Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

gestured with a pointer. “Notice we don’t mention the crotch in the headline.”
    “Mmm,” said the client.
    “The idea is there, of course. Hygienic. Safe. Functional. But we don’t come right out and say it. The effect is subtle, low-key, subliminal.”
    “It’s not clear enough,” said the client.
    “The crotch comes in later … down here in the fourth paragraph. We don’t want to hit people over the head with the crotch.”
    Hit people over the head with the crotch? This was the woman who was going to be another Lillian Hellman?
    The client grunted. “We’re not selling subtlety, honey.”
    “Oh? What are we selling … honey?”
    Beauchamp squeezed Mona’s arm. “Mona … Perhaps we could move the crotch up to the first paragraph, Mr. Siegel?”
    “The young lady doesn’t seem to be pleased with that.”
    “Woman, Mr. Siegel. Young woman. Please don’t call me a lady. I wouldn’t dream of calling you a gentleman.”
    Beauchamp was scarlet. “Mona, goddammit … Mr. Siegel, I think I can handle these revisions myself. Mona, I’ll talk to you later.”
    “Don’t you patronize me, you prick! I’m not married to my job.”
    “You’re way out of line, Mona.”
    “Thank God for that! Who the hell wants to be in line with that fat, sexist, capitalist sack of …”
    “Mona!”
    “You want crotch, Mr. Siegel. Is that it? Well, I’ll give you crotch. Crotch, crotch, crotch, crotch, crotch, crotch …”
    She stormed to the door, stopped, and wheeled around to confront Beauchamp. “Your karma is really fucked!”
    That evening, she broke the news to Michael.
    “What are you gonna do, Mona?”
    She shrugged. “I don’t know. Collect unemployment. Join a women’s collective. Shop at the dented-can store. Give up coke. I’ll manage.”
    “Maybe Halcyon would reconsider if you …”
    “Forget it. That was my finest hour. I wouldn’t take it back for nothin’!”
    “Maybe I could get my old job back at the P.S.”
    “We’ll hack it. Mouse. I can freelance. Mrs. Madrigal will understand.”
    Michael sat down on the floor, slipped off Mona’s Earth Shoes and began massaging her feet. “She’s crazy about you, isn’t she?”
    “Who? Mrs. Madrigal?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Yeah … I guess so.”
    “It shows. Have you told her about getting fired yet?”
    “No … I’ll have to, I guess.”

Where Is Love?
    D ESPITE HER DEFIANCE, MONA WAS CLEARLY DE pressed over losing her job. Michael tried his usual ploy for cheering her up: He read her the classified from the “Trader Dick” section of The Advocate.
    “God! Listen to this one! ‘Clean-cut, straight-looking court reporter, 32, sick to death of bars, baths and bitchiness, seeks a permanent relationship with a real man who’s into whitewater rafting, classical music and gardening. No fats, fems or dopers, please. I’m sincere. Ron.’”
    Mona laughed. “Are you sincere?”
    “Who the hell isn’t?”
    “You’d leave me in a second, wouldn’t you?”
    Michael thought for a moment. “Only if he had a cottage on Potrero Hill with a butcher-block kitchen, a functioning fireplace and … a golden retriever in the small but tastefully designed garden.”
    “Don’t hold your breath.”
    “You know … when I moved here three years ago, I had never seen so many faggots in my whole goddamned life! I didn’t know there were that many faggots in the world! Jesus! I thought all I had to do was go to a party and pick somebody out. Everybody wants a lover, right?”
    “Wrong.”
    “O.K…. So almost everybody. Anyway, I thought I’d be snapped up in six months. At the very most!”
    “You were. Hundreds of times.”
    “Not funny.”
    “What about Robert?”
    “Affairettes don’t count.”
    “What if I grew a mustache?”
    Michael grinned and tossed a paisley pillow at her. “C’mon. Let’s go to a movie or something.”
    “I don’t know …”
    “There’s a Fellini double bill at the Surf.”
    “Downer.”
    “Nah. Lotsa big tits and pretty boys and dwarfs. Very up.”
    “You go ahead. Take the car, if you want.”
    “What are you gonna do?”
    Mona shrugged. “Curl up with Anaïs Nin, take a Quaalude. I don’t know.”
    “Is my MDA still in your stash box?”
    “Yeah. Christ, you don’t need that for a movie!”
    “I might not see a movie, Mother!”
    “Ah.”
    “I hate movies when I’m alone.”
    “Michael, I just don’t feel like …”
    “I hear you.”
    “Where are you