Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

from now it’ll kill you to part with your kaftan.”
    “Where is everybody?”
    Helena chuckled. “Hiding, probably.”
    “Why?”
    “Oh, it’s silly, really. Technically, you’re not sixty until tomorrow at—what? Seven-thirty or so? The other girls are a little wary of talking to initiates until after you’re … one of us.”
    “Then … what do I do until then?”
    Helena slid a willowy arm across her shoulder. “First of all, darling, I think you should take another vitamin Q. Then I suggest you ask Birdsong.”
    “Who?”
    Helena winked. “Follow me.”
    Three minutes later, the hostess flung open the door of Frannie’s cottage. A young man sitting on the edge of the bed jumped to his feet. He was about twenty-four, Frannie guessed, with a lean body, curly black hair and astoundingly blue eyes. He was wearing a dusty-rose terry cloth jumpsuit, unzipped to the waist.
    And he was clearly flustered. “Mrs. Parrish, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
    “That’s all right, Birdsong. You didn’t know we were coming. This is Mrs. Halcyon.”
    Birdsong nodded shyly. “Hullo.”
    “How do you do?”
    “Birdsong is your houseboy,” explained Helena. “He can fill you in on everything. Meanwhile, I must get ready for your little do tomorrow, so … ta-ta!” She made a lightning-quick exit. Frannie was left standing there, smiling nervously at Birdsong.
    “Well,” said the houseboy, suddenly more sure of himself. “It’s time for our bath, I suppose.”
    Outside in the toasty Sonoma sunshine, Helena Parrish was janing at the top of her lungs.

Bedside Manner
    W HEN MICHAEL WOKE AT ST. SEBASTIAN’S HOSPITAL , Jon was at his side, armed with a pot of mums, three back issues of Playgirl and something in a brown paper bag.
    “Look at you,” smiled Michael. “A queen’s wet dream.”
    Jon winked at him. “How ya feeling?”
    “Less and less. But that’s normal, isn’t it?”
    “Sure. It usually … ascends. Michael … it gets worse before it gets better.”
    “Gotcha.”
    “Are you … can you feel it moving?”
    “Yeah, I guess. Kind of a tingling, right?” He placed his hand on his leg just below the groin. “Won’t be long now, kiddo. Better get it while the gettin’ is good!”
    Jon laughed. “Speaking of which, I just checked out the orderly. I’m a lot more worried about him than I am about … this.”
    “Right. So what’s in the bag, liar?”
    Jon dropped the bag in his lap. “Guess.”
    “My very own Accu-Jac?”
    “Open it, turkey.”
    Michael picked up the bag. A Little Lulu comic book fell out. “God, Jon! It’s … vintage! It must be late fifties at least! Where did you find it?”
    “That comics store on Columbus.”
    “Christ!” He flipped excitedly through the comic book. “Look! There’s that clubhouse with the No Girls Allowed sign! And the ads must be … Oh, God, I gotta see the ads!”
    “Whatdya mean?”
    “You know … joy buzzers and whoopee cushions and that goddamn little metal thing that was supposed to turn you into a ventriloquist when you stuck it under your tongue. Christ! Didn’t you ever send off for one of those?”
    The doctor shook his head, smiling.
    “No,” sighed Michael, “of course you didn’t. And you never read the Charles Atlas ads either. You were never a ninety-eight-pound weakling. Or was it ninety-seven?”
    “You got me. And listen, asshole, if you were ever a whatever-pound weakling, you got over it pretty quick.” He reached over and felt Michael’s bicep, then kept his hand cupped gently against the muscle.
    Michael looked down at his arm. “That’ll go.”
    “Michael …”
    “ And the pecs. The pecs’ll go down like a preacher’s daughter.”
    Jon chuckled. “Where the hell did you pick that one up?”
    “Where else? Florida. Land of the Free and Home of the Butch. When will this be over, Jon?”
    Jon let go of his arm. “Well … sometimes the syndrome can run its course in a matter of weeks.”
    “Sometimes.”
    “A high percentage of cases have—”
    “Jon, what the fuck. I’m gonna be paralyzed, aren’t I? Completely.”
    The doctor nodded. “I think so.”
    “How am I gonna breathe?”
    “It may not spread that far.”
    “What if it does?”
    “If it does, a tracheotomy may be necessary. It’s not as awful as it sounds, Michael. In most cases, the condition is only—”
    “You poor bastard!” Michael laughed sardonically.
    “What?”
    “You thought you had a fruit, but