Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

for tonight, hon?”
    “Let’s see. Oh, yeah. Robert Redford is picking me up at seven, and we’re going to Ernie’s for dinner.”
    “Ditch him. He’s got warts.”
    “For what?”
    “The hottest spot in town. Social Safeway.”
    “Social what?”
    “Safeway, dink. As in supermarket.”
    “That’s what I thought you said. You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”
    “For your information, dink, Social Safeway just happens to be … well, it’s just the … big thing, that’s all.”
    “For those who get off on groceries.”
    “For those who get off on men, hon. It’s a local tradition. Every Wednesday night. And you don’t even have to look like you’re on the make.”
    “I don’t believe it.”
    “There’s only one way to prove it to you.” Mary Ann giggled. “What am I supposed to do? Lurk behind the artichokes until some unsuspecting stockbroker comes along?”
    “Meet me here at eight, dink. You’ll see.”

Love with the Proper Shopper
    A DOZEN CARDBOARD DISKS DANGLED FROM THE ceiling of the Marina Safeway, coaxing the customers with a double-edged message: “Since we’re neighbors, let’s be friends.”
    And friends were being made.
    As Mary Ann watched, a blond man in a Stanford sweatshirt sauntered up to a brunette in a denim halter. “Uh … excuse me, but could you tell me whether it’s better to use Saffola oil or Wesson oil?”
    The girl giggled. “For what?”
    “I don’t believe this,” said Mary Ann, taking a shopping cart. “Every Wednesday night?”
    Connie nodded. “It ain’t half bad on weekends, either.” She grabbed a cart and charged off down a busy aisle. “See ya. It works better if you’re alone.”
    Mary Ann strode to the produce counter. She intended to shop, Connie’s pagan mating ritual notwithstanding.
    Then someone tugged on her arm.
    He was a puffy-faced man of about thirty-five. He was wearing a leisure suit with a white vinyl belt and matching shoes.
    “Are those the things you use in Chinese cooking?” he asked, pointing to the snow peas.
    “Yes,” she said, as uninvitingly as possible.
    “Far out. I’ve been looking for some all week. I’ve really been getting into Chinese cooking lately. Bought a wok and everything.”
    “Yeah. Well, those are the ones. Good luck.” She wheeled sharply and headed for the check-out counter. Her assailant followed.
    “Hey … like, maybe you could tell me a little about Chinese cooking?”
    “I doubt it very seriously.”
    “C’mon. Most chicks in this town are really into Chinese cooking.”
    “I’m not most chicks.”
    “O.K. I can dig it. Different strokes for different folks, right? What are you into, anyway?”
    “Solitude.”
    “OK. Skip it, just skip it.” He hesitated a moment, then delivered his exit line. “Get off the rag, bitch!”
    He left her standing in the frozen food department, white knuckles clamped around the rim of the freezer, her breath rising like a tiny distress signal. “Jesus,” she said in a frosty whisper, as a single tear plopped onto a box of Sara Lee brownies.
    “Charming,” said a man standing next to her.
    Mary Ann stiffened. “What?”
    “Your friend there … with the sparkling repartee. He’s a real prince.”
    “You heard all that?”
    “Only the parting endearment. Was the rest any better?”
    “Nope. Unless you get off on discussing snow peas with Charlie Manson.”
    The man laughed, showing beautiful white teeth. He was about thirty, Mary Ann guessed, with curly brown hair, blue eyes and a soft flannel shirt. “Sometimes I don’t believe this place,” he said.
    “Really.” Had he seen her crying?
    “The hell of it is that the whole goddamn town talks about relating and communicating and all that Age of Aquarius shit, and most of us are still trying to look like something we aren’t … Sorry. I sound like Dear Abby, don’t I?”
    “No. Not at all. I … agree with you.”
    He extended his hand. “My name is Robert.” Not Bob or Robbie, but Robert. Strong and direct. She gripped his hand. “I’m Mary Ann Singleton.” She wanted him to remember it.
    “Well … at the risk of sounding like Charlie Manson … how about a little culinary advice for a hapless male?”
    “Sure. Not snow peas?”
    He laughed. “Not snow peas. Asparagus.”
    Mary Ann had never found the subject so exciting. She was watching Robert’s eyes respond to her hollandaise recipe when a young man with a mustache approached with his