Текст книги "The Porcupine of Truth"

Автор книги: Bill Konigsberg

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

“I guess so,” I say, looking down at the ground. “I’m exhausted thinking about it, but I’m glad I know. We’re flying home —”

“He told me,” Aisha says.

“I’m well aware that I’m an asshole. The volleyball game was not my finest hour. I’m sorry.”

She shrugs. “Me too. And just so you know, Brianna’s over. She wanted a one-time thing. So I guess I probably overreacted about how exciting it all was.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, but in truth I feel relieved. Does that make me a bad person?

“I do that again and again. I get all excited about someone new, and it’s too much, too soon. I did it with Kayla and I did it again here.”

I don’t have a whole lot of relationship wisdom to share, so again I just say, “Sorry.”

“I’ve never been looked at like that before,” she says.

I cock my head at her. “You’re looked at everywhere you go, actually.”

“Maybe. But this was different. It was, like, people liked what they saw, instead of me just standing out as different. I loved it.”

I take a look at my friend, my beautiful friend. She is even better on the inside than the outside, and people don’t know that. They don’t see it. I wish people could see what I see. “I get that,” I say.

“I’m not your sidekick,” Aisha blurts out.

“What?”

She turns toward me. “All this trip, it’s like, Carson’s stuff. We’re in my car, but this is Carson’s journey. To find your grandfather. Did it ever occur to you, even once, that I might be doing this for me too?”

I bite my lip. I’m learning to not say the first thing that comes to my mind, I guess, because I don’t say, This wasn’t just some trip. This is my life we’re talking about here. My grandfather. My dad. And then I’m so glad I don’t say it, because I hear it, and for the first time it occurs to me: Me. My life. Aisha. Her life. Shit. How come I’m so selfish and stupid and dense sometimes? She has her own life, and all this time I was treating her thing with her dad like it was some side issue, when for her it’s the issue.

I close my eyes, afraid to look at her. Finally I get up the courage to speak. “You’re right. I didn’t get that. I’m sorry. I get a little in my head, I guess.”

She nods, and then she smiles a bit, and I think, Say something! Say you’re cool with it! Say a joke! Anything!

But she doesn’t say anything. Just keeps that little, content smile on her face.

As an old lady pushing a shopping cart saunters by, Aisha says, “I’m okay if you want to be the sidekick in my life.”

“I’d be lucky to be that,” I say. “And by the way, you can kiss girls. I’ll learn not to want to stab them in the eye.”

“So can you. And I’d be jealous if you started kissing some girl too, by the way.”

I blush, for the first time ever with Aisha.

“Thanks for that,” I say.

EARLY THE NEXT morning, we take a nice stroll with Gomer through the Castro, Turk’s neighborhood. He explains that when he moved there, back in 1975, it was pretty much all gay. It’s become a lot more mixed, he says, his expression sour.

“So diversity is a bad thing?” I say.

Aisha and Turk share a look. “I forgot we have a breeder in our midst,” he says. He pats my shoulder condescendingly as we keep walking. “No, sweet child. Diversity is not a bad thing. But neither was having one neighborhood in all of America – back then, anyway – where it was considered normal to be gay. In fact, that would still be a nice thing.”

I say, “So you want to be normal? That sounds boring.”

They share another look. This has been happening a lot, this two against one thing. In the last fifteen hours, Aisha and Turk have become this team, and for once I’m not jealous. I get it. They have something in common. I’m just happy to see Aisha smiling and joking.

Scratch that. Aisha, Turk, and Gomer are a team. I’m not sure if Gomer is gay, but he did sleep with Aisha last night – the lucky dog. He hasn’t left her side since, possibly because she gives him these epic belly rubs. He stretches out on his back and she scratches his belly with both hands. In response, Gomer’s eyes and mouth open as wide as they can.

Yeah, I can see why people love dogs.

Gomer is trotting, prancing, really, his tail up like he’s proud to be taking a walk. Every person we meet needs to stop and fawn all over him, and Gomer greets them by standing up on his hind legs and attempting to lick their faces when they bend down. We wind through tree-lined streets chock-full of Victorian houses scrunched together. When we pass a nondescript cream-colored building with purple doors pushed up against a row of skinny Victorians, Turk stops.

“This is my church.”

Aisha and I laugh. I’ve known the man for a day, and the one thing he isn’t is religious. Last night at dinner, he started oversharing about his lack of a sex life in the last two decades. I’d never heard a seventy-year-old person talk about sex before, and frankly I’ll be okay if I don’t again for a while. But Turk doesn’t change expression.

“You serious?” Aisha says, an eyebrow raised.

“As a heart attack. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re, like, Christian and a fag?”

“Whoa,” I say, but Turk doesn’t seem quite as taken aback.

“There are literally millions of us Christian fags, dear.”

“But don’t Christians basically think we’re going to hell?”

“ ‘Christian’ is a rather wide range. To group all Christians together is rather like grouping all homosexuals together, wouldn’t you say?”

I think back to Mr. Bailey saying the same thing, and I savor the irony of Turk and Mr. Bailey agreeing on something. Gomer pulls on his leash as a big dog trots by. Turk reins him in.

“All I know is my dad threw me out based on his beliefs, and he’s a Christian,” Aisha says.

Turk pulls her toward him, firmly but gently. “What your dad did,” he says directly into her ear, “that’s not Christlike, okay? That’s not Christian. Do you hear me? Do you understand?”

“Oh, he’s a real Christian all right,” Aisha says, and I feel my shoulders rise and tense.

“He may think that,” Turk says. “But true followers of Jesus Christ would never turn their back on a child who was suffering. That’s not conscionable. He’s living in fear.”

“Okay,” Aisha says.

We’re all more comfortable when Turk lets go of Aisha and we start walking again.

“Forgive me,” he says, chewing on his mustache. “I get so sick of assholes hijacking organized religion. Seriously. Somebody told your father, in the name of Christ, to kick you out of the house? Totally unacceptable. Sitting in a church makes you no more of a Christ follower than sitting in a Ford dealership makes you a Mustang owner.”

I say, “So you believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God? That he was born without his mom having sex? That he was crucified and resurrected? That he died for our sins? Really?”

“Actually, I was born Jewish.”

I raise an eyebrow, as best I can, anyway. “Turk? What kind of Jewish name is that?”

“It’s a nickname. My given name is Tzuriel. It means ‘Rock of God’ in Hebrew.”

“I think Tzuriel Braverman came up when we Googled Turk Braverman back in wherever,” I say. “We didn’t pursue it, as we didn’t think it was a thing.”

He laughs. “Tzuriel is my given name, and my professional name. I’m an author. I tend to write about religion and sexuality.”

“You write books about God?” Aisha asks.

He nods.

“Cool,” she says, and I’m like, Yeah. It is kinda cool.

“So you’re Jewish?” she asks.

“Well, I was born Jewish. I love the Jewish religion, what it stands for. In essence, Judaism is about being the best person you can be. I love that. As I’ve gotten older, though, I’ve dabbled here and there. I mean, how can you be Jewish or Christian when the Dalai Lama exists? How can you be Buddhist or Muslim when there’s Christ’s teachings? There are so many wise people who have taught us so many wise lessons. How can a person choose to follow only some of the wisdom of the world?”

I ask, “So you’re not Christian, but you go to church?”

“This is the Metropolitan Community Church. There are tons of open and affirming churches. To me, a church that isn’t open and affirming isn’t really a church at all. This one is run by and for LGBTQ people.”

I look at Aisha. She’s just staring at the building. “I wish I could go to a service here,” she says, and we go back to walking.

“Well, you’ll need to fly back and get your car, won’t you?”

Aisha nods. I’ve been so focused on our flight back to Billings later today and introducing Turk to my dad that I’d forgotten we’ll return here in a few days.

“Well then, it’s a date. You’ll love it. There’s so much love in there, so much kindness. I sometimes feel as though the walls can’t hold it all in.”

We walk for a while. I try to digest what he’s told me. He’s a Jew who goes to a church and loves the Dalai Lama. He talks about sex and he’s a recovering alcoholic with forty years in AA and he writes books about God and he drives his convertible too fast.

God, Grandpa, I think to myself. Why’d you have to marry such a stereotype?

Turk is a local celebrity. Every block, he runs into someone he knows and stops to hug. He introduces me to some people as his new grandson, and to others as “Russ’s grandson.” The first garners puzzled looks; the second gets me hugged tight the few times it comes up.

As we get back to Market Street, I say, “So you believe in heaven and hell?”

Turk pulls on Gomer’s leash to stop him from sniffing a big pile of poop. “To me, hell is on earth. We’ve all been to hell. Heaven too. Living well takes us there.”

I snort. It sounds like a slogan you’d see on some late-night infomercial by some quack with a bad toupee selling CDs for $59.99, money-back guarantee if not completely sent to heaven for eternity, some restrictions apply.

Turk gives me an admonishing look. “Look. I get that there are assholes out there. They were out in full force when my friends were dying. I just refuse to let them rule me. I think Christianity is mostly good. I think religion is mostly good, even if it’s been the cause of most of our wars. That comes from a lack of flexibility, from not allowing others to disagree. Rigidity is dangerous. When someone tells you they know exactly what God is, run from that person.”

“For you,” I say, thinking of what Laurelei said.

“Huh?” Turk says, as Gomer does a little lamb leap toward a dog that’s obviously familiar to him, since the other dog makes a similar leap in Gomer’s direction. That owner waves and the two dogs sniff each other’s snouts and begin to circle each other.

“Laurelei in Wyoming said that to me. She said whatever people believe about God is undeniably true, so long as it’s followed by the words, for me.”

“I like that,” Turk says. “And I’ll add a resounding ‘fuck you’ for anytime someone else tries to put their ‘for me’ on me.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Aisha says.

“The Porcupine of Truth,” I say.

Aisha rolls her eyes. “Inside joke,” she says to Turk. “Carson has no joke filter. When he’s uncomfortable, he goes for the laugh.”

“Oh, I’m familiar,” Turk says, as we turn onto a side street. “If I had a nickel for every time Russ would say some nonsense when things got real. It was utterly adorable and truly obnoxious.”

Aisha puts her finger on her nose and points at Turk, who laughs.

“I’m standing right here,” I say. “Am I invisible?”

Turk ruffles my hair. “What’s the Porcupine of Truth?” he asks.

Aisha explains it to him. He takes it all in and slowly nods. “That’s definitely something Russ would have invented,” he says, his eyes a little sad.

We walk together in silence, our steps in a comfortable rhythm. When we get back to his street, Aisha says, “And you really believe in heaven?”

“Oh, most definitely,” Turk says. “You want to see what heaven is like? To my way of thinking?”

We nod.

He hands me Gomer’s leash and then waves us off. “Take Gomer to the dog park. I’ll tell you where it is. That, my young friends, is heaven on earth.”

There are two gates to the dog park. We open up a huge wrought-iron doorway and enter what I guess is a vestibule before we reach the second gate. As we do so, a bunch of dogs run up to the second gate to see who is coming in. Gomer eagerly looks out at the expectant pack of dogs, his black tail wagging back and forth like a metronome.

We remove his leash as Turk told us to do and open the second gate, and Gomer rockets into a world unlike any I’ve seen before.

It’s a beautiful morning and the sun is coming up over the bright green, grassy field. Dozens of dogs of all types congregate in small groups or jump and run and play in pairs and packs. There are huge dogs with pointy snouts, low-to-the-ground dogs waddling around with big bellies, miniature dogs yipping and chasing the tails of larger dogs that look like they could eat the mini ones for breakfast. A diverse cluster of dogs tromps around the perimeter of the park in pack formation. Two dogs, one black and small, the other reddish and slightly bigger, wrestle, the smaller one standing on his hind legs trying to gain an advantage.

Dozens of people of all types stand around, some talking and laughing. Others lounge on benches, watching the scene in solitude. Fat white men in sweat suits chat with skinny black ladies in skirts who look like they must be on their way to the office after this. Hipster chicks wearing librarian glasses cavort with dudes in skullcaps.

I watch Gomer saunter up to a big German shepherd. They sniff each other’s snouts for a moment, and then the German shepherd walks around to the back of Gomer and sniffs his butt.

“Oh my,” I say.

“That’s how they check each other out,” Aisha says. “We used to have a mini schnauzer.”

“I did not know that,” I say. “Either of those pieces of information, actually.”

Gomer allows the bigger dog to sniff him. And then, just as quickly, the German shepherd gallops off, and Gomer, his tail waving like a fan, takes off after him. The bigger dog runs in a wide circle, and Gomer, lower and more compact, has to move his legs twice as fast to keep up. Then the bigger dog turns and starts chasing Gomer, and a medium-sized white dog with a funny-looking snout joins in.

A bulldog, wheezing like he’s out of shape, scampers by my feet. A tiny, fluffy white dog follows him. I look around. No dogs are left out. They’re all playing with each other.

Gomer runs past a poodle sitting expectantly, looking at its owner. He’s a wiry-looking guy in a trucker hat. Gomer barks at the poodle, and both dogs’ tails start wagging. The poodle takes off, chasing Gomer. “Hazel! Girl, get back here,” he yells, and the dogs stop running. Hazel the poodle trots back over to her owner, who turns his attention to Gomer. “Get away from her, you stupid mutt,” he says.

I run over. “Sorry,” I say.

He ignores me, and I feel my shoulders droop. This trip has allowed me to forget how it feels to be invisible. Now I remember: I don’t like it.

“C’mon, Gomer,” I say, monotone, and he trots away from the poodles. He doesn’t seem to care that he was just yelled at; he has the same smile on his adorable face that he almost always has. He races off to join a group of smaller dogs who are running in circles. He puts his nose right up against a large, furry white dog’s behind. He goes up to all the dogs and does it. Doesn’t matter if they’re bigger or smaller. Gomer sniffs the boys, the girls, the white-furred ones, the red-furred ones, the black-furred ones. The nearly shaved, the puffy.

“What do you think the sniffing is all about?” I ask.

“They’re curious. Like why they come running to the door when another dog comes in. They want to know about him or her.”

“Wouldn’t that be cool if we could be like that?”

“Sniffing butts?” she asks, sniffing my shoulder.

“Not afraid of what other people think. Not embarrassed to be interested in someone else. That kind of thing. Do you think that’s why Turk thinks it’s heaven? Why can’t humans be like that? What are we afraid of?”

She doesn’t have time to answer my litany of questions, because suddenly there is a commotion. Hazel the poodle is on her back and a large gray dog stands over her, growling.

“Hey!” the nasty guy says, kicking at the gray dog.

The dog eludes his kick and saunters away. The owner of the gray dog, a large, nondescript man whose belly spills over his brown jeans, hurries over.

“You control your dog or next time I’ll punt it,” the wiry guy spits at him.

The man in the brown jeans says, “He was just playing. I’m sorry.”

“You bet you’re sorry,” the wiry guy says. “Control him, or next time I’ll punt you.”

Aisha and I look at each other. Everyone in the park is watching the altercation. Meanwhile, a pack of German shepherds has cordoned off the gray dog from the rest. After a little bit of roughhousing, they let the gray dog go. He trots off in search of other playmates.

“That’s how the dogs take care of each other,” Aisha says to me. “They set him straight.”

The guy in the trucker hat stands rigid, his arms crossed tight across his chest. Turk said this was heaven, and for a while I could totally see that. Then trucker hat guy yelled at Gomer, and then at the other guy. Suddenly we’re not in heaven anymore.

Trucker hat guy is motioning with his arms in front of Hazel, who is just sitting there, not playing with the other dogs. I feel bad for her. All these dogs are out having a good time, and poor Hazel is like a prisoner to that jerk.

“The problem with this place is the entrance,” I tell Aisha. “Replace that double gate with a velvet rope, get the Porcupine out there to choose who gets in, and then this place really would be Des Moines.”

Aisha laughs. “Get rid of these gates and add a velvet rope, and what you really have is chaos.”

I get that she’s kidding, that she means that a velvet rope would not be an ideal way to fence in dogs. But I’m being serious. The thing that keeps this place from truly being heaven, in my opinion, is who is let in.

The dogs run and fetch and play, and the people do their thing too. On the other side of the park, the brown jeans guy is standing by himself with his head down. It’s like I can feel his shame.

I tug on Aisha’s shirt and walk toward the guy. She follows, keeping an eye on Gomer, who is being petted by a muscular black dude with a blond buzz cut.

“Hey,” I say as we approach. “What’s your name?”

The brown jeans guy looks surprised that someone is talking to him. “Larry.”

“Hey, Larry. I’m Carson and this is Aisha.”

“Hi,” he says.

“Which dog is yours?” I ask, pretending not to have seen the altercation.

He points tentatively at his gray dog, which is currently sniffing a woman’s feet.

“So cute. What kind is he?” Aisha asks.

“He’s an Australian shepherd.”

I scan the park for Gomer. “Ours is the Labradoodle currently on his back with his legs in the air. Can’t take him anywhere.”

Larry laughs. “Yep. He looks like a nice dog.”

“He is.”

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. His Australian shepherd is now peeing on a tennis ball a guy had been using to play fetch with his dog. The guy goes off in search of another ball. “Matty!” Larry yells, but the dog ignores him and begins to growl at a skinny, hairless dog about a quarter of his size. He shakes his head. “My dog is a fucking asshole.”

I laugh, but Aisha doesn’t. “You have him since he was a pup?” she asks.

The guy nods. “Got him at a pet store. He lives in our garage ’cause he kept peeing all over the place and chewing up the furniture.”

I don’t know a lot about dogs, but I can tell there’s something not great about this story. I mean, don’t dogs need training? Maybe not as much as poor Hazel, but.

I’m about to say something else when a woman who is walking past us with her German shepherd points across the way. “Oh! I think Brent’s about to have Hazel do Russian Bear,” she says. “Have you seen this?”

I turn and watch. She’s pointing at trucker hat guy. He is kneeling in front of Hazel like they’re having an intense conversation. Then he pats her on the head, stands, and puts his arms out wide. “Russian bear,” he says.

Hazel stands on her hind legs and slowly lifts her paws high above her head. She does look kind of like a bear, I realize, and begrudgingly I grin.

Aisha gasps. “I’ve never seen a dog do that!”

“Isn’t that great?” the woman says. She and her German shepherd have stopped walking.

When Hazel gets down from her pose, the trucker guy holds up a treat, which Hazel gobbles down while he affectionately rubs her head.

The woman who told us to watch smiles. “Brent is so good with her. Ever since his wife left him last year, training Hazel has become his one passion.”

“That was pretty amazing,” Aisha says.

Larry isn’t listening. “Fuck. Matty!” he yells, running over to him. Matty has taken down another dog, this one small and apricot with floppy ears. He is growling over it.

Larry grabs Matty by the collar and drags him a good fifteen feet. He then smacks Matty in the snout and says, “Stupid, fucking, useless mutt.”

“And some people, less amazing,” the woman says, matter-of-fact, and she continues her perimeter walk.

Larry puts Matty on his leash and heads toward the exit.

“You ever have an initial reaction to something and it turns out totally wrong?” I ask Aisha.

She tosses a ball high in the air, and Gomer leaps for it and catches it in his mouth. Then he drops it at Aisha’s feet and looks up at her. “All the time,” she says.

I’m about to tell her all the thoughts I had about Brent after he yelled at Gomer, and then I realize maybe there’s a better way to deal with this.

“Follow me,” I say to Aisha, and she slaps her leg and somehow Gomer knows to walk with us. I slowly approach Brent and Hazel, and as Aisha figures out where we’re going, she puts Gomer on a leash.

I stop a few feet away from Brent, keeping my distance in case he’s gonna get nasty again. “That was so cool,” I say.

“Yeah?” he asks, barely glancing up at me.

“We put our dog on a leash this time,” I say. “Don’t worry.”

“Thanks,” he says, and this time he does look at me and gives me a smile.

“How’d you teach her to do that?”

Brent studies us like he’s not sure what our angle is. Like we’re messing with him. But we aren’t.

“One day Hazel was trying to steal herself a treat that was on the kitchen counter. There was a stool in the way, so when I walked into the kitchen, there she was, looking like a big old white Russian bear.” He laughs. “I figured maybe I could figure out how to turn her bad habit into a good one.”

“That’s awesome. She’s an amazing dog,” Aisha says.

“Thanks,” Brent says, and that stern, nasty demeanor is gone. “Hey, listen. Sorry ’bout that before. I sometimes bark before I think. I know you didn’t mean any trouble.”

“I appreciate it,” I say, genuinely surprised that he even knew I was the owner of the dog he yelled at. “I get that you’re protective of Hazel.”

He nods.

“What about that other guy?”

He shakes his head. “That guy needs to stop bringing his dog here. Seen him a hundred times, and he never gets the message.”

“Fair enough,” I say, and I stick out my hand for him to shake. He does. “Catch you another time.”

When Gomer starts to pant and his tongue begins to hang from his mouth, we decide it’s time to leave. Aisha wrangles him back onto his leash, and we head for the exit.

“So is this heaven?” I ask as we get to the exit.

We turn and look back at the park one last time.

“For me it is,” Aisha says.

I take in the whole scene. Turk’s heaven on earth is filled with laughter and play and barking and roughhousing and dog pee, and as many different breeds of people as there are of dogs. And there are humans who get along, and others who don’t, and some who do the wrong thing, or at least the wrong thing according to me.

I smile. If you had told me two weeks ago in New York that I’d find heaven on earth in a grassy field soaked with dog urine, watching a fat guy smack his misbehaving dog on the snout, I would have laughed at you.

But it’s not two weeks ago. I’m not in New York, and everything’s different now. At least I am, because now I can stop judging everything for long enough to realize where I am.

A perfectly imperfect place.

“For me too,” I say, resting my head on Aisha’s shoulder. “Totally heaven.”