Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

peach!”
    Mona found herself warming to her. “You had lots of children?”
    “Children ?” She spat out the word.
    “You said …”
    Mother Mucca began to cackle again. “You’re a lot dumber’n you look, dolly. I’m talkin’ about the best damn whorehouse in Winnemucca!”
    Mona was jarred, but instantly fascinated. Of course! A genuine Nevada madam! A rawboned relic of the West’s first group encounter enterprise!
    “You …? How long have you …?”
    “Oh, Lord, dolly! Too fuckin’ long!”
    They both laughed exuberantly, sharing the same emotion for the first time since they’d met. Mona found herself riveted by the sheer, unembarrassed ballsiness of this extraordinarily ugly old woman.
    “What brought you to San Francisco?” she asked.
    “Hookers union meeting. Coyote.”
    Mona nodded knowledgeably. One of the cardinal earmarks of North Beach Chic was an unflinching familiarity with Margo St. James and her prostitutes’ union.
    “You know Margo?” asked Mother Mucca.
    “Oh, yes,” lied Mona. She had, however, seen the woman several times, breakfasting on coffee and croissants at Malvina’s.
    Mother Mucca arched a painted eyebrow. “She’s a lot classier’n me, huh, dolly?”
    “I think you’re very classy.”
    Mother Mucca ducked her head and blew into her coffee.
    “I do,” Mona persisted. “Really. You’re a very … together person.”
    “You’re a damn liar, too.” She reached over suddenly and squeezed Mona’s arm above the elbow. For a moment, it seemed that her crusty veneer might crack, but then she cleared her throat abruptly and continued in a tone that was tougher than ever.
    “Well, dolly! You ain’t told me why you’re headin’ to Reno with a head full o’ angel dust!”
    “There’s nothing special about Reno.”
    The old woman snorted. “You’re right about that!”
    Mona laughed. “I just wanted—I don’t know—to get away for a while. I’ve never seen the desert.”
    “We got plenty o’ that in Winnemucca.”
    Mona looked down at her hash browns, avoiding what seemed to be an invitation of sorts.
    “It’s a big place, dolly. I need some help with the phones. It’s real clean and pretty too. I think you’d be kinda surprised.”
    “I’m sure it’s a nice—”
    “Hell, dolly! I’m not white-slavin’ ya or anything! You’ll keep me company, that’s all. You can leave whenever you want to.”
    “I just don’t think I’m—”
    “What do you do, anyway?”
    “What?”
    “For a livin’.”
    “I’m … I used to be an advertising copywriter.”
    Mother Mucca roared. “Well, don’t be so fuckin’ uppity, then!”
    Mona grinned and dropped her napkin on her plate. “The bus is leaving, Mother Mucca.”
    “You won’t do it, then?”
    “Nope,” said Mona, chewing on the knuckle of her forefinger. “Not unless I can have my own waterbed.”

Life Among the A-Gays
    F OR THE HAMPTON-GIDDES, THE MECHANICS OF PARTY- giving were as intricate as the workings of Arch Gidde’s new Silver Shadow Rolls.
    After careful scrutiny, prospective guests were divided into four lists:
    The A List.
    The B List.
    The A-Gay List.
    The B-Gay List.
    The Hampton-Giddes knew no C people, gay or otherwise.
    As a rule, the A List was comprised of the Beautiful and the Entrenched, the kind of people who might be asked about their favorite junk-food or slumming spot in Merla Zellerbach’s column in the Chronicle.
    There was, of course, a sprinkling of A-Gays on the A List, but they were expected to behave themselves. An A-Gay who turned campy during after-dinner A List charades would find himself banished, posthaste, to the purgatory of the B-Gays.
    The B-Gays, poor wretches, didn’t even get to play charades.
    The range and intensity of cocktail chatter at the Hampton-Giddes’ depended largely on the list being utilized.
    A List people could talk about the arts, politics and the suede walls in the master bedroom.
    B Listers could talk about the arts, politics, the suede walls in the master bedroom, and the people on the A List.
    The A-Gays could talk about whoever was tooting coke in the bathroom.
    The B-Gays, being largely decorative, were not expected to talk.
    “Binky swears it’s the truth,” said William Devereaux Hill III, on a night when the Hampton-Giddes’ Seacliff mansion was virtually swarming with A-Gays.
    “Chinese?” hissed Charles Hillary Lord.
    “Twins!”
    “A litter!” exclaimed Archibald Anson Gidde, butting in.
    “I