Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

That way, see, we can have a San Francisco wing as well as an international wing.”
    “I see.”
    “I thought you might, darling.” Victoria giggled conspiratorially. “God, isn’t it fabulous? We’ll get to donate our old gowns and everything. Plus Wolfgang can make marvelous paste imitations of your emeralds, and … well, I’m just positive we can raise the money in no time.”
    “Have you talked to Denise yet?”
    Victoria chuckled. “I’m way ahead of you, Prudy Sue. I think she’s good for fifty thousand, if we put her in the international wing. Ditto Ann Getty. That one may be a little tougher to pull off unless we stack the board of directors, but what-the-hell, we’ll stack the board of directors.”
    Prue finally managed a laugh. “You haven’t told Shugie Sussman, have you?”
    “God no! We hadn’t planned on a Chamber of Horrors, darling! On second thought, let’s do—have you seen Kitty Cipriani’s latest facelift?”
    Prue laughed even louder this time. Then she said: “Oh Vicky, thank you! I’ve needed to laugh more than anything. I’ve been so depressed over Vuitton.”
    “Over …? Oh, your dog.”
    “It’s been almost two weeks now. The Park & Rec people haven’t seen him anywhere. I don’t know what to do except …” Prue’s voice trailed off as the melancholy swept over her again.
    “Except what, Prudy Sue.”
    “Well … I thought I might go back to the park and … wait for him.”
    “That’s an awfully long shot, isn’t it. I mean, two weeks, Prudy Sue. It’s not very likely that he’s still …”
    “I know he’s there, Vicky. I can feel it in my bones. I know he’ll come back to me, if I give him the chance.”
    Even as she spoke, Prue knew how she sounded. She sounded like poor old Frannie Halcyon, still believing against preposterous odds that her long-lost daughter would return from the jungles of Guyana.
    But stranger things had happened.

No Big Deal
    O N HIS WAY HOME FROM PERRY’S, BRIAN STOPPED AT a garage sale on Union Street and bought an antique Peter, Paul & Mary album for a quarter.
    Also available: two Shelley Berman albums, an early Limelighters album featuring Glenn Yarborough, and the soundtracks of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Mondo Cane, and To Kill a Mockingbird.
    Somebody’s youth, in other words.
    There was nothing like a stack of dog-eared record albums to remind you that the past was just so much dead weight, excess baggage to be cast overboard when the sailing got tougher. Or so Brian told himself.
    Nevertheless, he lit a joint upon returning to Barbary Lane and crooned along euphorically while PP&M sang “If I Had a Hammer,” “Five Hundred Miles” and “Puff the Magic Dragon.”
    Had it really been eighteen years—Christ, half his life!—since Nelson Schwab had cornered him during Hell Week at the Deke House to impart the privileged information that “Puff” was really an underground parable about—no shit!—smoking marijuana?
    Yep, it really had.
    He fell into a black funk, then snatched the record off the turntable and shattered it with the hammer he kept in the tool box under the kitchen sink. Inexcusable symbolism, but somehow richly satisfying.
    So much for the iron grip of the past.
    Now, what about the present?
The Chronicle “help wanted” ads were so dismal that Brian postponed any immediate career decisions and trekked downstairs to help Mrs. Madrigal plan Mary Ann’s birthday party. He found the landlady installing a Roach Motel in a dark corner of her pantry.
    Looking up, she smiled defeatedly. “I told myself I would never buy one of these dreadful things. Those TV commercials seem so sadistic. Still, we can’t love absolutely all of God’s creatures, can we? They haven’t found their way up to your place, I hope?”
    Brian shook his head. “The altitude’s too much for ’em.”
    Mrs. Madrigal stood up, wiping her hands against each other as if they were sticky with blood. She cast a final glance at the grisly Motel, shuddered, and took Brian’s arm. “Let’s go sit in the sunshine, dear. I feel like Anthony Perkins waiting for Janet Leigh to check in.”
    Out in the courtyard, she ticked off a list of prospective delights for Mary Ann’s upcoming celebration: “A nice roast of some sort with those baby carrots that she likes … and some ice cream from Gelato, of course, to go with the birthday cake. And … well, I guess it’s about time for Barbara Stanwyck, isn’t it?”
    “A