The Anniversary Tango
SO WHERE’S OUR WANDERING BOY TONIGHT?” ASKED Mrs. Madrigal, pouring Mona a glass of sherry.
“Michael?”
“Do you know any other wandering boys?”
“I wish I did.”
“Mona! Have you two quarreled or something?”
“No. I didn’t mean it like that.” She ran her palm along the worn red velvet on the arm of the chair. “Michael’s gone to a costume party.”
The landlady pulled her chair closer to Mona’s. She smiled. “I think Brian’s at home tonight.”
“Christ! You sound just like my mother!”
“Stop avoiding the issue. Don’t you like Brian?”
“He’s a womanizer.”
“So?”
“So I don’t need that right now, thank you.”
“You could have fooled me.”
Mona gulped her sherry, avoiding Mrs. Madrigal’s eyes. “Is that your answer for everything?”
The landlady chuckled. “It isn’t my answer for everything. It’s the answer for everything…. C’mon, Calamity Jane, get your coat. I’ve got two tickets to Beach Blanket Babylon.”
Warmed by a pitcher of sangria, the two women unwound amid the rococo funk of Club Fugazi. When the revue was over, Mrs. Madrigal stayed seated, chatting easily with the wine-flushed strangers around her.
“Oh, Mona … I feel … immortal right now. I’m very happy to be here with you.”
Sentiment shot from the hip embarrassed Mona. “It’s a wonderful show,” she said, burying her face in a wineglass.
Mrs. Madrigal let a smile bloom slowly on her angular face. “You’d be so much happier if you could see yourself the way I see you.”
“Nobody’s happy. What’s happy? Happiness is over when the lights come on.”
The older woman poured herself some more sangria. “Screw that,” she said quietly.
“What?”
“Screw that. Wash your mouth out. Who taught you that half-assed existential drivel?”
“I don’t see why it should matter to you.”
“No. I suppose you don’t.”
Mona was puzzled by the hurt look in her companion’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m a bitch tonight. Look … let’s go somewhere for coffee, O.K.?”
The sight of the Caffè Sport gave Mona an instant shiver of nostalgia.
Mrs. Madrigal had planned it that way.
“God,” said Mona, grinning at the restaurant’s Neapolitan bric-a-brac. “I’d almost forgotten what a trip this place is!”
They took a small table in the back, next to a dusty “Roman ruin” basrelief which a loving, but practical, artist had protected with chicken wire. A tango was playing on the jukebox.
Mrs. Madrigal ordered a bottle of Verdicchio.
When the wine came, she lifted her glass to Mona. “To three more,” she said merrily.
“Three more whats?”
“Years. It’s our anniversary.”
“What?”
“You’ve been my tenant for three years. Tonight.”
“How in God’s name would you ever remember a thing like that?”
“I’m an elephant, Mona. Old and very battered … but happy.”
Mona smiled affectionately, raising her glass. “Well, here’s to elephants. I’m glad I chose Barbary Lane.”
Anna shook her head. “Wrong, dear.”
“What?”
“You didn’t choose Barbary Lane. It chose you.”
“What does that mean?”
Mrs. Madrigal winked. “Finish your wine first.”
Bells Are Ringing
LETTING THE CRISIS PHONE RING, MARY ANN POUNDED on the bathroom door.
“Vincent, listen to me. Nothing’s as bad as you think it is! Do you hear me, Vincent?”
She made a hasty mental inventory of the items in the cabinet over the sink. Were there scissors? Or knives? Or razors?
RRRRINNNGGGG!
“Vincent! I have to answer the phone, Vincent! Will you just say something? Vincent, for God’s sake!”
RRRINNNNGGGG!
“Vincent, you are a child of the universe! No less than the trees and the stars! You have a right to be here, Vincent! And whether or … whether or not … Today is the first day of the rest of your life….”
Nausea swept over her in waves. She ran from the bathroom door and lunged at the telephone. “Bay Area Crisis Switchboard,” she panted.
The voice on the other end was high-pitched and wheezy, like some Disney forest creature receding into senility.
“Who are you?”
“Uh … Mary Ann Singleton.”
“You’re new.”
“Sir, could you hold …?”
“Where’s Rebecca? I always talk to Rebecca.”
She held her hand over the mouthpiece. “VINCENT!”
Silence.
“VINCENT!”
The reply was strangely subdued. “What?”
“Are you all right, Vincent?”
“Yes.”
“This guy wants somebody named Rebecca.”
“Tell him you’re Rebecca’s replacement.” Mary Ann spoke into the phone. “Sir … I’m Rebecca’s replacement.”
“Liar.”
“Sir?”
“Stop calling me sir! How old are you, anyway?”
“Twenty-five.”
“What have you done to Rebecca?”
“Look, I don’t even know Rebecca!”
“You don’t, huh?”
“No.”
“You wanna suck my weenie?”
Vincent stood in the middle of the room like a frightened rodent, his sad eyes blinking rhythmically above the brush pile of his beard.
“Mary Ann?”
She didn’t look up. She was still on her knees over the wastebasket.
“Can I get you something, Mary Ann? A Wash’n Dri, maybe? I think there’s a Wash’n Dri in the desk drawer.”
She nodded.
Vincent handed her the moist towelette, placing his hand lamely on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry … I really am. I didn’t mean to freak you out. God, I’m really …”
She shook her head, pointing to the dangling telephone receiver. It was beeping angrily. Vincent returned it to its hook.
“Who was that?”
She straightened up warily, assessing Vincent. Everything seemed to be there. “He … a crank, I think.”
“Oh … Randy.”
“Randy?”
Vincent nodded. “Rebecca called him that. I should have mentioned him.”
“He calls a lot?”
“Yeah. Rebecca figured if he called anybody it might as well be us.”
“Oh …”
“It’s like … you know … we’re here for everybody, and …”
“What happened to Rebecca?”
“Oh … she OD’d.”
Once again they sat by the phones.
Vincent offered her a kindly smile. “You a junkie or something?”
“What?”
He picked up her box of Dynamints. “You’ve eaten half a box in five minutes.”
“I guess I’m edgy.”
“Have some of mine.” He handed her a bag of trail mix. “I got it at Tassajara.”
“In Ghirardelli Square?”
He smiled indulgently. “Near Big Sur. A Zen retreat.”
“Oh.”
“Lay off the sugar, O.K.? It’ll kill ya.”
The Landlady Bares Her Soul
O.K.,” SAID MONA, DOWNING HER VERDICCHIO. “What was that cryptic comment all about?”
Mrs. Madrigal smiled. “What did I say?”
“You said Barbary Lane chose me. You meant that literally, didn’t you?”
The landlady nodded. “Don’t you remember how we met?”
“At the Savoy-Tivoli.”
“Three years ago this week.”
Mona shrugged. “I still don’t get it.”
“It wasn’t an accident, Mona.”
“What?”
“I engineered it. Rather magnificently, I think.” She smiled, swirling the wine in her glass.
Mona thought back to that distant summer evening. Mrs. Madrigal had come to her table with a basket of Alice B. Toklas brownies. “I made too many,” she had said. “Take two, but save one for later. They’ll knock you on your ass.”
A spirited conversation had followed, a long winy chat about Proust and Tennyson and the Astral Plane. By the end of the evening, the two women were solid friends.
The next day Mrs. Madrigal had called about the apartment.
“This is the madwoman you met at the Tivoli. There’s a house on Russian Hill that claims it’s your home.”
Mona had moved in two days later.
“But why?” asked Mona.
“You intrigued me … and you were also a celebrity.”
Mona rolled her eyes. “Right.”
“Well, you were. Everybody knew about your swimwear campaign for J. Walter Thompson.”
“In New York?”
Mrs. Madrigal nodded. “I read the trade journals from time to time.”
“You blow me away sometimes.”
“Good.”
“What if I had said no?”
“About the apartment, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. I would have tried something else, I guess.”
“I guess I should be flattered.”
“Yes. I guess you should.”
Mona felt herself reddening. “Anyway, I’m glad.”
“Well … here’s to it!”
“Uh uh,” said Mona, watching the landlady’s upraised glass. “Not until I find out what ‘it’ is.”
Mrs. Madrigal shrugged. “What else, dear? Home.”
Mary Ann was already there, recuperating from her night at the switchboard.
She had installed her new walnut-grained shelf paper, scrubbed the ick off the back of the stove, and replaced the blue-water thingahoochie in the toilet tank.
When Mona stopped by, she was hunched over the kitchen table.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Alphabetizing my spice rack.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s therapeutic.”
“The switchboard was supposed to be your therapy.”
“Don’t even bring it up.”
“Why? What happened?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“That’s right. Repress it. Keep all that prom queen neurosis locked up inside, so …”
“I was never a prom queen, Mona.”
“It doesn’t matter. You were the type.”
“How do you know? How the hell do you know what type …?”
“Ladies, ladies …” It was Michael, standing in the doorway. His furry Pan legs were matted and wine-stained. “Mouse … you’re back.”
“You think it’s easy getting picked up dressed like this?” Suppressing a smile, Mona moved next to him and touched the mock chinchilla. “Yuck!”
“O.K., O.K. So Nair doesn’t work for everybody.”
At the Fat Farm
SAGEBRUSH AND AVOCADO TREES SHIMMERED IN THE afternoon heat as the huge gold limousine sped north through the hills of Escondido.
DeDe settled back in the seat and closed her eyes. She was bound for The Golden Door!
The Golden Door! America’s most sumptuous and blue-blooded fat farm! A jeweled oasis of sauna baths and facials, pedicures and manicures, dancing lessons, herbal wraps and gourmet cuisine!
And not a moment too soon.
DeDe was sick of the city, sick of Beauchamp and his deception, sick of the guilt she had suffered over Lionel. Furthermore, she had had it with the puffy-cheeked wretch who stared at her morosely from mirrors and shopwindows.
She wanted the old DeDe back, the DeDe of Aspen and Tahoe, the golden-maned temptress who had teased the Phi Delts, tantalized The Bachelors and devastated Splinter Riley not that many years ago.
She had done it before.
She could do it again.
The driver peered over his shoulder at her. “Your first time, madam?”
DeDe laughed nervously. “I look that far gone, do I?”
“Oh, no, madam. It’s just that your face is a new one.”
“I guess you see some pretty famous faces.”
He nodded, apparently pleased she had brought up the subject. “Just last week, Miss Esther Williams.”
“Really?”
“The Gabors were here last month. Three of them, in fact. I’ve also driven Rhonda Fleming, Jeanne Crain, Dyan Cannon, Barbara Howar …” He paused, though presumably only for effect; DeDe was sure he had memorized the list. “Also, Mrs. Mellon and Mrs. Gimbel, Roberta Flack, Liz Carpenter … I could go on and on, Mrs. Day.”
The sound of her own name jolted her, but she tried not to show it.
The Gabors would never have shown it.
A stately row of Monterey pines lined the highway on either side of the security gates. The driver mumbled something into an intercom and the gates swung open.
The driveway beyond was a sinuous downhill sweep, flanked on one side by the spa’s private orange grove and on the other by thickets of pine and oak.
Then The Door appeared, gleaming in the sunshine like the gates of Xanadu.
DeDe felt like Sally Kellerman on the brink of Shangri-la!
Her Calvin Klein T-shirt was already two shades darker under the arms.
The driver parked at a gatehouse next to The Door, collected her luggage, and led the way through the mythical gates. On the other side, DeDe crossed a pussy-willowed stream by means of a delicate Japanese bridge, then passed through shoji screens and finally a massive wooden door.
The reception area was an elegantly sparse chamber of bamboo furniture and Japanese silk paintings. After a short but pleasant interchange with a fortyish directress, DeDe Halcyon Day signed her name to one of the world’s most rarefied registers.
Her $2,500 transformation had begun!
Her room, as arranged, opened onto the Camellia Court. (“Don’t let them stick you in the Bell Court or the Azalea Court,” Binky had warned. “They’re O.K., but very Piedmont, if you know what I mean.”)
DeDe wandered amid her private Oriental splendor, checking out her tokonoma (a niche housing a bronze Buddha) and her “moon-watching deck” overlooking the garden. On her night table lay a copy of Erich Fromm’s The Art of Loving, which she perused idly, totally transported from the agonies of San Francisco.
Then the phone rang.
Would she kindly report to the weigh-in room at her convenience?
The weigh-in room!
She grabbed a handful of fanny flab, said a small prayer, and braced herself for the cold, steel reality of the Toledo.
Michael’s Shocker
LUNCH FOR MONA AND MICHAEL CONSISTED OF TWO cheesedogs and an order of fries at The Noble Frankfurter on Polk Street.
“I should have changed my nail polish,” said
“Beg pardon, ma’am?”
“Green nail polish at a weenie stand is not Divine Decadence. It’s just plain tacky.”
Michael laughed. “It’s very Grey Gardens, actually. It makes you look shabby genteel.”
“Well, you’re half right. We are bordering on financial embarrassment, Mouse. My unemployment check will not keep us living in the style to which we have become accustomed.”
She was only half kidding, and Michael knew it.
“Mona … I signed up with an agency this week. They might be coming up with a waiter’s job for me really soon. I don’t want you to think I’m just sitting around on my ass mooching off …”
“I know, Michael. Really. I was just thinking out loud. It’s just that we’re already a month behind on the rent, and I feel funny about Mrs. Madrigal. She’ll overlook it … but she’s gotta pay taxes and all, and I …”
“Aha!” said Michael, r
aising a french fry as an exclamation point. “I haven’t told you about my instant cash plan yet!”
“God. Am I ready for this?”
“A hundred bucks, Babycakes! In one night!” He popped the french fry into his mouth. “Think you can handle that?”
“Won’t it get a little chilly, working the corner of Powell and Geary?”
“Very funny, Wonder Woman. Do you wanna hear my plan or not?”
“Shoot.”
“I, Michael Mouse Tolliver, am going to enter the jockey shorts dance contest at The Endup.”
“Oh, please!”
“I’m serious, Mona.”
And he was.
Across town, at Halcyon Communications, Edgar Halcyon called Beauchamp Day into his office.
“Sit down.”
Beauchamp smirked. “Thank you.” He was already seated.
“I think we should talk.”
“Fine.”
“I know you think I’m a horse’s ass, but we’re stuck with each other, aren’t we?”
Beauchamp smiled uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t exactly
put …”
“Are you serious about this business, Beauchamp?”
“Sir?”
“Do you give a good goddamn about advertising? Is this what you want to do with your life?”
“Well, I think I’ve amply demonstrated …”
“Never mind what you’ve demonstrated, goddammit! What do you feel? Can you honestly stomach a lifetime of pushing pantyhose?”
The thought made Beauchamp cringe, but he knew what the answer should be. “This is my career,” he said forcefully.
Edgar looked weary. “It is, is it?”
“Yes sir.”
“You want my job, don’t you?”
“I …”
“I don’t hire men who don’t want my job, Beauchamp.”
Beauchamp uncrossed his legs, now totally unsettled. “Yes sir, I can understand that.”
“I want to talk to you while DeDe’s out of town. Are you free for drinks tonight at the club?”
“Fine. Yes sir.”
“What I’m going to tell you is in strictest confidence. Do you understand that?”
“Yes sir.”
The Family Myth
Tales of the City Page 14
