King Perry (28 page)

“Hey, quick interruption. Want to get food while we’re here? Fish tacos?”

“I’m good for now,” he says. “I’ll wait until whatever you got planned. You
do
have something planned?”

“Of course. Anyway, out of gas.”

“Right. I pulled over at this surf shop coming up on the left, right there, and asked for the nearest gas station. This older man, this surfer dude in his midfifties or so, told me that the closest was ‘fourteen miles in that direction’. He just pointed, you know? And then he said, ‘Fourteen miles in that direction, too.’”

I nod. I’ve cut it close, not quite as close as that, but close enough to cause concern.

Perry watches Mr. Quackers attack a piece of lettuce.

“How could they not have a gas station here? At first, I thought he was kidding. I stayed in his shop fuming because I had nowhere to go. I’d be stranded either way. I guess because I wouldn’t leave, he finally broke down and told me of a gas pump five miles away. He said, ‘You make three left turns around the lagoon to get there.’ When I asked him the town name and street names, he got irritated and repeated his directions. He wouldn’t say any more. I didn’t have a choice, so I started driving.”

Perry shakes his head and laughs. It looks good on him.

“I followed his directions, but at the same time my knuckles were pure white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. Why didn’t he tell me about this town first? That was suspicious. And I couldn’t believe that there were unnamed back roads this close to San Francisco; prior to moving here, California meant big cities and traffic. But I followed his directions, taking the left turns around this lagoon.”

The shadowed patterns of tree leaves brush our faces. Coming up on our far left, I can make out the lagoon in question.

“Everything over there looked like rural Ohio where my grandparents lived. Rickety wooden fences, overgrown scrub trees, and homemade pottery for sale on a card table near the road. I thought for sure surfer dude set me up. Maybe he also owned a tow truck business or something; who knows? Just as my car started sputtering, I crest this one hill and suddenly coast into an artist colony town with a Shell station.”

“Bolinas,” I say and nod in recognition.

He says, “Okay, so you know about this?”

“I know they rip out the highway signs, anything that points toward their town.”

“Exactly. I coasted into the station after completely thinking this guy fucked me over, sent me on a goose chase. But the surfer didn’t lie. After I gassed up, I drove around. Cute town.”

“You had faith in Bolinas.”

He smiles and says, “I did.”

I say, “A lot of people do.”

A secret artist colony that granted Perry emergency access? I like it.

We pass the signless lagoon road, the first left, and Perry points a silent finger. I nod in a conspirator’s appreciation as we chug further down Highway One. No time to visit Bolinas today, but my brain races, reworking a few details in King Aabee’s next appearance. I can work with this.

Perry looks out the window as the Pacific coast flutters into view again. A thousand sparkles disappear as soon as we notice them, which should disappoint us tremendously, but they’re immediately replaced by a thousand more. Holy shit, I love the ocean.

A happy silence later, punctuated only to point out some beautiful vista, an amazing tree, or to interpret vanity license plates, I pull over at the overlook area I know so well.

Magnificent overlooks dot the entire Pacific coastline, all unbelievable knockouts in this never-ending beauty contest. Driving up the coast, you might encounter the same tourists every few miles as everyone piles out of their car once more, fretting and excited because it can’t be
that
impressive again, like it was a mile back there. Surely not here as well? Then the fine spray tickles your face, an authentic ocean kiss, and you realize, yes, it’s that breathtaking.

This particular overlook ranks a hideous 9.6 on the 10-point beauty scale, meaning it’s stunning, but the spot comes right after a steep curve, so I imagine most folks see the intimidating parking lot at cliff’s edge and decide to stop at the next one. Two other cars dared to park here, so the danger obviously does not dissuade everyone.

“We’re here,” I announce, “at the overlooked overlook.”

“Are we letting Mr. Quackers go here?”

“Nope. He goes back to his home after the weekend. Now that I don’t have to pretend I’m worried about the noise he makes, we’ll open the windows a good amount. Meet me in back for another costume change.”

Perry expresses his lack of surprise and maneuvers himself and the cage out of the front seat. Mr. Quackers had grown docile in the past twenty minutes after finding his sea legs. Now he faces the ocean almost sleepy, eyes shut against the crushing wind and his fuzzy yellow feathers ruffling hard. He appears trapped in a wind tunnel.

After settling Mr. Quackers into a comfortable spot, Perry asks if he might adjust the tarps to create a dark corner around the cage, in case Mr. Quackers wants to nap. We discuss it, and after testing with both the doors closed, we decide the van will be dark enough as is.

“By the way, Pear, do I get any credit for using ‘overlooked overlook?’ Did you hear me say that when we pulled up? Six
o
’s in those two words?”

“Dude, you’re scaring the duck.”

“You’re still trying to pull off ‘dude’?”

He says, “It’s friendly. It’s Californian.”

I say, “My, my. Look who has word issues.”

I plunge both arms under a tarp, make a big show of feeling my way around until I gradually pull free two pairs of hip-high rubber waders with reinforced rubber soles.

I fish out a green sweatshirt and suggest he wears the tie-dye shirt under the sweatshirt because both are probably going to get wet. The tarps reveal another small backpack I have packed for this occasion.

Perry watches as the latest one emerges and says, “How many of these did you bring?”

“Please save your questions until the end of the tour.”

He says, “I don’t want to get these new jeans wet. They fit great. I mean, really great. How did you know my exact size?”

I reach under the tarp and pull out another pair, same size, same brand. Perry laughs and surrenders. We don our hip waders, and Perry walks around in circles, testing them out, getting used to their strange heaviness, adjusting his suspenders for a better fit. Boy, if he were still wearing that sun visor, he’d look more like a duck than ever.

“You want your visor?”

“Nah,” he says.

“You sure? Sun’s bright.”

In a dry tone, he says, “I’ll risk it.”

After assuring Mr. Quackers of his personal safety during our absence, we head toward the cliff, discovering the first of many thick wooden beams wedged into the rock wall, a steep slope descending right into the beach. I’m glad the overlooked overlook doesn’t get the same attention as its neighbors; it’s a California secret right out in the open. We clomp down, stopping at a platform midway.

“Hang on,” I say, “camera moment.”

Like every other tourist, we gawk and photograph the most magnificent alien creature ever witnessed, the Pacific Ocean. Instead of a body of water, I behold a twitching leviathan, slumbering on its side. This all-encompassing monster, Ocean, defies explanation. How can a thing hold all the colors at once? Every shade of midnight blue and saffron teal bob away, gradations of black and green in combinations I have never experienced. How can glittering orange and yellow crest each wave’s tips before cheerfully drowning? Ocean lies motionless on its side while every surface inch shivers with the ecstasy of life.

I shiver.

After we photograph ourselves, heads touching, with the ocean behind us, we continue our rubbery clomping downward.

Perry squeezes my hand, happy with the inner recognition that somehow this all fits; it’s even—crazily enough—safe. He trusts me. The shift in his demeanor is obvious: his goofy cheer, willingness to play with Mr. Quackers, and lack of resistance strapping on hip waders. Exhausted, dark crescents under his blue eyes betray this surrender did not come easy, but he did it. He gave all his love.

We joke and invent king names as we pounce into the sand at the base of the stairs and tramp over toward pure cobalt. I wrap my arms around him from behind and kiss his neck, waddling us toward the creature.

Two other couples wander with us here today, both pairs stepping cautiously toward the water, then jumping back as the waves rush to greet them, probably hoping to photograph the delicate grace and rock-smashing majesty in each wave. Grace and majesty are two difficult tourist destinations to capture on film, but it’s always fun to try. We snap a few photos ourselves.

Perry looks ridiculous trotting toward one couple in his big waders, a spaceman running across the moon. A moment later, Perry grasps their camera.

As I approach, I hear him say, “Say
lobster
.”

They ask questions about our hip waders, and warn us about going too deep; the undertow is always stronger than you’d expect. I assure them we will use caution. Although Perry does not know what lies ahead, he agrees with complete confidence.

“We’re fine,” he says, “but thank you.”

Perry and I continue down the shore. Hundreds of footprints in the sand precede us. I wonder where all these people are today.

“It’s a funny coincidence, your out-of-gas story from earlier, because this favor is for King Bolinas.”

Perry says, “Of course it is. Are you just making this up spontaneously?”

I lead him along the beach, hand in hand, our tall waders leaving deep, distorted craters in the wet sand until they are erased. We have a slight advantage over the other couples in that we don’t mind if the water rushes over our ankles. The sun shines hard on the oceanic monster before us, and she wriggles in appreciation for the light of day.

“King Bolinas is the Starfish King. He scours the beaches every day rescuing washed-up starfish. In ancient days, he addressed the entire kingdom, pleading, ‘Help me save the prickly and defenseless. Do not be fooled by their external spine, their roughness. They are creatures of soft beauty who need our love to get back into the ocean.’”

Perry says, “Is this the story where the moral is ‘you can’t save every starfish, but at least you can save this one’? I bet they sold prints of that back in that woo-woo gift store.”

“Yeah it is, and you’re probably right about the crystal shop.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to come across quite so cynical.”

“No, you’re right. I didn’t mean
probably
in that shut-up way. I bet they sell macramé scrolls of that story too. But King Bolinas felt that starfish were the ocean’s homeless and returning them felt like serving them breakfast.”

I study his face but see no discernible reaction.

“Many kings had volunteered to help Bolinas, promises were made, and some kept their word. But others were waylaid by death or married into a family with four stepchildren, finding themselves short on free time. Unanticipated quests came up that could not be avoided, life responsibilities, and of course, some kings who had vowed assistance got lost, forgetting their promises.”

Nothing registered on Perry’s face when I mentioned kings “waylaid by death.”

Good.

He hasn’t given permission to me to discuss his father. Not yet.

“After many years of broken promises, King Bolinas’s frustration exceeded his legendary patience and he wept for the lack of support. Word went out quickly: our one true king is in crisis. As the Found Kings gathered around him, all his brothers, he explained that he had calculated ten years’ worth of broken promises, and he begged a man to repay the great debt.”

“Uh oh,” Perry says, “Trouble in the big house. I thought these guys never got frazzled or fought or anything. Isn’t this supposed to be a utopia?”

“Nope. They argued. Got pissed off. Remember, dragons sometimes guard a king’s gold. Thus, lawyers.”

He adds, “Who are also investment bankers.”

“Yes, thank you for that.”

Crap. I’m no longer confident about including investment bankers. Will this come back to bite me later tonight? Maybe.

Too late. Go.

“Who else but an investment banker could polish the gold? When a Found King argues his grief, he doesn’t argue to win, but for greater love, richer compassion. King Bolinas calculated this ten-year request not as outraged entitlement, but from his deep sorrow and sense of abandonment. He wanted to love freely again, to lose his jadedness. He pleaded with the Found Ones to set the scales right and free him. It hurts to live with a broken promise.”

We stop.

I have marched us the full length of this private little beach, right to a cliff wall jutting further into the blue. A dark crevice appears in the impassable rock now that we’re standing next to it, tall and wide enough to enter without ducking your head.

I clear my throat. “This is the cave of horrors. We’re going in.”

He says, “We can’t go in there.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a dark cave in a fucking cliff. Plus, you just called it the cave of horrors.”

I release his hand and take a few steps toward the cave. I turn back, extending him my fingers. He’ll come. He surrendered on the Golden Gate Bridge.

He puts his hands on his hips and says, “There could be bats.”

“Possibly.”

Perry scowls and starts to sputter another argument.

I say, “Faith in Bolinas.”

He looks at me and his face softens.

Perry turns to scrutinize the ocean horizon, to let me know he’s not crazy about this, but reaches out to take my hand. Once again, I am forgiven. He’s getting good at that.

The entrance hollows wide enough for us to enter side by side, the interior always reminding me of Marshall, Will, and Holly on a routine expedition.

“Did you ever watch
Land of the Lost
? It started out ‘Marshall, Will, and Holly, on a—”

“Yeah, this is like one of those sets.”

I detect no trace of grumpiness; he’s over it already. “What do you mean ‘sets’? That shit was real.”