Beau, Lee, The Bomb Read online

  We both just stare at her. I face palm. Some of the more priceless things that come out of her mouth are almost beyond belief. Honestly, I occasionally wonder how she can feed herself.

  Patiently, Beau tries again.

  “Leo, remember? So not a choice. I just am gay. Otherwise I would choose you! Think about it. How could I be all leaned up against your hot self and still be able to concentrate, right?” He tickles her under the chin playfully.

  I also chime in, in my own defense.

  “And I totally admit that I eat way too much, but, Leonie, come on. You also have to acknowledge the fact that different bodies process food at different rates. Some people have a more efficient metabolism. They just burn it off faster. You eat tons more than I do, and nobody would ever guess that! Just sayin’.”

  All of which is true.

  Our rejoinders to Leo’s little outburst being over, we simmer down again. Silence reigns unbroken for a few minutes.

  Then she adds indifferently as an afterthought, “In that case, it’s not my choice either. My stepdad started molesting me when I was a little kid.”

  Beau and I are not sure what we just heard. We just sit, blinking. Finally Beau speaks softly.

  “Did you just say that your stepdad molested you?”

  “Yeah . . . when I was, like, little.”

  “Omg, Lee, how little?”

  “I don’t know exactly.” She shrugs. “I can’t remember a time before he did.”

  We do not know what to say. It’s hard to breathe. Finally I venture a question.

  “Didn’t you tell your mom?”

  “Yeah! Are you kidding?! I told her at least three times I can remember!”

  That is so unbelievably messed up I cannot imagine it. My mother would have killed anyone if they’d even looked at me. . . .

  “What did she do?”

  “Nothing. She acted like it wasn’t true. She didn’t believe me. Then when I told her again when I was older, she said I had encouraged him . . . which was so not true.”

  Beau and I try to wrap our heads around this.

  “Where is he now?”

  “Dunno. I think he took off when she chased him around with a knife and threatened to kill him for cheating on her . . . with someone besides me.”

  “Oh, Leonie, why didn’t you tell me this before?” I can’t believe there is so much I don’t know about her. Or how much crap I’ve given her.

  “Yeah, well, there’s more if you want to hear it.”

  “Do you want to tell it?”

  She shrugs. “Sure. Why not? I’m wasted. So they took me away from her after that, ’cuz the neighbors called the cops, and I went to this foster home. . . .” Her words drift off.

  “But that was good, though, right?” Beau’s face is intense.

  Lee snorts bitterly.

  “Hardly. It was exactly the same, only where I was placed there were two guys now instead of one.”

  “Two guys molested you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Other random foster kids.”

  “How old were they?”

  “I dunno. Older than me.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Ten.”

  I am completely shut down. Everything makes perfect sense now: Ratskin, Turbo, all the jerk asses getting over on her—her absent mom and silent phone and empty fridge. . . .

  “So then what happened, Leo?” I ask, my tone uncustomarily kind.

  “Um . . .” She looks up, thinking, and then stares accusingly at me. “Wait—you’re not going to start being all nice to me, are you? Because that would be weird.”

  I swear I’m about to bust out crying. The thought of poor little Leonie, with her big eyes and sweet nature all alone and bad people doing whatever they felt like to her.

  “No,” I manage to rasp. “Same as it ever was.”

  “Good. ’Cuz I’m fine. I hardly even remember it anymore.”

  Which I seriously doubt.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I dunno. It doesn’t really come up in conversation. Whatevs. Why think about it? Haters gonna hate. Just have fun now is what I say.” She looks out the window, then leans her head on Beau’s shoulder tiredly. “It’s all good. Who cares? I can’t even remember that little kid . . . the little girl I was.”

  Beau puts his arm around her shoulders protectively.

  “I wish I’d been there. I would have kicked that guy’s ass. I wish I was your brother.”

  “I wish you were too.” They snuggle a little. I can see whatever stuff they’re on is wearing off and that they are wiped. The Bomb has been very quiet during this last hour or so, keeping her worried eyes on Leonie and Beau and then turning to me like, “What’s their deal?” When she sees them calming down, she gets on the seat with them and snuggles up in the mix.

  I don’t blame her. They look like a litter of puppies.

  After a little while, I hear them snoring gently. All three of them. Then I doze too.

  In the gray dawn I wake up and go back into the hostel room that we paid for but none of us slept in. I take a shower, grab our stuff, and load it carefully around my sleeping beauties. They slumber on, completely unaware of how well they’re being looked after.

  And off we bounce.

  *  *  *

  We still have a fair ways to go. I’m pumped to see the city even though I have so many new thoughts in my mind. The pile of flesh in the back mutters and moans in its collective dream, but I’m wide awake and hitting on all cylinders. We drive on.

  And omg, coming into the city by way of Highway 1 is the tightest route! The iconic Golden Gate Bridge is our road, but it’s not just because of Golden Gate; you can see other bridges and buildings and skyscrapers glinting in the sun, which is even partially shining at the time we get there. I wake the guys up when we’re on the bridge to show them this vision.

  I know I will always remember this:

  The fog and clouds part over the mauve water; the sunshine sparkles white-gold, illuminating the city on the hill; everything becomes shimmery and ethereal; luminous and otherworldly in its perfect, transient beauty, and suddenly we realize we are weirdly happy.

  I know because we all look at each other, smiling. I can see it in their eyes and faces too.

  We made it!

  They immediately fall back asleep. I keep on truckin’.

  So now we’re in San Francisco. I’m on Market Street and I need to find Nob Hill.

  These are the words I have read. I have no idea what they mean.

  And apparently my navigator is Rip Van Winkle, who is going to sleep for a hundred years, like in the fairy tales.

  I find a place to pull over. Get out the stupid paper map and start to figure it out.

  After fifteen minutes, from the backseat I hear Leo start to groan.

  “Oh, ow, ow, omg . . . I’m gonna barf! Oh no . . . move!” She pile drives through the door of the van and spews vigorously all over the streets of San Francisco, then leans against a streetlight, retching.

  The Bomb is whining nervously. I hear more gagging from the backseat, and then Beau projectiles through the van door. They stagger around the sidewalk ralphing and heaving and generally giving the streets of the city one more shellacking. I get out and head over to them.

  They are greenish and shaky. Their skin looks slick and wet. I get some ice from a bodega behind us and hold it to their faces. Then they suck it. And barf again. I make them try to drink some water and that doesn’t work either.

  After ralphing about twenty times, they are both exhausted and clammy, sitting on the curb beside the van in a three-minute loading zone. It’s cloudy again and they are shivering. I give them the towels from Florence to wipe themselves off. Luckily there is no spew or crap in the van for a change and I can put them back inside and under their covers. Shaking with chills, they immediately fall back asleep.

  I sit and have a litt
le chat with myself about what we should do at this point. I seriously doubt that if I show up at Uncle Frankie’s house with Pinky and the Brain here, covered with barf and in need of a bed, and say, “Hi! We tried to call, but oh well! Could you help me hose them off?” that we will get the reception we were hoping for. I have to get them someplace we can have some time for them to recover from this fun, fun

  hung­over part of their little misadventure before we go find Beau’s uncle.

  And where that someplace could be I have no idea.

  I decide at last to go up to the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood. I want to explore the Haight, and also Amoeba Music is there and I seriously need to see it. I figure I can get a parking place and something to eat and maybe by that time they will feel like finding out where in the world is Uncle Frankie. I navigate with as much trouble as you think I would and go up an enormous hill and then take a wrong turn and go down another one and then I’m suddenly far from the street I seek . . . I think. I go down a one-way and think I’m circling around, but no. I have no idea where I am or what neighborhood this is. One-way streets have surged me far from where I meant to go. Exasperated, I park the van and pay for a couple hours at the meter. I’m getting hungry.

  They slumber on, except for The Bomb, who is riding shotgun while Beau sleeps. I smooch her forehead and her tail thumps. I leave all the windows open a crack and lock the doors and go find something to eat.

  I wander around looking at the shops and people for almost two hours. Then I go back to check on the sleeping beauties. Nothing. Still sound asleep. I wonder if they will wake up hungry or sick. I know they will wake up stinky. In fact, the entire van is reeling in reek—like wet dog and armpits and puke and feet. I open all the windows another inch and try not to heave as I leave. I find a deli I’d passed earlier. I order a sandwich and sit and eat and read the San Francisco Bay Guardian, which is like the Stranger in Seattle: bands and club dates and wild personal ads. I’m worried so I can’t concentrate. Also I’m not as ravenous as usual, which has happened a few times on this trip. I decide to take the other half of my sandwich to go and check on The Bomb to see if she needs a walk. As I roll along I hear this voice.

  “Hey, girl! Hey, girl with the box! You gonna eat that?”

  I see these two hippie chicks sitting on the sidewalk. It’s not raining but also not very warm, and they are just sitting on the nasty, gum-pocked sidewalk. Eyeballing my half a sandwich box. Intently.

  Without a word I hand it to them. They are about a block from the van. I walk over and get The Bomb and put some money in the meter, all of which takes two seconds, and when I get back to where they are, the sandwich is gone, as well as the pickle, and they are licking their grimy fingers to get every last potato chip crumb and sesame seed.

  “Thanks, girl! You rock. Hi, cute doggy. Got any spare change?”

  I smile at them and shake my head as I walk The Bomb. I will try never to judge anyone again. Who knows how or why they are here or from what hell they escaped.

  I will do what I can to help; I just wish them the best and leave it at that.

  What to do . . .

  After our little jaunt, I take The Bomb back to the van and put her away. The hippie chicks are gone, and I’m bummed because I was going to ask them if they knew a place where we could hang out for a couple of hours or days that wasn’t too sketchy. I guess we’ll find a hostel if we have to.

  I drive us around. I accidentally go down to Chinatown and see Alcatraz in the distance from the wharf. Some lady tells me how to get to Lombard Street, and so I head down Lombard. Beau and Leo really don’t appreciate the long and winding Lombard as much as I do. They groan and yell and tell me to knock it off. So far they are not enjoying San Francisco.

  I play music and try to learn the city as I drive around. I listen to the Art of Noise.

  “Where are we?” Beau gets into the front seat beside me. Slowly.

  “Well, um . . . we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto!” I bellow. “Aahhahahahahaaaaa!”

  He winces and grunts at me, pained and reproving. Like he might barf again.

  “No, Rust! Do not say that awful thing! Omg, so played!”

  I cackle with glee, caused by trotting out that dusty Kansas line yet again.

  “Omg, I know! Sorry! I was a’feared I’d be a sayin’ that—sooner or later!”

  “Rusty, never again. It’s just . . . too . . . horrible. . . .”

  “You’re right! Never appropriate! And not funny! I promise: Never say it again! Never ever! Wait—say what?”

  It’s a relief to see Beau smile. He’s feeling better.

  The Bomb is also glad. She gets on his lap and smooches him, so now there are two passengers in the seat. They rubberneck while we roll.

  San Fran is a lot like Seattle in that it’s beautiful and salty and full of seagulls. Also hilly.

  I have heard about this flock of parrots on Telegraph Hill. There is a documentary about it. I look for someone to ask for directions.

  But Beau has other ideas. He’s feeling well enough to be sarcastic.

  “Let’s get to my uncle’s so we can rejoice that he’s moved away or whatever!”

  “Okay. I Google-earthed his address at the library. It’s an apartment in Nob Hill. I’m pretty sure we aren’t far.”

  Nob Hill is an old part of San Fran, and the buildings are all brick and cobblestone and cool.

  We finally find the street that has been our North Star and troll the block looking for parking. We see some eventually and get out, just intending to scope out the place.

  We are almost there (with The Bomb on her leash) when we see this other guy with his dog. You can tell it’s a pretty old dog, and so we hold The Bomb back from getting too close.

  They are just standing there, waiting for the old dog to dookie. They look bored, both the dude and his dog. The dog squats

  finally. We politely look the other way, and the dude cleans it up with a bag.

  “Good job, Sylvester! Good boy!” the guy tells him placidly. He throws the bag in a garbage can and uses some hand sanitizer from his pocket. Mission accomplished.

  Sylvester wags briefly and lifts his leg on a phone pole. Then he sees The Bomb and loses it.

  He starts barking and runs up to us on his expando-leash thing, then starts sniffing The Bomb.

  He’s a Bomb-sniffing dog. Har.

  We just stand there. The Bomb cringes submissively.

  Then the old dog starts humping The Bomb. And she totally lets him.

  Leonie screams and pulls The Bomb away in disgust. The other dog starts barking at her in a threatening way. Beau looks over to the guy.

  “Hey, could you maybe get your dog?”

  “Sylvester! No, no! Come here!” He pulls the leash so it starts to retract. “Right now, mister!”

  He looks at us like it was somehow our fault. Instead of his nasty dog’s.

  “Excuse me. Do you live in this building?” Beau asks him politely.

  “Why?”

  “Do you know anyone named Frankie Gales?”

  He looks at us again. Hard.

  I start to think, Oh no, please don’t you be Beau’s uncle.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I think he’s my uncle.”

  The guy just coughs like he’s been punched lightly in the gut. Stands there, looking up.

  “Okay,” he says after a minute. “Come inside.”

  We follow him and Sylvester up the stairs to the third floor. We look at each other and shrug.

  “Frank? I have a surprise for you,” the dude says as he opens the door to the apartment.

  And standing there, we see a short, buff guy in a T-shirt and jeans, unpacking books onto a bookshelf. His T-shirt is black. His arms are ripped. He stops putting books away.

  “Frank? Yes, well, these kids just blew in. Apparently, they’re looking for you.” The guy has kind of a snotty smile on his face when he says that, like he’s enjoying himself at
the other dude’s expense. “You should probably check your messages soon.”

  The short, ripped guy looks at us blankly. Beau speaks first.

  “Hey . . . I’m Beau Gales. Are you my uncle Frankie?”

  The short guy just stares at us all jaw-dropped. Gob-smacked.

  The other dude snorts. “Ho-kay! I’ll just be in the kitchen washing my hands, Frankie.”

  His tone makes us look at each other in a confused manner. What?

  The ripped dude is still staring at us in amazement.

  “Wh-where did you all come from?”

  “Um, we started in Seattle.”

  “Yes . . . I’m sure. . . . And you drove down here why?”

  Now it seems kind of idiotic. We eyeball each other again. I speak up.

  “Because Beau wanted to meet you. We all do, but you’re his only uncle.”

  He looks over at me.

  “And you are?”

  “Rusty.”

  He looks me up and down.

  “Of course you are.” His tone is amused.

  Gee, really? I’ve been served! (Oh, I’m so hurt.)

  He turns back to Beau.

  “So you drove what, eight hundred something miles, without even calling me first?”

  “No, we did call! You didn’t pick up. We called like twenty times.”

  “I was at a weeklong retreat because this world is driving me crazy, and now here you all come the second I get back, to drive me back to crazy town! Great! Just great! Really! Exquisite timing!”

  We hear laughing from the kitchen.

  “That somewhat expensive peace didn’t last too long, did it, Frankie?”

  Beau’s uncle turns to the disembodied voice in the kitchen.

  “Knock it off.” He turns back to us. “Just call me Frank, okay?”

  “Okay. Whatever.” We shrug. We glance at each other. Whatever.

  “Why?” Leonie asks.

  “One: Because I said so! Two: Because it’s my name. ‘Frankie’ has bad associations for me.”

  “Wait . . . my mom calls you Frankie.” Beau’s expression is confused.

  Uncle Frank’s face softened.