Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

it.”
    “You did sleep together in Mendocino?”
    “I … yes.”
    DeDe stood up. “Well … I’m sorry to bother you. I think that’s enough of this soap opera for both of us.” She turned and headed for the door.
    “DeDe?”
    “Yes?”
    “Did Beauchamp tell you I was with him last weekend and … whatever that other time was?”
    “Not in so many words.”
    “He implied it?”
    “Yes.”
    “I wasn’t, DeDe. I want you to believe me.”
    DeDe smiled bitterly. “I do. Isn’t that the pits?”
    Back on Montgomery Street, DeDe tore ruthlessly into the mail she had ignored all day.
    There were new bills from Wilkes and Abercrombie’s, the latest issue of Architectural Digest, a plea for money from the Bennington Alumni Association, and a letter from Binky Gruen.
    She took Binky’s letter into the kitchen, where she fixed a bowl of Familia and milk. She opened the envelope with a butter knife.
    The letter was written on Golden Door stationery.
DeDe Dear,
Well, here’s old Bink, wallowing in luxurious misery at America’s most elegant fat farm. We get up at some godawful hour of the morning to jog through the boonies in very unflattering pink terry-cloth jumpsuits called “pinkies.” (Please, darling, no jokes about Binky in her Pinky.) I’ve lost six pounds already. Trumpet fanfare. Movie stars everywhere you turn. I feel déclassé if I don’t wear my Foster Grants in the steam room. Try it, you’ll hate it.
Love and kisses.
B INKY
    Beauchamp walked into the kitchen. “Where did you go tonight?”
    “Junior League.”
    He looked at the cereal bowl. “They didn’t feed you?”
    “I had a small bowl, Beauchamp!”
    “Suit yourself. It’s too late to get in shape for the opening of the opera, anyway.” He smiled maddeningly and walked out of the room.
    DeDe glowered at him until he was out of sight. Then she picked up Binky’s letter and read it again.

What the Simple Folk Do
    T HE BEAST IN THE DOORWAY MADE MARY ANN’S FLESH crawl.
    Its face was chalk white with lurid spots of rouge on the cheekbones. It was bare-chested and furry-thighed, and two gnarled goat horns rose hideously from its brow. It spoke to her.
    “How horny can ya get, huh?”
    “Michael!”
    “Wrong, O boring one. I am the Great God Pan.”
    “You scared me to death!”
    “But I am a gentle, playful creature … the spirit of forests and shepherds…. Screw it! How can anybody stay in character with you?”
    Mary Ann smiled. “A costume party?”
    “No. Actually, I’m meeting my Aunt Agnes at the Greyhound station.”
    “You’re going to the bus …? Why do I even talk to you?”
    “Aren’t you gonna invite me in?”
    She giggled. “My mother would love you.”
    “This may come as a rude shock to you, but I don’t particularly want your mother to love me. Look … if you don’t let me out of the hallway, that man on the roof is gonna have a heart attack.”
    “Come on in. What man on the roof?”
    Michael bounced into the room and sat down, adjusting the brown Afro wig that held his horns. “The new tenant. Somebody Williams. I saw him on the steps to the roof a little while ago. He nearly freaked .”
    “There’s an apartment on the roof?”
    “Sorta. I call it a pentshack. It doesn’t rent very often, but it has a gorgeous view. He moved in a couple of days ago. Hey, can I have something to drink?”
    “Sure … there’s some …”
    “Say crème de menthe and I’ll gore you!”
    She wiggled one of his horns. “White wine, Your Holiness.”
    “Sure … no, I take it back. I’ve gotta leave soon. I kinda hoped you’d go with me.”
    “As what? A nanny goat?”
    “A shepherdess. I’ve got a neat-looking peasant dress with a ribboned bodice and … Don’t look at me like that, woman. It’s Mona’s!”
    Mary Ann laughed. “I’d love to, Michael … but tonight’s my night at the Crisis Switchboard.”
    “This is a crisis! Lonely, horned homophile with hairy legs seeks attractive but boring lady for freewheeling evening of …”
    “What about that guy I saw you with?”
    “Jon?”
    “Blond hair?”
    Michael nodded. “Tonight’s the opening night of the
    opera.”
    “Oh … you don’t like opera, huh?”
    “No … well, that’s true, as a matter of fact … but that isn’t it. Jon bought season tickets with a friend. But you’re right … I can’t really handle opera. I don’t think I would’ve … you know.”
    She kissed him cautiously on his rouged cheek. “How