Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

something, anyway. So what if we ended up turning S & M tricks in a Winnemucca whorehouse? We always remembered not to lick the centers out of Oreos, not to sit with our legs apart, not to point at people or scratch ourselves when we itched.
    “How ‘bout it?” Bobbi persisted.
    “Sure,” said Mona. “Why not?”
    Hopping onto the bed with unsuppressed glee, Bobbi tore into the package of cookies. “So,” she said, offering one to Mona, “what did you think of him?”
    Mona deadpanned. “Beats me.”
    Bobbi missed it. “I think he’s real handsome.”
    “Bobbi … I don’t wanna talk about it, O.K.?”
    “Sure. Sorry.”
    Bobbi drew her knees up under her chin, hugging them. She munched meditatively on an Oreo as if she were checking its vintage. Then she studied Mona soulfully.
    “You know what, Judy?”
    “What?”
    “You’re my best friend.”
    Silence.
    “Cross my heart, Judy.”
    “Well, that’s … Thank you.”
    “Could I stay tonight?”
    “Here?”
    Bobbi nodded. “It would be like a slumber party or something.”
    “Bobbi, I don’t think …”
    “I’m not a lesbo, Judy.”
    Mona smiled. “What if I am?”
    Bobbi looked startled at first, then amused. “No way,” she laughed. “Not you.”
    Mona laughed with her, despite the implicit deception involved. D’orothea, after all, was long gone from her life. In Mona’s eyes, lesbianism had simply been the logical follow-up to macrobiotics and primal screaming. She had gotten into it, but seldom off on it, and never behind it.
    She took an Oreo from Bobbi and split it apart. “How can we have a slumber party without a stack of 45’s and a record player?”
    “I know some ghost stories.”
    Mona grinned. “We could do our toenails.”
    “I did mine yesterday.”
    “Oh, well, then we could—”
    “Lick the centers out of Oreos!” They squealed in unison as Mona held up a cookie with the creamy filling exposed. Bobbi held her tongue out expectantly. “We need milk,” Mona blurted, dropping the Oreo in Bobbi’s hand and springing from the bed.
    She avoided the parlor, where she could hear Mother Mucca lining up four of the girls for a pair of drunken truckers. She entered the kitchen from the back door, fumbled for the light switch and made her way to the refrigerator. There was half a quart of milk on the top shelf.
    A pitcher would be nice, she decided. They could pour each other milk from a pitcher. Bobbi would like that.
    She found one on the shelf over the stove, a pale green Depression piece that would fetch a small fortune in a San Francisco antique shop.
    As she reached for it, her hand brushed past a row of tattered cookbooks, knocking one to the floor. She bent over to pick it up. The name on the flyleaf filled her with instant terror.
    Mona Ramsey.

Temper, Temper
    T WO DAYS BEFORE THE PACIFIC PRINCESS WAS SCHEDULED to arrive in Acapulco, Michael awoke to find himself alone in his stateroom. Mary Ann’s bed was still made. Eager for a play-by-play, he showered hurriedly and raced down to breakfast on the Aloha Deck.
    Mary Ann was already seated, as were Arnold and Melba Littlefield, resplendent in matching denim pantsuits. Arnold’s outfit was embroidered with rainbows; Melba’s had butterflies. God help us, thought Michael. The Summer of Love is alive and well in Dublin.
    “Well,” thundered Arnold, as Michael sat down, “don’t you two ever make it to chow at the same time?”
    Mary Ann flushed, casting a nervous glance at her lapsed roommate.
    Michael turned elfin. “The little woman’s probably worked up one hell of an appetite.”
    Mary Ann kicked him under the table.
    Arnold chuckled knowingly and winked at Michael.
    Melba, as usual, looked puzzled. “Out boogying all night?” Melba was abnormally fond of words like “boogy,” “rap” and “rip-off,” a vocabulary Michael was certain she had picked up from People magazine.
    “Boogying?” He might as well have fun with it.
    “You know. Dancing. Didn’t they set up a disco in the Skaal Bar?”
    “Oh, yeah. I forgot. I hit the sack early. With Christopher Isherwood.”
    Mary Ann was squirming. “Mouse, you haven’t ordered yet.”
    “Wait a minute,” said Arnold, addressing Michael. “Run that one by me again.”
    “It’s a book,” said Mary Ann.
    Michael nodded. “Christopher and His Kind.”
    “Mouse … I think the steward …”
    “What’s it about?” asked Arnold.
    “He wrote Cabaret,” said Mary Ann.
    “About