Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

distraction.”
    Brian held the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible. “I think you’ve got the wrong carefree boy.”
    “Have I?”
    Her eyes were on him again, offering refuge.
    “Mrs. Madrigal, it’s late and I don’t feel like playing games.” His abruptness embarrassed him, so he laughed and added: “Of course, if you know any … creatures, I could use another notch or two in my gun!”
    “Brian, Brian … that isn’t you, dear.”
    He snapped at her. “Would you just lay off with the—”
    “I worry about you, dear. Hell, I know I’m a nosy old biddy, but look, I’ve got nothing better to do. I mean, if you ever want somebody just to talk to …” She leaned forward slightly and smiled like a stoned Mona Lisa. “May I give you some unsolicited advice?”
    He nodded, feeling more uncomfortable by the second.
    “The next time you meet a girl—someone that you really like—pretend that you’re a war hero and that all your basic plumbing got shot off in the war.”
    Brian grinned incredulously. “What?”
    “I’m perfectly serious, dear. Don’t tell a soul—especially her, for heaven’s sake—but pretend to yourself that this dreadful thing has happened and the only way you can communicate your feelings is through your eyes, your heart.”
    “And what if she wants to go home with me?”
    “You can’t , dear. You’ve lost your wee-wee, remember? All you can do is smile bravely and invite her to dinner the next night—or maybe a nice walk in the park. She’ll accept, too. I promise she will.”
    Brian took a long drag on the joint. “So how long …?” He exhaled in midsentence, making sure he maintained an expression of amused tolerance. “How long am I supposed to keep pretending?”
    “As long as possible. Until she asks you.”
    “Asks me what?”
    “If you were wounded in the war, of course!”
    “And what do I tell her?”
    “The truth, dear. That everything’s intact. It’ll be a lovely surprise for her.”
    He folded his arms across his chest and smiled at her.
    “And,” she said, raising her forefinger, “you’ll have a nice surprise too.”
    “What?”
    “You’ll know the poor dear, Brian. And you might even like her by then.”
    Minutes later, as he stood in the window of his little house on the roof, he marveled at how well Mrs. Madrigal could read him, how swiftly she had detected “the creature who’s driving my carefree boy to utter distraction.”
    Did it show on his face now? Did his pupils dilate from the sheer, loin-twitching force of the fantasy? What set of the jaw or tic of the eye betrayed the passion that had begun to consume him?
    At two minutes before midnight he lifted his binoculars to his face and focused on the eleventh floor of the Superman Building.
    She appeared, as he prayed she would, on the hour. And he heard himself whimper when their binoculars locked in mid-air.

Bobbi
    E XHAUSTED BY THE DRUGS AND THE LONG BUS RIDE, Mona crashed after breakfast at the Blue Moon Lodge. The broiling midday sun had already forced her to kick off the covers when Bobbi knocked on the door of her cinder-block cubicle.
    “Knock, knock,” she said.
    Mona groaned silently. How long would she be able to endure the puppy love of this sugar-coated tart?
    “Hi Judy. Mother Mucca asked me to show you how the phones work.”
    Arrggh. The phones. This was a job, wasn’t it? She was paying her way on this acidless trip. Dragging herself into a semi-upright position, she leaned against the headboard and rubbed her eyes. “Three minutes, O.K.?”
    She staggered into the tiny bathroom and splashed water on her face. It would only be for a week, she reassured herself, and prostitution was legal in Nevada. Besides, if she ever decided to take up copywriting again, this gig would look stunning on a résumé.
    Two large metal hooks in the ceiling caught her eye as she left the bathroom.
    “What’s that for?” she asked Bobbi.
    “What?”
    “Those hooks.”
    “Oh. This used to be Tanya’s room.”
    Gotcha. Thanks a helluva lot. “Tanya did something with hooks?”
    Bobbi giggled, as if Mona were a new kid on the block who didn’t know the first thing about hopscotch. “That’s where she hung the swing.”
    Should I ask about that? thought Mona. Yes. I’m a receptionist in a whorehouse. I should know about swings. “The swing was part of … her routine?”
    Bobbi nodded. “Water sports. She was real famous for it.”
    “You mean …? I