Tales of the City 06 - Sure of You

“You’re a crazy man.”
    “Don’t try it in New Jersey,” said Thack.
    “New jersey, hell. You could get killed doing that.”
    “That’s what Michael says.” Thack turned and looked out the window as the bus lurched down the avenue. “Fuck it. I’m tired of this shit.”

Parlor Games
Archibald Anson Gidde, a prominent San Francisco realtor and social leader, died Tuesday at his home in Sea Cliff after a bout with liver cancer. He was 42.
Mr. Gidde was a witty and flamboyant figure who distinguished himself by spearheading some of the City’s most notable real estate transactions, among them the recent $10 million sale of the Stonecypher mansion to the Sultan of Adar.
A member of the Bohemian Club, he was active on the boards of the San Francisco Ballet, the San Francisco Opera, and the American Conservatory Theatre.
Mr. Gidde is survived by his parents, Eleanor and Clinton Gidde of Ross and La Jolla, and a sister, Charlotte Reinhart, of Aspen, Colo.
    “Well, I’ll be damned.” Michael looked up from the the Examiner just as his lover emerged from the bathroom.
    “You knew him?” asked Thack, reading over Michael’s shoulder.
    “Not exactly. He bought some things at the nursery once or twice. Jon knew him. He was one of the big A-Gays.”
    “Figures.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Liver cancer,” explained his lover, scowling. “How tired is that?”
    For the past few years Thack had made a parlor game out of spotting the secret AIDS deaths in the obituary columns. Given the age of the deceased, the absence of a spouse, and certain telltale occupational data, he would draw his own conclusions and fly into a towering rage.
    “Notice how they called him flamboyant? How’s that for a code word?”
    Michael was tired of this.
    “Fuck him,” Thack continued. “How dare he act ashamed? Who does he think he’s fooling, anyway? He can sell his pissy houses in hell!”
    “C’mon.”
    “What do you mean, c’mon?”
    “The guy is dead, Thack.”
    “So what? He was a worm in life, and he’s a worm in death. This is why people don’t give a shit about AIDS! Because cowardly pricks like this make it seem like it’s not really happening!”
    Michael paused, then said: “We’ve gotta move it, sweetie. We’re gonna be late as it is.”
    Thack shot daggers at him and left the room.
    “Wear the green sweater,” Michael yelled after him. “You look great in that.”

    Mary Ann and Brian’s condo-in-the-sky was not Michael’s idea of a dream house. From twenty-three stories the city looked like a plaster-of-Paris model of itself, hardly the real thing at all. Lately Mary Ann had made an effort at jazzing up the chilly modern interiors with a lot of Southwestern stuff—painted furniture, steer skulls, and the like—but the effect was not so much Santa Fe as Santa Fe Savings and Loan. Maybe it just wasn’t fixable.
    The Vietnamese maid took their coats and led them into the living room, a place of too little texture and too much teal. Brian was ensconced behind the wet bar, looking unnaturally cheerful in a pink button-down. Mary Ann and Burke were at opposite ends of the big crescent-shaped couch.
    “Michael,” said Burke, smiling as he rose.
    “Hey, Burke.” Michael wondered if a hug was appropriate. It had been eleven years, after all, and the guy was straight.
    He played it safe and stuck out his hand.
    Burke shook it warmly, using both his hands in the process, suggesting that a hug might have been in order, after all. “You look great,” said Burke.
    “Thanks. You too.” Mary Ann’s old flame seemed lean as ever in a blazer and gray flannel slacks. His fine, pale hair—very much the same color as Thack’s—had receded significantly, but Michael thought it suited his air of quiet intelligence. True, the yup-yellow tie was a little off-putting, but you had to make allowances for New Yorkers.
    Thack stepped forward, touching the small of Michael’s back. “Burke,” said Michael, “this is my lover, Thack.”
    Burke pumped Thack’s arm energetically. “Good to meet you.”
    “Same here,” said Thack.
    Mary Ann hugged Michael and pecked him chastely on the cheek. “We were just talking about you,” she said. He was almost positive her scent was Elizabeth Taylor’s Passion. When on earth had she started doing that?
    He returned the peck. “You want me to go out again, so you can finish?”
    She giggled. “No. Hi, Thack.” She hugged Thack, who made a passable