Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

Mary Ann.
    “Well.” The driver chuckled. “I guess you seen The Love Boat?”
    Michael nodded. “Movie for TV, right?”
    “Yeah. Bert Convy. Lyle Waggoner. Celeste Holm …”
    “All the biggies.”
    The driver nodded. “Filmed it right there. On the Pacific Princess. Pretty sexy stuff.”
    “Mmm. I remember,” said Michael, smirking privately at Mary Ann. “Celeste Holm was a plump but lovable matron who thought she was washed up with men, until she met Craig Stevens on the cruise. Craig had been her boyfriend years before, and Celeste … well, the poor thing was petrified that Craig would find out what a chubbette she’d become.”
    “Did he?” asked Mary Ann.
    “Nope. Happy ending. Craig turned out to be blind.”
    “You made that up, Mouse.”
    “Scout’s honor! And they were married at the end. Isn’t that right driver?”
    “Yep.”
    “Apparently,” shrugged Michael, “ol’ Craig couldn’t feel, either.”
    The ship’s photographer surprised them on the gangplank, shouting out a jovial, “Smile, young lovers!”
    Michael obliged and clamped his hand over Mary Ann’s right breast.
    “Christ!” he said, as they boarded the ship. “Is this a cruise or a senior prom?”
    “Mouse, would you try to be just a little respectable?”
    “For eleven whole days?”
    “It’s a British ship, Mouse.”
    “Ah, yes! But with Italian stewards.” He held his forefingers erect, several feet apart.
    Mary Ann flushed, then giggled. “Straight Italian stewards,” she corrected him.
    “You wish, “said Michael.
    Their stateroom was on the Promenade Deck, deluxe accommodations with twin beds, wood-grain cabinetry, comfortable chairs, and a tub in the bathroom. A bottle of chilled champagne awaited them.
    Mary Ann proposed the first toast. “To Mr. Halcyon. God bless Mr. Halcyon.”
    “Right on. God bless Mr. Halcyon.”
    “And”—she filled their glasses again—“to … to adventure on the high seas!”
    “And romance.”
    “And romance!”
    “To Mrs. Madrigal … and marijuana … and the munchies … and to every goddamn person in Florida except Anita Bryant!”
    “Yeah!”
    “But most of all,” said Michael, turning mock-grave suddenly, “to that well-bred, debonaire, but incredibly hunky number who gave the eye to one of us when we came on board tonight.”
    “Where? Who?”
    “How do I know who? I just got here, woman. You saw him, didn’t you?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    Michael rolled his eyes in exasperation. “He never stopped staring at us!”
    “A passenger?”
    “Yep.”
    “Looking at us?”
    “You got it, girl.”
    Mary Ann bit the tip of her forefinger. “Do you think he was blind?”
    Michael whooped and raised his glass. “OK, then … to blindness!”
    “To blindness,” echoed Mary Ann.

Mother Mucca’s Proposition
    M ONA WOKE FROM AN UNEASY SLEEP WHEN THE Greyhound pulled into Truckee, California, just before dawn. She was sure her tongue had turned into a dead gopher. The bizarre old woman next to her patted her hand.
    “This ain’t it, dolly. Go back to sleep.”
    It? What was It? Where was It?
    “It’s O.K., dolly. Mother Mucca’s here. I’m lookin’ out for ya.”
    “Look, lady, I—”
    “Mother Mucca.”
    “OK. I appreciate your help, but—”
    “That angel dust’ll fuck you up every time. You shoulda heard yourself talkin’ in your sleep, dolly!”
    “I don’t … what did I say?”
    “I don’t know. Crazy stuff. Somethin’ about mice.”
    “Mice?”
    “Somethin’ like that. Somethin’ like: ‘Where did the mouse go? I can’t find the mouse.’ Then you started hollerin’ for your daddy. It was goddamn spooky, dolly!”
    Mona rubbed her eyes and watched the zombie-faced passengers shuffle out for coffee in the Truckee station. They looked like haggard infantrymen bracing for a predawn assault.
    What in the name of Buddha was she doing here?
    When Mother Mucca insisted on buying breakfast, Mona was too weak to refuse. Besides, the old biddy seemed kind of together, even if she did look like a refugee from a Fellini movie.
    “I had a girl named Judy once.”
    “What?”
    “You said your name was Judy, didn’t you?”
    Mona nodded, opting to remain as anonymous as possible. She’d had all she could take of Mona Ramsey.
    “Judy was a peach,” continued Mother Mucca. “I guess she stayed with me longer’n any of ‘em.” She shook her head, smiling, lost in rosy recollection. “Yessir, she was a