Tales of the City 06 - Sure of You

turn into is mother.
    “Hand me Harry’s towel,” said Thack.
    This was a frayed blue beach towel bearing the logo of All-Australian Boy, a sentimental relic of Michael’s tanning days at Barbary Beach. When his heart had still been hungry, he could spend an entire afternoon just getting his body ready for the night.
    He snatched the towel off the shelf above the toilet and gave it to Thack. “Let’s go somewhere,” he said.
    “When?”
    “Tonight.”
    “Like where?”
    “I dunno. The Rawhide II?”
    “Fine by me.” Thack wrapped the towel around Harry, then set him down on the floor and gave him a brisk rubdown under the terry cloth. “What brought this on?”
    “Nothing,” said Michael. “I just thought it might be fun.”
    “Oh.”
    “We hardly ever go out.”
    Thack peered up at him wryly. “That’s what I get for calling you Alice.”

    They’d been talking about going for ages. Charlie Rubin had been there several times in the month before his death and had sent back glowing reports. Michael and Thack had planned on going with Polly and Lucy, but Polly had dumped Lucy—only hours before the date, in fact—for the first runner-up in the Ms. International Leather competition. The new girlfriend preferred S & M to C & W, so Polly renounced the faith, and the boys were left dateless for the hoedown. To Michael’s unending glee, Polly had spent the next three weeks being plied with jewelry for her clitoris.
    When they arrived at the Rawhide II, a dance class was in progress. The participants were in street clothes, pleasant looking but unextraordinary, as if the commuters on a BART train had acted on a sudden urge to waltz with one another. Fat and skinny, short and tall, couples of every configuration swirled around the room in a counterclockwise tide to the music of Randy Travis.
I’m gonna love you forever—
Forever and ever , Amen:
As long as old men live to talk about the weather—
As long as old women live to talk about old men.
    Grinning uncontrollably, Michael found a stool at the bar and sat down. “What do you want?” he asked, since Thack was undoubtedly headed for the john. He peed about as often as a dog in a palm grove.
    “Beer,” said Thack. “Miller’s, I guess.”
    “O.K.”
    “Do you see it?” He meant the men’s room.
    “It’s the one marked Studs.” Michael rolled his eyes. “As opposed to Fillies.”
    “How sexist,” said Thack.
    When he had gone, Michael ordered the drinks. As providence would have it, his beeper went off just as his Calistoga arrived. The bartender smiled at him. “Another bionic man.”
    Michael mugged ruefully. “It usually goes off on a coatrack somewhere.” He dug out his pillbox and popped two, chasing them with the Calistoga. When he was done, the man on the stool next to him gave him a knowing look, then tapped the pocket of his Pendleton.
    “I’m set to go off any second.”
    Michael smiled. “Last night at Big Business , there were enough to start a symphony.”
    The man had dark, expressive eyes and the sweet E.T.ish quality Michael had come to associate with guys who’d been sick for a long time.
    “Do you take the middle-of-the-night dose?” Michael asked.
    The man shook his head.
    “Me either. Double doses at seven and eleven?”
    “Yeah.”
    “How’s it going?”
    The man shrugged. “I’ve got six T-cells.”
    Michael nodded and counted his own blessings in silence. The last time he checked, he had three hundred and ten.
    “I’m feeling real possessive about them,” said the man. “I may start giving them names.”
    Michael chuckled. “You’ve said that before.”
    “Not tonight,” said the man.

    Thack returned and leaned against Michael’s stool, beer in hand. They watched the dance floor in silence as couple after couple revolved into view. This time the song was called “Memories to Burn.”
    “Look at her,” said Thack. “Get a load of her.”
    The object of his amazement was pantsuited, plump, and seventysomething. A tiny, pink-sequined sombrero was affixed to the side of her lilac hair, and she seemed to be enjoying herself no end. Her partner was a man about forty years her junior.
    “She’s a stitch,” said Michael.
    “She’s all yours,” said the man with six T-cells.
    Michael turned and smiled at him. “You know her?”
    “I guess so. She’s my mother.”
    “Well…” Michael reddened. “She’s sure having a good time.”
    “Isn’t she?”
    Thack laughed. “She