Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

probably.”
    “That’s not long.”
    She smiled. “I thought you might say that.”
    “Do you remember the first time?”
    “No. I remember the third time, though.”
    “The first time didn’t work?”
    “No. It worked.” She chuckled. “Don’t you hate people who say that?” She mimicked the voice of a middle-aged matron. “‘The children insisted I smoke pot, so I tried it, Madge, and it didn’t do a thing for me, not one thing.’”
    Brian laughed. “Sometimes it’s true, though. My first time didn’t work.”
    “So?” The landlady shrugged. “Your first time at sex doesn’t work. It’s still the first time, though. Isn’t that enough?”
    “I guess so.”
    “There’s nothing that beats the high of a first time. Nothing.”
    “Something tells me you’ve had a lot of first times.”
    “I try to. And you’re changing the subject.”
    “Sorry. I’m ripped.”
    “I was going to tell you about my third time.”
    “Oh, right.”
    “The third time,” said Mrs. Madrigal, adjusting the sleeves of her kimono, “happened at the San Francisco Zoo just after Bobby Kennedy was killed.”
    “Bummer, huh?”
    “No … I mean, I didn’t get stoned because of that. He had just been killed, that’s all. Anyway, I knew this lovely little man at the zoo who was in charge of the monkeys. Actually, that’s the wrong term. He was more like one of the monkeys. He had rather long arms and he was quite hairy and the monkeys simply adored him. I adored him too. He was a marvelous backgammon player.
    “Well, on this particular day, we had a nice long chat in this funny causeway thing that led from the gorilla quarters to the cage where the gorillas go to diddle with themselves in public—”
    Brian chuckled.
    Mrs. Madrigal raised an eyebrow. “Well, isn’t that what zoos are for? Why else do people watch gorillas?”
    “I see what you mean.”
    “So there we were, standing in this causeway, chatting pleasantly, when this rather formidable-looking lady gorilla strolled up and joined our little group. She stood next to my zookeeper friend and flung an arm across his shoulder, like an old school chum or something. Then my friend said, ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ and pulled a joint out of his shirt pocket. He lit the joint, took a toke off it and handed it to the gorilla—”
    “C’mon!”
    “So help me God! And then, if you please, the gorilla took a long hit and handed the joint to me!”
    “Jesus. What did you do?”
    “I am not rude, dear boy. I accepted it graciously, without Bogarting, and passed it back to my friend. The gorilla stayed for two more hits, then promenaded down the causeway to greet her public. She was a very mellow lady by then.”
    “She did this all the time?”
    “Every day. It helped her cope, I suppose.”
    “Is she still there?”
    Mrs. Madrigal tapped a forefinger against pursed lips. “You know, I’m not really sure. I often wonder if she’s still alive. Gorillas can live to be quite old, I understand. I’d rather like to see her again.”
    “Why?”
    “Oh … I guess, because we have a lot in common. She was a tough old cookie, and she had fun the best way she knew how. And … because she learned a lot late in life.”
    “So what have you learned?”
    She smiled at him reprovingly. “I’ve learned how snoopy you get when you’re loaded.”
    “I wasn’t asking for your life story.”
    “What a pity. You should sometime. But not when I’m loaded.”
    “Why?”
    “Because, dear … I might tell you the truth.”

The Kindest Cut
    E MMA WAS GETTING OLD, FRANNIE NOTED WISTFULLY, as the rail-thin black maid tottered into the master bedroom with a breakfast tray in her hands.
    “Open the drapes, Miss Frances?”
    Miss Frances! That was what made Emma an absolute gem, the last of her species. As long as she had worked at Halcyon Hill, it had been Miss Frances, Miss DeDe, Mr. Edgar …
    “No, thank you, Emma. Just leave the tray on the table, please.”
    “Yes’m.”
    “Emma?”
    “Ma’am?”
    “Do you think I’m … Sit down, will you, please, Emma?”
    Emma complied, perching delicately on the edge of a button-tufted lady chair near the bed. “You aren’t … sick, Miss Frances?”
    “No …”
    “Mr. Edgar’s gone, Miss Frances. You gotta live with that now. He’s passed on to the bosom of Jesus, and there’s not a livin’ thing in this whole blessed world that can bring him back until the final judgment of the Lord delivers His