Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

on the edge of his bed and perused a scrapbook opened across their knees. A MAKE LOVE NOT WAR bumper sticker was plastered on the cover.
    “Look,” said Brian uneasily, “if this gets to be a big drag …”
    “It was my idea, wasn’t it?”
    “O.K. Well …” He flipped past the first few pages. “This is just boring stuff.”
    “No. Stop. What’s that?”
    “Law school. The Law Review at George Washington.”
    “Which one is you?”
    “The dip with the David Harris glasses.”
    “You wear glasses?”
    “Not any more. Contacts.”
    “Green-tinted, huh?” She smiled teasingly. He pretended to be mildly affronted, but inwardly he was pleased. She had noticed his eyes. That was a start, anyway.
    He pointed to a newspaper clipping. “This one made the AP wires. That’s me in Chicago, 1968, on the left.”
    “How can you tell? Your head is down.”
    “I was going limp for the police.”
    “Really? Where else did you go limp?”
    “Oh … Selma, Washington … Are you making fun of me?”
    She smiled. “I went limp in Minneapolis.”
    “No shit?”
    She nodded, beaming.
    “The War?”
    “Yeah. Did you know Jerry Rubin?”
    “I met him once in Chicago. We talked for about half an hour, I guess.”
    “I just read his book. Growing Up at 37. I was really blown away.”
    “Good, huh?”
    She made a face, shaking her head. “He said he got on this big power trip—militancy and all that—because he was uptight about the size of his penis. I mean, that’s a really heavy thing to say.”
    He nodded solemnly. She wasn’t joking.
    “Christ,” she said angrily. “Is that what we did it for? Is that what the sixties were all about? The size of Jerry Rubin’s goddamn dick?”
    There was simply no profound reply for that. Brian ended up laughing. “It’s enough to make you go limp,” he said.
    Later, they stood together by the window facing the bay. Brian lit a joint of Maui Zowie and handed it to Mona. She took a short toke and handed it back. “That’s all I want,” she said. “I might get bummed out.”
    “What’s the matter?”
    She sighed and stared out at the beacon on Alcatraz. “My mother’s coming to town,” she said finally.
    The implication took a while to sink in. Then Brian whistled. “Does Mrs. Madrigal know?”
    Mona shook her head glumly. “I want to try and handle it myself. My mother said something really weird on the phone. She said I was making a terrible mistake.”
    “Do you think she knows about Mrs. Madrigal?”
    “I’m not sure. But if she does know, she must assume that I know and that I know she knows. So what could she possibly tell me? What’s all this ‘terrible mistake’ shit?”
    Her voice was trembling. Brian slipped his arm around her waist.
    “I don’t need any more surprises, Brian. I’m frightened.” She was crying now. Pulling away from him, she crossed the room to the other window, where she stood wiping her eyes.
    “Mona …”
    “I’m all right now.” She looked around for a clock. “It’s late. I should go.”
    He moved to her side, risking it all. “You can stay … if you’d like.”
    “No. But ask me again.” She hugged him awkwardly, laying her head against his chest. “I like you, Brian. You’re a closet Tom Hayden.”
    He kissed her forehead. “Where’s my Jane Fonda?” he asked.
    They held each other tight, framed against the window like a cliché out of Rod McKuen.
    Lady Eleven watched them for less than a minute, then took off her binoculars and closed the curtains.

A Poem to Ponder
    I T MAY HAVE BEEN THE PALM TREES OR THE ODDLY TROPICAL night or the swarthy man sipping Campari at the next table, but something about the terrace at the Savoy-Tivoli gave Mary Ann a shivery flashback to Mexico.
    Burke felt it too. “Remind you of Las Hadas?”
    “I didn’t plan it that way, I promise.” She had called him excitedly from the hospital, choosing this as the spot for their rendezvous. She had refused to reveal her discovery over the phone.
    “So what’s up?” asked Burke, as soon as their coffee and desserts had arrived.
    Mary Ann smiled mysteriously and plunged a spoon into her butterscotch trifle. “I’ve found our friend,” she replied at last.
    “Who?”
    “The man at the flower mart. With the hair transplant.”
    “Jesus. Where ?”
    “At the hospital. He runs the flower shop there. I went by there this afternoon to pick up an azalea or something for Michael, and there he was behind