King Perry (27 page)

We nuzzle for a moment longer, staring at the bridge, the sky, the everything.

He shivers and says, “It’s cold out here.”

“It’s
always
cold in San Francisco. At least in Minnesota we get to wear coats. You guys always pretend like this isn’t cold.”

He turns his head and searches the immediate area, another three dozen people replacing the three dozen who were here a while ago. He takes the camera from me and says, “Hold our balls.”

Perry picks out an older man nearby who looks angry. “Sir, would you mind taking our photo?”

A
FTER
fifty-four photos, we return to Mr. Quackers. At Perry’s suggestion, we decide to journey to the middle of the bridge and back. We trade our tourist costumes for our warmer gear. Feels good to wear my coat. We store our snow globes carefully, and I insist on using the cake straps to secure them in the back. No rolling around. I also want Perry to see the straps and remember the cake. That was part of our day too.

“You’re not wearing your sun visor?” I ask with mock incredulity.

“I look like an idiot, Vin.”

We hold hands as we stride toward the center, both of us basking in the glow. Too soon it seems, we’re right at the bridge’s midpoint, gazing in every direction at the fog castle kingdom. From this height, the bay remains motionless, yet every wave forms and disbands faster than instantly. The white-capped water peaks look like frosting curls, and the ocean becomes a giant sheet cake, congratulating us for participating in a perfect Saturday. Or maybe it’s for King Diego’s birthday. Trees on the steep hills in Marin County balance their precarious position with a relaxed California attitude. Even the lapis lazuli sky belongs to San Francisco. Small islands dot the bay, lush with ripe trees and sad histories.

“Ever walked to the center?”

“No,” he says and zips up his coat. “I always said I would, though. Ever since I moved here, I’ve been meaning to. I figured that as long as we’re celebrating King Diego’s birthday, we should.”

We bask.

“Oh crap,” Perry says, peering toward Alcatraz, “I see I left my ski mask in the Hammock. Tell Jerome we’re coming back.”

“I assume you’ll want to keep your ski mask as a souvenir.”

“Of course. Assuming we don’t need it for this afternoon’s crime spree. Even though I’m not bank-robber hot.”

“Don’t feel bad. You’re still hot.”

He looks more relaxed than I have ever seen him.

I say, “Very hot.”

We kiss.

“It’s fucking cold out here,” he says, pushing me away.

We laugh and push each other. I point out cloud shapes, inventing raunchy sexual positions where he insists there are none.

“It’s too bad you wouldn’t let me elaborate on King Aabee’s sex life this morning, because that one cloud formation looks like—”

He pushes my forehead with the palm of his hand.

A few times we’re asked to take photos and we gladly comply, with Perry almost always asking for reciprocation. Good thing we brought our camera.

When we come upon Zhong and Jian, Perry collapses into them as if they are old college friends and he’s ecstatic for the overdue reunion. Although clearly baffled by this intense familiarity, they offer little resistance, for this is America, after all, and today is a day for adventure. Turns out that once they zoomed across the Golden Gate, they themselves could not resist the allure of walking to the middle. We get a few photos of all four of us together from some nearby tourist.

I suggest that if they are interested, Perry can recommend good restaurants. While Perry names a few places, I stand behind him and write against his shoulder. I always carry index cards with me for occasions like this. I like coincidences. Well, usually. The Billy stuff, I could do without.

After additional photos taken by both couples, we part again, and we all seem more giddy after our latest exchange. We wave our retreating goodbyes as we back away. Perry puts his hand in the middle of my back, enough pressure to let me know he’s there. I can imagine we’re on the front steps of our Victorian in Russian Hill, wishing dinner guests goodnight. When our new friends retreat, we both recognize our time in the middle is over and start retracing our steps to the van.

“Back to the story,” he says. “How did King Aabee get King Diego out of trouble? Or can you not tell me that until we’re skydiving?”

“I can tell you now.”

Perry stops and fakes panic. “Forget I said skydiving.”

I laugh. “Don’t worry.”

He makes an exaggerated sigh, and we resume walking.

“Skydiving’s more of a Sunday morning thing.”

He pushes my shoulder with his, and we test each other’s strength.

“The funny thing was that King Diego had not actually committed a crime. He merely offended some local officials.”

“Uh-huh. I’m not surprised; these kings of yours aren’t super bright. What did he
not
do? What was the charge?”

“Ducknapping.”

Perry stops.

“Technically, duck
ling
napping. King Diego rented a duck and stored it at an expensive hotel that already owned ducks.”

I love his face right now.

“When he ran out of the hotel, everyone was like, ‘Hey, you can’t take that duck!’ And King Diego was like, ‘Ha, ha, I totally stole your duck! No, just kidding, I rented it.’ He offered proof from his van, but they were like, ‘No way, man, we’re totally mad. You are
so
arrested.’ Which was a shame, because he really did rent it. The receipt and contract were in the glove box. Most people didn’t even know you could rent ducks.”

He rubs his eye socket with the heel of his hand and then scrubs his whole face with his fingers.

I say, “Culturally, ducknapping in Turkey was taboo.”

When he peels away his finger mask, he looks both furious and ready to laugh. It’s an odd expression. I’m sure he hadn’t forgotten about the stolen duck and that he feels a huge relief at not being a wanted criminal. But dammit, I did it to him again.

“Very,
very
taboo.”

I doubt he yet realizes that there was never a girl named Marie. No birthday party.

“I fucking knew it,” he says, eyes suddenly blazing with clarity. “I knew it.”

I cock my head for effect. “Did you?”

“I thought it once or twice. I thought, yeah, this is probably from a pet store or something and—
you fucker
. But you’re actually crazy enough. Oh, man.”

Perry decides to laugh. He says, “You motherfucker. You didn’t steal that duck from the hotel.”

“Here’s the thing….”

I pause and seem to consider my options.

“It’s like this….”

I pause again.

“What you must take into account is….”

He punches my chest a few times somewhere between playful and, well, punching, perhaps hoping to pound out some truth. He gives up and pulls me into a big hug.

“Duck stealer,” he says into my ear. “Is that your king name? King Vin the Duck Stealer?”

This forgiveness feels more like joy.

“Duck
ling
, by the way.”

He pushes me gruffly with his chest while pulling my waist closer, using newfound energy that might knock us over.

“
Quuaack,
” I cry in protest.

He roughs me up a little more.

“
Quaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack.
”

He laughs into my chest, and I laugh too, rocking back and forth on the Golden Gate Bridge like a couple of struggling grizzlies.

It’s good to be a bear and not take yourself so damn seriously.

Thirteen

B
ACK
in the overflow parking, I fret over our timetable but decide our jaunt to the middle impacts nothing significant, just a little less time at the next location. No afternoon nap for Perry. I wonder how soon I can work a joke about “fowl play” into the conversation. Ugh. No, I’m gonna keep that one to myself. At least I’m not….

Oh crap.

“I have the word
vigor
in my head again. I keep envisioning an English reverend on a rickety bicycle. He’s clean shaven, but his scruffy hair points out in three different directions.”

“Don’t scare the duck with that shit. I’m sure Mr. Quackers has enough emotional trauma after spending the week with you.”

“You want this?” I offer the second finished film canister in the palm of my hand.

Perry takes it without making eye contact and unzips the duffel bag with yesterday’s clothes. He takes the first canister from his jeans and packs it in as well.

I say, “Check it out. Feel our big balls under the tarp.”

“Classy,” he says.

“Touch it through the tarp. It’s like, tarp scrotum.”

“I stand by my description.”

“Seriously, touch my tarp scrotum.”

“Yes, Master,” he says with a smirk and rubs our crinkly snow globes.

Not much later, we sail across the Golden Gate Bridge.

Mr. Quackers’s travel cage rests on Perry’s lap because he didn’t want our little guy riding around alone in back. The wire cage blocks the view of, well, everything, which inspires entirely new Alcatraz jokes. Mr. Quackers takes the curvy California highway turns with a wobble, as he skitters toward one side of the cage, stopping a duck step or two just before the wire walls. He looks like he might be drunk.

I could be drunk, I’m so happy right now.

I say, “Keep your eyes open for unicorns. I’d hate to smash into one while distracted by the ocean down there.”

Gross.

“On it,” Perry says, grinning. “Where to? More federal crimes or faux-crimes? Should we pick up a matching ski mask for Mr. Quackers?”

“No, smartass. I need to do a favor for a buddy of mine.”

“A buddy?”

“You know how friends are when they find out you’re going to California for vacation.”

Perry says, “Riiiiiiiiiiiight.”

“If I drove into a unicorn and hit it like a deer, what are the odds the horn would go through the windshield?”

What is wrong with me? Ease up on the unicorn wrecks, Vin. Thankfully, Perry ignores my latest diversion. Sometimes, I think I invent shit deliberately to distract me, some self-destructive tendency to undermine the kinging.

He says, “Would this friend of yours happen to be a king?”

“Funny you should say that. He is.”

“I wonder if any of this afternoon’s kings will have food.”

“Didn’t you eat the lunch at the hotel?”

“I couldn’t eat it,” he says, surprised. “I tried.”

As we head into another curve, I take his hand, hoping to pull him back from whatever crosses his face right now: shame, embarrassment, some odd combination of the two.

“That wasn’t a dig, Perry. Seriously, how hungry are you?”

He says, “I’m okay. I was just, you know, making with a funny.”

I nod as the majestic Pacific Ocean comes into view.

“I mean,” he begins and then stops.

The ocean will do that.

It’s hard to drive and chat with the most glorious thing you’ve ever seen looming around every curve.

He says, “I mean, at some point, to eat. Would be good. Wow. I always forget how this is amazing.”

I say, “Yeah. Beauty is surprising.”

The easy kindling goes first: a stunning ocean, a famous bridge, a mom who reminds him of his own. But today he tossed a few new logs into the fire, befriending men on their honeymoon and asking children their names. Though he protested how breakfast at a homeless shelter would not change him, he later found he could not eat the same food off a silver platter.

Perry’s heart has been quietly expanding. Slender strips of violet love appear every day to remind us of this subtle fact: true, the sky is bleeding, but don’t be alarmed. The purple is everything.

We head down the Pacific Highway, everything around us suggesting gingerbread homes, hills ripe for castles, and trees ready for enchantment. We chatter as I drive through the hills, the magnificent twisting roads, draped in green California canopy. Every now and then, Perry says, “Hey, Mr. Quackers, check out the view.”

W
ITHIN
a short time, we coast through a small town, one of those touristy coastline communities. The town’s center reveals cafés all specializing in fish tacos, three surf shops, and a general store where teenagers from everywhere lounge on the front steps, achieving a globally accepted expression of indifference. A converted ranch home sells crystals and New Age healing books, and a block later, a three-foot mystical eye promises tarot readings revealing your true destiny. It would be easy to snicker at this town and say, “Only in California.”

But it’s more fun to forgive this tourist trap, and say, “Only in California!” Taco-chomping surfers chat up pale Midwesterners, explaining their love of riding waves, while at a neighboring table, a woman reads about healing others with chakras. Even the bored teenagers shoot each other furtive looks of acceptance, trying to figure out how to establish common ground.

I could live here.

Perry says, “When I first moved to San Francisco, I rented a car one weekend and drove up and down the coast. Late Sunday afternoon, I got to the same town we’re in right now and realized I had no gas. The needle slipped way under the E. I noticed it off and on throughout the afternoon but remembered this town, so I didn’t worry.”