Page 37 of Dreams and Reptiles

He said it so seriously, I stopped breathing… until I realized what he was asking.

“Oh my goshness, Kendall. I would love that! I can’t guarantee I won’t be a little fraidy cat, but how could you think⁠—”

“You’d be surprised at how much some people in my life have not been okay with them.”

“Yeah, but I trust you. If you swear they won’t murder me in my sleep, then I believe you.”

His expression reminded me of the day I’d asked him what he wanted to do with the fence. So, not only had no one ever asked what he wanted, but no one had trusted him when it came to his animals?

Those were all things I could do. Easily. Wanted to do. More and more, any remaining barriers to a successful partnership fell away the more time I spent with him.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Show me your collection.”

Without a word, he stood and held out a hand for me. “Thank you, Francis.”

“Thank you for humoring me and my negotiations.”

He put an arm around me and guided me down the steps of the gazebo and to the path we’d worn in his yard.

“You made the walkway so nice. I’m going to have to do something nice over here, too.”

We walked with our arms around each other, and I couldn’t believe how natural it felt to be so close to him.

“I can’t wait for Kimo and Lani to get here,” I said. “The fence is going to be so cool. And hearing Kimo’s Kendall stories will be fun.”

He chuckled and squeezed my arm. “I’ll bet. I can’t thank you enough for offering him the workspace.”

“Why not? I’ve got plenty of room, and he’s doing us a favor with this fence. He even said he’s open to perhaps having open studio time or even teaching lessons. Everything happens for a reason, doesn’t it?”

He kissed the side of my head and sighed. “I know there’s already a St. Francis, but you’re quickly becoming the patron saint of lost artists, aren’t you?”

“I don’t think anyone can accuse me of being a saint, but I am on a mission here, and when things come together like they have, you have to go with it. You can’t mess with fate. I feel like I’m really doing the right thing.”

“You are.” He gave me one more squeeze as we reached what looked like a metal plate between two stacks of rough concrete. “The only thing I tell folks is to always wear closed-toe shoes in here, and don’t stick your fingers in their faces. They may see fleshy appendages as snacks. Otherwise, just be aware of your surroundings. Are you ready?”

He was so nonchalant about it, but then, safety was kind of his business. I’d known a lot of firefighters over the years. For some reason, every bar I tended to frequent happened to be a firefighter bar. At Berkeley, when I’d go to Davis to visit my cousins, and even the bar near my old office in Menlo Park was close to a fire station, and the crew would come over after work. My two close girlfriends loved it when I’d come along because they felt safer—not sure why—and my tendency to be the evening’s entertainment usually landed them a few hot guys.

Those fire boys in Silicon Valley, however, were not the most safety conscious I’d ever met. They were into extracurricular activities that made them prone to injuries.

From what I’d seen of Kendall, he was assuredly a safety-first kinda guy, though one might question keeping pets that liked to snack on your appendages.

He pulled the large metal panel aside, and there they were. Six giant tortoises huddled around a water hole in the dusk. If you hadn’t known they were living creatures, you might think Kendall had a sculpture garden.

One of them turned his head as we came in and began a slow shuffle toward Kendall.

“That’s Marlon Brando. He’s the most dramatic of the three. He’s quite talkative, aren’t you, buddy?”

The enormous tortoise stopped two feet from Kendall, stretched out his long neck and let out a grumbly growl. Kendall crouched down beside the grumpy guy and began scratching his neck. “He loves this, and some days he pulls a Gandalf and won’t let me pass unless I give him neck scritches, won’t you, buddy?”

Marlon Brando opened his mouth wide and sighed like an old man rolling over in bed. Then he meandered away to the watering hole once more.

“Let me grab some snacks for them. I just got a bunch of nopales cactus… here we go.” He took the lid off a bucket, reached inside, and tossed a few pieces in the middle of the huddle. Two smaller tortoises, with shells that were a little different, turned toward him and moved faster than I thought possible.

“Ah, Greta Garbo and Mae West want theirs from the hand, don’t you, girls?”

He bent and held on so the ladies could take dainty bites—well, they started out as dainty, then they chowed, green slime globules forming around their mouths.

“Want to try?”