Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

back seat, raspy but resonant. It was followed by the whir of another shiny black Darth Vader window as it descended into the door. The face revealed was pale and without makeup, framed by a shock of black hair with a white skunk stripe down the middle.
    DeDe felt her heart catch in her throat. It was Sabra Landauer, the legendary feminist poet-playwright, whose one-woman show, Me Only More So, had been the rage of the last two seasons on Broadway.
    “Oh … Miss Landauer,” said DeDe. “Welcome to Wimminwood.”
    “Thank you. Is there a problem here?”
    “Well, a bit. If they’d told me you were performing …”
    “I’m not performing. I’m visiting my friend Barbara Farrar, the founder of this festival.”
    “Ah … well … of course.” Her resolve crumbled. When it came to catching hell from Rose or catching hell from Sabra Landauer, there was no contest. “So anyway, the stage is down this road, then off to the left. It’s the only big clearing. Anybody with a blue wristband can help you.”
    “Thanks,” said the chauffeur.
    “And Ms. Landauer,” DeDe added hastily, touching the limo to make it wait, “I have to tell you … Medusa at the Prom is my favorite book of poems ever.”
    Sabra Landauer made a pistol barrel out of her forefinger and fired it rakishly at DeDe. “Read my latest,” she said. “There’s something in it just for you.”
    Before DeDe could respond, the dark window ascended. The limousine sped off down the road in the proverbial cloud of dust. Left standing in it, DeDe felt mildly disgusted with herself.
    Why on earth had she said that? She had never even read Medusa at the Prom. Why had the mere sight of a famous woman made her lose it completely?
    Muddled, she flagged on two other cars, only to be jolted back into reality by the sight of two rough-hewn men in a pickup truck. Remembering their mission, she stepped forward crisply and said: “Porto-Janes?”
    “Yo,” said the driver, showing a snaggletooth smile. Poor guy, she thought. To have such a job!
    She flagged him on, giving him a thumbs-up sign by way of moral support. The pickup moved on, slowly at first; then it scratched off amidst a barrage of maniacal laughter. Both men reached out the window to flip her the bird.
    “Dumb-ass lezzie!” one of them shouted.
    She stood there for a moment, paralyzed by shock, her head ringing with Rose’s admonition to ask for an ID badge. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Those weren’t the Porto-Jane people at all!
    She lunged for her walkie-talkie, but couldn’t remember what people always said in the movies. All she could think of was “Roger,” and that, she felt certain, was patently sexist.
    “Hello, Security,” she said at last, all but shouting into the walkie-talkie. “Security, this is DeDe…. Come in, please…. This is an emergency.”
    No reply.
    She checked the talk button to see if it was set correctly. Who knew? She tried again: “Emergency, emergency … This is DeDe at the gate. Men on the land! Men on the land!”
    Still no answer. She shook the machine vehemently, then threw it into the ditch in a fit of pique.
    Coming to rest in a blackberry patch, it startled her by talking back: “Security to gate, Security to gate … Come in immediately….”
    She climbed into the ditch and made her way gingerly through the treacherous tendrils, holding them at arm’s length like dirty diapers. As she reached for the walkie-talkie, a bramble sprang out of nowhere and pricked her hand. “Damn!” she muttered.
    “DeDe, this is Security…. Come in.”
    She fidgeted with the button again. “Men on the land, Rose! Men on the land!”
    “Tell me!” Rose replied, just as the renegade pickup roared out of Wimminwood, occupants still cackling, spewing a cloud of reddish dust over everything.
    Numb with terror, she stared at the departing marauders, then turned back to the walkie-talkie. “Is everybody O.K. down there?”
    A damning silence followed. Finally, Rose said: “Wait there, DeDe. Do you read me? Wait there!”
    The wait was almost half an hour, reducing DeDe to a nervous wreck. When Rose appeared at last, her jaw was rigid, her eyes chillingly devoid of emotion. A thin white icing of sunscreen now covered her breasts. “O.K.,” she said. “What happened?”
    DeDe spoke evenly. “I thought they were the Porto-Jane men.”
    “Did you ask to see their IDs?”
    “No. I asked them if they were the Porto-Jane men, and they were driving a pickup like