Tales of the City

by Armistead Maupin

  There was nothing left but bills.

  She sat down at her escritoire and began to disembowel windowed envelopes. The latest tally from Wilkes Bashford was $1,748. Daddy would be livid. She had already got three advances on her allowance that month.

  Screw it. Beauchamp could sweat out the bills for once. She was sick to death of it.

  Angrily, she rose and went to the window, confronting a panorama of almost ludicrous exoticism: the sylvan slope of Telegraph Hill, the crude grandeur of a Norwegian freighter, the bold blue sweep of the bay …

  And then … a sudden slash of electric green as a flock—no,the flock—of wild parrots headed north to the eucalyptus trees above Julius Castle.

  The birds were a legend on the hill. Once upon a time they had belonged to human beings. Then, somehow, they had fled their separate cages to band together in this raucous platoon of freedom fighters. According to most accounts, they divided their time daily between Telegraph Hill and Potrero Hill. Their screeching en route was regarded by many locals as a hymn to the liberated soul.

  But not by DeDe.

  In her opinion, the parrots were annoyingly arrogant. You could buy the most beautiful one in town, she observed, but that wouldn’t make it love you. You could feed it, care for it and exclaim over its loveliness, but there was nothing to guarantee that it would stay home with you.

  There had to be a lesson there somewhere.

  She locked herself in the bathroom and poured half a cup of Vitabath into the tub. She soaked for an hour, trying to calm her nerves. It helped to think of old times, carefree days in Hillsborough when she and Binky and Muffy would snitch the keys to Daddy’s Mercedes and tool down to the Fillmore to tease the black studs lurking on the street corners.

  Good times. Pre-Cotillion. Pre-Spinsters. Pre-Beauchamp.

  But what was there now?

  Muffy had married a Castilian prince.

  Binky was still living it up as the Jewish American Princess.

  DeDe was stuck with a Shabby Genteel Bostonian who thought he was a parrot.

  Lying there in the warm, fragrant water, she realized suddenly that most of her ideas about love and marriage and sex had solidified when she was fourteen years old.

  Mother Immaculata, her social studies teacher, had explained the whole thing:

  “Boys will try to kiss you, DeDe. You must expect that, and you must be prepared for it.”

  “But how?”

  “It’s as close as your heart, DeDe. The scapular you wear around your neck.”

  “I don’t see how …”

  “When a boy tries to kiss you, you must pull out your scapular and say, ‘Here, kiss this, if you must kiss something.’”

  DeDe’s scapular bore a picture of Jesus or St. Anthony or somebody. Nobody ever tried to kiss it.

  Mother Immaculata knew her stuff, all right.

  DeDe climbed out of the tub and stood in front of the mirror for a long time, smearing her face with Oil of Olay. The flesh under her chin was soft and spongy. Nothing drastic. It could still pass for baby fat.

  The rest of her body had a certain … voluptuous quality, she felt, though it would certainly be nice to have an outside opinion again. If Beauchamp didn’t want her, there were still people who did. There was no goddamn reason in the world why she had to act like Miss Peninsula Virgin of 1969.

  She found her address book and looked up Splinter Riley’s number.

  Splinter of the massive shoulders and molten eyes. Splinter, who had begged her one balmy night on Belvedere (1970? 1971?) to follow him to the Mallards’ boathouse, where he brutalized her Oscar de la Renta and took his manly pleasure with gratifying thoroughness.

  God! She had forgotten none of it. The mingled odors of sweat and Chanel for Men. The scrape of the damp planks against her fanny. The distant strains of Walt Tolleson’s combo playing “Close to You” up on the hillside.

  Her hand trembled as she dialed.

  Please, she prayed, don’t let Oona be at home.

  The Chinese Connection

  MERCIFULLY, IT WAS SPLINTER WHO ANSWERED THE phone.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Splint.”

  “Who’s this, please?”

  “Here’s a hint: ‘Sittin’ on the dock of the bay, wastin’ tiiiiime …’”

  “DeDe?”

  “I thought that might remind you.” Her tone was tantalizing, but ladylike, she felt.

  “Good to hear from you. What have you and Beauchamp been up to?”

  “Not much. Beauchamp’s off with the Guardsmen.”

  “Shit! Did I miss a meeting?”

  “What?”

  “Beauchamp and I are on the same committee. They’ll skin my ass if I …”

  “It may not have been Guardsmen, Splint … come to think of it.” Well, that answered that.

  “I hope to hell not. What can I do for you?”

  “I can remember when it used to be the other way around.”

  Silence.

  “Beauchamp’s away till this evening, Splint.”

  “DeDe …”

  “No strings attached.”

  “I don’t think …”

  “Is Oona there? Is that it?”

  “No. DeDe, look … I’m flattered to death, honest to

  God …”

  “No emotional commitments. I’ve changed a lot, Splint.”

  “So have I.”

  “What could have changed that much?”

  “I’m in love with Oona.”

  She hung up on him.

  Almost immediately, she picked up the phone and dialed Jiffy’s Market. She ordered half a gallon of milk, a box of Familia and some bananas. There was something very comforting about cereal. It made her think of childhood at Halcyon Hill.

  The delivery boy arrived in fifteen minutes.

  DeDe knew him. It was Lionel Wong, a muscular eighteen-year-old suffering from a Bruce Lee fixation.

  “Shall I put it in the kitchen, Mrs. Day?”

  “Thanks, Lionel. I’ll get my purse out of the bedroom.”

  “No sweat, Mrs. Day. We can put it on your tab.”

  “No … I want to give you something for your trouble.”

  She went into the bedroom, returning with a dollar bill.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  DeDe smiled. “Have you seen the exhibit at the de Young?”

  “What?”

  “The People’s Republic exhibit. It’s stunning, Lionel. You should be very proud of your people.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Truly stunning. The culture is amazing.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would you like something to drink, Lionel? I don’t have any Cokes in the house. How about a bitter lemon?”

  “I’ve got a couple more stops, Mrs. Day.”

  “Just for a little while?”

  “Thanks a lot, but …”

  “Lionel … please …”

  Halfan hour later, Beauchamp arrived home. He met Lionel at the elevator.

  “Working Sundays, Lionel? That’s a bummer.”

  “No sweat.”

  “Anything for the Days?”

  “Yeah … Mrs. Day needed a few things.”

  “How’s the Kung Fu coming?”

  “Fine.”

  “Keep it up. You’re getting some nice definition.”

  “Thanks. See you later.”

  “Take it easy. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Upstairs, DeDe was basking in her second Vitabath of the day.

  Confession in the Nude

  THE PARKING LOT AT DEVIL’S SLIDE WAS JAMMED WITH vehicles: flowered hippie vans, city clunkers, organic pickups with shingled gypsy houses, and a dusty pack of Harley-Davidsons.

  Mona had to park her ‘64 Volvo almost a quarter of a mile from the beach. “Shit,” she groaned. “It must be wall-to-wall flesh down there.”

  “I hope so,” leered Michael.

  “That’s sexism, even if you
are talking about men.”

  “So I’m sexist.”

  They trekked along the dirt road with dozens of other wayfarers headed for the beach. “This reminds me of the Donner party,” said Mona.

  Michael grinned. “Yeah. Drop by the wayside and you get eaten.”

  When they reached the highway, Mona gave the ticket-taker a dollar for both of them.

  “This is on me,” she said. “You’re in mourning.”

  Michael skipped down to the stairway on the cliff. “Just watch me recover, Babycakes!”

  Two minutes later, they were standing on a broad stretch of white sand. Michael flung a pebble into the air. “Where shall we go? The gay end or the straight end?”

  “Let me guess.”

  Michael grinned. “It’s less windy down at the gay end.”

  “I’m not real crazy about climbing over those rocks.”

  “I shall carry you, my lovely.”

  “You’re one helluva gentleman!”

  They headed, arm in arm, for the sandy cove nestled amid the rocks at the north end of the beach. On the way they passed five or six frolicking bathers, all naked and brown as organic date bars.

  “Look at them!” sighed Mona. “I feel like a goddamn fish belly.”

  Michael shook his head. “That’s no good. They haven’t got a tan line.”

  “A what?”

  “A tan line. The contrast between brown and white when you take off your trunks.”

  “Who needs it? I haven’t taken off my trunks before an audience in ages. I’d rather be brown all over.”

  “Suit yourself. I want a tan line.”

  “You’re a prude, that’s what.”

  “Five minutes ago, I was a sexist.”

  She snatched a piece of seaweed off the sand and draped it over his ear. “You’re a sexist, faggot prude, Michael Mouse.”

  There were thirty or forty naked men on the tiny patch of beach. Mona and Michael spread a towel. It displayed the words Chez Moi ou Chez Toi? and a life-size picture of a naked man.

  Mona looked around her, then down at the towel. “How redundant. Aren’t you afraid people will make comparisons?”

  Michael laughed, stripping off his sweatshirt, tank top and Levi’s. He stretched out in his green-and-yellow satin boxing trunks.

  Mona removed her own Levi’s and tank top. “How do you like my impression of the Great White Whale?”

  “Bullshit. You look fabulous. You look like … September Morn.”

  “A fat lot of good it’ll do me here.”

  “Don’t be so sure. There’s a nasty epidemic of heterosexuality afoot. I know lots of gay guys who’re sneaking off to the Sutro Baths to get it on with women.”

  “How bizarre.”

  “Well … everything gets old after a while. I personally get a little sick of wrecking my liver at The Lion for the privilege of tricking with some guy whose lover is in L.A. for the weekend.”

  “So you’re going straight?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Mona rolled over on her stomach and handed Michael a bottle of Bain de Soleil. “Do my back, will you?”

  Michael obliged, applying the lotion in strong circular strokes. “You do have a nice bod, you know.”

  “Thanks, Babycakes.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Mouse?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think I’m a fag hag?”

  “What?”

  “I do. I’m sure of it.”

  “You’ve been eating funny mushrooms again.”

  “I don’t mind being a fag hag, actually. There are worse things to be.”

  “You are not a fag hag, Mona.”

  “Look at the symptoms. I hang around with you, don’t I? We go boogying at Buzzby’s and The Endup. I’m practically a fixture at The Palms.” She laughed. “Shit! I’ve drunk so many Blue Moons I feel like I’m turning into Dorothy Lamour.”

  “Mona …”

  “Hell, Mouse! I hardly know any straight men anymore.”

  “You live in San Francisco.”

  “It isn’t that. I don’t even like most straight men. Brian Hawkins repulses me. Straight men are boorish and boring

  and …”

  “Maybe you’ve just been exposed to the wrong ones.”

  “Then where the hell are the right ones?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. There must be …”

  “Don’t you dare suggest one of those mellowed-out Marin types. Underneath all that hair and patchouli beats the heart of a true pig. I’ve been that route.”

  “What can I say?”

  “Nothing. Not a damned thing.”

  “I love you a lot, Mona.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “For what it’s worth … sometimes I wish that were enough.”

  Two hours later, they left hand in hand, parting a Red Sea of naked male bodies.

  They ate dinner at Pier 54, boogied briefly at Buzzby’s, and arrived back at Barbary Lane at ten-thirty.

  Mary Ann passed them on the stairs.

  “How was your weekend?” asked Mona.

  “Fine.”

  “You go away?”

  “Up north. With a friend from school.”

  “Have you met Michael Tolliver, my new roommate?”

  “No, I …”

  “Yes.” Michael smiled. “I believe we have.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t …”

  “The Marina Safeway.”

  “Oh … yes. How are you?”

  “Hangin’ in there.”

  Back at the apartment, Mona asked, “You met Mary Ann at a supermarket?”

  Michael smiled ruefully. “She tried to pick up Robert.”

  “You see?” said Mona. “You see?”

  Miss Singleton Dines Alone

  AFTER UNPACKING HER SUITCASE, MARY ANN PADded restlessly through her apartment in the pink quilted bathrobe her mother had sent her from the Ridgemont Mall.

  She haled Sunday nights.

  When she was a little girl, Sunday nights had meant only one thing: unfinished homework.

  That’s how she felt now. Anxious, guilty, frightened of recriminations that were certain to follow. Beauchamp Day was homework she should have finished. She would pay for it. Sooner or later.

  She decided to pamper herself.

  She quick-thawed a pork chop under the faucet, wondering if it was sacrilegious to Shake ‘n Bake meat from Marcel & Henri.

  Lighting a spice candle on the parsons table in the living room, she dug out her Design Research cloth napkins, her wood-handled stainless flatware, her imitation Dansk china, and her ceramic creamer shaped like a cow.

  Solitude was no excuse for sloppiness.

  She scrounged in the kitchen for a vegetable. There was nothing but a Baggie full of limp lettuce and a half-eaten package of Stouffer’s Spinach Soufflé. She decided on cottage cheese with chives.

  She supped by candlelight, bent over a Ms. article entitled “The Quest for Multiple Orgasm.” Music was provided by KCBS-FM, the mellow station:

  Out of work, I’m out of my head.

  Out of self-respect,

  I’m out of bread,

  Underloved and underfed,

  I wanna go home …

  It never rains in California,

  But, girl, don’t they warn ya.

  It pours, man, it pours.

  After dinner, she decided to try the “monster mask” formula from her herbal cosmetics book. She cooked a saucepan of the glop—using oatmeal, dried prunes and an overripe fig—and smeared it relentlessly over her face.

  For twenty minutes, she lay perfectly still in a sudsy tub.

  She could feel the mask drying, chipping off in gross, leprous flakes and sinking into the water above her chest. This would kill another ten minutes. Then what?

  She could write her parents.

  She could fill out her application to the Sierra Club.

  She could walk down to
Cost Plus and buy another coffee mug.

  She could call Beauchamp.

  Lurching out of the bathtub like a reject from a Japanese horror film, she examined her face in the mirror.

  She looked like a giant Shake ‘n Bake pork chop.

  And for what?

  For Dance Your Ass Off? For Mr. Halcyon? For Michael Whatshisname downstairs? For a married man who mutters strange names in his sleep?

  She would not call him. The love he offered was deceitful, destructive and dead-end.

  He would have to call her.

  She fell asleep just before midnight, with Nicholas and Alexandra in her lap.

  Over on Telegraph Hill, DeDe was eyeing Beauchamp malevolently as he adjusted the ship’s clock in the library.

  “I talked to Splinter today.”

  He didn’t look up. “Mmm.”

  “Apparently he had forgotten about your little Guardsmen function on Mount Tam.”

  “Oh, well … Did he call here?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I … I called Oona. He answered the phone.”

  “You detest Oona.”

  “We’re doing a League project together. The Model Ghetto Program in Hunters Point. Beauchamp, why do you suppose Splinter forgot such an important meeting? He says you two are on the same committee.”

  “Beats me.”

  She grunted audibly. Beauchamp turned and whistled to the corgi, half asleep on the couch. The dog yelped excitedly when his master opened a desk drawer and produced his leash.

  “I’m taking Caesar for his constitutional.”

  DeDe frowned. “I’ve walked him twice already.”

  “O.K. So I need the air myself.”

  “What’s the matter? Not enough air on Mount Tam?”

  He left without answering, stopping by the bedroom on his way downstairs. He closed the door quietly and dug in his underwear drawer for an object he had brought with him from Mendocino.

  Then, slipping it into the breast pocket of his sports coat, he descended into the dark of the garage, where he planted it in the glove compartment of the Porsche.

  A nice touch, he told himself as Caesar led him up the Filbert Steps to Coit Tower.

  A very nice touch.