Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

them both with the large bronze Heintz vase.
    “That’s been bothering you, has it?”
    “I couldn’t put my finger on it,” I told him, “but it’s better, don’t you think?”
    “Oh, absolutely.”
    “Don’t look at me like I’m Rain Man,” I said.
    “Come back,” he said. “Keith is about to get naked.”
    As we settled in again for the show, Ben’s head warming my chest, my gaze began to creep away from the television screen and back to that shelf of now perfectly composed pottery. And Ben somehow sensed this without looking up.
    “Stop that,” he said, slapping my belly. “Watch the damn show.”

    If I’m a stickler for perfect interiors, Ben is our tech support, our resident troubleshooter. He’s practically a dyke in this regard, so I’m lucky to have him, since I’ve never troubleshot anything beyond a snail-infested garden. Anna, my octogenarian friend, is much the same way and has learned to tap Ben for his expertise in thorny matters of the new millennium. She’s always been good about asking for help.
    “They’re turning off my email,” she told him bleakly one night. The three of us were eating Thai delivery food in her garden apartment off Dubose Park.
    “Who’s turning it off?” asked Ben.
    “The people at Wahoo,” she said.
    Ben smiled faintly but didn’t correct her. “Have you paid your bill?”
    “Certainly,” she replied, “but they found a virus on an email someone sent me. It was called ‘Your Doom.’ Can you imagine? Like a Gypsy curse out of nowhere.”
    “Sounds fishy,” Ben said. “They don’t cut off your email because of something that’s been sent to you. Did you click on any attachments?”
    “Well, no. The mention of my doom scared the hell out of me. Was I wrong? Should I have clicked?”
    “No, just delete it. It’s probably carrying a virus itself. They’re trying to scare you so you’ll do what they want.”
    “How wicked,” she said. “Like the president.”
    “Yes,” said Ben. “Except no one’s dead yet.”
    Anna smiled at him appraisingly, then turned and looked at me, widening her eyes. “This boy’s a treasure, dear.”
    I told her I knew that already.
    “Well, aren’t you glad I made you go after him?”
    “Oh,” I said, teasing her. “You want credit now?”
    “It certainly wouldn’t hurt.” She dunked her chicken skewer into the peanut sauce.
    “Well, I’m grateful,” said Ben.
    “Thank you, child. You get some more Pad Thai.”
    “It’s delicious,” I said, grateful for a chance to change the subject. I’ve always been uneasy about proclaiming my bliss too confidently, for fear of it deserting me—as fucked-up as that sounds. “Where did it come from?”
    “A new little place down the street. Shawna told me about it.”
    “God,” I said. “What doesn’t that girl know about?”
    “She’s just interested, ” Anna said. “That goes a long way in this world.”
    She meant it only as a compliment to Shawna, but somehow I felt reprimanded for my failure to be more adventurous.
    “Michael went down to the Lusty Lady,” Ben offered.
    Anna blinked at him in confusion.
    “You know,” said Ben. “The strip joint Shawna’s writing about.”
    “Oh, yes!” Anna crowed. “I can’t wait for that one. She’s always so sharp and funny. And she gets so involved, doesn’t she?”
    “I’ll say,” I muttered.
    Anna dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “You sound like you don’t approve, dear.”
    “It’s not a question of approval,” I told her. “I’m just concerned.”
    “Oh dear, that was Brian’s line, too. You boys are being silly. She’s an extremely sensible girl. What she’s doing now is just…raw material…not a way of life.”
    “Gimme a break,” I said. “She’s diddling herself in a plywood cubicle.”
    “Oh,” said Anna, remaining deadpan. “And you never did that, I suppose?”
    Ben chuckled. “She’s on to you, baby.”
    “That wasn’t for money,” I shot back. “And I wasn’t dressed as a Catholic schoolgirl.”
    Both of them were laughing now, and not entirely with me. “Oh, well,” said Anna, winking at Ben. “Thank God he has standards.”
    It’s awful when young and old alike can team up to mock you.

    After dinner Jake Greenleaf joined us in the garden. Jake, you may recall, is my sometime assistant. He’s a short, stocky bear of thirty or thereabouts with a trim little beard and soulful gray eyes. I brought him into the family