Tales of the City 06 - Sure of You

I’ve asked Thack to make arrangements for my cremation here in San Francisco.
This wouldn’t be so important to me if I didn’t believe in families just as much as you do. I have one of my own, and it means the world to me. If there are goodbyes to be said, I want them to be here, and I want Thack to be in charge. I hope you can understand.
If you still want to do a memorial service in Orlando (assuming you can’t come here), Thack can send you part of the ashes. I think you know I’d prefer not to have a preacher involved, but do whatever makes you comfortable. Just make sure he doesn’t pray for my soul or ask the Lord’s forgiveness or anything like that.
Please don’t get the wrong idea. I’m fine right now. I just wanted this out of the way, so we don’t have to think about it again. I’m not too worried about how you’ll take it, since I know how much you like Thack. He sends his love, by the way, and promises to send pix of the new chairs as soon as we get them painted.
I’ll try to call more often.
All my love,
M ICHAEL

P.S. My friend Mary Ann Singleton (you met her once years ago) has a new syndicated morning talk show. It starts in March, so watch for it. She’s a good friend of mine, and we’re all really happy for her.

Relief
    W ITH WINTER CAME PRECIPITATION , BUT NOT nearly enough. The puny mists and drizzles drifting in from the ocean barely dented the parched reservoirs of the East Bay. Michael watched the nightly forecasts with a sense of mounting dread for the nursery. By the end of February the weatherman was leading off the news again, speaking darkly of the stringent water rationing to come.
    Then, on the day after Saint Patrick’s Day, huge flannel-gray clouds appeared over the city like dirigibles, hovering there forever, it seemed, before dumping their cargo on a grateful population. The rain came with sweet vengeance, making things clean again, sluicing down the hills to whisk away the dog shit like logs in a flume.
    It kept up like this all week, until Harry’s running meadow in Dolores Park had become a bog, impenetrable to man or beast. When the skies cleared temporarily on Saturday morning, Michael stuck to the concrete route along Cumberland as he gave Harry his first real exercise in twenty-four hours. The blue rip in the clouds was about to be mended again, so they would have make it quick—a fact that even Harry seemed to grasp.
    At the top of the Cumberland stairs, while the dog squatted ingloriously in the wet weeds, Michael sat on the rail and looked out over the rain-varnished valley. There were lakes beginning to form on the flat roofs of the non-Victorians.
    A tall, thin man with a little blue backpack came toward him up the stairs, taking his time. When he reached the landing, Michael recognized him as the guy from the Rawhide II. Eula’s son. With the six T-cells. “How’s it going?” he asked, recognizing Michael.
    “Pretty good. Isn’t this air great?”
    The man stopped next to him and filled his lungs. “Beats pentamidine.”
    “Doesn’t it?” Michael smiled. “How’s your mother?”
    “Fabulous. They asked her to judge the Bare Chest Contest.”
    He chuckled. “She must be in hog heaven.”
    “She is.”
    “You live around here?”
    The man shook his head. “I was just down at the Buyer’s Club.”
    “The one on Church?”
    “Yeah.”
    “What did you get?”
    “Dextran. Some freeze-dried herbs.”
    Michael nodded. “I did Dextran for a while.”
    “No good?”
    “Well, I heard your body can’t absorb enough to make any difference.”
    “I heard that too.” The man shrugged. “Can’t hurt. The Japanese take it like aspirin.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Have you heard about this new thing? Compound Q?”
    Michael hadn’t.
    “It’s been killing the virus in lab tests. Without damaging the other cells.”
    “Oh, yeah?”
    “They haven’t tried it on people yet, but there’s a lot of…you know.”
    “Cautious optimism.”
    “Right.”
    Michael nodded. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
    “Yeah.”
    “What is it? A chemical?”
    “That’s the amazing part. It comes from the root of some Chinese cucumber.”
    “No shit.”
    “It’s a natural thing. It’s right here on earth.” The man gazed out over the valley for a while, then looked back at Michael. “I try not to get too hopeful.”
    “Why the hell not?”
    “I guess you’re right,” said the man.

    They swapped names again. His was Larry DeTreaux, and he was