Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

somehow evolved into a minimalist play, a couple of actors working without props or scenery.
    “Look at it this way,” I said. “We may not have found the cave, but we’re right next door to where the museum used to be.”
    “What museum?”
    “Of anthropology…where Ishi lived.”
    He winced at this reminder of his disgrace and ran his fingers through his hair. The scratches on his face were turning dark and crusty. “You’re right,” he muttered, his eyes fixed grimly on the ceiling. “He must have swept the floors on this very block.”
    I ignored his sarcastic tone. “Which means…we’re sort of following his footsteps…in a way.”
    Brian grunted. “We never even got to the cave, man.”
    “Well, how great a cave can it be if it’s the size of an igloo? It’s not like there was gonna be hieroglyphics. It’s probably full of snails and old condoms.”
    I thought he’d be pissed at me for befouling his shrine, but he just smiled dimly at a private joke. “Doorknobs, actually.”
    “Doorknobs?”
    “Ishi’s two favorite things about…you know…so-called civilization were matches and doorknobs. So this guy…the old hippie…brought him a doorknob.”
    “And did what with it?”
    “Just left it in the cave.”
    “Well, that’s kinda creepy.”
    “Why?”
    “I dunno…it’s so…me big white man, me bring you firewater and doorknob.”
    “It’s a metaphor, dipshit. Or maybe a spiritual statement.” Brian rolled on his side and gazed at me in doleful resignation. “Or something.”
    “You can find it later,” I said. “Don’t beat yourself up.”
    He shook his head. “It was gonna be Shawna’s going-away surprise.”
    “Yeah, well…now she’ll have a crutch to sign.”
    His eyes widened. “Crutch?”
    “Cast…whatever.”
    “It was her favorite story,” he said. “I wanted to give her an ending.”
    The tears welling in his eyes caught me off guard. Brian may be the last of the sensitive liberals, but weeping doesn’t come easily to him—at least not lately. I figured it was mostly the drugs. I stood up and laid my hand gingerly on his messy white mop. “She doesn’t need an ending, sport. She’s just moving to New York.”
    “It’s not that,” he murmured.
    “Then what?”
    “Just…stupid shit.”
    “Brian…I need more.”
    “Then take your hand off my head.”
    I should have known better. I have a way of infantilizing Brian whenever he’s hurting, and he’s never been really comfortable with the comforting. I removed my hand and sat down again, angling the chair so I could see his face. “That better?”
    He said nothing for a moment and then: “Do you think I’ve wasted my life?”
    “Brian…c’mon…”
    “I mean it, man. I’m almost sixty-fucking-two. I’ve got nothing to show for it but that lame-ass fucking nursery…and that was yours to begin with.”
    “What about Shawna?”
    “What about her? She’s a great kid, but…”
    “But what?”
    “Am I a loser for not marrying again?”
    I took the shrink’s way out. “Is that how you feel?”
    “I didn’t used to. I didn’t even think about it. Shawna was all I needed. The two of us were pretty much…home.”
    “I think that’s your answer, then.”
    “Is it?”
    “Besides, you can always get married, if that’s what you want. You’re still plenty hot enough.” I smiled at him. “Just ask my husband.”
    Brian returned the smile. “Your husband is a twisted little fuck.”
    “Thank the Lord,” I said.
    He laughed. “I’m happy for you, man. You deserve it.”
    “Well, so do you, buttwipe. Get your ass online. The ladies’ll be lining up. Whatever happened to that sculptress you met at Burning Man?”
    “She was too much of a purple person.”
    Purple people, in our private lexicon, are old gray lefties of either gender with a fondness for purple clothing, squash-blossom necklaces, and the like. Brian and I are both purplish, philosophically speaking, but we’re put off by the predictability of the uniform. To me it’s no more radical or original than, say, Arizona retirees in their pastel pantsuits.
    Brian seemed lost in thought, and then: “Heard from Mary Ann lately?”
    “Nope.”
    “You talk to her, though.”
    It was more of a statement than a question, so I set him straight. “No, I don’t, Brian. Not for a long time.” I’d been caught between the two of them when Mary Ann left him eighteen years earlier, and I had no intention of letting that