Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

different plaids in the great room that it looked like a gathering of the clans.
    “Hey,” said Ned, as he warmed his butt in front of the gas-jet embers. “I almost forgot. I got a call from______this week.”
    “No kidding,” said Michael, his voice ringing with unabashed fandom. It was almost inconceivable that someone he knew got personal phone calls from movie stars. Even if Ned had been this movie star’s lover.
    “He’s royally bummed out,” said Ned. “They canceled the musical he was gonna tour with this summer.”
    “He sings?”
    Ned shrugged. “When you look like that, no one notices.”
    “Tell him to come with us,” offered Michael, meaning the chorus’s own nine city summer tour. “God, wouldn’t that knock ’em dead in Nebraska?”
    “I think he’ll survive,” said Ned. “He still gets two million a picture.”
    Michael whistled. “Where does he spend it?”
    “On his friends mostly. And the house. Wanna see it?”
    “Uh … pardon me?”
    “He invited me down for a weekend. Said to bring a friend. How about it?”
    Michael almost yelped. “Me? Are you serious? Lordy mercy, man! Me at______ ______’s house? Is this for real?”
    Ned nodded, beaming like a father who had just offered his eight-year-old a shot at Disneyland.
They rode back to the city in Ned’s pickup, carrying six buddies and their bedrolls as cargo.
    The illusion presented was almost redneck—except for the telltale chartreuse crinolines from last night’s Andrews Sisters sketch. And, of course, the three identical auburn wigs on styrofoam stands.
    At a stop sign near the K-Mart in Saratoga, Ned pulled alongside a bronze Barracuda that was draped in pink toilet paper and spray-painted with this legend: JUST MARRIED—SHE GOT HIM TODAY—HE’LL GET HER TONIGHT.
    A whoop went up from the back of the truck.
    The bridegroom, resplendent in a powder blue tuxedo with matching ruffled shirt, cast a nervous glance in their direction, frowned and turned back to his bride. Michael saw the word “fags” form on his lips.
    Rolling the window down, he shouted across at the couple: “Hey!” They were moving again now, but Ned kept the truck even with the car.
    “Yeah?” said the bridegroom.
    “Congratulations!” yelled Michael.
    “Thanks!” shouted the bride, still holding tight to her husband’s free arm.
    “What’s your song?”
    “Huh?”
    “Your song. What is it?”
    The bride beamed. “ ‘We’ve Only Just Begun.’ ”
    Michael hollered to the guys in the back of the truck. “HIT IT, GIRLS!”
    The Andrews Sisters were never lovelier.

Idol Chatter
    M ICHAEL WAITED UNTIL THE FAMILY WAS ASSEMBLED for Mary Ann’s birthday dinner before breaking the news.
    Mary Ann was the most flabbergasted.
    “Now wait just a minute!”
    Michael held up his hand. “Scout’s honor, Babycakes. Ned invited me yesterday.”
    “I’m not questioning that,” said Mary Ann, “but, you mean _____ _____ is gay?”
    “As the proverbial goose,” said Michael. “Hell,” said Brian, sawing off a chunk of pot roast. “Even I knew that. Remember that story about his gay wedding to _______ _______ back about …?”
    “Well, of course I heard that, but …” Mary Ann was almost sputtering; she hated it when her Cleveland naiveté popped up like an overnight zit. “Well, I always thought it was just some sort of … bad joke.”
    “It was a bad joke,” said Michael. “A couple of tired queens in Hermosa Beach or some place sent out party invitations announcing a mock wedding and … the rumor just got started. ______ and ______ were never even lovers. Just friends. They couldn’t be seen in public together after that. It would only confirm the rumor.”
    “Do you always refer to him by his first name?” teased Mary Ann.
    Michael grinned. “Just practicing.”
    Mrs. Madrigal heaped more carrots onto Michael’s plate. “That’s a rather sad story, isn’t it?”
    Michael nodded. “It must’ve been a bitch, staying closeted all these years.”
    “Yeah,” said Brian, his mouth full of pot roast, “but two mil a movie must soften the blow.”
    Mary Ann giggled. “So to speak.”
    Michael’s eyes widened in pseudo-horror. “Well, look who’s getting smutty in her senior years.” Mary Ann stuck her tongue out daintily.
    Mrs. Madrigal stirred her coffee as she stared off into space.
    “_______ _______,” she murmured, intoning the matinee idol’s name as if it were one of Mona’s mantras. “Well,