Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

and milk. “Where did this come from?” she asked, meaning the cereal.
“The local protocol people,” answered her co-worker. “It’s a joke.”
She shot him a rueful look. “I’ll say.” She had long ago wearied of chasing this pleasant but lackluster Englishwoman through the rain. They could have done a helluva lot better than cold cereal.
Her cameraman smiled indulgently. “A real joke, Mary Ann. The Queen is leaving, see? We’re saying Cheerio to the Queen, get it?” Her reaction must have registered immediately, for he chuckled sardonically and added: “Doesn’t help a goddamn bit, does it?”
Mary Ann set the bowl down and glanced across at the Britannia A band on deck was playing “The Anniversary Waltz”—an obvious reference to the Reagans, who had celebrated their thirty-first on board the night before. Soon they would emerge from the royal yacht, along with the Queen and the Prince, to board limousines bound for the airport.
While the Britannia sailed to Seattle, the Queen and her consort would fly to Yosemite to continue their vacation. The President would jet to Klamath Falls, Oregon, to make a speech about the decline of logging, and his bride would catch yet another plane to Los Angeles, where she was slated to appear in a special episode of Different Strokes concerning drug abuse among children.
Normally, such a hodgepodge of absurdities would have provoked at least a brief cynical monologue from Mary Ann, but she was far too absorbed in her own dilemma to wax witty about the Reagans. Instead, she set her jaw grimly and waited in silence for the final ritual of this inane tribal extravaganza.
The rain let up a little. A kilted band trooped bravely along the pier. Fireworks exploded in the pale gray skies, while a blond woman in limp marabou feathers argued audibly with the guard at the entrance to the press platform.
“But I am with the press,” she pleaded. “I just don’t have any … uh … card with me today.”
The guard was unyielding. “Look, lady. You got your job, I got mine.”
Mary Ann went to the edge of the platform and shouted down at the sentry. “She’s with me,” she lied. “I’ll take responsibility for it.”
Elated, the wet-feathered blonde beamed up at her savior and yelled: “Mary Ann! Thank goodness!”
Mary Ann replied in a monotone, already embarrassed. “Hi, Prue.”
It was a sad sight, really, this ersatz socialite looking like Big Bird in a monsoon. Prue Giroux had apparently come un-glued since losing her job as social columnist for Western Gentry magazine. Her life had been built around parties— “events,” she had called them—but the invitations and press passes had dried up months before.
Among the people who thought of themselves as social in San Francisco, no one was more expendable than an ex-columnist—except maybe the ex-wife of a columnist. Prue was obviously feeling the pinch.
Fluffing her feathers, she wobbled up the steps in spike heels. “You are so sweet to do this,” she said, speaking much more quietly this time. “Isn’t this just the most thrilling thing?”
“Mmm,” Mary Ann replied, not wanting to burst her bubble. Prue’s naiveté was the only thing about her that invited respect.
“Look!” Prue exclaimed. “Just in time!”
Wearing a white hat and a beige coat, the Queen approached the gangplank on the arm of the President. As Mary Ann signaled her cameraman, thunderous applause swept across the pier and Prue Giroux sighed noisily. “Oh, Mary Ann, look how beautiful she is! She is truly beautiful!”
Mary Ann didn’t answer, engrossing herself in the technicalities of her job. The entire spectacle took less than fifteen minutes. When it was over, she slipped away from Prue and the crew and downed a stiff drink at Olive Oil’s, a waterfront bar adjoining the pier. She sat at the bar, beneath a row of signal flags, and watched the Britannia as it steamed toward the Golden Gate.
The man on the stool next to her hoisted his glass in the direction of the ship. “Good riddance, old girl.”
Mary Ann laughed. “I’ll say. Except the old girl isn’t out there. She’s flying to Yosemite.”
Her barmate polished off his drink, then teased her with warm brown eyes. “I meant the ship.” He had an English accent, she realized.
“You must be with the press,” she said.
“Must I?” He was being playful again. Was he trying to pick her up?
“Well, the accent made me think … Oh, never mind.”
The man