Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

gives the syringe a jaunty toss, like a dart.
    “Well, I didn’t actually see it,” I said, “but I met this queen at a local bar who did. He said they used iridescent-purple lipstick for the lesions.”
    Ben swabbed my butt again. “Stay there a second, sweetheart. You’re bleeding a little.”
    “Never mind that. Are my balls shrinking?”
    Ben laughed and reached between my legs. “All present and accounted for, Captain.”
    “I know that . But are they shrinking?”
    “Well, not in my expert opinion.”
    My doctor had warned me about the shrinking thing when I started testosterone therapy two years ago. The stuff can give you energy, restore your libido, lift your spirits, and make you grow hair like a Chia Pet, but it can also shrink your balls. Apparently, if your testicles wise up to the fact that someone else is on the job, they can lose interest in the job altogether. The meat may be sizzling, but the potatoes have taken a hike.
    “How do they seem to you?” asked Ben. “You handle ’em more than I do.”
    I chuckled. “We’ll have to work on that.”
    Ben patted my ass. “You’re good to go, honey.”
    As I pulled my jeans up Ben dropped the syringe into an empty Ragu jar we had saved for that purpose. “You know,” he said, screwing the lid on, “we should start a Liberal Haunted House. We could have oilmen bombing kids…and fags being tied to fences…and black men being dragged behind trucks…and maybe those Abu Ghraib guys, you know, with the hoods and the wires and all.”
    I said that was a nice twist but too unsubtle for liberals. “That’s the problem,” he said. “We’re always too subtle.” He gave me a long, tender look. “I’m sorry, babe…about your mom.”
    “Thanks,” I said, looking back.
    “I’m glad I’ll get a chance to meet her.”
    Poor guy. Little did he know.

4
    Our Little Grrrl
    S everal times a month I pick up fruit trees at a nursery on Clement Street called Plant Parenthood. That always makes me nostalgic, since I ran the place for twelve years before selling it to my business partner, Brian Hawkins. My T cells had begun to climb by then, and I was sick of pushing Tuscan flowerpots to bored housewives. I wanted to plant something serious for once, to leave my mark on the earth before somebody planted me . I’ve never regretted that decision. I’m now tending at least a dozen mature gardens that I myself created years ago: lush green kingdoms seeded from my own imagination.
    Not that it’s getting easier. My arthritis seems to be here for good, and the sheer grunt work of the job can put me out of commission for days on end. I’m my own boss, of course, so I can adjust my schedule accordingly, and I do have an assistant now—the aptly named Jake Greenleaf—who helps me with the trimming and hauling. But the big question remains: How long can I keep this up? The topic is almost unavoidable at Plant Parenthood, since Brian turned sixty-one this year, and retirement is his chief preoccupation.
    On a recent visit I found my old friend hunched over his laptop with a crazed gleam in his eye, like a zealot planning a people’s revolution. Brian Hawkins, hippie-turned-radical-lawyer-turned-waiter-turned-nurseryman, was poring over a website for motor homes. “What do you think of this one, Michael? It’s still a class C, but it’s got most of the amenities of a class A, without the bulk. It’s a little more eco-friendly.”
    “I hate the name,” I said.
    “What’s the name got to do with it?”
    “You’re not seriously gonna hit the road in something called a Minnie Winnie?”
    “Hey,” he said, “I’m secure in my wussyhood.”
    I laughed. “Have you thought about where you’ll have to park the damn thing? Your neighbors will all have bumper stickers that say ‘Baby Jesus On Board.’”
    Brian spun around in his chair. “That’s a gross generalization.”
    “Is it?”
    “Damn straight. All kinds of people have RVs.”
    “Like who?”
    “Well…this sculptress I met at Burning Man, for one.”
    “Ah…this sculptress.”
    Brian grinned. “Don’t start with me, man—”
    “You got some New Age pussy in a Winnebago, and now it’s the only way to travel.”
    “You missed something, that’s all.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Burning Man, buttwipe! The desert! There were sandstorms whipping up all around us, and the stars were so bright you could see by them. The Winnebago made me feel…I dunno…so self-contained