King Perry (2 page)

“Financial journals, mostly. I’m an investment banker.”

His eye contact changes after this, like he’s no longer searching for a way out. I believe I’ve been upgraded from Dumb Tourist to Person of Interest. We chat about the exciting life of an investment banker, and the also exciting life of a garage mechanic. We discover we both enjoy Thai, and he recommends a good place for panang curry in SOMA. Over slightly more friendly smiles, we find additional common ground. He owns a home e-mail account, which not everyone does. I share my AOL website address, and he says how he’s been meaning to sign up.

I nod at his shoes. “Gucci.”

“A mechanic who knows surrealism and fashion. Clearly I need to meet more mechanics.”

“We’re into show tunes too. Put a bunch of mechanics near a piano, some beer, and watch out. Gay or straight, it doesn’t even matter.”

He smiles. “Show tunes, huh? You also a big Madonna fan?”

A willowy man, midtwenties, appears at our side and inspects
Siren Song
closer, dragging a lock of long blond hair behind his right ear for Perry’s benefit. He nods toward the painting and says, “This represents Vietnam, right?”

Perry hesitates before he speaks. “I don’t think so. It’s around that time, but a few years later.”

Wait, what was that? What was that thing on Perry’s face?

Our interloper, finding no suitable reaction, pretends to study it a moment longer, then saunters away.

“That guy was hitting on you, Perry.”

He smiles and says, “I don’t think so.”

“Please. That whole ‘isn’t this Vietnam?’ He didn’t give a crap about the painting.”

“In this town, everyone hits on everyone and nobody counts it as flirting. It’s practically saying hello.”

Is it possible that Perry couldn’t see it?

“Check out that one,” I suggest with a nod. “Mother’s Day gift.”

Perry says, “Arbor Day.”

“Doesn’t your mom like trees?”

He says, “I think she preferred her trees with less blood.”

“It’s sap.”

Perry says, “The branches are fingers and they’re bleeding down the trunk.”

I exhale hard. “Thanks. Now I’m queasy.”

He used the past tense when mentioning his mom. Is she dead? I should check that out.

I shoot a barrage of questions his way about absurd topics: favorite birthday presents, great vacations, San Francisco neighborhoods perfect for night walking, giving him the chance to trot out his best stories, the ones that show “this is the real me.” I want to understand his connection to these three paintings. I could ask him directly, but this is more fun.

“Vin, check out that dude over there.”

“
Dude?
Are you sure you’re young enough to use that word?”

Perry ignores me and shares his observation, during which an idea pops into my mind, a theory about my new friend.

I point my wine cup at a painting across the room. “That one looks like onion rings smothered in cheese. I’m so fucking hungry, I’d buy it. Would it kill your city to put out some damn chips and salsa?”

He tilts his chin upward for a split second and laughs.

Got it. I know who he is; I now understand his interest in these Richard Mangin paintings. Well, it’s a guess. But I make good guesses. I don’t think I’ll bring it up. Let’s see where this goes.

“Are you Irish?” Perry says. “You’re fair. Of course, you could be German.”

“Maybe. Or Nordic. My birth records were spotty on a few key details, and I grew up in foster families, so I’m one of those oddballs who doesn’t know his own ethnicity.”

“Oh.” Perry’s face falls. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Don’t sweat it. I’m curious myself. My guess is German, you know? Pale, big square head like a block? Who knows, though, maybe I’m a blond Russian.”

“You’re built like a German dude,” he says, his shy smile returning. “Big chest and all. I bet you’re hairy.”

I guess Perry decided to go for it.

Glancing around the gallery with pretend distraction, I unbutton my top two shirt buttons, scratching my strawberry-brown curls. I’m a bear, by the gay world’s definition: stocky and hairy, the only two requirements for membership. Two weeks ago, someone on AOL used the term
otter
, so maybe we’re evolving into a “woodland creatures” group.

My face is fairly undistinguished, except I have a goatee. I’m not hideous and I’m not Lawn Furniture handsome, which nobody is now that Perry revealed his name. Vin, let that one go.
Perry.

He sips his wine and shakes his head, chuckling. “I’m not usually this forward. I sucked down two vodka cranberries at an after-work party before I came here. You’re terrible, by the way. You’re turning this into the opening scene in a porno.”

I make my voice deep and chesty. “Fuck yeah, buddy…. Oh, yeah, just like that….”

Perry snickers. “You know that your name sounds like a fake porn star name, right? I mean,
Vin Vanbly
?”

“Fuck yeah, baby,” I say, slapping the imaginary ass in front of me.

Perry says, “That’s why you thought that guy was hitting on me. Because
you’re
hitting on me.”

“Maybe. You like?”

One corner of his mouth curves upward. “Maybe. What’s with the lumberjack outfit?”

“Just got back from camping in Marin County. You like to camp?”

“Sure, sure,” he says, “being out in nature is great. But I assumed you dressed that way for some leather bar later.”

He insists on checking my biceps to see if I chop wood, but we both recognize and appreciate the sexy excuse to be extra close, to touch in public. I have some muscle, but it doesn’t show much. Well, maybe biceps show a little bulge. I can run two city blocks, but after about three blocks, I end up wheezing, hands on my knees.

Who am I kidding? When was the last time I ran two city blocks?

We talk about the movie
Fargo
, which he loved, and the Minnesota accent, which I love. He asks about winters in my adopted state, as everyone must. I explain the beauty of Minnesota’s spring thaw, and he dismisses it instantly. There should be a word for an attitude between snobbish and unconscious, describing someone who doesn’t realize how strongly he holds his own opinions.

I like Perry, and he’s definitely sexy, but that doesn’t guarantee I will find the spark I seek. I can’t fuck casually, and I’m not great at small talk unless I’m hunting for that spark. But I can probe a bit longer, see if I recognize kindling for a bonfire I might try to ignite. If nothing comes of this, I will have enjoyed chatting with the handsome investment banker in a San Francisco gallery. That in itself is pretty sweet.

More people enter the gallery, and as others nudge by, the two of us jostle for position. Our chests graze together as someone squeezes behind me and we bare naughty grins. I want to believe that Perry and I are both imagining each other naked. Well, I am. The shifting crowd becomes suddenly too much for Ponytailed Caterer, who falters behind Perry, her tray of wineglasses dipping disastrously for a split second, three of them sliding to the floor right at his feet.

“Sorry,” Perry says, raising his voice. “Sorry! I did that. I bumped her.”

Almost no time passed before his reaction.

She shoots him a look of gratitude so quick and sly that it’s gone right away. For everyone else, she wears an impassive expression, clearly bearing no ill will toward the man who, everyone believes, professionally humiliated her. Group consensus shows it wasn’t her fault.

No paintings are damaged, no Pradas irrevocably stained.

People gaze at him coolly, and he nods in meek apology. She mops up the floor with napkins and then disappears into a corner to restock. He’s so busy accepting silent reprimands from the art patrons that he doesn’t notice her two white-aproned coworkers fixing on him with undisguised anger.

“Sorry,” he says to Cute Twink, who also bears an unpleasant expression.

The commotion is over, the wine scrubbed from the scene. People turn away, gossiping about him, everyone eager for a topic besides the art. I can’t help but notice Perry and I have a few extra feet of space around us, no one eager to be implicated by proximity.

Perry turns to me and says, “Well, that was embarrassing.”

I wait a few seconds before speaking. “Why did you do that?”

“I stepped—”

I cut him off with my hand and say, “No you didn’t.” I nod to the space behind him. “Seriously. Why?”

He blushes and then lowers his voice. “I worked as a caterer when I first moved here. That was my third job, my weekend job, in addition to my day and evening jobs. In San Francisco, competition for the good catering gigs is savage.” Perry adopts a sinister, serious face. “You’ll never pour merlot in this town again, kid.”

Compassion.

Compassion toward someone who can do nothing for him, someone who offers nothing in return. He’ll never see her again, but his response came immediately. They’ll never even exchange names.

The spark.

I’ve got to keep him talking. “Did you like catering? I bet you have some good stories.”

Okay, don’t get ahead of yourself, Vin. But while he talks, I can run the checklist.

Personality. He’s unconsciously snobbish and spontaneously compassionate. He’s got humor and humility. But damn, he’s way uptight. He evolved his first impression of me, moving beyond his initial judgments. Chemistry. Fuck yeah, I’d suck his dick, and I think it’s pretty mutual. Issues. He still hasn’t volunteered his connection to the paintings. That’s big. I’ve got an idea to test this. He seemed pretty happy about that Transformers birthday present, so I’m thinking he was under twelve. Need to establish timelines; I can’t do the math this quickly. 70-what? Skip it; come back. Emotions. Other than a little affected, I think he’s solid.

And he couldn’t recognize a suitor. Why is his heart so shut down?

Who is this man, this handsome banker with a broken heart?

King him.

My own heart pounds.

King Perry.

Okay, that’s it; message received. Let’s fucking do this.

I wait for Perry to wind down his catering anecdote and then say, “Are you ready to get kinged?”

“Not sure,” he says, and glances around the gallery with a mischievous smile. “Which painting are we talking about now?”

Two

“
S
ERIOUSLY
, what did you mean?” he says. “Is it a painting here?”

“Never mind. Hey, what brought you to San Francisco? Why’d you move here?”

Perry stumbles conversationally, not sure what to make of my refusal to answer.

Wow, how cool is this? The hot investment banker and I are about to have a King Weekend together. Dun-da-da-dah. Bring out the capital letters.

Well, if he wants it.

I’ve gotten a few “fuck off, weirdo” responses to my admittedly unorthodox invitation. Nothing is in stone; assume nothing. Still, I see their faces as I talk to Perry, different kings I have known and loved. I try to imagine some of them wandering in the crowd tonight. They’re giving me the thumbs-up: “Go for it. We like him.” Perry’s smile reminds me of Ryan. He’s got some grit in him too, reminding me of Kearns. Could I see Mai Kearns and Perry as friends? Hell yes.

What would you risk to find a lost king? And what if he doesn’t remember you?

Maybe word of free wine reached the happy-hour bars a block away, because our little gallery party turns into a gala, more locals and more tourists pretending to be locals. Or maybe the surrealists only come out at dusk. Perry and I flirt more openly now that we have established that Perry likes hairy guys with big chests and thick love handles. I have always held lawn furniture in the highest esteem.

If I king Perry this weekend, I won’t sleep much tonight. Too much planning, too much to figure out. We’ll start Friday afternoon, of course, which is only a few days away. I have to deliver the invitation right away. I sneak a few glances at
Siren Song
, not wanting to be too obvious, but I need to consider a few details and how to put together an interpretation.

Tonight is Perry’s and my only opportunity to speak until Friday, so I must make the most of our time. I ask about favorite San Francisco spots and who he’s taken there, trying to learn discreetly about friends, family, and locations. The slight reluctance on his face tells me I need to slow down, not fire so many specific questions. Patience. Never been one of my strong suits, which is too bad, because I like the word
patience
, the
p
is puffy like a cloud and—

Wait, is he
the one
? Is he the one I finally take to my favorite San Francisco spot? The hair on the back of my neck stands straight up as I realize that Perry is most definitely the one,
the one
I will introduce to the Human Ghost. Holy crap, it’s Perry.

Wait, wait. I don’t have to decide that now. But I think, perhaps, I’ve been waiting for many years to meet Perry.

Stay focused. Chill out. Look around.

The collective short-term memory of the shifting crowd means we’re no longer art gallery pariahs. Every now and then people edge near us, and we let our body language indicate we’re engaged in a private conversation, moving a foot or two to the side when necessary to appease an art connoisseur.