Beau, Lee, The Bomb Page 18

  Back to Oscar:

  “Not the only ones, though, Frank; don’t forget about the others who didn’t get it from sex or drugs. So many, like this one little kid, Ryan White, got AIDS from a blood transfusion when he was eleven, I think. Even he was shunned and hated. . . . I try to remind myself everyone was just so afraid.”

  Right now I think Oscar is trying to remind them both. Frank just frowns and jumps in.

  “It was such a long horrible mess that there were rumors that the government had introduced the sickness into populations they thought no one cared about, to test a new biological weapon of war. Dear God . . . so many good people . . .”

  Uncle Frank puts his hand over his mouth and stops speaking abruptly. He shakes his head and looks drained. He looks at us like his charge just ran out.

  I think he’s cried all the tears he can cry for his friends and has discovered a new way of coping with his ceaseless grief, which is to rage, to tell what really happened, for as long as his anger lasts. And through his anger and pain, to preach tolerance, that there is no upside to a hate-filled mentality for anyone.

  Like the crazy man said in the one thing he got right: “Can we all just get along?”

  I remember Uncle Frank just got back from a Buddhist retreat. Interesting . . . I think I’m also going to research the tenets of Buddhism. I don’t know anything much about it. I don’t know anything much about a lot of things. I keep finding out how much stuff there is to learn.

  Beau, however, is not impressed. He’s listening but all folded up in the rocking chair with a snotty look on his face, like he’s not convinced. He rocks the chair hard. It thumps rhythmically.

  He addresses himself to Oscar because Frank looks like he doesn’t have a lot of fight left in him at the moment.

  “I didn’t know that—about the quilt. That sucks. But there must be something you can think of that can help me now.” He looks away, his lips pressed in a thin line. His sigh is impatient and despairing.

  I think he is substituting anger for the huge, sad, freaking disappointment he is feeling.

  Oscar takes the reins.

  “Well, little Tootsie Roll, I have an idea: Go back up to your wonderful mom and don’t give up the lawsuit! Be the change you want to see! Cowboy up and work the farm! Make it your home, make it safe and welcoming so that your many friends will all feel at home because they can be whoever they were meant to be! A giant, diverse, big, happy family! Why not? Do it! Time is passing, as you so gob-smackingly noted just a moment ago. You pick up the cudgels! You carry the mission forward!”

  Beau looks like he wants to explode.

  “I don’t want to! I don’t want to have to be that guy! I just want to live a regular life and be happy. Why do I have to make it so?! Get somebody else!”

  They just look at him. He thumps the chair faster and looks out the window. Then turns back. Pissed.

  “And another thing!” His arm flails like an unbalanced windmill, as he jabs his finger in accusatory annoyance around the room at the haphazard, and admittedly half-assed, decoration of the walls (unframed posters, mostly) then back at the uncles. “This apartment is not what I expected, and you guys don’t act like I thought you would! It’s like you’re not even very good at being gay!”

  Oscar looks at Frank and cackles. “Here it comes!”

  Beau continues without a pause.

  “I thought it would be really cool, and you would be really gay and I would say, Oh, there’s my gay uncle! He’s so gay! Oh, good! Now I know what to do! But no! Apparently the first rule is there are no rules! Awesome—that’s not confusing at all! Frank, you don’t even act gay. And you, Oscar; people can totally tell, but I thought there was like . . . a . . .”

  “A club?” Oscar interrupts wickedly. “Like the Fabulous Big Gay Clubhouse of San Francisco? I know! We need one so bad!”

  “Don’t make fun of me! This is serious! It’s my life we’re talking about, you guys!” Beau gets out of the rocker and paces over to where Leo and I are. He sits on the arm of the couch by me. Frank sighs.

  “Beau, look, I’m sorry if I disappointed you by somehow not being gay enough for your expectations,” he begins. “I’m sorry if there aren’t any sequin rainbows, or life-size cutouts of Liza and Judy for you here—”

  “And Babs!” Oscar warbles. “Do not ever forget Miss Barbra Streisand!”

  “But believe me, I am gay! I didn’t, however, mean to ruin some stereotype you have. What was I thinking? Let me try to be different for you! I can change! Sorry if I let you down!”

  “I haven’t let you down!” yells Oscar. “I am so gay I have never even visualized a woman’s boob!”

  I laugh out loud—then quick, make it a cough. (Omg—Oscar! So freaking hilarious!)

  That makes Beau even madder.

  “Great! I’m glad this is so freaking hilarious! Whatever! This whole trip has been such a waste of time! Stupid! And I’m still lost! Thanks a lot, everybody! My so-called friends and family! Thanks a lot, loved ones!” He suddenly jumps off the arm of the sofa and bolts out the front door of the apartment. We hear him pounding down the stairs.

  Then silence.

  We sit speechless for a moment. Then Oscar goes to the window.

  “Oh, that little idiot!” He moans. “He’s heading straight toward the Tenderloin!”

  Frank jumps up in horror. We all do, though Leo and I have no idea what that means.

  “Oh no! He’s just like my brother—the hothead! I’ll go after him!”

  “No, Frankie! Don’t—it’s not safe! Call the cops!”

  But Leo and I don’t wait to hear. We are already through the open door and down the stairs. The Bomb lunges after us. We skitter down the several staircases. We can hear Oscar and Frank shouting frantically at us to come back, but it grows quieter as we keep going.

  Downstairs, we look around, and I can see tiny running Beau, already blocks ahead of us. Oscar and Frank lean out the window, still yelling, then Frank disappears and I know he’s coming down.

  We turn and bolt to the van, which, luckily, is parked pretty close. We get in and start driving in the direction of our last glimpse of Beau, who has by this time completely disappeared.

  “You keep looking on that side, and I’ll look on this one. Look into that park, or whatever that is, over there. He’s got on his blue hoodie and his Vans, right? Okay, keep your eyes peeled.”

  Great. Apparently, on top of everything else, I’m going to start talking like my dad.

  We troll up and down the streets. No Beau. No how. No way. Oh, boy.

  We also remember we forgot our phones. Mine was charging, and I don’t know why, but Leo just left hers on the coffee table. Which I mention.

  “I wasn’t thinking about it. You left yours too.”

  “Yeah, but mine was charging, else—”

  “Still, you didn’t go, ‘Oh, lemme just go get my phone and then run out.’ Noooo, you didn’t, so neither one of us remembered our phones!” She stares at me triumphantly. I look at her. She lifts her chin, in challenge.

  She’s right. I didn’t.

  I really like how she is standing up for herself. It makes me smile. I pipe down and drive. We continue our patrol.

  The area Beau disappeared in looks like it has green spaces and plenty of parking. I haven’t really researched this neck of the woods yet, but I’ve heard the name of the neighborhood frequently: the Tenderloin.

  I don’t see anything out of the ordinary; actually, it looks like it was nice, once. The houses around are big and pretty old, which I guess everything in San Fran is by Seattle standards. Some have lead glass windows, and it’s a shame if the neighborhood was once good in the olden days, but now it’s too sketchy to live here.

  We are at a loss as to what to do. I don’t want to call the cops, and I don’t want to drive around losing precious time that could keep him from getting jacked or mugged in this dark, frightening place, and my nerves are jangling. We troll up and
down, back and forth.

  I hate to admit it, but I’m scared stiff.

  I tell Leonie to get the flashlight out of the back and shine it out her side into the unlit areas, to see if that helps. She does, but it doesn’t.

  And time is passing. That’s not good. I slow down and double back to where it looks like there might be some quiet place for him to think and chill out.

  I am really feeling the cold tonight, as is Leo. We ran out without our coats too. And we’re in the heated van. I wish Beau had more than that stupid blue hoodie.

  All of a sudden, we hear The Bomb go “woof” real quietly, almost like a doggy whisper. I’d never heard her bark before, and when I turn to find what she is looking at, I see Beau walking into the freezing wind, all hunched over with his hands in his pockets, in front of us about a half block away.

  “Omg, omg!” Leo squeaks, pointing.

  “I know, I know! I see him! But he’s almost in that park, and I can’t get close enough in this tuna boat. Let me try to park. He’ll just run again if he sees us.”

  I look, and we’re on Leavenworth. I reach for my phone to call and tell the uncles, then remember I’m phoneless and recurse my haste.

  I turn the corner so his back is to the van, but keep him in my sight. He’s really good at disappearing. He’s got his head down against the wind so low that he can’t see very well, which is lucky because it’s not as hard to shadow him as it might have been if it was warm out.

  So we do. We shadow him. We cross Turk. We follow him at a snail’s pace, inching along just far enough back that if he turned around we could just be another car on the road.

  He’s obviously cold. His arms are clenched against his slim body, and he staggers occasionally like he’s being bludgeoned by the wind.

  He looks lost and miserable. He keeps trudging, apparently deep in thought.

  We keep after him. He crosses, a little way farther up, and now he is on the wrong side of the street. I can’t just turn after him because then he would see us.

  “Keep an eye on him, Leo!” I say as I try to do an end run around him in the van.

  “I can’t—he’s starting to walk into that park or whatever. Over there. See him?”

  What is he thinking? I have known not to walk around at night, especially into parks, since I was like a one-year-old. All I can think is he’s not thinking. He starts to fade into the night. He disappears again. I slow to a stop and try to see where he went.

  “I can’t see him! I’ll go get him!” Leonie unbuckles and opens the door and is gone.

  I sit in the van as she too runs out of sight. I can’t believe it.

  I see The Bomb in the rearview looking after her, not yipping or anything, just darting back and forth frantically to try and see her.

  Seriously, this has now officially become a disaster. I pull over to the curb. There is a ton of parking—not a good sign. I park and open the door. The Bomb looks at me eagerly, whining softly.

  “No, Bommy, I didn’t bring your leash. You wait, and I’ll be right back with Ren and Stimpy,” I tell her as I shut the van door in her face. I don’t lock it in case they come back.

  I am not keen on walking around at night in the hood with no dog or Taser or friends. It’s not a smart move. I leave the sidewalk and start into the park. I figure I won’t yell for them unless I can’t see them right away. I fear yelling would be counterproductive. I fear it would bring weirdos, and they wouldn’t be the right weirdos. They wouldn’t be my weirdos.

  But Leo doesn’t share the same thought process. I hear her hollering after about ten minutes. I double back in the direction I came.

  “Beau! Beau! Why did you run out like that? Come here! We’ve been going crazy!”

  I can’t see her, but I follow the direction of her voice. I see a copse of trees. And shadows.

  I approach. The shadows turn into people and things.

  Beau and Leonie are sitting on a park bench. I come up behind them.

  “What are you guys thinking?!” I explode. “Like, danger much? Let’s get out of here!”

  They jump ten feet and turn around. Stare into my wild eyes as I hiss, pissed: “Yeah! See! I could have been some random jacker, coming for your wallets and your life! I am seriously amazed at how stupid you two act sometimes! Omg! Come on!” I look around. “This is a dodgy place to be! Are you trying to get us killed?! Hurry up, let’s bounce!”

  I glare down at them like a parole officer. An insanely cranky parole officer.

  They look up at me, all woeful. Leo has her arm around Beau in a futile attempt against the cold.

  “Beau doesn’t want to go back,” she explains. I put my hands on my hips.

  “Well, too bad because we are! What are we going to do instead? Drive away tonight? Hardly! Beau, whatever! You have to learn to solve problems, not just run from them. That’s all I’ve seen you do so far! Come on, dude! Cowboy up and ride the pony, or whatever he just said! You can do it! You can figure it out—even without the magic pep talk! Jeez! And as for you, Leo! What were you thinking—just jumping out of a moving car like that? For gawd’s sake! No—I know! Why don’t you just audition for freaking Cirque du Soleil?! You can put all that talent to work as an acrobat! Leo, the Amazing Bailer! Omg! You know, people would be sad if you got run over by a bus because you jumped into traffic! Jeez!”

  They stare up, shivering. Pitiful and shivering. Not even able to speak in their own defense.

  I just look at them and shake my head disapprovingly.

  I am so glad to see them it hurts. I could hug them both.

  They stand up and we start back. I figure we will stop at a bodega and call the uncles, and then I remember that Beau has his phone, and as I start to say that, I hear a noise. We stop.

  A guy comes out of the shadows. He’s skinny and gangly and has sores on his face. We stare.

  “Hey, kids, got any money?” He’s sniffling. He wipes his nose on his sleeve.

  He’s wearing a gnarly fur Santa hat and a grubby sweatshirt that says “Just Do It.” He looks like the scrawny dude in that Nirvana video. His pants are extremely saggin’ and he has to hold them up when he walks. He’s wearing dirty dress shoes without socks or shoelaces.

  “No, sorry, we were just leaving,” I say as we keep walking. He joins up.

  “Yeah, where to? Can I come? Come on. I need a place.”

  “Nah, sorry, dude. We’re just going home. Sorry, we don’t have any money.”

  I notice we keep apologizing to the dude, who is the one panhandling us. Society. Jeez.

  But I am sorry. Sucks to be him.

  However, he still needs to leave now.

  We walk back to the van with our unwelcome visitor. He sees where we are heading, but we don’t know what else to do.

  “This your car? Hey, great! Let’s all just stay there! Yeah, that’s a great idea! And I bet you have some kind of money or something I need in there, anyway! Right? All right! Let’s go!”

  Beau turns on him.

  “Listen, dude, just skip it! I’ve had a seriously crappy night, and I’m not in the mood! So leave us alone and get lost!” He advances in a threatening way.

  Dude doesn’t say anything, just pulls a gun out of his raggedy saggin’ jeans.

  “Or not.” He gestures, quite calmly.

  We just stand staring at the gun. Shocked silent. Petrified in place.

  “Now listen, guys, why don’t you open the door, and then we’ll figure out what’s really mine in this here van. Or maybe I’ll just borrow the whole van itself, okay? So open the door.”

  We don’t answer right away. I’m not sure we can speak. Or move. This is so bad.

  “Hello?! Am I jacking a bunch of statues? Habla English? Open the damn door!”

  “It’s open already,” I grit between clamped teeth.

  He partially turns around to the van, which we are now right beside, keeping the pistol on us. I look, but I don’t see The Bomb. Part of my mind starts to s
pin out of balance. Where is she? Where did she go? Did someone steal her, the one time I left the door unlocked? How could she even go with them? What kind of doggy loyalty is that? Just when we could finally use her! My mind is racing.

  We are in a mess. But not the tweaker. He’s super happy.

  “Well, that was real friendly of you! You must have realized you were going to have company!”

  He struggles to slide open the side door while not turning his back on us. It’s tricky since the beach if you don’t know how to shove it. He finally gets it open, trying to watch both the door and us.

  “Look out for The Bomb!” Leo squeaks in a panic.

  “Oh, really?” He turns around to us sarcastically. “Really?! A bomb?! Nice try!” He wipes his nose on his sleeve again and laughs all phlegmy. “Like you punk-ass little bitches would have a bomb in this beater! But good one, kids! Really quick think—aaaahhhh!!”

  Then everything happens at once.

  The Bomb, who had been crouched down, shaking and silent and pushed beyond her endurance, catapults out of the van and chomps him—right on the ass! Deep. Right through his boxers, which were all that was covering it. I heard it—till he started screaming. It was gross. Then he tries to run, but The Bomb still has ahold of his entirely hanging out boxers butt, and also Leo is right there and sticks her foot out so he trips. He goes over with The Bomb on top of him, and the gun flies out of his hand to the ground. He scrabbles for it, but Beau steps up and soccer kicks it away. I see it scuttle over in my general direction, and I run to it.

  Then I do what you are never supposed to do:

  I touch it.

  I pick it up. I recognize it.

  It’s the exact same kind of gun my dad gave me, a .38 special. I remember him saying it was the most common handgun in America. And apparently he’s right.

  I know mine doesn’t have a safety so I handle it very carefully. It’s extremely dangerous. It’s cocked and loaded.

  I uncock it quickly and dump the chamber. There are four bullets.