Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

practicing homosexuals within the city limits of San Francisco.”
    “And practice does make perfect.”
    “Those one hundred and twenty thousand homosexuals are going to grow old together, Arch. Some of them may go back to Kansas or wherever the hell they ran away from, but most of them are gonna stay right here in Shangri-la, cruising each other until it’s pacemaker time.”
    “I need a Valium.”
    “Goddammit, Arch, don’t you see? We’re O.K. We’ve got houses and cars and trust funds and enough … assets to pay for Dial-a-Model until we’re a hundred and two, if we want to. It’s those fuckers on food stamps and ATD, selling crap at the flea market and painting houses in the Haight, who’re gonna need this when the time comes.”
    Arch’s face grew serious. “Doesn’t that smack of exploitation to you, Chuck?”
    “Oh, for God’s sake! Somebody’s gonna do it! You know that, Arch. Why shouldn’t we be the first?”
    “I don’t know. It just seems … risky.”
    “Risky? Arch, it’s social history! It’s Wall street Journal stuff! Think of it! The first gay nursing home in the history of the world!”
    Arch Gidde turned and looked at the city. “Gimme some time, O.K.?”
    Chuck flung an arm over his shoulder and adopted a more affectionate tone. “Nicky’s even thought of a name.”
    “What?”
    “The Last Roundup.”
    “Oh, for God’s …”
    “Don’t you see? A tasteful butch Western motif, with barn siding in the rooms and little chuckwagons for the food—”
    “Let’s not forget the denim colostomy bags.”
    Chuck glared at him. “You joke, but I know you see the profit in this!”
    Silence.
    “Look, Arch: it’s very civilized, in a way. I mean, we could have a steam room and everything. The orderlies could be Colt Models!”
    “That’s always nice to know when they’re carrying you to the toilet. Look, Chuck, everybody’s different. This is your fantasy. What are you gonna do with, like, the drag queens?”
    “We could—I don’t know—we could have a separate wing.”
    “And Helen Hayes look-alike contests?”
    “Well, I don’t see any reason why—”
    He was cut short by Peter Cipriani, shouting excitedly to his guests. “O.K., don’t crowd. One at a time, gentlemen, one at a time.” He handed a pair of binoculars to Rick Hampton, who aimed them in a northerly direction.
    “Which building?” asked Rick.
    “The shingled one. On Barbary Lane. That little house on the roof, see?”
    “Yeah, but I don’t—”
    “The right window.”
    “Jesus Christ!”
    “What?” asked Arch, as the others crowded around.
    “Oh, Jesus, look what he’s—”
    “What’s he doing?” shrieked Arch.
    “Wait your turn, Mary. Oh, Jesus, I can’t buhleeve … How long has this been going on, Peter?”
    “A couple of weeks, at least. There’s a woman he’s watching in that white building.”
    “He’s straight? ”
    “Apparently.”
    “He can’t be! Straight people don’t have bodies like that!”
    “Lemme see!” said Arch.

The Slumber Party
    B ACK IN HER OWN CUBICLE, MONA SAT PERFECTLY STILL on the bed and performed the only rite of exorcism she knew: She recited her mantra.
    It wasn’t that she felt guilty, really. Or even embarrassed. She had kept her agreement and she could live with that. She had pleased the client. She had pleased Mother Mucca. She had been flawlessly seventies about the whole fucking thing.
    It wasn’t shame, then, that consumed her. It was … nothing. She felt nothing at all, and it scared the hell out of her. The yawning Black Hole of her existence had reached seismic proportions, and she was perilously near the abyss. If she did not keep running, if she did not keep changing, the random and monstrous irrationality of the universe would swallow her alive.
    “Knock, knock.”
    Silence.
    “Knock, knock.”
    “Yeah, Bobbi?”
    The child-whore peered in, cautiously. She waved a cellophane package through the door, like a vampire-killer brandishing a crucifix. “I’ve got some Oreos. Wanna help me eat ‘em?”
    “I don’t think so, Bobbi.”
    A pause, and then: “You feelin’ O.K., Judy?”
    “Why shouldn’t I? He’s the one who’s smarting.”
    Bobbi giggled and shook the package again. “Don’t you want just a few? ”
    “You don’t lick the centers, do you?”
    “No. I hate that.”
    “Me too.”
    “My mother wouldn’t let me have ‘em if I licked the centers.”
    Mona smiled. Mothers were good for