Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

Thack.
    “What?”
    “You know. Those wicked boys on Pleasure Island.”
    They were walking through a gorge, apparently, with ferny forests climbing the slopes on either side. The redwoods along the road were as fat around as Fotomats, clustered so tightly in some places that they became walls for outdoor rooms, foyers for the camps that lay behind them.
    The camps were wonders to behold. Giant tepees and moss-covered lodges and open-air fireplaces built for the gods. Strings of lanterns meandered up the canyon wall to camps so lofty that they seemed like tree houses.
    And everywhere there was music. They heard Brahms for a while, then Cole Porter. Then an unseen pianist began tinkling his way through “Yesterday.”
    Thack asked: “There are no women at all?”
    “Nope,” said Michael. “They’ve been to court over it.”
    “How do they defend it?”
    Michael shrugged. “Women make ‘em nervous. They can’t be themselves.”
    Thack chuckled and slipped his arm across Michael’s shoulder.
    “I wouldn’t do that,” said Michael.
    “What?”
    “This is the straightest place on earth, Thack.”
    “Oh.” Thack removed his arm, looking vaguely wounded. “Plenty of them are doing it.”
    “Yeah, but … you know … it’s different.” Michael knew how gutless this sounded, but he was still feeling incredibly paranoid.
    A hawk-faced old man was catching his breath against a tree. Thack approached him, somewhat to Michael’s alarm. “Excuse me, sir. We’re kinda lost.” The old man chortled. “New here, eh?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Where ya wanna go, podnah?”
    “Well … Hillbillies, we were told. Booter Manigault’s camp.”
    “Ah.” He nodded slowly. “You guests of Booter?”
    Thack hesitated ever so slightly, so Michael said: “Right.”
    “Good fella, Booter.”
    “Yeah, he is,” said Thack.
    “The best,” Michael added, perhaps a little too eagerly.
    “I tell you what you do,” said the old man. “You keep on down the river road … this road right here …”
    “O.K.,” said Thack.
    “It’s a few camps down, on the left. You’ll see the sign.”
    “Thanks a lot.”
    The old man said: “What’d ya do? Pass it and double back?”
    “Uh … yeah, I guess we did.”
    “Well, you just keep on down this way. You’re on the right track now.”
    “Great,” said Michael.
    “On the left,” added the old man. “You can’t miss it.”
    “Terrific.”
    “Sign’s over the entrance. Big bronze one.”
    As they withdrew, both nodding their thanks, Michael wondered why old men take such a long time to give directions. Was it senility or a yearning for company?
    Or just the unexpected exhilaration of feeling useful again?
    The Hillbillies plaque depicted Pan with his pipes and a naked female spirit rising from the steam of a caldron. “Would you look at that?” said Thack, standing back to admire it. “Pure Art Nouveau.”
    Michael, who still felt like an impostor, refrained from a telltale display of aesthetic appreciation.
    Thack led the way into an enclosed compound dominated by a two-story redwood chalet. Half a dozen men of varying ages were gathered around a fireplace in the courtyard. One of them stared hard at the newcomers, then sailed in their direction at great speed, wearing a phosphorescent smile.
    “Michael, my child!”
    It was Father Paddy Starr, the television priest who presided over religious affairs at Mary Ann’s station.
    “Oh, hi,” Michael said feebly, panicked at the sight of a familiar face.
    “What a lovely surprise!” Father Paddy clamped his chubby hands together. “Have you been here the whole time?”
    It was probably an innocent question, but Michael got flustered, anyway. “Well … uh … no, actually. We just got here. We’re guests of Booter Manigault.”
    Father Paddy’s brow wrinkled. He began to cluck his tongue and shake his head. “The poor old dear,” he said.
    Thack shot Michael a quick glance.
    “Has something happened to him?” Michael asked.
    “Well,” the cleric replied. “I expect you heard about Jimmy Chappell?”
    “No … uh … not really.”
    “Oh. Well, Jimmy died last night.”
    “I’m sorry. I don’t think I know who …”
    “No, of course not. How silly of me. He was one of Booter’s oldest chums.”
    “Oh,” said Michael.
    Father Paddy heaved a sigh. “I think it’s been hard on him, poor dear.”
    “You haven’t seen him, have you?”
    “No. I expect he’s gone home.”
    “No,”