Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

Flames
    C HRISTMAS. SOME YEARS IT HAPPENS. OTHERS IT doesn’t.
    This year, thought Brian, finishing off a bottle of Gatorade, it isn’t going to happen.
    Not if it snows on Barbary Lane. Not if you OD on eggnog. Not if Donny and Marie and Sonny and Cher and the whole fucking Mormon Tabernacle Choir show up on your doorstep with a partridge in a pear tree … it isn’t going to happen.
    As far as he was concerned, Mrs. Madrigal’s party would be just like any other.
    “Cheryl?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Brian.”
    “Uh … Brian who?”
    “Hawkins. From Perry’s.” The one who nailed your mother, dingbat!
    “Oh … Hi!”
    “What’s up?”
    “Oh … not much.”
    “Still living in the trailer park?”
    “Yeah … I am.”
    “Swell.”
    “Candi’s left. She’s working in Redwood City now. At Waterbed Wonderland.”
    “Terrific.”
    “She’s got an old man now. A hot-shit celebrity. Larry Larson.”
    “Don’t know him.”
    “You know … Channel 36?”
    “No.”
    “The Wizard of Waterbeds.”
    “Oh.”
    “ ‘We’ll help you make a splash in bed’?”
    “Got it.”
    “Larry might let her do a commercial soon.”
    “Well … star time. Look, Cheryl … you wanna go to a Christmas party?”
    “When?”
    “Christmas Eve.”
    “Oh … I’d love to, but Larry’s taking us to Rickey’s Hyatt House for turkey with all the trimmings.”
    “Oh.”
    “I could check with Larry. He might not mind if you came along.”
    “That’s all right.”
    “I hate for you to be alone on …”
    “I won’t be alone, Cheryl.”
    “I’d try to get out of it, but Larry’s called ahead for Mateus and everything.”
    “?l’ Larry thinks of everything.”
    “Yeah. He’s real nice.”
    “Well, I hope you find one for yourself … some rich asshole in a leisure suit who can buy you all the Mateus and … Mediterranean furniture and … steel-belted radiais …”
    “You’re just as fucked up as ever, aren’t you?”
    “And you’re about as liberated as a goddamn hamster.”
    “I never said I was liberated!”
    “Right you are!”
    “I am really, really sorry for you!”
    “I can tell.”
    “You really hate women, don’t you?”
    “What makes you think you’re a woman?” She slammed the phone down.
    “Connie?”
    “Just a sec. Lemme turn down the stereo.” The Ray Conniff Singers were murdering “The Little Drummer Boy” in the background.
    “Hi,” she said, returning. “Who’s this?”
    “Your birthday boy.”
    “Byron?”
    “Brian.”
    “Oh … sorry. Long time no see, huh?”
    “Yeah, look … It might turn out to be a big bore, but I’m invited to this Christmas party my landlady’s giving and … well, that’s it.”
    Silence.
    “Whatdya say?”
    “Was that an invitation, Brian?”
    “Yeah.”
    “I see. When?”
    “Uh … the twenty-fourth.”
    “Just a sec, O.K.?” She left the phone for a matter of seconds. “Sure,” she said finally. “The twenty-fourth is fine.”

A Lovers’ Farewell
    T HE NOONTIME PERRY’S CROWD WAS THICKER THAN usual. Beauchamp pushed his way to the far end of the bar and nodded to the blue-blazered maître d’. “I’m meeting a friend,” he said. Jon was waiting for him at a table in the tiny back courtyard.
    “Sorry,” said Beauchamp. “I got tied up in pantyhose again.”
    The gynecologist smiled. “Still trying to wreck my business, huh?”
    “That’s funny. I hadn’t thought of that.”
    “I ordered you a Bullshot.”
    “Perfect.”
    “I can’t stay long, Beauchamp.”
    “Fine. Neither can I.”
    “I don’t think this is such a good idea, anyway.” Beauchamp frowned. “Look, there’s no goddamn reason in the world why two men can’t have a perfectly …”
    “You don’t consider a wife a reason?” “Don’t start on that again!”
    “I hadn’t planned to.”
    “Anyway … why should you care, if I don’t. DeDe doesn’t know you from Adam. You could be anybody. You could be a friend from the club, for all she knows!”
    “That isn’t the point.”
    “Well, what the hell is the goddamn …?”
    “Can I take your order now?” The Bullshots had arrived, along with a waiter whose green eyes and chestnut hair temporarily diverted both men from the crisis at hand.
    Beauchamp flushed and chose the first thing he saw on the menu. “Yeah. The shepherd’s pie.”
    “Same here,” said Jon. The waiter left without a word. “Surly bastard,” said Beauchamp. Jon shrugged. “But pretty.”
    “You would