Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

“It’s truly wonderful,” she said.
    “Isn’t it?” said DeDe.
    “Can you join us?” asked D’or.
    “Not really.”
    “Oh … O.K.” D’or’s insistent smile finally faded. “See you back at the homestead, then.”
    “That’s up to you,” said DeDe.
    Twenty minutes later, when D’or returned to the tent, DeDe was waiting for her. “One of us should go get Anna,” she said coldly.
    “She’s meeting us at the chow hall,” D’or said, kicking off her boots. She turned and gazed at DeDe. “I wouldn’t have believed it.”
    “What?”
    “You are actually jealous.”
    “I’m embarrassed, D’or. I’m embarrassed for you.”
    “Oh, really?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you mind if I ask why?”
    “C’mon. Look at you. Flashing your tits all over the place as soon as a famous woman—”
    “Now, wait just a goddamn minute.”
    “It’s unworthy of you,” said DeDe. “That’s all.”
    “It was hot today.”
    “I noticed,” said DeDe.
    D’or drew back. “Oh, boy … ohboyohboyohboy.”
    “I also don’t appreciate your blabbing it all over camp about Booter working for Reagan. If you can’t respect our privacy—”
    “Wait a fucking minute.”
    “Well, did you or did you not tell Rose?”
    “Who?”
    “The one who deported our son.”
    D’or looked totally dumbfounded. “I haven’t even seen her since—”
    “Well, you told somebody!”
    D’or’s brow wrinkled. “I may have mentioned it to Feather at the Salvadoran workshop.”
    “And Feather told that runty, big-mouthed lover of hers….”
    “DeDe …”
    “O.K., forget runty…. Vertically challenged. How’s that?”
    D’or shook her head slowly. “It was just a lighthearted remark. I can’t imagine how …”
    DeDe rose. “I’m sure you get plenty of mileage out of it. Why don’t you try it on Cruella de Vil?”
    Slack-mouthed, D’or observed her, then broke into raucous laughter.
    “Keep laughing,” said DeDe as she charged out of the tent. She was heading for the loud-and-rowdy zone.

Adoring Fan
    A S NIGHT FELL, WREN DOUGLAS FOUND HERSELF ON the deck at Fife’s, a gay resort on the outskirts of Guerneville. The evening was so balmy that several dozen people were still gathered outside. Shaking the rocks in her Scotch and water, she stood at the rail and watched as a blond man in parrot green shorts swam laps in the pool.
    She felt crisp and glamorous tonight in serious makeup and a turquoise-and-white sailor suit, fresh from a country Martinizing. She’d expected to be recognized—hoped for it, in fact—and she was.
    “Excuse me,” he said. “You’re Wren Douglas.” He was brown-haired and brown-eyed, mustachioed. The mischief and sweetness in his expression would have betrayed him as gay at a PTA meeting in Lynchburg, Virginia.
    “Yes,” she replied.
    He stuck out his hand. “I’m Michael Tolliver. I was in the audience when you did Mary Ann in the Morning. You were fabulous. You’re always fabulous.”
    She smiled and squeezed his hand. She was used to this kind of homo hyperbole, but it never failed to please her. “You didn’t see me on Donahue,” she said with a rueful expression.
    “No. What happened?”
    She shrugged. “Some large lady from Queens called me … let’s see … ‘an insult to decent fat people everywhere.’ ”
    “Oh, no.”
    “It was a big breakthrough for me, I’m tellin’ ya. I wasn’t just fat anymore … I was a fat slut. What a revelation! A minority within a minority, and getting more specialized all the time.”
    He laughed, but it sounded a little lame, carrying the weight of dutiful fandom. She wondered if he’d heard her tell the same story on the Carson show.
    “What … uh … brings you here?”
    “Where? This place?”
    “Well … the river.”
    “I’m staying over in Monte Rio,” she explained. “A friend of mine rented a house there.”
    “Same here,” he said. “We’re in Cazadero. Know where that is?”
    “Mmm. Love their general store.”
    “Well, we’re not very far from there.”
    “And ‘we’ means …?”
    He pointed down to the pool. “The guy who’s swimming laps, and … over there, under the trees … the one in the plaid shirt.”
    “Well …” She raised an eyebrow artfully. “How nice for you.”
    He laughed. “The one in plaid is straight.”
    She nodded soberly. “Gay guys haven’t worn plaid for years.”
    Another laugh. “As a matter of fact, he’s married to Mary Ann Singleton.”
    “Who?”