“Which building?” asked Rick.
“The shingled one. On Barbary Lane. That little house on the roof, see?”
“Yeah, but I don’t—”
“The right window.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“What?” asked Arch, as the others crowded around.
“Oh, Jesus, look what he’s—”
“What’s he doing?” shrieked Arch.
“Wait your turn, Mary. Oh, Jesus, I can’t buhleeve … How long has this been going on, Peter?”
“A couple of weeks, at least. There’s a woman he’s watching in that white building.”
“He’s straight?”
“Apparently.”
“He can’t be! Straight people don’t have bodies like that!”
“Lemme see!” said Arch.
The Slumber Party
BACK IN HER OWN CUBICLE, MONA SAT PERFECTLY STILL on the bed and performed the only rite of exorcism she knew:
She recited her mantra.
It wasn’t that she felt guilty, really. Or even embarrassed. She had kept her agreement and she could live with that. She had pleased the client. She had pleased Mother Mucca. She had been flawlessly seventies about the whole fucking thing.
It wasn’t shame, then, that consumed her. It was … nothing. She felt nothing at all, and it scared the hell out of her. The yawning Black Hole of her existence had reached seismic proportions, and she was perilously near the abyss. If she did not keep running, if she did not keep changing, the random and monstrous irrationality of the universe would swallow her alive.
“Knock, knock.”
Silence.
“Knock, knock.”
“Yeah, Bobbi?”
The child-whore peered in, cautiously. She waved a cellophane package through the door, like a vampire-killer brandishing a crucifix. “I’ve got some Oreos. Wanna help me eat ‘em?”
“I don’t think so, Bobbi.”
A pause, and then: “You feelin’ O.K., Judy?”
“Why shouldn’t I? He’s the one who’s smarting.”
Bobbi giggled and shook the package again. “Don’t you want just a few?”
“You don’t lick the centers, do you?”
“No. I hate that.”
“Me too.”
“My mother wouldn’t let me have ‘em if I licked the centers.”
Mona smiled. Mothers were good for something, anyway. So what if we ended up turning S & M tricks in a Winnemucca whorehouse? We always remembered not to lick the centers out of Oreos, not to sit with our legs apart, not to point at people or scratch ourselves when we itched.
“How ‘bout it?” Bobbi persisted.
“Sure,” said Mona. “Why not?”
Hopping onto the bed with unsuppressed glee, Bobbi tore into the package of cookies. “So,” she said, offering one to Mona, “what did you think of him?”
Mona deadpanned. “Beats me.”
Bobbi missed it. “I think he’s real handsome.”
“Bobbi … I don’t wanna talk about it, O.K.?”
“Sure. Sorry.”
Bobbi drew her knees up under her chin, hugging them. She munched meditatively on an Oreo as if she were checking its vintage. Then she studied Mona soulfully.
“You know what, Judy?”
“What?”
“You’re my best friend.”
Silence.
“Cross my heart, Judy.”
“Well, that’s … Thank you.”
“Could I stay tonight?”
“Here?”
Bobbi nodded. “It would be like a slumber party or something.”
“Bobbi, I don’t think …”
“I’m not a lesbo, Judy.”
Mona smiled. “What if I am?”
Bobbi looked startled at first, then amused. “No way,” she laughed. “Not you.”
Mona laughed with her, despite the implicit deception involved. D’orothea, after all, was long gone from her life. In Mona’s eyes, lesbianism had simply been the logical follow-up to macrobiotics and primal screaming. She had gotten into it, but seldom off on it, and never behind it.
She took an Oreo from Bobbi and split it apart. “How can we have a slumber party without a stack of 45’s and a record player?”
“I know some ghost stories.”
Mona grinned. “We could do our toenails.”
“I did mine yesterday.”
“Oh, well, then we could—”
“Lick the centers out of Oreos!” They squealed in unison as Mona held up a cookie with the creamy filling exposed. Bobbi held her tongue out expectantly. “We need milk,” Mona blurted, dropping the Oreo in Bobbi’s hand and springing from the bed.
She avoided the parlor, where she could hear Mother Mucca lining up four of the girls for a pair of drunken truckers. She entered the kitchen from the back door, fumbled for the light switch and made her way to the refrigerator. There was half a quart of milk on the top shelf.
A pitcher would be nice, she decided. They could pour each other milk from a pitcher. Bobbi would like that.
She found one on the shelf over the stove, a pale green Depression piece that would fetch a small fortune in a San Francisco antique shop.
As she reached for it, her hand brushed past a row of tattered cookbooks, knocking one to the floor. She bent over to pick it up. The name on the flyleaf filled her with instant terror.
Mona Ramsey.
Temper, Temper
TWO DAYS BEFORE THE PACIFIC PRINCESS WAS SCHEDULED to arrive in Acapulco, Michael awoke to find himself alone in his stateroom. Mary Ann’s bed was still made. Eager for a play-by-play, he showered hurriedly and raced down to breakfast on the Aloha Deck.
Mary Ann was already seated, as were Arnold and Melba Littlefield, resplendent in matching denim pantsuits. Arnold’s outfit was embroidered with rainbows; Melba’s had butterflies. God help us, thought Michael. The Summer of Love is alive and well in Dublin.
“Well,” thundered Arnold, as Michael sat down, “don’t you two ever make it to chow at the same time?”
Mary Ann flushed, casting a nervous glance at her lapsed roommate.
Michael turned elfin. “The little woman’s probably worked up one hell of an appetite.”
Mary Ann kicked him under the table.
Arnold chuckled knowingly and winked at Michael.
Melba, as usual, looked puzzled. “Out boogying all night?” Melba was abnormally fond of words like “boogy,” “rap” and “rip-off,” a vocabulary Michael was certain she had picked up from People magazine.
“Boogying?” He might as well have fun with it.
“You know. Dancing. Didn’t they set up a disco in the Skaal Bar?”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot. I hit the sack early. With Christopher Isherwood.”
Mary Ann was squirming. “Mouse, you haven’t ordered yet.”
“Wait a minute,” said Arnold, addressing Michael. “Run that one by me again.”
“It’s a book,” said Mary Ann.
Michael nodded. “Christopher and His Kind.”
“Mouse … I think the steward …”
“What’s it about?” asked Arnold.
“He wrote Cabaret,” said Mary Ann.
“About krauts, huh?”
“You bet,” said Michael.
“They have blueberry pancakes today, Mouse.”
Melba sighed. “Isn’t Liza Minnelli just darling!”
“O.K.,” said Michael, as soon as they had left the dining room. “Gimme the dirt.”
Mary Ann sulked.
“C’mon. Did he ravish you on the poop deck?”
Silence.
“Brutalize you in the bilge? Suck your toes? Buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Mouse, you ruined breakfast for me!”
“You could have asked Burke to join you.”
“Right. And play footsy with him while you’re telling Arnold and Melba snappy stories about the little woman?”
“Hey, look: the
young marrieds routine was your idea, remember?”
“Lower your voice.”
“Lower your own goddamn voice! What the hell do you think I am, anyway? Rent-a-Hubby?”
Mary Ann glared at him for a split second, groaned in exasperation, and strode past him down the passageway. Michael cooled off on the Promenade Deck, walking laps under the lifeboats until his thoughts were clear. Fifteen minutes later he returned to the stateroom.
Mary Ann was seated at the desk, writing postcards. She didn’t turn around.
“Guess what?” said Michael.
“What?” She had drained her voice of expression.
“I’m jealous.”
“Mouse, don’t—”
“I am. I’m one jealous little queen. I’m jealous of Burke because he’s taken away my playmate, and I’m jealous of you because you’ve found a lover.”
Mary Ann turned around with tears in her eyes.
“You’ll find somebody, Mouse. I know you will. Maybe even in Acapulco.”
“Maybe this time, huh?”
She smiled and hugged him, holding him tight. “I love you for that, Michael Mouse.”
“What?”
“Turning everything into song lyrics.”
“Yeah,” said Michael. “Isn’t Liza Minnelli just darling?”
Later, it was her turn to apologize. “I’ve been crabby too, Mouse. I mean … well, I’m a little edgy, I guess.”
“About what?”
She hesitated, then said: “Burke.”
“He wasn’t …?”
“He’s perfect, Mouse. He’s sensitive, strong, considerate. We’re—you know—sexually whatever. He’s protective, yet he treats me like an equal. He doesn’t crack his knuckles. He’s perfect.”
“But not perfect?”
“He’s afraid of roses, Mouse.”
“Uh … pardon me?”
“This dwarf at Las Hadas tried to give us a rose and Burke took one look at it, turned white and threw up in the bushes.”
“Maybe he’s from Pasadena.”
“It worries me, Mouse. That’s not normal, is it?”
“You’re asking me?”
“I tried to talk to him about it, and he changed the subject. I don’t think he has the slightest idea why he reacted that way.”
The Mysteries of Pinus
EVERYTHING ABOUT HELENA PARRISH WAS SMART BUT safe. She wore a navy blue fedora, a navy blue Mollie Parnis suit, and navy blue, medium-height, T-strap calf shoes from Magnin’s. She looked, to Frannie, like the kind of woman who would never miss a Wednesday night travelogue at the Century Club.
“More tea?” asked Frannie, wondering where her guest had her hair streaked so beautifully.
“No, thanks,” smiled Helena Parrish, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin.
“Bourbon balls?”
“No. They’re lovely, though. May I call you Frannie, by the way?”
“Of course.”
“How much do you know about Pinus, Frannie?”
The hostess flushed, startled by this abrupt approach to the subject. “Oh … well, most of it’s just hearsay, I suppose.” Discretion seemed wise at this point. Helena could do the talking.
The visitor nodded solemnly. “Word-of-mouth, we find, is our best safeguard.” She smiled thinly. “Discrimination seems to be a nasty word these days, doesn’t it?”
“Isn’t it dreadful?”
“We prefer to think of it as quality control. And of course, the less publicity we receive, the more we’re able to … cater to the needs of our members”
“I understand.”
“Aside from the social criteria, the only other requirement for membership is the attainment of one’s sixtieth birthday.” She spoke the last two words in a stage whisper, as if to apologize for an embarrassing, if necessary, invasion of privacy.
Frannie’s smile was sheepish. “Your timing is close to perfect.”
“I know,” said Helena.
“Vita?”
Helena nodded and continued. “Our philosophy is that women of our mature station in life are entitled to carve out any lifestyle we can afford. We have, after all, played by the rules for forty years. Raising children, tolerating husbands, joining the right clubs, supporting the correct charities.” She leaned forward and looked Frannie straight in the eye. “We have paid our dues, Frannie, and we will not piddle away the rest of our days as long-suffering Mary Worths!”
Frannie was mesmerized. Helena Parrish had begun to assume the aura of a guru.
“There are alternatives, of course. Pinus is not the only solution. It’s simply the only fulfulling one. And if we have the money for it, why on earth should we squander it on face-lifts and body tucks and youth injections?
“Fortunately,” continued Helena, “people like us can afford to indulge in this sort of … luxury. And what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with demanding our piece of the pleasure pie?”
She handed Frannie a brochure. It was printed in brown ink on heavy cream stock with hand-torn edges. There were, of course, no pictures.
PINUS
For gentlewomen who are 60. And Ready.
Nestled snugly in the rolling hills of Sonoma, Pinus is unquestionably the most remarkable resort of its kind in the world. Resort, perhaps, is an ill-chosen word, for Pinus is a Way of Life. Pinus is a Flight of Fancy, a mature woman’s idyll, a Dream of Wild Abandon. Once you have experienced Pinus, nothing is quite the same again.
“I’ll leave it with you,” Helena said quietly. “I’m sure you’d like to mull over it alone.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“As you may know, Frannie, admission depends ultimately on our board of directors. In your case, however, I’m sure there won’t be any …” She finished the sentence with a little wave of her hand. Frannie’s social acceptability had never been at issue.
“The decision is yours to make, Frannie. If you feel you’re ready, please give me a call at Pinus. The number’s on the brochure.”
“Thank you. Uh … Helena, when would I … how soon?”
“On your birthday, if you like.” The visitor smiled cordially. “We even provide a very interesting cake.”
“What fun.”
“Yes,” said Helena. “It’s about time, isn’t it?”
Mona Times Two
IN A HOUSE WITH TEN BEDROOMS, MONA HAD NEVER EXPECTED to encounter the biggest shocker in the kitchen. But there she stood—immobilized by fear—reading her own name in the flyleaf of a cookbook.
Her own name! Why? Why?
She dropped the book and lunged at the others, already certain of what she would find. Mona Ramsey … Mona Ramsey … Mona Ramsey! All of them the same, all of them inscribed in the halting, primitive hand of a child—or perhaps a semi-literate adult.
A flashback. That was it. This was the LSD flashback they had warned her about. She sank into a chair, moaning softly, waiting with patient resignation for large purple caterpillars to crawl up out of the sink drains.
Minutes passed. No caterpillars. Only the distant, pervasive whine of the desert wind and the insistent drip of the faucet. Out in the parlor, a trucker was laughing raucously with Marni, who kept saying, “Gross me out! Gross me out!” in her tinny Modesto accent.
Rising on wobbly legs. Mona went to the sink and doused herself with water. Then she blotted her face with a JFK– Bobby Kennedy–Martin Luther King dish towel and lurched through the back door into the blackness.
She counted the doors from the end of the building until she found the one that was hers.
The light was still on.
Bobbi looked up with a smile. “No milk, huh?”
“No.”
“I think there’re some Dr. Peppers in the bar, if you … Judy, what’s the matter?”
“I don’t know.” Mona sank to the edge of the bed and stared glassily at the Autograph Hound the room’s former occupant had left on the vanity.
“Bobbi … what’s my name?�
��
“Huh?”
“What’s my name?”
“Are you …?”
“Please, answer.”
“It’s Judy.”
“Judy what?”
“I don’t know. You never told me.”
“If I … if I had another name, and you knew about it, would you tell me so? Or would you tease me about it, Bobbi? Do you think Charlene would …?” She couldn’t finish. It was all so paranoid. If Charlene wanted to torment her about her real name, why the hell would she write it in a goddamn cookbook?
Bobbi smiled forgivingly. “Lots of us have fake names, Judy. Marni’s real name is Esther. I don’t give a hoot if your name isn’t—”
“How long have you worked here, Bobbi?”
“Off and on?”
Was there any other way to work at a whorehouse? “Yeah.”
“Oh, I guess … three years.”
“You’ve known a lot of the girls who’ve been through here, then?”
“Sure.” Bobbi popped a stick of Dentyne into her mouth and chewed it soberly, suddenly aware that she was being interrogated.
“Do you remember one called Mona?”
The chewing continued. If the name had jolted Bobbi, the expression on her face didn’t betray it. “Mona, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Bobbi shook her head languidly. “No. Not right offhand.”
“Think, Bobbi. Please.”
“You know her last name?”
“Ramsey. Mona Ramsey.”
The light dawned. Bobbi giggled at her own stupidity. “Oh, gee,” she said. “We never call her that!”
“Who, Bobbi?”
“Mother Mucca.”
“Mother Mucca?”
“Sure. Mona Ramsey is Mother Mucca’s real name.”
Minutes later, when Bobbi had left, Mona sat alone and pondered her mounting paranoia. She hadn’t felt so confused and frightened—so utterly abandoned—since Rennie Davis, the foremost deity of her youth, had been discovered selling John Hancock insurance in Colorado.
Why was Buddha doing this to her?
Two Mona Ramseys in the same whorehouse! One grizzled and ancient and weathered by debauchery. The other jaded but youngish and teetering on the brink of lunacy.
More Tales of the City Page 10
