Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

sing during our periods, so that we can really gross people out when we—”
    “Hey, punk … O.K., O.K.!”
    Douchebag’s mouth curled. “Shit, man! I can’t wait till I’m thirteen!”

A Changed Man
    B RIAN WAS ON HIS WAY OUT THE DOOR WHEN THE phone rang in the little house on the roof.
    “Yeah?”
    “Hey! What’s happenin’?”
    It had to be Chip Hardesty. Chip Hardesty would ask “What’s happenin’?” at his grandmother’s funeral. He lived in Larkspur, but his home was barely distinguishable from his Northpoint office. Both had Boston ferns, Watney’s Ale mirrors and basket chairs suspended from chains. He didn’t particularly get off on being a dentist.
    “Not much,” answered Brian. For the first time in years, he was lying through his teeth.
    “Bitchin’! I’ve got a plan.”
    “Yeah,” said Brian noncommittally. Chip’s last plan had involved a case of Cold Duck, a rental cabin at Tahoe and two sure-thing dental receptionist students from the Bryman School. One of these women—Chip’s, of course—had been a dead ringer for Olivia Newton-John.
    Brian’s date had been uncomfortably suggestive of Amy Carter and had loped along at a strange angle in an effort to compensate for a left breast she felt to be smaller than her right.
    “Are you working tonight?” asked Chip.
    “Afraid so.”
    “What time you get off?”
    “Eleven.”
    “O.K. Listen. You remember Jennifer Rabinowitz?”
    “Nope.”
    “O.K. Huge knockers, right? Works at The Cannery. Pierced nose—”
    “Barfed at the Tarr and Feathers sing-along.”
    “Says who?”
    “Says me. The barfee.”
    “You never told me that.”
    “Sorry. I should have mentioned it on my Christmas card.”
    A hurt silence followed. Then: “I’m doin’ you a favor, man. You can take it or leave it.”
    “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
    “O.K. Jennifer’s got this friend—”
    “Makes her own clothes. Great personality. All the girls in the dorm just love—”
    “What the hell’s wrong with you, man?”
    “I’ll be out of it, Chip. Better count me out.”
    “What’s that mean? Out of it.”
    “Beat. Exhausted. Eleven o’clock’s a little late for—”
    “Christ! You haven’t crashed before two in five years!”
    “Well, maybe I’m getting old, then.”
    “Yeah. Maybe you are.”
    “Chip?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Go spray your hair, will ya?”
    As a matter of fact, he wasn’t a bit tired when he finished with his last customer at Perry’s. He felt vigorous, exhilarated, as spirited as a fourteen-year-old about to lock himself in the bathroom with a copy of Fanny Hill. Lady Eleven was the best thing that had happened to him in years.
    Later, as he climbed out of the shower, he acknowledged the fact that he felt a strong sense of fidelity toward the siren in the Superman Building. She belonged to him, in the purest, most satisfying sense of the word. And he belonged to her. If only for half an hour.
    He had met an equal, at last.

Love on a Rooftop
    T HE HAMPTON-GIDDES WERE THE FIRST TO ARRIVE FROM the ballet. “Fabulous latticework,” gushed Archibald Anson Gidde, appraising his host’s new rooftop deck.
    Peter Cipriani nodded. “I found this gorgeous twink carpenter in the Mission. Dirt cheap and pecks that won’t quit. Jason something-or-other.”
    “They’re all called Jason, aren’t they?”
    Peter snickered. “Or Jonathan.”
    “Was his ear pierced?”
    “Nope. But he wore cut-offs to die. And knee socks with Lands End come-fuck-me boots. He was hot.”
    “How is he with kitchens?”
    “Who knows? I can only speak for bedrooms, my dear.”
    “Ooooh,” said Archibald Anson Gidde.
    Minutes before midnight, the deck was crowded with A-Gays, tastefully atwitter over glissades and pirouettes. Charles Hillary Lord lifted a spade of cocaine to Archibald Anson Gidde’s left nostril.
    “I talked to Nicky today.”
    Arch inhaled the powder noisily. “And?”
    “I think he’s going in on it.”
    “Good,” said Arch indifferently. “That should help you a lot.”
    “We don’t need help, Arch. It’s a sure thing. I just want you in on the ground floor.”
    “Then you won’t be hurt if I say no.”
    Chuck Lord sighed dramatically and swept his arm over the rooftops of Russian Hill. “Arch … do you have any idea at all how many faggots are out there?”
    “Just a sec. I’ll check my address book.”
    “There are—and this is conservatively speaking—one hundred and twenty thousand