King Perry (34 page)

Moments later, our carbonara appears with a flourish. Definitely more than the standard serving. The heat swirling from this platter is a comic book moment, wavy steam lines rising between us and the two of us smacking our lips, leering bacon grins across the table. Perry insists we take a moment to smell it deeper as he prods it with his fork, commenting on its rich appearance.

He says, “Smell this bacon, all sizzling and succulent.”

“I thought you didn’t like bacon?”

Perry folds his hands together and says, “Oh, I love
bacon
. I just haven’t had any today. Put your fork down. Let me smell this for a moment. It’s incredible. How long has she been here?”

“C’mon, man. It’s not art. Lemme eat.”

Perry consents, and we dig in.

We attack from the middle, forks intertwining, playfully sparring for delicately drenched squiggles. The carbonara reveals bacon’s finest hour: tender, juicy chunks dotting the egg-noodle landscape, the savory tang overwhelming any balanced sense of smell. Anna Marie’s carbonara boasts a delicate, rich cream, not too goopy, not too thick. I am wrong. It is art.

Three bites later, Perry asserts that this tastes better than any other carbonara he’s ever experienced, and when I don’t seem to agree vehemently enough, he adds, “I’m completely serious,” several more times.

We chomp away for a few moments, mostly not talking, concentrating on savoring every bite of this late California day. Daylight shifts as we eat, the sun no longer boasting its dominance. It’s still high enough in the sky that I’m not worried about time; even if we leave as late as 6:45 p.m., we have almost two-and-a-half hours of remaining light. City dwellers may get only two more hours, but he and I will perch on top of a mountain, stealing more sunlight than is fair.

Anna Marie returns to make sure that everything agrees with us. Perry is effusive in his praise.

She says, “Wait until you taste the bruschetta. I made it myself because it’s for you, Vin.”

After she’s gone, Perry says, “Bruschetta.”

“More amazing than the carbonara.”

Our college-age server brings us more wine and announces, “On the house.”

After she leaves, Perry says, “Seriously, Vin, what happened with Anna Marie.”

I raise my glass. “To Found Queens.”

“To Found Queens,” Perry says, raising his glass and then pausing before sipping. “Is there a tribe of Found Queens?”

“Absolutely. But she didn’t get the full weekend, just a few hours after the restaurant closed while I fixed her car. She was going through a rough divorce. I had to keep clanking under the engine a full hour and a half after I had finished fixing it because I wasn’t finished with her. Honestly, I’m not sure it’s as effective without the ocean cocksucking.”

He lifts his glass again. “To ocean cocksucking.”

“To ocean cocksucking.”

He laughs as he sets his glass down. “Fine. It does sound like a ‘ping’.”

“Plus, she and I never stole a duck together.”

Perry laughs. “I helped steal a duck today.”

I raise my glass. “To stolen ducks.”

He says, “Piiiiing!”

With the fashionable dinner hours drawing near, the restaurant grows more crowded. After the transfer of the bulging bruschetta pouch into our custody, Perry hugs Anna Marie enthusiastically, as do I, and we navigate the additional patrons with a series of
Sorry
s and
Excuse me
s.

As we pass the last table, Perry speaks to two women studying menus. “Have you tried the carbonara?”

I think if he examined his heart, he’d know the truth: it’s not over. No man earns his kingship that easily.

Night is coming for you, Perry Mangin. And me. At the top of Mount Tam, I’ll have to deal with Billy. Night is coming for me as well.

Sixteen

W
E
REACH
the van in comfortable silence.

Perry is happy to see Mr. Quackers, and the duck rides first class again. Perry builds him a nest with his jacket, and the duck responds by turning around a few times in Perry’s lap. Despite a few little reluctant quacks, our feathered friend seems comfortable enough to go exploring: he charges up Perry’s left coat sleeve. Of course, he’s trapped seconds later, and we both chortle as we try to extract our friend from the twitching leather tunnel.

“Hey, I’m quick gonna recheck that engine belt.”

“Is it serious?” he says. “Is it okay to drive?”

“Definitely. Aesthetics is all. In case you couldn’t tell, I’m a little controlling about details.”

Perry says, “You? I hadn’t noticed.”

I leave Perry and Mr. Quackers for a moment or two alone. I tinker with a few things, mostly for show. Eventually, I slam the hood shut and return to him grumbling.

“That wasn’t smart,” I say.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t have any tools, so I shouldn’t have been tinkering. I messed with a piston…”

I see the look on his face.

“… which, in conclusion, I zigged left when I should have zagged right.”

“You shouldn’t assume that investment bankers don’t know about cars.”

“The third cam is bent, which causes—”

“Fine, I know nothing about cars. Okay to drive?”

“Totally okay to drive. May clack a little louder, though.”

As predicted, the van does clatter with more regularity as we leave the curb and head out of Sausalito. Since I’m obviously not worried about it, neither is he.

We drive through neighboring towns, full, content. Perry points out landmarks to Mr. Quackers occasionally, little bits of California geography. Once in a while Perry comments on our carbonara, and each time he does, I rub my belly in fond remembrance. Perry babbles like a man exhausted, and though it’s early enough that the sun remains over treetops, bedtime doesn’t seem far away.

He says, “We’re not going jogging, are we? I don’t think I could right now.”

“Do I look like I jog?”

Mt. Tamalpais is the highest peak in the California Coast Ranges, those intimidating mountains outside San Francisco. The van creeps up the green and twisting roller coaster roads, ascending, ascending, always ascending, the slight engine clack the only distraction and even that is not much of a distraction. Actually, it fits. I am pleased by the idea of a roller coaster car clacking up the chain.

“Hey, doesn’t this belt sound like a roller coaster clacking as you inch up the first big hill?”

“Sure, I guess. Hadn’t really noticed it.”

Which is why I brought it up.

Something changes in Perry, because the one forbidden topic, his father, turned out to be nothing. He speaks freely about anything, initial conversations pursued deeper, such as details of his career choice and how I like being a mechanic. We talk about fear, the experience of feeling fear, and he does not shrink from the topic. He asked me if foster care sucked, and I said mostly, but I admit I met some nice people along the way who thought they could actually help. And who knows? They probably did.

As we climb higher, he tells me a soft insight acquired this afternoon about his ex-boyfriend Chuck, and we share small victories we’ve enjoyed with each other. We speculate on what various bridge friends are doing right now, NICHOLAS and Tired Mom and the teenager who said, “Say sleaze.” Perry asks for a point or two of clarification on why the Alcatraz guards don’t want to know my real name. No secrets remain between us anymore, so I tell him the truth. We don’t need answers to our questions, but we both want to celebrate moments from our short time together. Of course, I steer us from the big topics. We’re not really chatting about anything I wouldn’t want revealed.

Despite Perry’s lifted ban, I notice that he still doesn’t bring up his dad. Once or twice this weekend, he has shared a “My mom once said…” story, but that’s it. He no longer edits intentionally; this is Perry being Perry. I bet he edits his father out of most conversations naturally, not remembering the time when his father meant everything.

And if I learned anything over dinner, it’s that once upon a time, Perry’s father did mean everything; he was Perry’s whole world. Rage flashed briefly in Perry’s eyes as he told the pumpkin-carving story. That event alone contains an ocean of Perry’s love but remains hostage to a kid’s fury. The world stole his father, and the world is not forgiven. Grief dragons grow up too, no longer visible in childish pouting and bad behavior, instead adopting a respectable gray suit and always lingering nearby, influencing conversations in subtle, discouraging ways. When Perry sees this gray-suited grief, he barely recognizes that part of himself; it’s just another bank customer making his regular withdrawal.

Higher and higher, steeper and steeper we soar.

A few breathtaking views along our route slow our progress as we pull over to be dumbfounded. The ocean, the northern hills laden with late-day mist, and insanely ancient redwoods four feet away bombard our shared sense of awe. I never can accept their trunks, how wide those trees can be, how impossibly strong. It’s
alive
. How can that fucking tree be eight hundred years old?

A duck in captivity might observe the forest out our windows and decide, “I could live here.” For that reason, we return Mr. Quackers to his cage, and this allows us to open the windows, breathe the moist, primeval scent. We smell the big world, get ourselves drunk on crisp autumn air, each breath crunching like October apples.

The roller coaster keeps clacking higher, steeper, and then higher and steeper.

“There,” Perry says, the word solemn, as he points to the miniaturized San Francisco when it at last comes into view, a tiny little Lego Land surrounded by lush green in almost every direction. Except where we see lush blue.

It feels wrong that downtown San Francisco can now be obscured by my thumb. Did we really pick up Mr. Quackers down there? Geographically, we’re not that many miles from the city, but most of those miles are straight up. Onward we drive, a few miles higher, then a few more. Switchback driving through tight mountain passes with no guardrails and no shoulder causes us to grow silent. Whether the silence is inspired by reverence or unvoiced terror, we do not discuss. For me, it’s both. Two cars meeting at this height must navigate each other very, very carefully. Almost makes me regret renting a van.

Jesus, this is high.

Our final destination, Mount Tam’s east peak parking lot, contains a dozen cars. Watching the sunset from this mighty peak is yet another well-kept public secret. When we arrive, we emerge and stretch out the tension because though the experience was unbelievably stunning, I also felt faint, mountain disaster lurching around every steep curve.

“I hope there’s an oxygen tank under one of those tarps,” Perry says, trying to laugh out his nervousness.

“Can you imagine if we actually encountered another van coming the opposite way?”

“Did you see those bikers zooming downhill? Could you ever do that?”

We make more mountaintop observations, walking through our fear in parking lot circles.

We are not alone.

Last minute hikers return from somewhere green, and other hikers depart for somewhere else. I spot several couples getting snuggly as they prepare for the quarter-mile summit hike. Boy, are they in for a surprise: that last quarter mile isn’t romantic as much as scream inducing and sweaty. A man in sunglasses grips the steering wheel of his car as if steeling his nerves to drive back down. He nods.

God, I miss— This is not the time for that. Focus up, moron.

A nearby family rejoices together, obviously freshly off the summit. The parents barely notice their kids, running crazy through the grass. They’re too busy congratulating each other on keeping the children alive.

Alive.

The world is alive here. Reality shimmers. Every tree fascinates; the small grassy park glows uniquely green, as if we have only discovered this new invention utilizing both blue and yellow and we are virgins to the experience. Green dazzles, and we agree to be dazzlees.

The energy from the rocks and spirit from sun-dappled trees feels tangible, not just a heartfelt bumper sticker seen in Lower Haight. We’re touching it. We’re so close to something sacred, the earth containing this raw piece of creation alters us. The crisp-apple air is conspirator to this invisible secret, shocking each breath with something magic. There’s a reason shamans live on mountaintops.

To the right of the parking lot, a picnic area provides a respite for those not eager to immediately climb the summit trail. We spy a few long wooden tables and a building devoted to bathrooms, an outdoor drinking fountain, and a few scattered signs forbidding fire. The view from this height makes me whimper, both in raw joy and aching vulnerability. I love California, I do. But this shit freaks me out. I’ll take a flat state any day, thanks.

“Perry, if you don’t feel like pissing your pants when we reach the top, you may want to take advantage; we won’t be coming back down tonight.”

He puts his hands on his hips. “Why are you so prejudiced against hotels? There can’t be a campsite up there.”

“No, but there are a few spots where we can lay out our sleeping bag and make space for Mr. Quackers.”