Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

last.
    “You on vacation?”
    “Oh … yeah. I’m down at Wimminwood. Know what that is?
    “Uh … well, a women’s music festival, right?” She’d read about it on the bulletin board at the Cazadero General Store. She’d figured the kid for a lesbian.
    “Yeah, that’s right.”
    “So what are you doing here? Playing hooky?”
    Polly chuckled. “Yeah, more or less.”
    “All by yourself?” O.K., she was flirting a little, but what harm could it do?
    “No. I’m here with a friend. I mean, here at the restaurant. That blonde lady over there.”
    Wren dropped her lipstick into her purse and gazed across the room. Caught in the act of watching them, the blonde looked decidedly uncomfortable. Wren gave her a little smile, which induced even more embarrassment.
    “She’s against this,” said Polly.
    “Against what?”
    “Me coming over here.”
    “Why?”
    Polly shrugged. “She says it’s tacky.”
    “Nah,” said Wren. “I think she’s jealous.”
    Polly cast a quick glance at the blonde, then looked back at Wren. “No shit?”
    Wren gave her one of her Mona Lisa smiles.
    “That would be wonderful,” said Polly.
    “What?”
    “If she would be jealous. I don’t think she likes me that much.”
    “Well …”
    “Could I get a lipstick print from you?”
    Wren blinked at her.
    “I collect them,” said Polly. “It’s a hobby. I already have Diana Ross and Linda Evans and Kathleen Turner.”
    “Sure. Fine. What do I do?”
    Polly beamed at her.
    “I can’t believe this.”
    “What do I do?” Wren asked again. “Blot on a napkin?” Her eyes wandered across the room. The blonde woman was staring straight down into the remains of her hamburger. She was obviously mortified.
    “Or,” Wren added, “I could pucker up and really smooch on it.” She looked back at Polly and grinned conspiratorially. “Your friend would like that.” Polly giggled.
    Wren picked up a napkin and settled on something between a blot and a smooch, giving the results to Polly. “Happy summer,” she said.
    “Same to you,” said Polly, shaking Wren’s hand briskly. “Same to you.”

Into the Grove
    M ICHAEL AND THACK HAD CROSSED THE RIVER without a hitch, drying off and dressing in a dockside room erected for just that purpose. They’d followed the ravine up the forested hillside until they found the footbridge Wren had told them about. It loomed above them, huge and skeletal, like an abandoned railway trestle.
    “What now?” whispered Michael.
    “We go under it,” Thack replied. “Up that hill.”
    “Wait!”
    “What?”
    “I heard something.”
    Thack cocked his head. There were rustling sounds, then the resonant thump of footsteps on the bridge. Michael flattened himself against a support post, pulling Thack back into the shadows. The moon was traitorously bright.
    A voice called: “Who goes down there?”
    Michael held his breath, glancing at Thack. Wren’s words reverberated in his head. They won’t shoot at you…. It’s just a club…. They won’t shoot at you….
    Thack pressed his finger to his lips, clearly intent upon going through with this madness.
    The footsteps commenced again, then stopped at mid-bridge. A flashlight beam probed the underbrush only yards away from their hiding place. Michael hugged the post and prayed for release. Or at least leniency.
    “Who goes?” yelled the guard.
    Michael looked at Thack. Enough was enough.
    Thack shook his head emphatically.
    The guard stood there for half a minute, then began to walk again. Away from them. Off the bridge and up the hillside.
    Thack’s eyes flashed triumphantly. Michael expelled air and whispered: “Let’s get the fuck outa here.”
    “What? Swim back?”
    “Sure.”
    “C’mon. The worst is over.”
    “How do you know?” asked Michael. “What if he comes back?”
    “Well, we’ve come this far. Don’t be such a pussy.”
    “I’m being practical,” said Michael.
    Thack gave him a friendly goose. “Then don’t be so practical, Maude.”
    They waited another five minutes, then continued up the hillside until the lights of a road led them into the Grove. Men passed them in boozy clumps, singing and jostling, hooting hello as if they, Michael and Thack had been there all along, making merry under the redwoods.
    Manhood, it seemed, had been their only requirement, their only badge of identity.
    “This is so unreal,” said Michael. “It’s like a hologram or something.”
    “Pinocchio, ” said