There’s a bookstore across the street. Perfect. Save us, Curious George.
A reading by a local writer is happening. He’s in the middle of reading from his new book of poems, entitled How I Plan to Take My Own Life.
“Come on, Leo, let’s go.” I pull him back outside. Leo won’t hold an umbrella. He’s getting soaked. That guy was right. He is a motherfucker. Hold your umbrella! It’s pouring rain. The city turns into an endless rainy tableau of suicidal people in hoodies smoking under bridges, whispering, “Help me . . . help me . . . ,” as we run past them to find a bus stop, a tram stop, a llama farm, anything to get us back to the hotel.
The next morning, I make an announcement. “Leo, we got to quit smoking and drinking and cheer ourselves up. One last puff, buddy, and we’re going to the zoo.”
The zoo is lovely. There is a little drizzle but it’s doable. After we see the elephants, we take a break on a grassy hill to have a snack. There’s a stage in front of us that suddenly comes to life. College girls in khaki shorts and polo shirts come bounding out onstage. “Welcome, Portland Zoo visitors, to the Birds of Prey show!”
The show is incredible. The perky college girls in the khaki shorts introduce various birds of prey from around Oregon, but when the birds come out, they aren’t carried out on someone’s arm. They fly in from behind the audience, as if the bird was sitting in a tree and suddenly heard its name. “Oh, that’s me—the spotted owl. That’s my cue! Got to go!”
They all have very Portland names, like “Deschutes the Hawk,” and they fly in to their own theme music.
Deschutes the Hawk tap-dances in the sky above the crowd to “Fly Me to the Moon.”
Leo puts his arms around my neck and whispers into my mouth, instead of my ear, “I want to come here again. Today.”
Halfway through the show, the girls stop the music. They come to the edge of the stage and quiet the crowd.
“Okay, Portland Zoo visitors, before we bring out our next special guest we’re going to ask that everyone please make sure that there are no food items of any kind around you. If you have any food in your mouth right now, finish chewing, take a piece of gauze, and wipe your mouth. No sudden movements. Don’t stand. Don’t wear red. No eye contact. Okay! Please welcome Larry the Vulture!”
A vulture with the face of an eighty-year-old ball sack flies in to the Barenaked Ladies singing, “It’s been one week since you looked at me . . .” And instead of flying to the college girl who is madly giving signals and blowing a whistle to lead him to the stage, Larry looks at her and decides “Fuck it!” and lands right in the middle of the audience. He walks over purses looking for food and making babies cry, harassing and terrorizing anyone in his path. The college girls go crazy on their walkie-talkies: “LARRY IS DOWN! LARRY IS DOWN! FORM THE PERIMETER!”
They finally lure Larry to the stage with a bloody Cheeto, but not before he runs back out into the middle of the audience, opens up his wings, and shakes his ball-sack face as if to say, “I’ll be back!”
People applaud while he’s led off like the child molester he is. After everyone settles down, the college girls come over the loudspeaker again. “Please welcome our final special guest, Chinook.”
“Somewhere Over the Rainbow” starts to play, the version by the Hawaiian guy on the ukulele that kills me. I look up and see a bald eagle that looks like it’s been dropped from the clouds. Leo and I watch it glide slowly back and forth above us. I feel like crying.
Leo puts his little arm around my neck and whispers, “Eagles are Papa’s favorite bird.” Now I am crying. It is his favorite kind of bird. David would bring back photos from his fishing trips in Alaska of eagles perched on the end of the fishing boat.
Chinook lands on his perch. He turns around and strikes the dignified pose of the American bald eagle that he gets paid the big bucks to do.
That bird has a ferocious dignity. Everybody loves bald eagles. Leo asks me if I knew that the Human Being was scared of rivers when she was little. I tell him that I didn’t know that. “She was scared that if she put her face in the river she’d see the Loch Ness monster.”
David is not swimming in the Sea of Cortez with me anymore. He’s back on the shore warning the Human Being not to go in and she’s standing behind him feeling safe and protected. David’s still scared to go in the water, but it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t see that. She sees the brave man who’s saving her life. Warning her not to go in. Telling her all the things that could go wrong, and she’s grateful.
David must be such a comfort to her. He was to me when I met him. This is happening. It’s happened. They’re in love. They’re with each other. This is now my life. What seemed so surreal and awful now simply is. It is.
I pull Leo to me and kiss the top of his head. “She was scared to put her face in rivers? Wow. She sure is dumb.”
Oops. That slipped out.
After the zoo, Leo and I ride the tram to the farmers’ market.
We walk into the market, and it looks like everyone is moving in slow motion. Young organic farmers with earnest eyes and dirty fingernails slowly hand out blueberry samples; parents take care of one another’s kids; college kids with Abe Lincoln beards play bluegrass music on washboards. Looking at all of this and all the people smiling and eating berries, I feel nothing. Not annoyed. Not superior. Not bemused. I’m not sure what’s going on. I’m so used to always feeling something. What is this? For the first time in months—no, longer than that; years and years. For the first time in years, I feel calm.
I’m going to be okay. I am okay. This okay is deeper and has so much space around it. The end of my marriage to David will not be the end of me. I’m not going to get worse and worse. I have a family. A huge family. I’m free. Free to nap and masturbate the days away and by masturbate I mean learn Italian. It’s going to be okay. I feel completely . . . okay.
Or maybe I’m just hungry.
I get a slice of organic pizza for Leo and order myself an omelet with some kind of complicated sauce on it, and as I pull my money out of my pocket, a receipt falls out. I watch it fall for a moment, and then at that exact moment, I see a white butterfly fly up. I’m so blissed out that I honestly believe, for half a second, that my receipt has just turned into a butterfly.
I don’t know how I’d do it, but I want Leo to have a life where he can believe, for more than half a second—for hours and hours—that a receipt can turn into a butterfly. He will have that kind of life. Things are not going to stay this bad. Things will settle. I love Leo. David loves Leo. Hell, the Human Being loves Leo too.
It starts to rain as we walk back to the hotel. I let it soak us. Leo is thrilled. We don’t carry umbrellas anymore. Why should we? What if there was a rainbow? I look down on the sidewalk next to where we’re standing and see a wig on the ground with throw up on it. Leo asks me what it is. I’m about to say, “The most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” when it hits me: it’s not gross at all; it’s sad. In the middle of all this bliss there’s a human being who is clearly having a very rough day. I grab Leo’s hand. “Come on, Leo. Somewhere out there, there’s a transvestite with the flu and we have to help her.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank . . .
Udesky—may we all have an Udesky in our lives. An incredible support and friend.
My editor, Becky Cole. She is the reason this book is here. Becky pushed me to go deeper with each story even though I insisted that I was shallow. I cannot thank her enough unless I get sued; then I’m going to blame it all on her.
The late Ann Richards, former governor of Texas; Lucinda Williams; Loretta Lynn; Margaret Cho; Miranda July; David and Amy Sedaris; Jane Campion; and Patty Griffin. None of these people are actual friends of mine, but it’s not going to stop me from getting their faces tattooed all over my body.
Joe Donnelly, for his “this story is not go
od, but this one is” directness and wisdom.
Erica Beeney, for her incredible support and insights, her love of writing, and her fancy cheeses.
Gillian Vigman. At least two sentences in the book if not more were stolen from this hilarious and beautiful lady. (I have to overcompliment her since I’ve been stealing her personality for years.)
Jennifer Winters, for her mystical insights and ability to drink wine no matter what time of day it is.
Sandy Cioffi, for being my family, my Uncle Sandy.
SoulCycle in Santa Monica, for replacing writer’s block with nausea.
Hilary Ketchum, for her constant support and ability to hold one-sided texting conversations with herself when I was too busy to talk.
Brady Harris, for his sweet music and incredibly healing company.
Kevin Wanzer and Matthew Vire and Scout . . . thanks for nothing. You guys don’t give me enough presents or free food. But I’m willing to give you a second chance.
Sharon and Sid Weedman: Your voice mail messages of “Why isn’t that book done? What the hell are you doing?” kept me hungry and driven.
Jeff Weatherford, for trying so hard to do the right thing to help me work and for reading my stories and giving me his blessings.
Greg MacDonald, who came up with the title of the book with the poetic help of autocorrect.
Mark Duplass, for the use of his retreat house to write.
Christie Smith, my Hollywood manager whom I’d love even if we didn’t live in Hollywood—that’s deep talk for our town.
Wine makers all over the world and Yerba Mate producers.
Christopher Evan Welch—who’s dead now, but you never know who reads these things. He was my “crazy talented” friend who inspired me, and I miss him.
Trip Cullman, Arielle Tepper, Rachel Neuburger, and the Empty Space theater, for their commission of Rash, where some of the material for “To All the Gays I’ve Loved Before” was developed.
* All of these are names of animals that I have had who ran away or whom I sold to college kids in the past year. I’m kidding. They’ve all been eaten by coyotes.
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