Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

quietly. “Welcome to Heartbreak Hotel.”
    “Company?” A stereo was playing in the bedroom.
    “I wish.”
    “Michael … is something the matter?”
    He shook his head, forcing a smile. “Come on in. I want you to hear something.”
    He led her into his bedroom and pointed to a chair. “Sit down and have a good cry. This woman is God’s gift to romantics.” He held up an album cover. Jane Olivor’s First Night.
    Mary Ann propped her head on her hand and listened. The chanteuse was singing “Some Enchanted Evening,” wrenching still more tears from Michael.
    “Every faggot in town adores her,” explained Michael. “It’s real washing-up music.”
    “Washing-up music?”
    “You know. Post-whoopie. You play it afterwards, while he’s lighting a cigarette and … washing up.”
    Mary Ann reddened. “Why not before?”
    “Uh … good question. I guess it’s … a threat before. Afterwards, there’s no danger.”
    “Oh.” She laughed nervously.
    Michael flopped on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “I hope I don’t become cynical.”
    “You won’t.”
    “Do you believe in marriage, Mary Ann?”
    She nodded. “Most of the time.”
    “Me too. I think about it every time I see a new face. I got married four times today on the 41 Union bus.”
    There was embarrassment in Mary Ann’s laugh.
    “I know,” said Michael unaccusingly. “A bunch of fairies in caftans, tripping through Golden Gate Park with drag bridesmaids and quotations from ‘Song of the Loon’ … That’s not what I mean.”
    “I know.”
    “It would be like … friends. Somebody to buy a Christmas tree with.”
    “Sure.” She tried in vain to picture herself choosing a Scotch pine with Norman.
    Mona had been gone all day. Her absence began to gnaw at Michael again as soon as Mary Ann had left. Mona wasn’t much fun these days, but she was at least a distraction.
    She kept him away from Lands End.
    Big deal, he thought, turning off the stereo and skulking into the kitchen. Your whole goddamn life is at Lands End. You belong to nobody, and nobody belongs to you. Your sacred chastity doesn’t mean shit.
    He foraged in the refrigerator for munchies, emerging with a grapefruit half and a flat Tab. Next to the ice tray, a bottle of Locker Room sat in stoic isolation, waiting for the next time.
    He glared murderously at the squat brown bottle and slammed the freezer door. “Freeze your ass off, you little mother!”
    That was when the phone rang.
    “Mikey?”
    “Mama?”
    “How are you, Mikey?”
    “Fine, Mama. There hasn’t been …? Everything’s all right, isn’t it?”
    “Oh … fair to middlin’, I guess. Papa and I’ve got a surprise for you, Mikey.”
    His fingertips traced the furrows in his brow. Please God, don’t do this to me. “What, Mama?”
    “Well, you know Papa’s been trying for years to wangle one of those trips with Florida Citrus Mutual….”
    Come on, God! I’ll join the church of my choice! I’ll never lust in my heart again!
    “So guess what happened just this afternoon?”
    “You got the trip.”
    “Uh huh. And guess where?”
    “Fire Island.”
    “What?”
    “Nothing, Mama. I was being silly. You’re coming to San Francisco, right?”
    “Isn’t it wonderful? We’ve got four whole days to visit, Mikey! And we’ve already got the hotel reservations and everything!”
    The reservations, it turned out, were at the Holiday Inn on Van Ness. October 29 through November 1.
    The horrible significance of those dates didn’t hit Michael until he checked a calendar.
    Mr. and Mrs. Herbert L. Tolliver were forsaking their orange groves, their Sizzlers and their Shakey’s and their Saturday Evening Posts, to spend four fun-filled days in Everybody’s Favorite City.
    On Halloween weekend.
    Jesus H. Christ.

A Place for Strays
    A NNA’S BEDROOM HAD BEEN CAREFULLY GROOMED for Edgar’s arrival.
    The linens were fresh, the ferns were misted, and the photograph that usually stayed on the dresser was tucked away in the bottom of the lingerie drawer.
    “No waterbed?” Edgar grinned slyly, surveying the room for the first time.
    “Sorry.” Anna shrugged. “It’s in the shop for repairs. I had a gentleman caller last night and we nearly drowned the cat.”
    “What cat?”
    She threw a pillow at him. “You’re supposed to say, ‘What gentleman caller?’ goddammit!”
    “O.K. What gentleman caller?”
    “I’ve forgotten. There’ve been so many!”
    He wrapped his arms around