Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

Beauchamp been up to?”
    “Not much. Beauchamp’s off with the Guardsmen.”
    “Shit! Did I miss a meeting?”
    “What?”
    “Beauchamp and I are on the same committee. They’ll skin my ass if I …”
    “It may not have been Guardsmen, Splint … come to think of it.” Well, that answered that.
    “I hope to hell not. What can I do for you?”
    “I can remember when it used to be the other way around.”
    Silence.
    “Beauchamp’s away till this evening, Splint.”
    “DeDe …”
    “No strings attached.”
    “I don’t think …”
    “Is Oona there? Is that it?”
    “No. DeDe, look … I’m flattered to death, honest to
    God …”
    “No emotional commitments. I’ve changed a lot, Splint.”
    “So have I.”
    “What could have changed that much?”
    “I’m in love with Oona.”
    She hung up on him.
    Almost immediately, she picked up the phone and dialed Jiffy’s Market. She ordered half a gallon of milk, a box of Familia and some bananas. There was something very comforting about cereal. It made her think of childhood at Halcyon Hill.
    The delivery boy arrived in fifteen minutes.
    DeDe knew him. It was Lionel Wong, a muscular eighteen-year-old suffering from a Bruce Lee fixation.
    “Shall I put it in the kitchen, Mrs. Day?”
    “Thanks, Lionel. I’ll get my purse out of the bedroom.”
    “No sweat, Mrs. Day. We can put it on your tab.”
    “No … I want to give you something for your trouble.”
    She went into the bedroom, returning with a dollar bill.
    “Thanks a lot.”
    DeDe smiled. “Have you seen the exhibit at the de Young?”
    “What?”
    “The People’s Republic exhibit. It’s stunning, Lionel. You should be very proud of your people.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Truly stunning. The culture is amazing.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Would you like something to drink, Lionel? I don’t have any Cokes in the house. How about a bitter lemon?”
    “I’ve got a couple more stops, Mrs. Day.”
    “Just for a little while?”
    “Thanks a lot, but …”
    “Lionel … please …”
    Halfan hour later, Beauchamp arrived home. He met Lionel at the elevator.
    “Working Sundays, Lionel? That’s a bummer.”
    “No sweat.”
    “Anything for the Days?”
    “Yeah … Mrs. Day needed a few things.”
    “How’s the Kung Fu coming?”
    “Fine.”
    “Keep it up. You’re getting some nice definition.”
    “Thanks. See you later.”
    “Take it easy. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
    Upstairs, DeDe was basking in her second Vitabath of the day.

Confession in the Nude
    T HE PARKING LOT AT DEVIL’S SLIDE WAS JAMMED WITH vehicles: flowered hippie vans, city clunkers, organic pickups with shingled gypsy houses, and a dusty pack of Harley-Davidsons.
    Mona had to park her ‘64 Volvo almost a quarter of a mile from the beach. “Shit,” she groaned. “It must be wall-to-wall flesh down there.”
    “I hope so,” leered Michael.
    “That’s sexism, even if you are talking about men.”
    “So I’m sexist.”
    They trekked along the dirt road with dozens of other wayfarers headed for the beach. “This reminds me of the Donner party,” said Mona.
    Michael grinned. “Yeah. Drop by the wayside and you get eaten.”
    When they reached the highway, Mona gave the ticket-taker a dollar for both of them.
    “This is on me,” she said. “You’re in mourning.”
    Michael skipped down to the stairway on the cliff. “Just watch me recover, Babycakes!”
    Two minutes later, they were standing on a broad stretch of white sand. Michael flung a pebble into the air. “Where shall we go? The gay end or the straight end?”
    “Let me guess.”
    Michael grinned. “It’s less windy down at the gay end.”
    “I’m not real crazy about climbing over those rocks.”
    “I shall carry you, my lovely.”
    “You’re one helluva gentleman!”
    They headed, arm in arm, for the sandy cove nestled amid the rocks at the north end of the beach. On the way they passed five or six frolicking bathers, all naked and brown as organic date bars.
    “Look at them!” sighed Mona. “I feel like a goddamn fish belly.”
    Michael shook his head. “That’s no good. They haven’t got a tan line.”
    “A what?”
    “A tan line. The contrast between brown and white when you take off your trunks.”
    “Who needs it? I haven’t taken off my trunks before an audience in ages. I’d rather be brown all over.”
    “Suit yourself. I want a tan line.”
    “You’re a prude, that’s what.”
    “Five minutes ago,