Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

her Great Dane, lapped it up with relish.

The Main on the Roof
    B ORIS’ TAIL MARKED TIME LIKE A METRONOME AS HE sped down the hallway and up the stairs to the roof.
    Mary Ann slipped into her bathrobe and set off in pursuit of the unofficial tenant, fearful that he might get trapped in the building.
    The steps to the roof were uncarpeted, painted with dark-green deck enamel. At the top, next to an ivy-choked window, a bright-orange door blocked the cat’s escape. Boris was indignant.
    “Here, kitty … come on, Boris … nice Boris….”
    Boris was having none of it. He stood fast, answering her with a terse saber rattle of his tail.
    Mary Ann climbed higher, now less than a yard away from the door. “You really are a pain, Boris! You know that, don’t you?”
    The door banged open, grazing Boris’s side, sending the startled cat bounding down the steps with a howl. Mary Ann stiffened.
    Before her stood a large, middle-aged man.
    “Sorry,” he said uncomfortably. “I didn’t hear you out here. I hope I didn’t hurt your cat.”
    She struggled to regain her composure. “No … I don’t think so….”
    “He’s a nice-looking cat.”
    “Oh … he’s not my cat. He sort of belongs to everybody. I think he lives down at the end of the lane. I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to intrude.”
    The man looked concerned. “I scared you, didn’t I?”
    “It’s O.K.”
    He smiled, extending his hand. “I’m Norman Neal Williams.”
    “Hi.” She returned his shake, noticing how huge his hand was. Somehow, though, his size made him seem especially vulnerable.
    He was wearing baggy gray suit pants and a short-sleeved drip-dry shirt. A little tuft of dark-brown hair spilled over the top of his clip-on four-in-hand tie.
    “You live just below, don’t you?”
    “Yeah … oh, sorry … I’m Mary Ann Singleton.”
    “Three names.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Mary Ann Singleton. Three names. Like Norman Neal Williams.”
    “Oh … do you go by Norman Neal?”
    “No. Just Norman.”
    “I see.”
    “I like to say Norman Neal Williams first off, because it flows nice, you know.”
    “Yes, it does.”
    “Would you like some coffee?”
    “Oh, thanks, but I’ve got lots of things …”
    “The view’s real nice.”
    That got her. She did want to see his view, as well as the layout of the Lilliputian rooftop house.
    “O.K.,” she smiled. “I’d love to.”
    The view was dazzling. White sails on a delft-blue bay. Angel Island, wreathed in fog, faraway and mystical as Bali Ha’i.
    Wheeling gulls over red tile rooftops.
    “That’s what you pay for,” he said, obviously apologizing for the size of the place. There was nowhere to sit but the bed and a kitchen chair next to the window facing the bay. The coat to his suit was folded over the back of the chair.
    Mary Ann sighed at the panorama. “You must love getting up in the morning.”
    “Yeah. Except I’m not here that much.”
    “Oh.”
    “I’m a salesman.”
    “I see.”
    “Vitamins.” He indicated a carrying case in the corner of the room. Mary Ann recognized the company logo.
    “Oh … Nutri-Vim. I’ve heard of those.”
    “Completely organic.”
    She was sure his enthusiasm was strictly professional. There was nothing about Norman Neal Williams that struck her as organic.

The Ol’-Time Religion
    O N SUNDAY MORNING, MONA WENT TO CHURCH.
    In the old days—post-Woodstock and pre-Watergate—she had gone to church a lot. Not just any church, she was quick to point out, but a People’s church, a church that was Relevant.
    That was a long time ago. She’d had it with the People, and Relevance was as obsolete as puka shells. Still, there was something nostalgically comfortable about returning to Glibb Memorial.
    Maybe it was the light show or the rock ensemble … or the Afro-aphrodisia of the Reverend Willy Sessums, bojangling the bejeezus out of Third World Socialism.
    Or maybe it was the Quaalude she took at breakfast.
    Whatever.
    Today she felt mellow. Together. A karmic cog in the great, swaying mechanism of Glibb Memorial. She sang out with the fervor of a Southern Baptist, flanked by a Noe Valley wood butcher and a Tenderloin drag queen in a coral prom gown.
He’s got the Yoo-nited Farm Workers
In His hands!
He’s got the Yoo-nited Farm Workers
In His hands!
    “That’s right!” shouted Reverend Sessums, darting through his flock with a leather pouch full of black juju dust. “Chairman Jesus loves you, brother! And he loves