Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

Grand story: GAY SEX ACT SPARKS HOTEL FIRE .”
    “Oh, yeah.”
    “Think of it,” said Michael. “The whole damn town could go up in flames tonight.”
A back-lighted plastic sign proclaimed the event to passersby on the highway: RENO NATIONAL GAY RODEO . As Bill swung his Trans Am into the dusty parking lot, Michael began to speculate out loud.
    “Now, how many of these dudes do you think are real cowboys?” He related to this issue personally. His week-old Danner boots felt leaden on his feet; his teal-and-cream cowboy shirt seemed as fraudulent as a sport shirt worn by a sailor on leave.
    “For starters,” said Bill, “that one isn’t.” He pointed to a wiry brunette wearing a T-shirt that said: MUSTACHE RIDES—5¢ .
    There were similar signs of clone encroachment, Michael noted. Too many sherbet-colored tank tops. Too many straw hats that looked suspiciously like the ones at All-American Boy. Too many Nautilus-shaped bodies poured into too many T-shirts brazenly announcing: IF YOU CAN ROPE ME, YOU CAN RIDE ME.
    One obvious city slicker, in deference to the occasion, had traded his nipple ring for a tiny silver spur, but Michael found the gesture unconvincing.
    “God almighty!” he gasped, catching sight of the heroic pectorals on display at the entrance to the rodeo arena. “Where do they all come from?”
    “It ain’t the ranch,” said Bill. “Real cowboys have big bellies.”
    “Don’t be so jaded. One of them’s got to be real.”
    “Sure,” replied Bill, “there’s a real waiter from The Neon Chicken.”
    Bill’s defective imaginative powers were beginning to get on Michael’s nerves. Inside the arena, he concentrated on the event itself—a raucous display of calf-roping, bull-riding and “wild cow-milking.” The latter competition involved a cooperative effort between a lesbian, a drag queen and a “macho man”—an impressive achievement in itself.
    By midafternoon, most of the shirts had come off, turning the stands to a rich shade of mahogany. The beer flowed so freely that almost no one could resist the urge to clap along with The Texas Mustangs, billed as “the only gay country-western band in the Lone Star State.”
    “I like this,” Michael told Bill. “Everybody’s off guard. It’s harder to give attitude.”
    “Yeah,” said Bill, “but wait till tonight.”
    “The dance, you mean?”
    Bill nodded a little too smugly. “As soon as this dust gets washed off, all the little disco bunnies will emerge. Just watch.”
    Michael didn’t want to agree with him.

Physician, Heal Thyself
    F RANNIE ’ S UTTER DISBELIEF WAS REFLECTED IN THE face of the handsome, blond doctor who awaited her in his office on the Sagafjord’s B-Deck.
    “Mrs. Halcyon! My God!”
    Frannie smiled and extended her hand. “Dr. Fielding.”
    “How wonderful to see you,” said the doctor. “I had no idea you were on board. I didn’t check the passenger manifest this time, and … well, it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
    Frannie nodded, already sensing the extreme awkwardness of the situation. This, after all, was the man who had brought the twins into the world. Would she be forced to lie to him about the “orphans” in her care? And would he believe her?
    “I feel so silly about this,” said Frannie feebly.
    The doctor’s smile was as white and crisp as his uniform. “About what?” he asked.
    Frannie touched her mid-section. “Tummy problems. Mature women aren’t supposed to get seasick, are they?”
    The doctor shrugged. “I’m afraid it strikes indiscriminately. I’m not exactly immune myself, and I’ve been sailing for a year now. How far topside are you?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Your stateroom. Are you in one of the suites?”
    Frannie nodded. “On the Terrace Sun Deck.”
    “I thought so,” grinned the doctor.
    “Why?”
    “Well … the motion’s more noticeable up there. Usually it doesn’t matter, but when the sea gets a little choppy, the luxury suites are the first to feel it.” He winked at her winningly. “We peasants down here in the bilges have it a little easier.”
    Frannie felt greener by the minute. “There’s not much I can do, I suppose?”
    The doctor opened a white metal cabinet. “We’ll get you prone with a little Dramamine.” He handed Frannie a pill and a paper cup full of water. “Can you keep me company for a while? It’s a slow day. We’ll have the place to ourselves, probably.”
    Frannie accepted readily. No wonder