Tales of the City 06 - Sure of You

you hear me? ”
    “I better go,” said Michael.
    Ramon nodded. “Yeah.”
    “ It’s time to get mad, Michael. Niceness doesn’t count for shit! ”
    “Believe it or not,” said Ramon, “he has moments when he’s really clear.”
    Michael had the creepy feeling that this was one of them.

A Blind Item
    S O ANYWAY ,” POLLY WAS TELLING BRIAN IN THE GREENHOUSE , “Madonna and Sandra Bernhard are there on Letterman, their arms totally draped around each other. And they’re like giggling and making jokes about the Hole, which is the Cubby Hole, this famous dyke bar in New York, and the whole damn thing is going straight over Letterman’s head…the stupid pig.”
    Brian didn’t buy this at all. “You’re not gonna tell me Madonna…”
    “Why not? Get real.” She was scraping out plastic pots, stacking them in the corner. “Just because you can’t stand the thought of it…”
    He chuckled.
    “What?”
    “I like the thought of it.”
    “Yeah. Well, O.K. That figures, doesn’t it?”
    He looked at her sideways. “Which am I supposed to do? Like it or not like it?”
    “Hand me that pot, please.”
    He complied, grinning.
    “The real question is: What the fuck does Madonna see in Sandra Bernhard? If I were Madonna, I’d be going for the serious stuff. Jamie Lee Curtis, at the very least.” She stood up and dusted off her hands. “Shouldn’t Michael be back by now?”
    “Seems like it, doesn’t it?”
    “How long does it take to bail somebody out?”
    “He didn’t need bail,” Brian said.
    “Oh, yeah.”
    “I guess he could’ve had trouble finding the Shanti volunteer.”
    “Was that Mary Ann in the paper this morning?”
    The change of subject threw him. “What do you mean? Where?”
    “In Herb Caen’s column.”
    “She was there? What did it say?”
    “It might not have been her,” said Polly. “It was a…you know. What do they call it when they don’t use the name?”
    “A blind item,” said Brian, feeling queasy already. What the hell were they saying about her now? “Is there a paper in the office?”
    “Yeah,” she said, and followed him out of the greenhouse.

    Five minutes later, when Polly had left the office, he collected himself and called Mary Ann at the station.
    “Was that you?” he asked without announcing himself.
    No answer.
    “Was it?”
    “Brian.” Her voice assumed its most businesslike armor. “This is as much a surprise to me…”
    “I didn’t figure there could be that many perky morning girls being wooed by New York producers.”
    “It wasn’t even supposed to be there.”
    “Oh. Well, then.”
    “I want to talk to you about this,” she said, “but I don’t want to do it on the phone.”
    “Shall I plant an item somewhere?”
    She sighed. “Don’t be like that.”
    “Like what?.”
    “All wounded and alienated. I was going to tell you about it.”
    “When?”
    “Tonight.”
    “Wrong. We’re talking now. Right this minute.”
    “No,” she said quietly. “Not on the phone.”
    “Then meet me somewhere.”
    “I can’t.”
    “Why? Do you have to be wooed some more?”
    She made him pay for this with a long silence. Finally, she asked: “Where do you want to meet?”
    “You name it.”
    “O.K., then. Home.”
    He gathered from this that she was afraid of risking a public scene.

    When he arrived, she was standing by the window, dressed in her traditional garb of apology—jeans and the pink-and-blue flannel shirt he liked so much. It was an obvious gesture, but it soothed him just the same. He was already beginning to feel as if he’d overreacted.
    “I sent Nguyet home,” she said:
    “Good.” He sat on the sofa.
    “I’m really sorry about this, Brian. I don’t know how it got into Herb Caen.”
    He didn’t look at her. “Is it for real?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you wanna do it?”
    “Very much.”
    “How long have you known about it?”
    “A while.”
    “Since that lunch, right?”
    She nodded.
    “And what did you think? That I would be so jealous of some old burned-out boyfriend…?”
    “No. Never. You know there’s nothing there.”
    “Well, O.K. Then what?”
    “What do you mean, what?”
    “Why wouldn’t you tell me? This is what you’ve been working toward. Didn’t you think I’d be happy for you?”
    “Brian…”
    “Am I that much of a self-centered bastard?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Did you think I’d be so attached to the nursery that I’d try to stand in your