(Postcard dated Wednesday, July 27, 2011)

Dad — I want you to know I’m all right. Traveling west with someone I met. He’s human, about your age, very respectable. I’m safe, figuring things out. I’ll write as often as I can.

Angelo

(Postcard dated Thursday, July 28, 2011)

Dad — the drive west is filled with places and people I haven’t imagined before. Lots of song ideas coming to mind. Darius is looking after me well. Will tell more when I can write on something besides these small cards.

Angelo

(Letter dated Friday, July 29, 2011)

Dear Dad –

I don’t want to sound like “a little pisher,” as your boss once called me, but I would have to guess that the days of hotels having writing paper and envelopes in desk drawers are long gone. Email is going to end up taking over everything, I suppose. I don’t have a laptop or computer, so a good old legal pad will have to do. Besides, my writing is better with lines to keep me organized. Forgive misspellings and scratch-outs.

Dad, I’m sorry about our fight. My writing to you is something you can thank Darius for. He told me about fights that he’d had with his own father, and he helped me realize that you’re probably worried sick. I still can’t say whether or not I’ll be able to make a living as a singer-songwriter, but I can tell you that the purchase of a better pen and the legal pad came about, in part, from tips at an open mike night last night. We lucked into finding it (at what used to be called a “dive,” I’m sure) just a short walk from the motel we’re staying at tonight. I didn’t drink, despite or because of what humans say about us, and neither did Darius just because he doesn’t drink. I still can’t be sure that the management didn’t think of me as some kind of “human’s pet” or something, and I was scared to death. The few of our kind I saw there were more like maintenance and kitchen help, not even waitstaff. The other performers were human, and the audience was human, some of them maybe had more to drink than they should. Darius sat down front, to encourage me, and after I’d gotten through a warm-up song, I told the audience that I wanted to try out one of my own, and it went over well enough. When I got down from the stage, a human female came over to give me five bucks, and she shook my paw just like I was a real person.

I suppose that I shouldn’t talk like that, because most humans don’t seem to feel one way or another about us. Darius told me that, if you point a finger at someone, you’ve got three more pointing back at yourself. He tries not to be prejudiced against anyone. He’s a white-skinned human, and he treats all humans and all therians like “real people.” I can only guess that he can’t be the only one.

You probably want to know more about him. Truth told, I’d really like for you to meet him. He’s intelligent, caring, tender, the whole magic checklist. You’ve known for some years that I wasn’t likely to sire pups for you, and I don’t think that’s been a problem with you. Yes, Darius is gay, and at the risk of WTMI, yes, we’ve become lovers. He described us as two lost souls who were lucky enough to find each other. That feels right to me. I don’t know if we’ll be together for a while or forever, but what we have now is good.

Dad, he’s helped me to understand something about our fight. You weren’t mad at me; you were afraid for me. I’ve thought about that a lot, and I’ve cried some, and I realize now that you were trying to protect me from being hurt. That takes love. I know now that you didn’t hate me, weren’t trying to belittle me or hold me back — you were just scared. If I’d known that first, I probably wouldn’t have… yeah, this sounds really juvenile, but “running away” is what it was. I was being a headstrong pup. On one paw, I’d have stayed and been safe; on the other paw, I’d not have met Darius, and maybe not have tried an open mike night, and maybe not have felt quite so good as I do right now. The only thing that hurts right now, Dad, is that I only have cards and these pages to apologize with, and that I can’t hug you and whine softly like I used to when you comforted me. I miss you, and yes, I really do have to try this… but I don’t have to push you away to do it. I’ll write as often as I can, let you know what’s going on, and remind you that I love you.

Darius wants to say a few words to you also, so I’m going to give the pad over to him. He hopes to find a place for himself on the coast; he has friends there, and they tell him that there may be work available to him soon after he arrives. He’s invited me to stay with him, or at the very least, to give me an address where you can write back to me. I won’t be a stranger, Dad, I promise. And I won’t not see you again. That’s a promise too.

Love,
Angelo

(in a different handwriting)

Mr. Plummer, my name is Darius Iglesias Sandoval. If you use a computer, you can put that into whatever online search engines you wish, although you may not find much. I can promise you’ll find no criminal record, and you might even find a few stories that I got published a long time ago. I’m not independently wealthy, just frugal, and I make money in various honest ways, including janitorial work when need be. I’ve got a college degree, and I’m pretty good with numbers, so I do bookkeeping jobs, office work, even temp work. I’m just something of a restless spirit, so I find it hard to “settle down,” or at least I have so far.

I was driving west from the Hyannis Port area (the extremely-low-rent district, I promise you), and I found your son hoping to find a ride. (Angelo tells me that either “son” or “pup” is proper; I mean no offense, either way.) I feel extremely lucky to have found him, as he is a good traveling companion, and at the risk of “WTMI,” as the kids say, he is a very loving and affectionate young fellow, with a great deal of heart and artistic talent. I’m far from being an expert about such things, but I think his guitar-playing and his voice are very much worth cultivating. In our few days together, he’s been working on a song called “No More Monday Memos,” and I think it’s very good. If there’s any way to record it for you, we’ll do so; I think you’d be proud of him.

Mr. Plummer, I will remain a stranger to you until we meet one day, and I truly hope to do that, if only to look you in the eye and thank you for giving Angelo to the world. You’ve no reason to take me at my word, but I will treat Angelo well, be kind, caring, supportive, and protective of him, for as long as he wants to stay with me. To use the old cliché, my intentions are honorable. When we’re able to land at my friends’ house, they’ll help me find permanent lodgings quickly. I’ll get a pre-paid cell for myself and for Angelo. If he wishes, he can stay wherever I’m staying, for as long as he likes, and at worst, I’ll see to it that he gets any mail you might send to him in care of that new address.

Again, sir, I thank you for raising such a beautiful son. I promise you that I won’t let anything bad happen to him. I hope that you will believe that.

Respectfully,
Darius Sandoval

(letter dated Saturday, July 30, 2011)

Dear Dad –

I’ll bet if I’d been as consistent with my homework as I’ve been about writing to you these past few days, my grades would have been higher. Thank you for not hassling me about that nearly as much as you could have.

I’m not sure if this counts as luck, but as we were checking out this morning, Darius and I found the motel owner/manager in what might be called a “snit.” His housekeeping person called in sick, although the manager thought she was faking. Darius negotiated another night’s stay in return for cleaning the rooms. We still want to get further west, but a day off from driving isn’t a bad idea, especially since I don’t have a license. (“Yet,” as Darius said.) I offered to help, but Darius said that it was only four rooms (the entire motel only has a dozen – it’s an old one, not exactly being scouted by the chains), so he let me sit and work on more songs. I think he may end up becoming the subject of one, and yes, a love song. I know it’s been just a short while, Dad, but he really is a great guy. Forgive your pup a romantic heart.

The manager looked the rooms over and seemed pretty happy with the work. Darius said he’d launder the sheets and all, if the manager wouldn’t mind if he did a load of our own clothes along with the blankets (the sheets are white and take a good dose of bleach, it would seem). No arguments there either. I heard from Darius that the manager called up his employee and told her to take all the time she needs to get better; “I’ve got someone who can take over, and he’s doing a pretty good job of it.” Apparently, the housekeeper is now feeling much better and will probably return to work tomorrow. Bonus points for sneaky.

Darius tells me that, in some ways, he’s “returning” to the west coast, in the sense that he’s lived there before. He seems to have no other family; that struck me as sad somehow. He did mention that he’s torn between wanting to arrive there quickly and wanting to give us both a little more time to find other open mike nights for me to try. You might be interested to know that he wants to take your feelings into account; the sooner we land out there, the sooner he can find work, lodgings, and get cell phones. He wants you to be able to be in direct contact with me as soon as possible. It must be frustrating for you not to hear from me more regularly, he said. He also suggested that “collect calls” must still be possible. I guess I’ve been stupid about that.

…Darius just looked into collect calls, as he hasn’t made one in years, and he tells me that the fees and cost-per-minute of such calls could cost you a bundle. He asked the motel owner about it, and he said he’d heard of five-minute calls costing $40 and more. A stamp is cheaper, for both of us! They’re only 46¢ these days, although they just started that “Forever Stamp” thing this year. People seem to be buying them up against increases, but I can’t imagine the price going up much over the next several years.

We’ll find a way, Dad, I promise. And I’ll keep writing. For what it’s worth, I miss the sound of your voice too.

Love,
Angelo

(letter dated Sunday, July 31, 2011)

Dear Dad —

It’s only now occurred to me that you must really hate Sunday, these days, because there’s no mail delivery. I don’t know how quickly these letters are getting to you; I hope it’s fast. Please forgive me if this problem is giving me a song idea, about how a quiet Sunday is too quiet because there’s no mail from someone you’re missing. I wonder if it’ll work, with email getting so popular. I guess I’ll find out.

Meanwhile, we’re still heading west, reasonably quickly. Darius tells me that he read a book called Blue Highways, several years ago. It was written in the early 80s, and the author talks about circumnavigating (big SAT word!) the US, driving on the back roads, the highways that were in blue on the old paper maps. Darius had wanted to try that, at least sticking to back roads on the way west, but paper maps aren’t in demand as much, these days, and it’s just plain safer on the Interstate. Each night, we veer off I-90 a short way, to get to a smaller town, looking for more open mike nights. (The motels are cheaper there, too, mostly.) After a night, we can retrace our path to get back to the Interstate and keep going. Not sure how it’ll work, but it’s really great of Darius to keep encouraging me to sing.

We didn’t find a place open on a Sunday night in this town; South Dakota is pretty sparse, and Darius and I both feel that we might keep our heads down a bit. I don’t want to speak ill of any particular place in the country, and I hate politics. I don’t think I need to say more. I will put this letter into the box that’s near the restaurant, before going to bed. More tomorrow, I promise.

Love,
Angelo

(in a different handwriting)

Mr. Plummer, a quick note from me. Angelo is nervous about our driving through this part of the country. I’m not fond of the area, but I’ve never had trouble, in my travels. Generally, people around here don’t actively look for trouble. There’s always a few, of course, but that’s true anywhere;  I truly don’t think there’s any issues here. I’ll put our travel details here, as a precaution for all of us. I have promised you that I will take care of Angelo, and I promise you that again. I haven’t told Angelo about my time in the military. I’m not in the shape I was back then, but I’ve no fear of bullies. I do not fight, sir, although I am well able to defend. I will find our way through the Badlands.

With all respect,
Darius Sandoval

(letter dated Monday, August 1, 2011)

Dear Dad —

Writing this while we’re driving. It’s morning, and we’ll be out of South Dakota soon. Nothing happened, or at least we’re okay. Got some looks at a diner this morning. Thought they weren’t going to let us sit down, at first. I was the only therian there. A man kept looking at the NO PETS sign, then at me, back to the sign, back again. The waitress was nice, though, the cheery Good Morning type of woman, and the guy in the kitchen… truth is, I think he gave us bigger portions than usual. A few of the other diners seemed uncomfortable with us being there, or maybe us being together, but they didn’t say anything; others didn’t seem bothered.

It does remind me, though. I, or maybe Darius, will have to tell you the full story of the convenience store near the motel, that night when he found me. Short form: He had a run-in with a couple of (as he called them) rednecks who were hassling a young Husky male, and Darius pulled quite a trick on the rednecks. The thing is, he took me in there the next morning, just to show me that not all humans hate us. There was a woman there instead of the rednecks, very nice, and the three of us chatted a little. I think she figured that Darius had something of a crush on me; the last thing she told us was, “Be good to each other.”

That’s just to tell you that I really do think that there are good humans in the world, just as there are bad therians out there. Darius is helping me not be afraid. You helped me, too, and I don’t think I ever thanked you for that. I love you, Dad.

Love,
Angelo

(letter also dated August 1)

Dear Dad —

I’ve been teasing Darius all afternoon that, if you hadn’t shown me that movie, I’d never have made him detour toward Devils Tower. We didn’t get to see everything, but we spent several hours at the park grounds. A lot of folks there on vacation, plenty of humans and therians both. No one even blinked at the sight of me and Darius together. Everyone was too absorbed with the sights to worry about us.

A couple of human children bumped against us as they hurried to get better views of the “prairie dog town,” as the sign called it. Their father admonished them gently and apologized to us. He turned a half dozen colors when his very young daughter (she might be four or five) asked me if I was related to the prairie dogs. I knelt down to get on a better level with her, and I smiled and asked why she thought so. She suddenly became very shy backing toward her father. “Dog,” she said, more like a question than anything else, looking at the sign and at the “dogs” in question.

Chuckling a little, I said, “I never knew why they were called that. I think they’re related to squirrels. Do you have squirrels in your yard, back home?” She managed a nod. I said softly, “I look like a dog, don’t I? I’m a fox. Have you met a fox before?” She shook her head, and I said, “It’s good to meet you. My name is Angelo. What’s yours?” Her father patted her shoulder a little, and the girl managed to say, “Susie.”

From there, we found one of the guides, who told us about how prairie dogs got their name from the barking warnings that they give each other when predators are around. I promised Susie, very solemnly, that I would never eat a prairie dog, and she started to giggle, and her father laughed, and her mother and brother, and we all sort of became friends for a minute. Darius introduced himself, and Susie’s father thanked us, and it was all so different from this morning.

We didn’t get too much further west, after our stop there; we’re still in Wyoming. We may have spent a few more dollars than we’d intended to, but we both think it was worth it. Darius joked that it was our first vacation together, visiting a “tourist spot” together. I told him it didn’t count if we didn’t buy junk souvenirs or t-shirts. That got me a raspberry. He’s good at those.

I guess it’s true, about the best way to get over a bad situation is to find a good one. Or make one. Dad, I want to make our situation, you and me, good again. I love you, and please know that I’ll see you again as soon as I can. Best get some sleep. More tomorrow.

Love,
Angelo

(letter dated Tuesday, August 2, 2011)

Dear Dad —

It occurred to both of us today that one or two of these letters may still be enroute to you by the time we get phones. Darius and I have been talking over what to do when we get to Seattle, or rather a town not too far from there. He can explain it far better than I can, but the idea is that he’s “been to this rodeo a few times.” Before he started the trip, he was in contact with friends of his in the area, and they have some rooms for us to use, maybe on a short-term basis, while he finds or finalizes some work arrangements. We’ll be able to use that address for getting some phones, he says, and he’s working out how to get his banking set up for local use (he uses a bank that’s got branches all over the US).

The whole plan takes a bit to explain (longer, writing it out by paw), but the important part is that we’ll have phones soon, with numbers local to the area. Darius explained that a cell phone number can follow you all around the country, but employers tend to like a local number when considering you. He has an interview for a bookkeeping job lined up for himself “whenever he gets into town”; I have talked with him about getting some kind of work for myself, whatever it might be. Ideally, I could be waitstaff at a café that has open mike nights. I said it as a joke, but Darius thinks it’s as much a possibility as anything else, so who knows?

Dad, I’m still scared, but I’m also kind of excited. We found another place with an open mike tonight, and it’s more like a coffeehouse than a “dive.” If nothing else, the clientele should be sober. It’s a university town, and the feeling of this, well, “coffee bar” is really cozy. I wonder about winter here, when they might have the fireplace going. Darius knew about this place, and we lucked into finding an open mike night that coincides with our being here. It’s between semesters, but there are still a lot of people my age here, and a good number of therians as well. The town is south of the Interstate by about an hour, but Darius thought it would be “worth the detour,” as he put it. I’ll write more tomorrow to let you know if he’s right.

Love,
Angelo

(letter dated Wednesday, August 3, 2011)

Dear Dad —

Writing this on the road. I could barely sleep last night! I got to sing four songs. The set was limited to two, to give everyone a chance to be heard, but so many people asked me to stay afterward, wanting to hear more. They crowded around the table where Darius and I were sitting, and they talked to us for the thirty seconds or so while the next entertainer got ready, then we all got quiet to watch her. (She was a marmoset, by the way, with a very good voice.) Everyone was so polite, so supportive to the acts.

Finally, after the show itself had shut down, a group of about a dozen people talked to me and Darius for a little bit, then asked me to play another song, there at the table. I kept it low and quiet, so as not to disturb others, and I found out that a lot more folks had gotten quiet to listen to me. When I finished, I got another round of applause, and a young stoat bought a hot chocolate for me, and his girlfriend, a human, got one for Darius. Lots of laughter from that, with someone joking that she was trying to steal my boyfriend from me, and the stoat saying something like, “Just like a dame,” and everyone was laughing and joking. In those moments, we were all friends.

They asked for one more song, and I told them about “No More Monday Memos,” sang the verse I had, told them it’s still in progress. They were quiet when I finished, and I thought they didn’t like it. The human woman, the stoat’s girlfriend, wiped away a tear and said, “That’s a lot of hurt.” The others murmured, applauded softly. Dad, that felt so very good. And there were tips for the music (the set that I performed), and several of them asked if they could give me their email addresses, to stay in contact. Darius said that, once we were settled, he’d see to helping me set up a Facebook page, and that they should look for Angelo Plummer. They wrote down my name, Dad. They said they’d watch. The manager of the coffeehouse gave me his business card, said to stay in touch, and I’d be welcome to come back for an open mike, or even be part of a show with other performers, billed like I was actually somebody.

Well, you know what I mean. I’m just so excited! I’m already imagining way more than I need to, right now. I’m dreaming. And Darius told me that it’s okay to dream, that he will always be here to keep me tethered, to keep me free to dream and to always have a safe place to dream from. Maybe you can tell that I love him. I think he loves me, too. He believes in me. Dad, I know that you believe in me, too, and I feel like I’m getting a chance to show you how right you are, or something like that. I’m stumbling over words now, because I’m still “giddy” (Darius just helped me get that word, and I giggled over it). I can hardly wait to share all this with you in a phone call. I want you with me on this journey, whatever may happen on it. I love you, and I’m going to tell you that, over and over, and I’ll make you proud of me, and I’m already going on too long. We’re about to stop for some lunch, so I’ll stop here and mail this.

I love you, Dad.
Angelo

(letter also dated Wednesday, August 3, 2011)

Dear Dad —

It’s late, and I just wanted to write a few more words to you. By now, you know all about Johanna and Marlon Ward. Darius and I had arrived early in the afternoon, and a payphone still took only two quarters for a local call. Marlon took off from his work long enough to let us in to his house and to tell me to use his land-line phone to call you. I promised to pay for the minutes, and he waved me off. He was mindful of the time difference, so that’s why I caught you about dinnertime. I’ve probably covered everything in our call that I wrote in my letters, but I figure you wouldn’t mind hearing at least some of it all over again. I can give you a few more details about my first evening here.

Our hosts are a wonderful couple, she a human, he a panther. They’ve been married for over ten years, and they have stories about being a “mixed couple.” Marlon said that it’s because he’s black, and I didn’t get the joke for a moment. When I finally laughed, Darius said that there might yet be hope to legitimize gay marriage one day. Yes, he winked at me; no, he’s not serious, or at least not too serious “yet.” Okay, that was the right touch of romanticism.

Johanna cooked dinner for us, and we ate it on their back porch. It was a beautiful evening. We all talked for a long time, and they joked with Darius that he had found “a keeper.” There was no pressure meant; they just like me, which feels good. We told stories of the road, and they shared stories of their lives together. Johanna is a veterinarian (Marlon said that he gets “free shots”), and Marlon is an engineer. They have a small apartment in the basement, with its own entrance, kitchenette, and everything. The usually rent to college students, but they hadn’t advertised for it yet, since the fall semester hasn’t started. When Darius made plans to come out here, they held it open for him. Of course, Darius has insisted on paying for it while we’re there, and he and Marlon bickered like old friends would do. Johanna leaned over to me, whispering, “Wanna bet on the outcome?” “Five on Darius,” I said. “Gotta be loyal, right?” These two are great people.

I’m still wound up from the day and the trip in general, so I wanted to pen a few words before settling down to sleep. I can try to keep up with writing letters, if you’d like. You’ve got the Ward’s phone number, if you want to call, and I’ll make sure you have my cell number as soon as I get one. I’ll keep you updated on everything about me, about Darius, about us. I’m glad that you got to meet him by phone, at least. You talked for quite a while; I overheard the “grilling” (I’m teasing, Dad). It sounds like you two hit it off reasonably well. I’m gonna take a chance saying that Mom might have liked him, too. I hope you agree. When you meet in person, maybe you will.

…Johanna found me writing a letter to you, and she insisted that she print out a photo taken with her iPhone 4. Picture of me and Darius enclosed. Her phone has a 3.5” screen, and it’s amazing to see what she can do with it. Fancy, but pricy. Flip-phones are still cheap and useful.

Tomorrow, Darius and I make our first steps toward everything — phones, jobs, learning the neighborhood, meeting people, finding places with open mike nights… Dad, it’s gonna take a lot of strength for me to do this. Darius is with me in every way. So are you, Dad. You gave me strength, right from the start, and you still do. Thank you.

Watch me fly. Better… fly with me.

Love,
Angelo