Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

Person Singular. He’s done all right.”
    “And so have you?”
    “So have I.”
    “I lost my job.”
    “I know.”
    “How the …?”
    “I’m doing some modeling for Halcyon. Beauchamp Day told me.”
    “Small fucking world.”
    “I’m finished with New York, Mona. I want this to be my home again.”
    “Comin’ home to go roamin’ no more, huh?”
    “You sound so cynical.”
    “Sorry.”
    “I need you, Mona.”
    “D’or …”
    “I want you back.”

Mona Moves On
    T HE MORNING WAS BRIGHT AND BLUSTERY. MICHAEL tossed a pebble into the bay and flung an arm across Mona’s shoulders. “I love the Marina Green,” he said.
    Mona grimaced and stopped in her tracks, scraping an ancient Earth Shoe against the curb. “Not to mention the Marina Brown.”
    “You’re such a romantic!”
    “Fuck romanticism. Look where it gets you .”
    “Thanks, I needed that.”
    “Sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound that way.”
    “Well, you’re right.”
    “No, I’m not. I’m a coward. I’m scared shitless. One of these days, Mouse, something really nice is going to happen to you. And you’ll deserve it when it comes, because you never stop trying. I gave up a long time ago.”
    Michael sat down on a bench and dusted off the space next to him. “What’s bugging you, Mona?”
    “Nothing in particular.”
    “Bullshit.”
    “You don’t need another downer, Mouse.”
    “Says who? I thrive on downers.”
    She sat down next to him, fixing her eyes glassily on the bay. “I think I may move out, Mouse.”
    His face was blank. “Oh?”
    “A friend of mine wants me to move in with her.”
    “I see.”
    “It’s got nothing to do with you, Mouse. It really doesn’t. I just feel like something’s gotta change soon or I’ll freak…. I hope you …”
    “Who is it?”
    “You don’t know her. She’s a model I used to know in New York.”
    “Just like that, huh?”
    “She’s really nice, Mouse. She’s just bought this beautiful remodeled Victorian in Pacific Heights.”
    “Rich, huh?”
    “Yeah. I suppose.”
    He stared at her without a word.
    “I need … some sort of security, Mouse. I’m thirty-one years old, for Christ’s sake!”
    “So?”
    “So I’m sick of buying clothes at Goodwill and pretending they’re funky. I want a bathroom you can clean and a microwave oven and a place to plant roses and a goddamn dog who’ll recognize me when I come home!”
    Michael bit the tip of his forefinger and blinked at her. “Arf,” he said feebly.
    They walked for a while along the quay.
    “Was she your lover, Mona?”
    “Uh huh.”
    “How come you never told me?”
    “It never really seemed important, I guess. I wasn’t exactly … into that scene. I was a lousy dyke.”
    “But you aren’t now, huh?”
    “It doesn’t matter.”
    “The hell it doesn’t.”
    “She’s a sweet person, and …”
    “She’ll take good care of you, and you can stay at home and eat bonbons and read movie magazines to your heart’s …”
    “That’s enough, Mouse.”
    “Christ! Maybe you did give up a long time ago, but I’m not going to stand by and watch you throw your life away. You’re not even being fair to her, Mona! What the hell does she need with some half-assed lover who’s got the hots for tile bathrooms?”
    “Look, you’re not …”
    “Nothing’s free, Mona! Nothing!”
    “Oh, yeah? What about your rent?”
    The words stung harder than she expected, silencing Michael completely.
    “I didn’t mean that, Mouse.”
    “Why not? It’s the truth.”
    “Mouse … I don’t care about that.” He was crying now. She stopped walking and reached for his hand. “Look, Mouse, you’ll have the whole place to yourself, and Mrs. Madrigal is bound to give you some slack on the rent until you can find a job.”
    He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Why does this sound like the end of a B-movie affair?”
    She kissed him on the cheek. “It does, doesn’t it?”
    “Some affair. You didn’t even stick around long enough to meet my parents.”

At the Gynecologist’s
    T HE WAITING ROOM WAS THE SAME SHADE OF GREEN that once oppressed DeDe at the Convent of the Sacred Heart. There were clowns on the walls—weeping clowns—and nothing to read but a July 1974 issue oí Ladies’ Home Journal .
    She might as well have been waiting to get a tooth pulled.
    The receptionist ignored her. She was ravaging a bag of barbecue potato chips while she read the Chronicle.
    “Will it be