Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

“Verrry chic, don’t you think?”
    “I think Dorothy was good enough.”
    “Well, so did I, honey! But it was either the apostrophe or one of those godawful African names like Simbu or Tamara or Bonzo, and I’d be goddamned if I’d go around town sounding like Ronald Reagan’s chimpanzee!”
    Brian laughed, noticing that her face was even more beautiful when animated. He was silent for several seconds, then asked soberly: “Was it tough growing up in Oakland?”
    She did a slow take, staring at him through heavy-lidded eyes. “Oh … I get it! A lib-ber-rull!”
    He reddened. “No, not exact …”
    “Gimme a hint, then. A Vista Volunteer, maybe? A civil rights lawyer?”
    Her accuracy annoyed the hell out of him. “I did some work for the Urban League in Chicago, but I don’t see what that …”
    “And all that guilt exhausted you so much that you decided to hell with it and chucked it all for a waiter’s job. I hear you, baby. I hear you.”
    He downed his drink. “I don’t think you’re hearing a goddamn thing but your own voice.”
    She set down her glass of Dubonnet and stared at him expressionlessly. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I guess I’m nervous about being back here.”
    “Forget it.”
    “You have a nice face, Brian. I need somebody to talk to.”
    “A therapist.”
    “If you like. Does that bother you?”
    “I’d hoped for something more basic.”
    She ignored the implication. “Sometimes it helps to tell things to strangers.”
    He signaled the bartender for another drink. “Go ahead, then. The doctor is in.”
    She told her story without embellishment, seldom meeting his eyes.
    “Four years ago, when I was just beginning to catch on in New York, I met this person who was working on a swimsuit campaign at J. Walter Thompson. We were together almost all the time, shooting at locations all over the East Coast. It took us about three weeks to fall in love.”
    Brian nodded, abandoning his hopes.
    “Anyway, we moved in together, fixing up this wonderful loft in SoHo, and I experienced the happiest six months of my life. Then something happened … I don’t know what … and my lover accepted a job in San Francisco. We corresponded some after that, never completely losing touch, and I just kept on … making money.”
    She sipped her Dubonnet and looked at him for the first time. “Now I’m back home, Brian, and all I want is to have this person back in my life again. But that’s completely up to …”
    “Her.”
    She smiled warmly. “You’re quick,” she said.
    “Thanks.”
    “This drink’s on me, O.K.?”

The Winner’s Circle
    T HE MASTER OF CEREMONIES FOR THE JOCKEY SHORTS dance contest was someone called Luscious Lorelei. His platinum wig hovered over his rotund frame like a mushroom cloud over an atoll.
    Michael groaned and readjusted his shorts. “What the fuck am I doing here, Mona? I used to be a Future Farmer of America!”
    “You’re paying the rent, remember?”
    “Right. I’m paying the rent, I’m paying the rent. This is a recording….”
    “Just take it easy.”
    “What if I lose? What if they laugh? Jesus! What if they don’t even notice me?”
    “You’re not gonna lose, Mouse. Those assholes can’t dance, and you look better than any of ‘em. You’ve gotta believe in yourself!”
    “Thank you, Norman Vincent Peale.”
    “Cool it, Mouse.”
    “I think I’m gonna throw up.”
    “Save it for the finale.”
    Five contestants had already vied for the hundred-dollar prize. Another was competing now, thrashing across the plastic dance floor in nylon leopard-skin briefs.
    The crowd howled its approval.
    “Listen to that, Mona. It’s all over.” Michael chided himself silently for selecting the standard white jockey briefs. This mob obviously went in for flash.
    “C’mon,” said Mona, pulling him through the crowd to the edge of the dance floor. “You’re next, Mouse.” She stayed by his side as they waited in the glow of an electrified American flag.
    Luscious Lorelei moved to the microphone when the applause for Contestant Number 6 had subsided. “How about that, guys? Could you BUHLIEVE the pecs on that humpy number? I mean, PULLEASE, Mary!” He gripped the contours of his sequined bosom. “Rice bags never looked so good.”
    Michael felt the color leave his face.
    “Call Mary Ann,” he whispered to Mona. “I’m going back to Cleveland with her.” Mona reassured him with a pat on the rump.
    “O.K.,”