King Perry (37 page)

“I cannot change King Aabee’s true story, not even for a man I care about deeply. To do so would disrespect Aabee’s courage.”

Perry leans back against my chest. “Whatever.”

Okay, breathe easier. No damage done. Crap, that could have undone hours’ worth of work. Age regression works best when you forget your day job. Tread carefully now that we’re here, Vin; this is the precipice.

Our sky is unstoppable, the stars giving the moon wide berth, huddling under the black cloak which wraps everything. The stars wink at Perry, telling him to trust. Li’l Shirley watches with a biased expression; she knows this tune. From isolated spots in the hills, faraway lights blink on and off as if a few tiny stars crashed to earth and forgot to burn out during their descent.

“All of Aabee’s work with the ocean’s homeless population grew his patience and compassion. If ever a Found King were perfectly suited to reach the Lost Ones, it was he. Only he could remind them that he had kept his word.

“Plus, his beautiful French wife reminded everyone that he knew the sewer system better than any king, lost or found. He could always escape if things got dangerous.”

Perry says, “What was her name?”

“Llewellyn.”

He says quietly, “Queen Llewellyn.”

After a few seconds of silence, he adds, “Does he take his cocksucking flute?”

“It only sounded like cocksucking to some of the gay kings, but yeah, King Aabee wielded that subtle advantage. Because everyone experienced his music in so many different ways, it seemed likely that someone he met during his ten years among them would recognize the music and vouch for him.”

I kiss the back of his neck.

Believe in the Strange Musician, Pear. You’re going to need his help tonight.

“The night before King Aabee’s departure, the kingdom celebrated, this party a more somber affair. All the kings lit tapered candles that burned blue flames. In fact, miles and miles of hillsides were covered with families and friends holding up the candles, walls of solid blue. And while they knew the futility of arguing with his decision, they nevertheless tried. ‘Let me go in your place,’ begged an elderly king who worked at the Department of Motor Vehicles. ‘My time in this world is short anyway.’ King Bolinas argued that he himself should go instead of his best friend. ‘Your three sons, my friend. Think of your
sons
.’”

Perry stiffens.

“The night was not all gloom, Perry. King Detlof whipped out his chessboard again, and everyone laughed, remembering the failed attempt to stop a much younger King Aabee. Gatherers buzzed about how well that particular risk had turned out. Some former Lost Kings stepped out and told their stories encountering the Strange Musician, how Aabee had found them, sent them home. Some kings read poems inspired by the first time they heard Aabee’s flute.”

“Technically, it’s not a flute.”

I nudge him and continue.

“King Aabee’s youngest son, Myrrh, gave a rousing speech, championing his father’s bravery and cunning abilities, and during his passionate words, all present realized that among them walked a king braver than Aabee, the one currently addressing them. Throughout most of the celebration, the three brothers held hands.”

Perry’s body does not respond, but I think that’s enough pounding the father and sons button.

“Queen Llewellyn thanked their friends, their beloved families, and announced that her husband wished to play a tune, a coming home song. Everyone on the blue-dotted hillsides grew silent. When clear grace emerged from the tip of his flute-like instrument, everyone thrilled to touch the power in such small, living things. Every Found King and every Found Queen allowed the song into their heart, and for the first time ever, everyone heard the exact same tune, for their one true king loved them through this soft goodbye and gave his promise to return. The song intertwined sorrow with strands of purple hope, because King Aabee had always kept his word.”

We rock together in silence, listening for the echo of King Aabee’s flute. There’s no need to hurry the story along, not even to make this happen near midnight. That’s just a nice piece of drama. Tonight, I serve the Found Kings and Perry, not my own foolish whims.

After a few more minutes, it’s time.

“You have to scooch up, Perry. I have to get something from the van.”

“
What?
”

“I gotta go.”

I kiss the back of his head and start extricating myself.

He barks out a laugh and says, “You’re kidding.”

“I have to grab something for the next adventure. I couldn’t quite bring it out until night, and plus you’d see it if I brought it with our other supplies.”

I stand up, shaking out my legs.

“You’re not serious. You’re not
serious
, right?”

Perry scoots back to the rock with as little disturbance to the duck as possible. I fold the sleeping bag around Perry, creating a soft, warm cocoon. Perry’s silence suggests he’s processing this latest turn. He saw the tarps revealed; could there be anything else left? Nope. Nothing.

He says, “It’s too dangerous. You could die.”

“I’ll take the flashlight.”

“This is… this is crazy. You’re serious? How long will you be gone? Wait, why are you taking the bruschetta pouch?”

“We don’t need it anymore. I’ll put the last piece in a plastic baggie for you.”

Perry considers this as I pull out and wrap the last piece from Anna Marie.

“You’re taking the backpack?”

“Yeah. I’m putting the pouch in there so my arms are free.”

“Leave it. Grab this stuff in the morning.”

“I have plans for us in the morning requiring us to travel light.”

“Vin, c’mon. I don’t think you should go.”

“Now’s good. Don’t worry so much.”

My tone shifts from affectionate lover to something slightly different.

I take out some essentials for him: toilet paper, aspirin, and two large bottles of water. I toss the plastic bag of duck food onto the earth casually, as if it means nothing to me. Three days ago, if the jaded investment banker watched this unfold in a movie, he’d throw popcorn into his mouth and say, “Anyone can see what’s coming.”

But Perry loves me. Even if the words are stuck in his throat, I can feel it. He loves me.

“Is there a second flashlight?”

“Nope. I think I need it more than you do. Don’t you agree?”

I am impatient to begin.

“Yeah, all right. Hurry back, okay. I don’t like it up here alone.”

“Sure.”

He says, “What about mountain lions?”

“Not up here. Too many human smells. But to make sure, yesterday afternoon I brought two gallons of human piss and splashed it in a wide radius around where we are right now. The scent alone ought to scare any nightlife away for a week.”

Perry says, “You did not.”

“Do you doubt me?”

“No,” he says; his face gets serious. “Clearly, you’re a guy who thinks about these things. I’m just…. Where did you get two gallons of urine? This is truly the most disgusting and thoughtful thing I’ve ever heard. I might vomit when you tell me, but I’m dying to know.”

I ignore him while fastening the pack to my back and swinging the light toward the ranger station. The funny thing is that in this moment, he doesn’t doubt me. He doubts himself. A full day of emotional hurdles guaranteed that I may be an asshole, but I am trustworthy.

“Vin, seriously? The piss?”

Oddly, Perry’s face is innocent as he asks this. Staring at him, I see both the investment banker with dark circles under his eyes, and the surprise of a nine-year-old kid, his age when his father died. I have tried very hard to imagine what his tenth birthday felt like.

I stop him with my hand, as if sick and tired of all these interruptions. “Some of the piss is mine; I’ve been drinking lots of water since I got to San Francisco last weekend. I use it for my camp perimeter in the woods. But most of the piss came from a sex club. Wednesday night is their water sports night and they let me collect it from a bathtub. When I told guys that you and I would have sex inside a perimeter of piss, some of them found that hot and pissed right into the jug.”

He twists away and chuckles. “Oh yeah. Definitely going to vomit.”

My adventurous friend’s confidence returns. Everybody put on your ski masks.

I say, “Wednesday night at Suck Buddies. Yellow hankie night.”

Perry scoffs and says, “This is completely—I am completely horrified. What’s worse is that you already had a container of piss in your rental van.”

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t do casual sex, only King Weekend sex, so nothing happened at the bathhouse other than me saying ‘Thanks for your piss.’”

He says, “You are unbelievable.”

Perry forgives.

“I’m worried about you, Vin. Seriously, this seems too dangerous. You have to go right now, huh? And you’ve done this before?”

“I’ll be careful.”

My tone is stiff.

“Yell or something when you get to the van. Honk the horn so I know you’re safe.”

“Sure.”

He knows I’m lying, even if he doesn’t know it. Perry seems confused by my mood shift, but I have swapped roles and tones all weekend, from king story mode to playful lover to demanding boss, so perhaps this is the next part of the adventure.

Better get him focused on worrying.

“I know what I’m doing. Enjoy the night sky. Don’t spend the time worrying. “

“Yeah, okay. Hurry, but not too much. Are you sure about this?”

“Don’t worry.”

“You’re
completely
sure about this.”

“Yeah, I’ve climbed this mountain at night.”

Despite being a flat-state man, I’m quite good at boulder-crawling. Mountains are like grandparents: out of respect, you must visit. And to never get trapped up here, you gotta boulder-crawl pretty regularly. I never had grandparents, but if I did, I would visit them. Well, unless they were super racist. Then I’d just write letters.

Perry smiles uneasily from the sleeping bag fort and his fingers stroke the duck’s back. Mr. Quackers peers about the moonlit boulder park, perhaps plotting his own escape. He remains silent and watchful for now.

I take a step up and over the rock near us and get four or five more steps away when he calls out to me.

“Hey, wait. When you get back, do we get the next chapter of King Aabee or do we have sex?”

Perfect. I didn’t have to bring it up.

I splash light on the next boulders and climb a few more feet away. He’s already far enough away that we must raise our voices. I shine the light away so he can’t see my face and he hears only the coldness in my voice.

“Not much to tell. They killed him.”

In the moonlight, I see Perry’s entire shadow jerk. I climb a boulder, now another. I’m already twenty feet away.

Mr. Quackers barks.

“Wait. What do you mean ‘
They killed him
’?”

I turn off the flashlight. I don’t need the prop; I just didn’t want him to have it.

Make it icy. I say, “The Lost Ones murdered King Aabee. See you later.”

I disappear, swallowed in shadows.

“
Vin!
”

It’s good that I didn’t use the Terminator line. I think that was tighter without a movie reference.

I drop the flashlight over my shoulder into the pack. I crouch toward the rocks and lean forward, feeling my next precarious steps with my knees and entire length of my arms. Standard crawl down this side of the mountain until I’m back on the dirt trail. No hazardous conditions, which is good. But I can’t hurt myself and leave us both vulnerable on a mountaintop.

I hear Perry yell,
“
Vin!
”

Ignore him.

Leading with my hands and feeling each rock with my knees, I scurry across the boulders as fast as I dare, creeping in silence, a rat in the moonlight.

What is he thinking? What does he feel?

Who knows?

Perry is truly alone.

Eighteen

R
OUGHLY
thirty-five minutes later, he hears it: our van roars to life.

He jerks his head to the right, toward the moon-drenched rocks and dark shadows, scrambling to his knees, then standing to verify the sound. I’m sure he recognizes this as our van, because I took great effort to point out the clacking sound. I want to make sure he has no doubt, none whatsoever, that I am driving away.

Tires screech across the parking lot, as if I cannot
stand
to waste another minute here. But the van slows as soon as it reaches the narrow road, beginning its dangerous descent down the mountain. The acoustics are undeniable, unable to be faked with a boom box or some clever imitation.

I left.

He searches for taillights on the narrow mountain trail. Sure enough, blazing red eyes, unblinking in their terrible judgment, retreat between tree trunks, sinking further and further away. Because he’s holding a duck, his first responsibility is to this fragile life, so there’s nothing he can do. I know a few who might take this out on the duck, but Perry is not one of those men.

Billy would be that man.

No. Later.

The faraway light from hillside homes can do nothing. No one can help him now. The ocean’s roar muffles into a faraway knocking, an almost unconscious heartbeat. Perry staggers around his mountain prison, duck in his hands. He has been left behind again by someone who promised, “I love you.”