Tales of the City 06 - Sure of You

means you…?”
    The designer managed a thin smile. “It wasn’t a con, really.”
    “Well…it’s good advertising, at least. I mean, the people who like her are probably the ones who…anyway, it doesn’t imply a personal endorsement on your part.”
    “I’m very fond of Mrs. Reagan, actually.”
    Brian nodded. “Well, I don’t know the lady.”
    Mary Ann gave him a look that said: No, you don’t, so shut up.
    Russell Rand remained gracious. “She’s gotten kind of a bum rap, you know. She’s not at all the person she’s perceived to be.”
    “Yeah, well, I guess, since I can only go by things generally available to the common man…”
    “I don’t blame you for thinking that way. I really don’t.” Brian nodded and said nothing. Michael sat perfectly still, staring at his Calistoga and looking mortified.
    Somebody had to lighten things up, so Mary Ann said: “Can’t take him anywhere.”
    “Not at all,” said Russell Rand. “We’re all entitled to our opinion.”
    “Thank you,” said Brian, speaking to the designer but casting a quick, sullen glance in her direction.

A Bad Dream
    T HE DREAM WAS STILL VIVID AS LIFE WHEN MICHAEL stumbled out to greet the dawn. A thick coat of dew covered the deck, and he was reminded of how Charlie Rubin once referred to this phenomenon as “night sweats.” Below, in the neighboring gardens, the wetness on the broad, green leaves suggested deceitfully that the drought had passed. Only the garden of his dead neighbor told the truth, its ravaged tree fern blunt as a crucifix in the amber light of morning.
    He lifted his eyes until they jumped the fence and fled into the valley below, where a thousand Levolored windows were ablaze with sunrise. Sometimes, though not at the moment, he could see other men on other decks, watching the valley like him from their own little plywood widow’s walks.
    What he loved most about this view was the trees: the wizened cypresses, the backyard banana trees, the poplars that marched along the nearest ridge like Deco exclamation marks. There were some, of course, the cypresses in particular, that could only be appreciated through binoculars, but he knew where they were just the same.
    Suddenly, a flock of parrots—forty strong, at least—landed in the fruitless fig tree of the house next door. While they screeched and fussed with their feathers, he stood stock-still and debated waking Thack for the event. He had never seen them this close to the house.
    “Wow,” came a voice behind him.
    Thack stood in the kitchen doorway. Clad only in Jockey shorts, his smooth body looked heroic in the morning light, but his thinning, sleep-bent hair muddled the effect, lending it a comical, babyfied air.
    “Should I come out?”
    “Yeah,” said Michael, “but make it graceful.” He couldn’t help but feel vindicated. He’d been raving about these creatures for almost a year now, without so much as a flyover to prove to his lover that he hadn’t been hallucinating.
    Thack joined him at the rail. “Noisy little fuckers.”
    “Yeah, but look how beautiful.”
    “Not bad.”
    “They used to be pets,” Michael told him.
    “That’s what you said.”
    “See those little ones? Those are the parakeet groupies.”
    In the midst of this appreciation Harry scampered onto the deck, causing the birds to ascend in a whirling flurry of green.
    “Well, good morning,” said Michael as he scratched the poodle’s rump.
    Thack knelt and joined him, studying Michael’s face before he spoke. “Don’t be mad at me,” he said.
    “I’m not mad.”
    “Yeah, you are.”
    “Go back to bed,” said Michael. “It’s too early for you.”
    “Nah,” said Thack. “I’m up now. I’ll make us breakfast.”

    It was oat bran, Sweeney style, black with raisins. They ate it at the kitchen table, while Harry watched them.
    “Well, how was it?” asked Thack.
    “Fine. They were nice. She’s really an extraordinary-looking woman.”
    “I’m sure.”
    This could have been snide, but Michael decided that it wasn’t.
    Thack poked at his cereal for a while, then asked: “Did he drop any hairpins?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “C’mon. You know what that means.”
    “I know, but…in this case…”
    Thack sighed impatiently. “Did he just assume that everyone knew he was gay, or did he spend the whole evening playing breeder?”
    “It wasn’t really one way or the other.”
    “Did you tell him you were gay?”
    “No.”
    “Why