Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

mother and father were there, watching Let’s Make a Deal through the steam. Connie walked in with Mr. Lassiter, who was furious at Mary Ann and began to shout at her. Mary Ann’s mother and father were shouting at Monty Hall’s first contestant.
    “Take the box,” they screamed. “Take the box….”
    Mary Ann woke up. She stumbled into the bathroom and splashed water on her face.
    When she opened the cabinet over the sink, she discovered an assortment of after-shave lotions: Brut, Old Spice, Jade East.
    Connie, apparently, was still popular.

A Frisco Disco
    T HE DISCOTHEQUE WAS CALLED DANCE YOUR ASS OFF. Mary Ann thought that was gross, but didn’t tell Connie so. Connie was too busy getting off on being Marisa Berenson.
    “The trick is to look bored with it all.”
    “That shouldn’t be hard.”
    “If you wanna get laid, Mary Ann, you’d better …”
    “I never said that.”
    “Nobody ever says it, for Christ’s sake! Look, if you can’t deal with your own sexuality, hon, you’re gonna get screwed but good in this town.”
    “I like that. You should make it into a country-western
    song.”
    Connie sighed in exasperation. “C’mon. And try not to look like Tricia Nixon reviewing the troops.” She led the way into the building and staked out a battered sofa against the wall.
    The room was supposed to look funky: brick-red walls, revolving beer signs, kitschy memorabilia. Henna-rinsed women and rugby-shirted men clustered decoratively along the bar, as if posing for a Seagram’s ad.
    While Connie was buying their drinks, Mary Ann settled uncomfortably on the sofa and commanded herself to stop comparing things with Cleveland.
    Several yards away, a girl in cowboy boots, sweat pants and a red squirrel Eisenhower jacket stared haughtily at Mary Ann’s polyester pantsuit. Mary Ann turned away from her, only to confront another woman, looking blasé in a macramé halter, black fingernails and a crew cut.
    “There’s a dude at the bar who looks exactly like Robert Redford.” Connie was back with the drinks. A tequila sunrise for herself, a white wine for Mary Ann.
    “Warts?” asked Mary Ann, taking the wine.
    “What?”
    “That guy. Does he have warts? Robert Redford has warts.”
    “That’s sick. Look … I feel like a little heavy bumping. Wanna hit the disco?”
    “I think I’ll just … soak it in for a while. You go ahead.”
    “You sure now?”
    “Yeah. Thanks. I’ll be O.K.”
    “Suit yourself, hon.”
    Seconds after Connie had disappeared into the disco, a long-haired man in a Greek peasant shirt sat down next to Mary Ann on the sofa. “Mind if I join you?”
    “Sure … I mean, no.”
    “You’re not into boogying, huh?”
    “Well, not right now.”
    “You’re into head trips, then?”
    “I don’t know exactly what …”
    “What sign are you?”
    She wanted to say, “Do Not Disturb.” She said, “What sign do you think I am?”
    “Ah … you’re into games. O.K…. I’d say you’re a Taurus.”
    He rattled her. “All right … how did you do it?”
    “Easy. Taureans are stubborn as hell. They never want to tell you what sign they are.” He leaned over close enough for Mary Ann to smell his musk oil, and looked directly into her eyes. “But underneath that tough Taurus hide beats the heart of a hopeless romantic.”
    Mary Ann moved away slightly.
    “Well?” said the man.
    “Well, what?”
    “You’re a romantic, right? You like earth colors and foggy nights and Lina Wertmuller movies and lemon candles burning when you make love.” He reached for her hand. She flinched. “It’s all right,” he said calmly. “I’m not making a pass yet. I just wanna look at your heart line.”
    He ran his forefinger gently across Mary Ann’s palm. “Look at your point of insertion,” he said. “Right there between Jupiter and Saturn.”
    “What does that mean?” Mary Ann looked down at his finger. It was resting between her middle finger and forefinger. “It means that you’re a very sensual person,” said the man. He began to slide the finger in and out. “That’s true, isn’t it? You’re a very sensual person?”
    “Well, I …”
    “Do you know you look exactly like Jennifer O’Neill?”
    Mary Ann stood up suddenly. “No, but if you hum a few bars …”
    “Hey, hey, lady. It’s cool, it’s cool. I’ll give you space….”
    “Good. I’ll take the other room. Happy hunting.” She headed for the disco in search of Connie. She found her in