Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

made him much more uneasy than this woman’s questionable past. He shifted the focus. “Did you ever … you know …?” She smiled. “What do you think?”
    “No fair.”
    “O.K. I ran away from home when I was sixteen, several years before you patronized the Blue Moon. I never worked for my mother.”
    “I see.”
    “I’m currently running a house of my own.”
    “Here?”
    “At 28 Barbary Lane, San Francisco, 94109.”
    “On Russian Hill?”
    She gave up the game. “I’m a garden-variety landlady, Mr. Halcyon.”
    “Ah.”
    “Are you disappointed?”
    “Not a bit.”
    “Good. Then tomorrow … your turn to buy lunch.”

Mona’s New Roomie
    T HE UNCOSMIC JANGLE OF THE TELEPHONE BROUGHT AN abrupt end to Mona’s mantra.
    “Yeah?”
    “Hi. It’s Michael.”
    “Mouse! Jesus! I figured you got kidnaped by the CIA!”
    “Long time, huh?”
    “Three months.”
    “Yeah. That’s about my average.”
    “Oh … you got the shaft?”
    “Well, we parted amiably enough. He was terribly civilized about it, and I sat in Lafayette Park and cried all morning. Yeah … I got the shaft.”
    “I’m sorry, Mouse. I thought this one was gonna work out. I kinda liked … Robert, was it?”
    “Yeah. I kinda liked him too.” He laughed. “He used to be a Marine recruiter. Did I ever tell you that? He gave me this little key ring with a medallion that said, ‘The Marines Are Looking for a Few Good Men.’”
    “Sweet.”
    “We used to jog every morning in Golden Gate Park … right down to the ocean. Robert had a red Marine tank top, and all the old mossbacks would stop us and say how nice it was to know there were still some decent, upstanding young men left in the world. Boy, we’d laugh about that … usually in bed.”
    “So what happened?”
    “Who knows? He panicked, I guess. We were buying furniture together and stuff. Well … not exactly together. He’d buy a sofa and I’d buy a couple of matching chairs. One has to plan on divorce at all times … still, it was a landmark of sorts. I’d never gotten to the furniture-buying stage before.”
    “Well, that’s something .”
    “Yeah … and I never had anyone read me German poetry in bed before. In German.”
    “Hot stuff!”
    “He played the harmonica, Mona. Sometimes when we were walking down the street. I was so fucking proud to be with him!”
    “Talk much?”
    “What?”
    “Could he talk? Or was he too busy playing the harmonica?”
    “He was a nice guy, Mona.”
    “Which is why he dumped on you.”
    “He didn’t dump on me.”
    “You just said he did.”
    “It just wasn’t … meant to be, that’s all.”
    “Bullshit. You’re a hopeless romantic.”
    “Thanks for the words of comfort.”
    “All I know is I haven’t laid eyes on you in three months. There are other people in the world besides Mr. Right … and we love you too.”
    “I know. Mona, I’m sorry.”
    “Mouse …?”
    “I really am. I didn’t mean to …”
    “Michael Mouse, if you start crying on me, I’ll never boogie with you again!”
    “I’m not crying. I’m being pensive.”
    “You’ve got ten seconds to snap out of it. Jesus, Mouse, the woods are full of jogging Marine recruiters. Christ! You and your Rustic Innocent trip! I’ll bet that asshole had a closetful of lumberjack shirts, didn’t he?”
    “Lay off.”
    “He’s down at Toad Hall right now, stomping around in his blue nylon flight jacket, with a thumb hooked in his Levi’s and a bottle of Acme beer in his fist.”
    “You’re a real hardass.”
    “Just your type. Look … if I learn a little German poetry, will you come stay here till you find a place? There’s plenty of room in this barn. Mrs. Madrigal won’t mind.”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You’re out on your can, right? You’ve got money?”
    “A couple of thousand. Savings account.”
    “Well, I’m sick of playing Edna St. Vincent Millay. It’s perfect. You can live here till you find another studio … or another harmonica player. Whichever comes first.”
    “It’ll never work.”
    “Why the hell not?”
    “You’re into TM and I’m into est. It’ll never work.”
    That night, he moved all his earthly goods into Mona’s apartment:
    The literary works of Mary Renault and the late Adelle Davis. Assorted work boots, overalls and denims from Kaplan’s Army Surplus on Market Street. An Art Deco lamp in the form of a nymph perched on one foot. Random sea shells. A T-shirt that said DANCE 10, LOOKS 3.