Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

… and everybody claps along and sings and jiggles kids in their laps….”
    She nodded, confused by his cynical tone. The whole thing sounded rather sweet to her.
    “Christ! I went back to the house when the singalong started and sat in an empty bedroom and smoked a joint and thanked my fucking lucky stars I wasn’t trapped in that pathetic, middle-class prison!”
    “I see.”
    “This kid … about six years old … walks into the room, right? She asks me why I’m not singing and I say I’m a lousy singer and she says that’s O.K. because she is too.”
    “How cute.”
    “She was all right.”
    “Did she stay there with you?”
    “She asked me to read her a story.”
    “Did you?”
    “For a little while. Hell, I was stoned.”
    “Well, that doesn’t sound so bad.”
    “Her old man and I went to George Washington together.”
    “Where?”
    “Law school. He was the one who didn’t give a damn about the greenback dollar.”
    “You were a lawyer?”
    The roach was so short that it burned his fingers. He threw it on the floor and stepped on it. “Oh, yes … only I really didn’t give a damn about the greenback dollar. I was everybody’s favorite freebie.”
    “You didn’t charge?”
    “Not if you were black in Chicago … or a draft resister in Toronto or an Indian in Arizona … or a Chicano in L.A.”
    “But you could’ve …”
    “I hated law. It was the causes I loved … and … well, I ran out of them.” He looked down at his hands dangling between his knees. “?l’ Vincent and I would have gotten on like a house on fire.”
    “Brian …”
    “Go on.”
    “Thanks for listening.”
    “Out. Gotta finish my sit-ups.”

Words of Comfort
    M R. HALCYON WAS NICER THAN SHE EXPECTED when she asked for the day off.
    “I’m sorry about your friend, Mary Ann.”
    “He wasn’t really a friend exactly….”,
    “Just the same.”
    “I really appreciate it.”
    “It’s not easy living in Atlantis, is it?”
    “Sir?”
    “Nothing. Take your time. I can call Kelly Girl.”
    She was more out of it than ever. She sat on her wicker sofa, munching a Pop-Tart and watching the bay. The water was so blue … but was the price too high?
    How many times now had she threatened to go home to Cleveland?
    How many times had the lure of family china and split-level security beckoned her from the slopes of this beautiful volcano?
    Would she ever stop feeling like a colonist on the moon?
    Or would she wake up one morning to find herself a cloth-coated old lady, tottering about Russian Hill in slightly soiled gloves, prolonging her choice of a single lamb chop at Marcel & Henri, telling the butcher or the doorman or the nice young gripman who helped her onto the cable car that any day now, when her social security check came in, when the weather turned, when she found a home for her cat … she was going home to Cleveland?
    Her buzzer rang.
    When she opened the door, the face of her visitor was obscured by a huge pot of yellow mums.
    “Hello, Mary Ann.”
    “Norman?”
    “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
    “No. Come in.”
    He set the flowers on one of her teak nesting tables from Cost Plus. “Are those for me?” she asked.
    He nodded. “I heard about last night.”
    “How sweet … Who told you?”
    “That guy across the hall. I ran into him in the courtyard this morning.”
    “Brian.”
    “Yeah. Look, are you sure I’m not …”
    “I’m delighted to see you, Norman. Really.” She pecked him on the cheek. “Really.”
    Norman flushed. “I thought you might like the yellows better than the whites.”
    “Yes.” She touched the flowers appreciatively. “Yellow’s my favorite. Hey, can I fix you some coffee?”
    “If it’s not too much trouble.”
    “Of course not. I’ll be right back.” She dashed into the kitchen and began fussing with her French stainless-steel-and-glass Melior pot from Thomas Cara Ltd. She had paid thirty-five dollars for it a month ago … and used it exactly twice.
    She was almost positive that Norman was a Maxim-type person, but there was no point in risking it.
    Norman seemed to like the coffee. “Boy!” he grinned, looking up from his cup. “Brian showed me what the landlady grows in the garden.”
    “Oh … the grass, you mean?” She marveled at the matter-of-fact tone of her voice. Her growing sophistication sometimes astounded her.
    “Yeah. I guess that’s pretty common around here, huh?”
    She shrugged. “She only grows it for us …