Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

nodded.
    “How well did you know him, anyway?”
    DeDe hesitated. “I wasn’t in the inner circle, if that’s what you mean.”
    “Who was?”
    “Well … mostly the ones who slept with him. He had a sort of coterie of young white women who were always getting screwed for the revolution. Sometimes he had sex as often as ten or twelve times a day. He used to brag about it. It was how he took control.”
    “But he never …?”
    “He knew about me and D’orothea, and he hated it. Not because we were lesbians, because he couldn’t have us.”
    “It was that important to him?”
    DeDe shrugged. “His track record’s available. He took two wives from Larry Layton, and he fathered a child by one of them. He fucked anything he could get his hands on, including some of the men.”
    “I see.”
    “He was … with me only once. At Jane Pittman Gardens.”
    Mary Ann looked puzzled.
    “Our dorm,” explained DeDe. “A lot of them were named after famous black women. I was sick that night, with a fever. D’orothea and most of the others were at a white night….”
    “Uh …?”
    “Suicide practice. Somebody else must’ve run the show, because Jones came to the dorm and climbed into bed with me.”
    “Jesus.”
    “He told me quite calmly that he thought it was about time the twins saw who their father was.”
    Mary Ann shook her head in disbelief.
    “And then … he raped me. The twins were in the crib next to us, screaming through the whole thing. When he finally left, he leaned over and kissed both of them rather sweetly and said: ‘Now you’re mine forever.’ ”
    “Awful.”
    “He means it, too.”
    Mary Ann reached across the table and took her hand. “Meant,” she said quietly.
    DeDe looked away from her. “Let’s go get a drink somewhere.”

Man and Walkman
    I T WAS LATE AFTERNOON, THE TIME OF DAY WHEN SUNSHINE streamed through the green celluloid shades at the Twin Peaks and made the patrons look like fish in an overpopulated aquarium.
    Michael sat on a window seat, against the glass—like the snail in the aquarium, he decided, passive, voyeuristic, moving at his own pace. He was still wearing his God’s Green Earth overalls.
    The man next to him was wearing a Walkman. When he saw Michael watching him, he took off the tiny earphones and held them out to him. “Wanna listen?”
    Michael smiled appreciatively. “Who is it?”
    “Abba.”
    Abba? This guy was built like a brick shithouse, with an elephantine mustache and smoldering brown eyes. What was he doing hooked up to that sort of smarmy Euro-pop? On the other hand, he was also wearing a Qiana shirt. Maybe he just didn’t know any better.
    Michael avoided the confrontation. “Actually,” he said, “I’m not big on Walkmans. They make me kind of claustrophobic. I like to be able to get away from my music.”
    “I use them at work mostly,” said the man, “when there’s a lot of paperwork. I smoke a doobie at lunch, come back, put these babies on and go with the flow.”
    “Yeah. I can see how that might help.”
    The man laid the Walkman on the table. “You’re in the chorus, aren’t you?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “I came to your welcome home,” said the man. “What a scene!”
    “Wasn’t it great?” grinned Michael. Five days later, he was still tingling with the exhilaration of that moment. Several thousand people had mobbed their buses at the corner of 18th and Castro.
    “I saw you kiss the ground,” said the man.
    Michael shrugged sheepishly. “I like it here, I guess.”
    “Yeah … me too.” He fiddled with the Walkman, obviously searching for something to say. “You don’t like Abba, huh?”
    Michael shook his head. “Sorry,” he replied, as pleasantly as possible.
    “What sort of stuff do you like?”
    “Well … lately I’ve been getting into country-western.” Michael laughed. “I don’t know what came over me.”
    “Redneck music,” said the man.
    “I know. I used to hate the crap when I was a kid in Orlando. Maybe it’s just the old bit about gay people imitating their oppressors. Like those guys who spend their days fighting police brutality and their nights dressing up like cops.”
    The man smiled faintly. “Never done that, huh?”
    “Never,” said Michael. “Was that strike two?”
    The man shook his head. “I’ve never done it either.”
    “Well, then … see how much we have in common?” Michael extended his hand. “I’m Michael Tolliver.”
    “Bill Rivera.” Latin,