Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

air, so Ben poked the little face on the steering wheel to call Carlotta.
    “After the beep,” she said, “please say a command.”
    So Ben said: “Seventy-two degrees.”
    And Carlotta replied: “There is no fifth destination.”
    “What did she say?” asked Ben.
    “She said there is no fifth destination.”
    He chuckled. “Well, that’s real helpful.”
    “I don’t think you waited long enough after the beep.”
    “Well, okay,” said Ben, “but why was that in there in the first place. There is no fifth destination? If that’s the answer, what’s the question?”
    Intrigued by this conundrum, I told him to push the button again. He did so, reluctantly, and Carlotta returned. “After the beep,” she said, “please say a command.”
    I leaned toward the steering wheel. “Go fuck yourself,” I said.
    “Pardon?” she replied.
    “I said, eat a big one!”
    Her voice, I swear, grew starchy: “System is showing beauty-shop icons.”
    Ben hooted. “I think she just called you a queen.”
    “I think she did, too…the tart.”
    “Well, talk nice to her, then.”
    “Push it again.”
    “No, Michael. That’s enough.”
    “C’mon. I wanna see how freaky she gets…”
    “Honey, you can’t just sit here harassing machinery.”
    “Why not? It’s a rare opportunity.”
    From that moment on, “There is no fifth destination” became our all-purpose pronouncement. It sounded important, like something Gandalf might have uttered, yet it was patently ridiculous at heart. It became our way of saying “Big deal” or “Who the hell knows?” or “Lighten up, for God’s sake, you won’t get out of this alive.”
    Maybe we only get four destinations in life, and Carlotta’s trying to tell us not to be banking on the fifth, not to be wasting precious time on pipe dreams of eternity.
    That’s the way I hear it, anyway.

    “Do you smell something?”
    We were still sitting on the bench under the oak tree, and Ben’s nose was tilted skyward. I followed his lead and noticed the same thing: the sweet, teasing pungency of marijuana. Tracking it to its source, I found a couple of bar patrons wreathed in smoke, standing in the shadows next to a Dumpster. “Man,” I said, “the scent of home.”
    “Go get a hit,” Ben whispered. Since I haven’t traveled with grass—except sometimes by car in Northern California—since the “heightened security measures” of 9/11, my husband seems instinctively to feel my pain when I’m potless in a foreign city.
    “I can’t,” I told him.
    “Why not?”
    “Because it’s rude, when they’re strangers. And they haven’t offered it.”
    “Let’s just stroll by, then. I need to go to the bathroom, anyway.”
    So we proceeded to stroll, ever so casually, until one of the tokers—the shorter of the two—was startled by the sight of us and palmed the joint with guilty efficiency.
    “It’s okay,” I told him. “We’re from San Francisco.”
    They laughed uneasily. They were both in their forties, both in polo shirts and chinos, both gazing carnivorously at Ben. I’m used to this, of course, and these two weren’t in the least threatening, since neither one of them was exactly embracing his daddyhood. Their highlighted hair and fake tans (visible even in the dark) betrayed just how hard—and how long—they’d been clinging to the conceit of youth. And it’s not Peter Pan who makes little Ben’s heart beat faster; it’s Captain Hook.
    These guys seemed pleasant enough, though—especially when the shorter one held out the joint. “Would you care to partake?” His voice was Southern and smooth as sorghum. I found it familiar and comforting and deeply repellent.
    “Don’t mind if I do,” I said, matching his Victorian formality before sucking the blessed weed into my lungs.
    “What about you?” the taller one asked Ben.
    “No, thanks,” Ben said. “You guys go ahead.”
    I handed the joint back to the taller one. “He’s disgustingly clean.”
    The shorter one locked his eyes on Ben. “Well, good for you. You stay that way.” His tone was slightly patronizing, as if he were addressing someone’s teenage brother. He flashed an empty Tom Cruise smile. “Are y’all friends or something?”
    “No,” I said evenly. “We’re a couple.”
    He blinked at me for a moment. “Well,” he said, raising an eyebrow as he took the joint from the shorter one. “Didn’t you hit the jackpot.”
    Before I could compose a sufficiently