The sign says Smokey Bill’s Home for Wayward Reptiles. Dad and I dart through tall grass, dodge alligators grown fierce and left to wither in parking lots. Clumsy tortoises lumber by. We’re rehoming Freddy Furcifer for a one-time fee. Tears run down Dad’s cheeks as he unhooks the cage from the Buick’s back seat. A lizard on a leash. He’s just not doing it for me.

Chameleons don’t crimson enough for Dad, longing to re-acquaint himself with color. He pines for the not-so-old times, for the raucous slink, swagger and paunch of his recently outlawed countertenor pals batting their garage door eyes as they wobbled on rickety stages in high white boots. He despairs over his “drag gang” now wearing khakis and button-down shirts to read, perched nose-to-knees on little kids’ chairs in library corners. Dad sighs. He dreams of rainbows and peacocks but awakens grey.

Kerosene on a dumpster fire, he mumbles as we hand Freddy over to the intake person, Dad’s mind rankled, still stuck on the ban. BOOKS for Chrissake! She appears puzzled and reaches for dad’s droopy hands. We have a special alcove for these festive guys, she chirrups, adding a slow syllable or two to each word. The greenest garden!

Halfway home, we nurse ourselves with milkshakes at Murphy’s Diner. Can we spell “Massachusetts,” kid? I slurp my last drops and nod. Dad’s face flickers and sparks. He pays the waitress, and we sculpt ourselves into the car, hang a U-turn, eyes swiveling for signs.