Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

“Yeah.”
    “Oh, I guess … three years.”
    “You’ve known a lot of the girls who’ve been through here, then?”
    “Sure.” Bobbi popped a stick of Dentyne into her mouth and chewed it soberly, suddenly aware that she was being interrogated.
    “Do you remember one called Mona?”
    The chewing continued. If the name had jolted Bobbi, the expression on her face didn’t betray it. “Mona, huh?”
    “Yeah.”
    Bobbi shook her head languidly. “No. Not right offhand.”
    “Think, Bobbi. Please.”
    “You know her last name?”
    “Ramsey. Mona Ramsey.”
    The light dawned. Bobbi giggled at her own stupidity. “Oh, gee,” she said. “We never call her that!”
    “Who, Bobbi?”
    “Mother Mucca.”
    “ Mother Mucca? ”
    “Sure. Mona Ramsey is Mother Mucca’s real name.”
    Minutes later, when Bobbi had left, Mona sat alone and pondered her mounting paranoia. She hadn’t felt so confused and frightened—so utterly abandoned—since Rennie Davis, the foremost deity of her youth, had been discovered selling John Hancock insurance in Colorado.
    Why was Buddha doing this to her?
    Two Mona Ramseys in the same whorehouse! One grizzled and ancient and weathered by debauchery. The other jaded but youngish and teetering on the brink of lunacy.
    Past and future? Yin and Yang? Donny and Marie?
    Mother Mucca had been right from the beginning: “That angel dust’ll fuck you up every time!”
    It will and it did, thought Mona. It will and it did.
    I am twisted beyond recognition, beyond redemption. There are no longer laws that apply to me. Only a miracle could save me now.
    She walked back to the empty parlor in a glazed stupor and placed a phone call to 28 Barbary Lane.
    “Madrigal.”
    “Thank God!”
    “Who is this, please?”
    “It’s me, Mrs. Madrigal. Mona.”
    “Child! Where are you?”
    “Oh, God! Winnemucca!”
    Silence.
    “Mrs. Madrigal?”
    “Are you all right, dear?”
    “Well, I’m … No, I feel like shit.”
    “Are you … are you at the Blue Moon?”
    Mona began to whimper. “How did you know?”
    “Mona, I—”
    “How did you know?”
    “The question, dear, is how did you know?”
    “How did I know what?”
    “About … Winnemucca?”
    “I’m cracking up, Mrs. Madrigal.”
    “Please, Mona. I would have told you earlier—”
    “Told me what?”
    “I was so afraid you’d hate me for it, for running off and leaving—”
    “I didn’t run off! I needed space. I told you that in the—”
    “Not you, dear. Me.”
    “What? You haven’t run off. What in the world are you talking about?”
    Silence.
    “Mrs. Madrigal?”
    “It looks like we’d better take this from the top, dear. Are you alone?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, sit down, then. I’ve got a little story to tell you.”

Acapulco Blues
    I T WAS DUSK ON BOARD THE PACIFIC PRINCESS. MICHAEL sat in a deck chair, smoking a joint and watching the gentle, seductive curve of the beach at Acapulco. The air was warm, and the sky was exactly the color it should have been.
    Even before he got stoned.
    “Mouse?” It was Mary Ann. Dressed for a date.
    “Hi,” said Michael.
    “I’ve looked all over for you.”
    “I’se heah, Miz Scahlett.”
    She pulled up a deck chair and sat on the edge of it. “Are you all right, Mouse?”
    He nodded. “I’m always all right.”
    “You weren’t at dinner.”
    He patted his stomach. “Chubbette.”
    “Burke and I thought you might … We’d really like it if you came into town with us tonight. Somebody told us about this place called BabyO’s.”
    “Thanks. I don’t think I’m up for that tonight.”
    “It’s a disco.”
    “Maybe tomorrow, O.K.?”
    She brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “Are you sure?”
    He nodded as her hand slid down the side of his face. His cheek was wet. She sat with him for almost a minute, holding his hand, saying nothing.
    “You better go,” he said finally. “I’m O.K.”
    “You’re too hard on yourself, Mouse.”
    He shrugged. “If I don’t do it, who will?”
    “Mouse, you’re the most wonderful—”
    “I know, Mary Ann. I know I’m a nice guy. I really do. I know that you love me. I know that old ladies love me and my mother and dogs and cats … and every goddamn person I meet except someone who’ll commit himself to … Please, don’t get me started.”
    “Mouse, I wish you could—”
    “The hell of it is, I know the answer. The answer is that you never, ever, rely on another person for your peace of mind.