Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

He was lying on his side, facing the spider.
    His first thought was: “Weaving spiders come not here.”
    That was the Bohemian motto, but he drew no comfort from it now. At the Grove, the phrase meant dealmaking was prohibited, no business on the premises.
    Here, it meant nothing.
    Here, that spider could weave where she wanted.
    He’d been conscious for almost five minutes when he heard a woman’s voice outside the tent. “Where is he?” she asked.
    Someone hissed for quiet.
    “We have to call the police.”
    “Sure. Turn him over to men.”
    “I don’t care, Rose. We have to.”
    He heard boots scuffing against earth, then saw the tent flap move, revealing a woman in a black T-shirt. She held a walkie-talkie in one hand, and her head was shaved to varying degrees, forming a sort of topiary garden on her scalp. She squatted on her haunches to examine him.
    “Listen,” he said, “whatever you think I did—”
    “I don’t think. I saw.”
    “I was in a canoe,” he said.
    “I know that.”
    “I fell asleep. I must have drifted.”
    “Did you enjoy the show?” she asked.
    So they had seen him watching.
    “Answer the question,” she said.
    “It was an accident,” he said. “I didn’t know where I was. I went up there to ask directions.”
    “You’re lying,” she said.
    “Don’t tell me I’m lying!” How dare she talk to him like that? Who, after all, had clobbered whom?
    “What’s your name?” she asked.
    He hesitated. What if she called the police? He could clear himself, of course, but what sort of indignities would he be forced to endure? “I don’t have to tell you that,” he said at last.
    She appraised him coolly for several seconds before dropping the tent flap and walking away. He hollered, “Wait!” but got no response.
    She came back about fifteen minutes later.
    “Thirsty?” she asked.
    He was and said so.
    “I’ll have some water sent by for you.”
    “Wait a minute,” he said. “Don’t go.”
    “What?”
    “You’re making a very big mistake, young lady.”
    “Yeah?”
    “I know how it may have looked to you, but I’m no Peeping Tom.”
    “O.K. Then who are you?”
    “I’m a member of the Bohemian Club. We’re up the river a bit. I don’t want to make trouble for you, but—”
    “I asked your name.”
    “Manigault,” he muttered. “What?”
    “Manigault. Roger Manigault.”
    “Sure.”
    “Well … I don’t have my wallet with me.”
    “As in Pacific Excelsior?”
    “Yes!” He literally sighed with relief. Thank God she knew about business! “That’s me!”
    “That’s you?”
    “Yes! I’m not the sort of man who—” She cut him off with a wild bray of laughter. “Booter. They call you Booter?”
    “Yes. Now will you please untie—”
    “Reagan’s friend?”
    “Well … I know him…. I wouldn’t exactly say—” She dropped the tent flap and went howling into the night.

A Dream Come True
    T HANKS TO BOOTER, DINNER HADN’T HAPPENED TONIGHT , so Wren postponed her journey home, stopping off at the greasy spoon near the Monte Rio bridge. Michael and Thack wouldn’t call for at least an hour, so why not settle her nerves with a basket of fries and a chicken-fried steak?
    The greasy spoon was a “family restaurant,” replete with squawling brats, cracked plastic menus and redwood room deodorizers for sale next to the cash register. She was debating dessert when a teenaged girl approached, wearing an expression of tentative fandom. “O.K.,” she told Wren. “If you’re not, you might as well be.”
    Wren put her fork down and stuck out her hand. “I guess I am, then. What’s your name?”
    The teenager, on closer inspection, seemed more like a young woman. She was short and wiry, with freckles and a sparkling pink-gummed smile. “Polly Berendt,” she replied. “I really can’t believe this.”
    “What?” said Wren. “That you found me eating?”
    Polly laughed. “You look just like you look on TV. Better. This is the most amazing thing. This is so great.”
    “Sit down.” Wren winked at her and patted the place mat across from her. “We’re frightening the nuclear families.”
    Polly cast a glance over her shoulder, than sank into the chair. “Sorry,” she said. “I get loud.”
    “Yeah,” said Wren. “Me too.” She popped open her compact mirror and began to repair her lipstick. “You on vacation or something?”
    Polly didn’t answer for a while, lost in her amazement. “What?” she said at