King Perry (18 page)

“She’s going to use it for drugs,” Perry says and doesn’t bother to lower his voice. “She’s high right now.”

“Maybe so,” I say, considering this and taking a bite of toast.

“You suck at arguing.”

“You’re probably right.”

“It’s not as much fun as you think, Vin, trying to have a normal conversation with you. You smile and grin a lot, but you’re an asshole too.”

“You’re probably right.”

He looks at me with exasperation.

I peer into the distance. “I wonder what King Aabee did when he lived among the Lost Kings and Queens. Would he give them money or recognize it as foolishness, given how they would spend it?”

Perry’s body jerks to a new alertness. Good. He won’t make eye contact or admit he’s interested, but his body betrays him.

“Did you forget about King Aabee? His courageous quest? Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what you remember.”

Perry reddens at first, but he repeats details back and does awfully well: the Found Kings meeting at dawn, kings out exploring, then forgetting, King Aabee living among the Lost Kings for ten years. Big party with his favorite foods. King Aabee saying, “All my love,” and then the Found Kings yelling some things.

“Remember the king,” I say, right into his eyes, and his body responds, a jolt of electricity passing through him, visible to anyone watching. Surprise flickers across his face, leaving him in a slight daze, and I would bet money that at this moment he remembers getting fucked on Alcatraz.

I jab my plastic fork at him. “That’s what they yelled as King Aabee rode away.”

Perry makes a few furtive eye gestures, to see who hears, who listens. He made that face at the art gallery after Big Secret.

“Aabee lived among the Lost Kings, cleaning sewers, parking cars, filing useless reports for bureaucracies. He might fold industrial laundry one month and collect recycled cans the next. No job was beneath him. At first, the Lost Kings celebrated their victory in acquiring ‘a Found’, and lorded their power over him. But within six or seven months, they forgot who he was or why he had come. They hated him instinctively, but for reasons they could not articulate, so they blamed his skin color or his long slender fingers. They hated his white shirts with the silver stitching, and they hated his agreeable smile because unconsciously, it reminded them he walked among them by his choice. King Aabee could have returned to the Found Kings at any time, but he agreed to stay for ten years, so he kept his word, longing for home the entire time.”

“Well, that seems rather pointless,” Perry says, turning to Francine.

She says, “Don’t involve me, unless for another ten dollars….”

I say, “Don’t take his side, Francine, or you have to give back that money.”

She zips her lips, turning the key with her fingers.

Perry crosses his arms. “Way to go; you bribed a Republican. Like that was any big chore.”

“Hey, there are Republican Found Kings,” I say, hardening my features. I stab my fork at him again. “But this isn’t about politics. It’s personal.”

Perry dismisses my intensity with a wave of his fork and stabs more eggs.

“That imitation bacon was gross, by the way. I still taste it.”

“So,” I continue, chomping my fake bacon for emphasis, “the Lost Kings steered clear of him when they could, and gave him shitty assignments when they could not. Some say it is challenging to live among the Lost Ones if you do not think like they do.”

Perry glances around the parking lot cafeteria. It’s completely full.

“He didn’t forget anything?”

“No. He remembered his kingship, his joys, and his love. Of course, he had help from this luscious French woman with remarkable sensuality. Her cherry-tipped breasts hung pendulously, thick, swollen—”

“Okay,” Perry says, leaning across the table and lowering his voice. “Spare me the sex details because I remember how descriptive you were about the kings who made love under the stars. Ease up while I’m trying to swallow these greasy potatoes.”

“But there’s this great part where they’re sixty-nineing. With his slender fingers, he would massage her tight—”

“
C’mon.
” His eyes blaze. “Seriously, Vin.”

“Okay, okay.”

That went well. I adopt a meek expression and continue.

“Sometimes Aabee would help a Lost King remember himself, and more than one man, in fact, returned to the Found Kings, crossing joyfully at dawn through the eastern gates. That man would announce, ‘King Aabee sent me.’ The Found Kings rejoiced because their one true king had remembered himself and come home. During the homecoming celebration, they would also beg for any news regarding Aabee. Details were slim and sometimes months, even years, passed with no updates. The newly returned kings couldn’t describe him well; they heard him more than they had seen him.

“Aabee’s gift, you see, was playing the flute—well, a flute-like instrument from his native Somalia. Hard to describe the actual sound, though. Sometimes it produced more whistle and colored air than actual music, but some described it as four people humming the same tune in perfect harmony. But technically, it wasn’t a flute.”

I liked Perry’s and my little Nut Roll joke from this morning, and it won’t hurt to have our personal mojo bring alive King Aabee’s tale. This might be quite nice, especially since I struck out on
Fargo
references. C’mon. How could you not like Marge Gunderson?

Perry puts down his fork.

“I suggest you finish your eggs.”

“For the record, I’m not twelve, Vin.”

“You would not believe the greasy, filthy sex between King Aabee and the cherry-nippled French—”

“I’m eating,” Perry says, stabbing with vehemence. “Just stop.”

We exchange snarky glances, trying not to smile at each other. I lick my lips at him and mouth the words, “I sucked your cock last night.”

He chokes on the eggs, laughing a little, and I waggle my eyebrows, horn dog that I am. I like the word
waggle
better than
wiggle
. I think
waggle
sounds more like a dog. It suits me.

“Everyone experienced the sound created by Aabee’s flute differently. One king said that when Aabee played, he heard mint. Others argued that Aabee’s music was more of a sensation, the feeling of cold dew plinking off a pine branch onto your bare arm. Others heard shell-crusted mermaids singing the old songs. Nobody could agree.”

Perry scrapes the plate with his fork, making sure I can see him pick up every last bit.

“The Lost Kings couldn’t understand the strange music. Why did it pour out of the sewers? Why did it sound like the tickle of your feet in warm sand or a song your mother used to sing? Back in the kingdom, he was known as King Aabee, the Strange Musician.”

“That doesn’t sound flattering.”

“Au contraire. Strange is an essential quality among the Found Kings. Have you heard of the Bear Walker? When the kings grow too serious, too wrapped up in some conflict, King Richard the Bear Walker stands up and lumbers across the room like a giant grizzly, swinging his arms and snapping his jaws. Every Found King follows his lead, walking and roaring like bears.”

He smiles. “That’s cute.”

“
Cute?
Everyone realizes the Bear Walker is the single most important king; he changes everything when he stomps across the room. Bear walking softens hard feelings when people are angry and looking for a way to show it, and when nobody can accomplish a damn thing, bear walking hardens soft resolve. Acting that way is sometimes the only way to find your bearings. The Bear Walker is the one true king of the kingdom, the only hope.”

“Yeah, how is that possible exactly? Everyone being the one true king?”

“Did you get my
bearings
pun in there?”

“Hilarious. I take it you’re not going to answer my question.”

I say, “You gonna finish that toast?”

He says, “I’d rather not.”

Francine eyes the toast and me, eager to see what happens next.

“Sure about that?” I ask, picking it up and biting off a corner. “I’m not entirely sure when we get our next meal. Might be quite a while.”

Perry’s snatches it from my hand, pushing it into his mouth.

The dryness makes him wince.

“This is disgusting,” he says, deliberately chewing with his mouth open. “I can’t tell whether it’s an actual berry flavor or it’s just the flavor of red.”

“What a coincidence. People said King Aabee’s flute-like instrument sounded exactly like the flavor of red. Some gay kings insisted that his music sounded like cocksucking.”

Francine begins muttering under her breath, ending with some choice phrases about gays that can no longer be considered “under her breath.”

“Faggots,” she says as she leaves the table. “Goddamn faggots.”

Perry folds his fingers and puts his chin on top. “I warned you about those sexually graphic descriptions. Now you’ve alienated our only breakfast friend, a homophobic Republican on crack.”

“The Lost Kings could not understand how Aabee held joyful songs inside him. He owned very little, no car, and never had much money. He lived in a crappy apartment, and for the first few years could not afford picture frames to hang photos of his beloved family.”

“He needed an investment banker,” Perry says and raises the last of his orange juice in salute.

“Yes, someone who specialized in the Pan-Asian market, for some of the best kings came from that part of the world.”

Perry laughs.

I study him for a moment. We have both finished eating.

“Ready to go?”

He says, “Definitely.”

“Okay. Let’s leave. Like bears.”

Before he can do anything but open his mouth, I growl and raise myself from the table, arms over my head, fingers twisted into giant claws. I thrash my head around in slow motion and roar.

Many look away. The overtly curious gaze coolly in my direction. They don’t really give a fuck what’s happening, but if a free show comes with breakfast, so be it.

I’m sure Perry thought breakfast could not get worse. But his face says I proved him wrong: it’s worse. He silently begs me, but he already knows that pleading is pointless. I snarl loudly, but in neutral, waiting for him, until he stands and half growls. It’s more of a moan. His hands hang above his head like mine, yet Perry appears to dangle from a clothesline, looking sick to his stomach.

Maybe it’s the bacon.

Perry gives this latest challenge some effort, mimicking me some, but street theater is probably not one of his hobbies. I snarl and snap my teeth at him, and he tries to respond but it comes out more as a dental chair groan.

We stagger from the table.

“Get over here,” I say in bear growl.

He quickly trots around the table to join me. Experience says that humiliation finds safety in close proximity. Roaring and attacking the air, we lug ourselves down the long high school table rows toward the center where the serving tables stand. Behind me, I drag the backpack frame and sleeping bag like a deer carcass.

Whenever I hear his roar taper off or sense he gives less than his best, I face him and fake an attack, forcing him to amp up his bear energy, so he quickly learns that to keep moving steadily toward the exit and keep me at bay, he must keep on floundering in the loudest and most dramatic behavior that he can muster.

“Bears,” says a woman whose face I can’t see. “Wait. One bear and one zombie bear.”

A few feet later, one woman leans out to say, “Get clean. You can do it.”

Perry stops and says, “I’m not—”

I outroar his explanation.

I catch some whispered laughter, more critiques of our performance, as we cross the makeshift cafeteria. Perry shuffles behind me. He’s getting better, improving in small ways, swiping his bear arms with more energy. There’s still a line edging out the entrance and onto the city sidewalk.

Shit, it’s Billy!
No, no it’s not. It can’t be.
Can’t be.

I roar louder, with some fear mixed in this time.

That guy looked exactly like Billy. What the fuck is going on?

Later, Vin.
Later.

When we reach the serving tables, those waiting for food deliberately ignore us. They almost seem to protect the volunteer servers, but it’s more likely they’re huddling tighter to prevent us from cutting. I motion to Perry, and we shamble toward the last server, a raven-haired woman wearing a simple gold necklace. She dispenses toast.

Forget that guy who looked like Billy.
Forget him.

In my best growl, I say, “We’re bears.”

She says, “Bears don’t automatically get seconds. We’re cooking more bacon, but I can’t promise anything.”

I roar at the top of my lungs, face to the sky, but she laughs. “Don’t sass us, Mr. Bear.”

I nod and drop a few crumpled twenties in front of her serving dish. “This is for feeding the bears.”

“You sure you don’t need this?”

I shake my head while bear muttering.

“Thank you,” she says and takes the money. “You take care, Mr. Bear. You too, Bear Number Two.”

Perry’s clothesline claws still dangle above his head, and he doesn’t respond to her, except to nod.

Donning the backpack frame and sleeping bag, I turn and stagger toward the street entrance; Perry does as well. When I bellow louder and stomp bigger, so does Perry, in imitation of my every move. I suddenly turn on him and swipe the air a few times, roaring in his face.

He jumps back, saying “Oh, hey,” and then he swipes back, but with hesitation.

Right as we reach the front entrance, I say, “C’mon. The biggest one yet.”

Watching each other, we both inhale deeply. I pretend that I’m going to do it with him, and even exhale big, but nothing comes out of my throat.

Perry thunders triumphantly, more explosive than I had anticipated.

He finishes in surprise, and the whole cafeteria stares at him.

Perry gapes at his audience.

We all watch each other in silence.

I snarl at them, baring my teeth, as I put a hand on his upper back and maneuver him toward the exit.

When we emerge into the city, Perry improves his bear walk for two or three feet, until I take his hand and turn him to me.