Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

pay for dinner tonight.”
    “I have to get back to work,” he said nonsensically.
    “You have to sober up,” I told him. “You have to go back to your room and have a nice hot shower and a nap. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
    “Where are we going?” he asked.
    “To town,” I replied.

    I called Shawna as soon as I’d pulled off 101 onto Cesar Chavez.
    “Hey, babycakes.”
    “Oh…hi, Mouse.”
    “Listen, sweetie…I need to talk to you about something.”
    This must have sounded ominous to her. “Oh, shit, it’s not Dad, is it?”
    “No, no. He’s fine. I mean…other than the foot. My brother’s in town, and he’s really depressed, and…I thought I might take him out tonight. I was wondering if you could recommend somebody nice at the Lusty Lady.”
    “You’re kidding?”
    “No…I’m not.”
    “Your born-again brother from Orlando?”
    “It’s complicated. He’s had a blow to his self-esteem, and I just wanna make him feel better for a while. Help him let off some steam, you know.”
    “What does he want?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “In a woman, Mouse.”
    “He doesn’t know about this, actually.”
    “Okaay.”
    “I just thought if there was someone…you know, really easygoing…that he could talk to…and mess around with maybe…it might make him feel better.”
    “And he won’t consider this a sin?”
    “Is it a sin if it happens behind Plexiglas?”
    Shawna laughed. “Fuck if I know.”
    “He can always say no, if he doesn’t want to. I just thought I’d pave the way for him. Make sure he got the right one.”
    “What would be the wrong one?”
    “Well, Pacifica the Pregnant Lady for one. And you for another.”
    “I’m way past that story, Mouse. And Pacifica has a beautiful baby boy.”
    “I’m thrilled for you both.”
    “I take it you haven’t been reading my blog.”
    “Maybe not lately.”
    “You should. You’re in it.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Coming to the Lusty Lady. Well, maybe not coming, but—”
    “Jesus, Shawna—”
    “Okay…my bad. I promise you’ll like it, though. I call you my green-collar gay uncle. I didn’t mention your name, if you’re worried about losing your queer clients.”
    “Gimme a break.”
    “You might wanna think about Lorelei.”
    “What?”
    “For your brother. She’s blond and hella sweet, and she’s famous for her feet.”
    “Her feet?”
    “You should see them. They’re perfect.”
    “What can you do with feet behind Plexiglas?”
    “What can you do with anything behind Plexiglas? Oh, wait…Cressida…that’s the one. She really digs older guys.”
    “Do older guys dig her?”
    “Oh, yeah.”
    “Cressida as in Troilus and Cressida ?”
    “She used to work down at Shakespeare Santa Cruz. She listens well, and she, you know…talks them through it.”
    “So how do we do this?”
    “I’ll just call ahead and tell ’em he’s coming. What’s his name again?”
    “Irwin.”
    “Will you be with him?”
    “Hell, no.”
    “You big pussy.”
    “Don’t be disrespectful.”
    She giggled.
    “And don’t put it in your blog, either. This is strictly private therapy. It can’t get back to Florida.”
    “You have my word on it, as a pimp.”
    “Thank you.”
    “I think it’s sweet, actually. What you’re doing. I’ll leave a message for Cressida. Make sure he brings some cash for the slot.”

    That evening I took Irwin to Joe DiMaggio’s Chophouse on Washington Square. Back when I was still living on Russian Hill, this corner was occupied by the Fior d’Italia, the city’s oldest Italian restaurant and the birthplace of chicken tetrazzini, a spaghetti dish concocted in 1908 in honor of a visiting opera singer. (Mama used to make a version of this herself, using Velveeta cheese and Campbell’s Cream of Chicken soup.) I hadn’t been to the new restaurant, but I figured its blend of baseball memorabilia and oversized Marilyn photographs would keep both of us sufficiently amused.
    While Irwin was working on his first scotch, a pianist was tinkling out a dreamy rendition of “I Wanna Be Loved by You.”
    “Clever,” I said, smiling. (I wasn’t drinking tonight, but I had vaporized before leaving the house.)
    “What?”
    “That was Marilyn Monroe’s big number from Some Like It Hot .”
    “Don’t think I remember that one.”
    “Sure you do…blond. Big boobs.”
    Irwin shot daggers at me. “The movie, dickwad.”
    It felt good to be called that again. It reminded me of the old