabited this body. That was ridiculous. Of course this was Perry, but how?