Tales of the City Read online

  TALES

  OF THE

  CITY

  Armistead Maupin

  For my mother and father

  and my family at The Duck House

  It’s an odd thing, but anyone who disappears is said to be seen in San Francisco.

  OSCAR WILDE

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Taking the Plunge

  Connie’s Place

  A Frisco Disco

  Her New Home

  Love with the Proper Shopper

  Connie’s Bummer Night

  The Employment Line

  Enter Mona

  The Ad Game

  Edgar Blows Up

  Anguish in Bohemia

  The Wrath of DeDe

  The Landlady’s Dinner

  Rendezvous with Ruby

  The Boy Next Door

  The Matriarch

  Stranger in the Park

  Relating at Lunch

  A Piece of Anna’s Past

  Mona’s New Roomie

  Their First Date

  Off to Mendocino

  Brian Climbs the Walls

  Post-mortem

  Coming Clean in the Marina

  … And Many Happy Returns

  Mrs. Day at Home

  The Chinese Connection

  Confession in the Nude

  Miss Singleton Dines Alone

  Mona vs. the Pig

  Where Is Love?

  If the Shoe Fits

  Sherry and Sympathy

  The Rap about Rape

  Romance in the Rink

  Coed Steam

  Hillary’s Room

  Breakfast in Bed

  The Maestro Vanishes

  Frannie Freaks

  The Case of the Six Batons

  Back to Cleveland?

  Michael’s Pep Talk

  War and Peace

  Once More into the Breach

  Fantasia for Two

  The Mysterious Caller

  So Where Was Beauchamp?

  What the Simple Folk Do

  Intermezzo

  Vincent’s Old Lady

  The Anniversary Tango

  Bells Are Ringing

  The Landlady Bares Her Soul

  At the Fat Farm

  Michael’s Shocker

  The Family Myth

  DeDe Triumphs

  Boris Steps In

  Renewing Vows

  The Main on the Roof

  The Ol’-Time Religion

  Child’s Play

  What Are Friends For?

  The Beach Boys

  Ebony Idol

  D’orothea’s Lament

  The Winner’s Circle

  Fiasco in Chinatown

  Starry, Starry Night

  The News from Home

  A Place for Strays

  Hanging Loose

  Nightcap

  Words of Comfort

  The Clue in the Bookshop

  Mona Moves On

  At the Gynecologist’s

  The Diagnosis

  The Tollivers Invade

  Trick or Treat in Suburbia

  Chip off the Old Block

  DeDe’s Growing Dilemma

  Mrs. Madrigal and the Mouse

  The Shadow Knows

  How to Cure the Munchies

  The Hungry Eye

  Trauma in a Travel-Eze

  And Baby Makes Three?

  Ties That Bind

  New York, New York

  Full Moon in Sea Cliff

  Norman Confesses

  What D’or Won’t Tell Her

  Michael’s Visitor

  Three Men at the Tubs

  Cruising at The Stud

  She Is Woman, Hear Her Roar

  The Doctor Is In

  Not Even a Mouse

  Enigma at the Twinkie Factory

  Anna Crumbles

  The Baker’s Wife

  Old Flames

  A Lovers’ Farewell

  Edgar on the Brink

  Breaking and Entering

  At the Grove

  Art for Art’s Sake

  Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?

  The Confrontation

  The Party

  Saying Good-bye

  The Golden Gate

  Afterword by the Author

  About the Author

  By Armistead Maupin

  Praise for Armistead Maupin

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Taking the Plunge

  MARY ANN SINGLETON WAS TWENTY-FIVE YEARS old when she saw San Francisco for the first time.

  She came to the city alone for an eight-day vacation. On the fifth night, she drank three Irish coffees at the Buena Vista, realized that her Mood Ring was blue, and decided to phone her mother in Cleveland.

  “Hi, Mom. It’s me.”

  “Oh, darling. Your daddy and I were just talking about you. There was this crazy man on McMillan and Wife who was strangling all these secretaries, and I just couldn’t help thinking …”

  “Mom …”

  “I know. Just crazy ol’ Mom, worrying herself sick over nothing. But you never can tell about those things. Look at that poor Patty Hearst, locked up in that closet with all those awful …”

  “Mom … long distance.”

  “Oh … yes. You must be having a grand time.”

  “God … you wouldn’t believe it! The people here are so friendly I feel like I’ve …”

  “Have you been to the Top of the Mark like I told you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, don’t you dare miss that! You know, your daddy took me there when he got back from the South Pacific. I remember he slipped the bandleader five dollars, so we could dance to ‘Moonlight Serenade,’ and I spilled Tom Collins all over his beautiful white Navy …”

  “Mom, I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Of course, darling. Just listen to me. Oh … before I forget it, I ran into Mr. Lassiter yesterday at the Ridgemont Mall, and he said the office is just falling apart with you gone. They don’t get many good secretaries at Lassiter Fertilizers.”

  “Mom, that’s sort of why I called.”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “I want you to call Mr. Lassiter and tell him I won’t be in on Monday morning.”

  “Oh … Mary Ann, I’m not sure you should ask for an extension on your vacation.”

  “It’s not an extension, Mom.”

  “Well, then why …?”

  “I’m not coming home, Mom.”

  Silence. Then, dimly in the distance, a television voice began to tell Mary Ann’s father about the temporary relief of hemorrhoids. Finally, her mother spoke: “Don’t be silly, darling.”

  “Mom … I’m not being silly. I like it here. It feels like home already.”

  “Mary Ann, if there’s a boy …”

  “There’s no boy…. I’ve thought about this for a long time.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! You’ve been there five days!”

  “Mom, I know how you feel, but … well, it’s got nothing to do with you and Daddy. I just want to start making my own life … have my own apartment and all.”

  “Oh, that. Well, darling … of course you can. As a matter of fact, your daddy and I thought those new apartments out at Ridgemont might be just perfect for you. They take lots of young people, and they’ve got a swimming pool and a sauna, and I could make some of those darling curtains like I made for Sonny and Vicki when they got married. You could have all the privacy you …”

  “You aren’t listening, Mom. I’m trying to tell you I’m a grown woman.”

  “Well, act like it, then! You can’t just … run away f
rom your family and friends to go live with a bunch of hippies and mass murderers!”

  “You’ve been watching too much TV.”

  “O.K…. then what about The Horoscope?”

  “What?”

  “The Horoscope. That crazy man. The killer.”

  “Mom … The Zodiac.”

  “Same difference. And what about … earthquakes? I saw that movie, Mary Ann, and I nearly died when Ava Gardner …”

  “Will you just call Mr. Lassiter for me?”

  Her mother began to cry. “You won’t come back. I just know it.”

  “Mom … please . . I will. I promise.”

  “But you won’t be … the same!”

  “No. I hope not.”

  When it was over, Mary Ann left the bar and walked through Aquatic Park to the bay. She stood there for several minutes in a chill wind, staring at the beacon on Alcatraz. She made a vow not to think about her mother for a while.

  Back at the Fisherman’s Wharf Holiday Inn, she looked up Connie Bradshaw’s phone number.

  Connie was a stewardess for United. Mary Ann hadn’t seen her since high school: 1968.

  “Fantabulous!” squealed Connie. “How long you here for?”

  “For good.”

  “Super! Found an apartment yet?”

  “No … I … well, I was wondering if I might be able to crash at your place, until I can …”

  “Sure. No sweat.”

  “Connie … you’re single?”

  The stewardess laughed. “A bear shit in the woods?”

  Connie’s Place

  MARY ANN DRAGGED HER AMERICAN TOURISTER into Connie’s apartment, groaned softly and sank into a mock zebra-skin captain’s chair.

  “Well … hello, Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  Connie laughed. “Your mom freaked, huh?”

  “God!”

  “Poor baby! I know the feeling. When I told my mom I was moving to San Francisco, she had an absolute hissy-fit! It was a zillion times worse than the summer I tried to join Up With People!”

  “God … I almost forgot.”

  Connie’s eyes glazed nostalgically. “Yeah … Hey, you work up a thirst, hon?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

  Thirty seconds later, Connie emerged from the kitchen with two airlines glasses and a bottle of Banana Cow. She poured a drink for Mary Ann.

  Mary Ann sipped warily. “Well … look at all this. You’re practically a native, aren’t you? This is … quite something.”

  “Quite something” was the best she could manage. Connie’s apartment was a potpourri of plastic Tiffany lamps and ankle-deep shag carpeting, needlepoint Snoopy pictures and “Hang in There, Baby” kitten posters, monkey pod salad sets and macramé plant hangers and—please, no, thought Mary Ann—a Pet Rock.

  “I’ve been lucky,” Connie beamed. “Being a stew and all … well, you can pick up a lot of art objects in your travels.”

  “Mmm.” Mary Ann wondered if Connie regarded her black velvet bullfighter painting as an art object.

  The stewardess kept smiling. “Cow O.K.?”

  “What? Oh … yes. Hits the spot.”

  “I love the stuff.” She downed some more of it to demonstrate her point, then looked up as if she had just discovered Mary Ann’s presence in the room. “Hey, hon! Long time no

  see!”

  “Yeah. Too long. Eight years.”

  “Eight years … Eight years! You’re lookin’ good, though. You’re lookin’ real … Hey, you wanna see something absolutely yucky?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she leaped to her feet and went to a bookshelf made of six orange plastic Foremost milk crates. Mary Ann could make out copies of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, How to Be Your Own Best Friend, The Sensuous Woman, More Joy of Sex and Listen to the Warm.

  Connie reached for a large book bound in burgundy vinyl and held it up to Mary Ann.

  “Ta-ta!”

  “Oh, God! The Buccaneer?”

  Connie nodded triumphantly and pulled up a chair. She opened the yearbook. “You’ll absolutely die over your hair!”

  Mary Ann found her senior picture. Her hair was very blond and meticulously ironed. She was wearing the obligatory sweater and pearl necklace. Despite the camouflage of an airbrush, she could still remember the exact location of the zit she had sprouted on the day of the photograph.

  The inscription read:

  MARY ANN SINGLETON

  “Still Waters Run Deep”

  Pep Club 2,3,4; Future Homemakers of America 3,4;

  National Forensic League 4;

  Plume and Palette, 3,4

  Mary Ann shook her head. “Rest in peace,” she said and winced.

  Connie, mercifully, didn’t offer her own biography for examination. Mary Ann remembered it all too well: head majorette, class treasurer for three years, president of the Y-Teens. Connie’s waters had run fast and shallow. She had been popular.

  Mary Ann struggled back into the present. “So what do you do … like for fun?”

  Connie rolled her eyes. “You name it.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Well … for instance.” Connie bent over her hatch-cover coffee table and dug out a copy of Oui magazine. “You read that?” asked Mary Ann.

  “No. Some guy left it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Check out page seventy.”

  Mary Ann turned to an article entitled “Coed Baths—Welcome to the World’s Cleanest Orgy.” It was illustrated by a photograph of intermingling legs, breasts and buttocks.

  “Charming.”

  “It’s down on Valencia Street. You pays your money and you takes your chances.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “No. But I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to count me out, if you’re planning on …”

  Connie laughed throatily. “Relax, hon. I wasn’t suggesting we … You’re a new girl. Give it time. This city loosens people up.”

  “I’ll never be that loose … or desperate.”

  Connie shrugged, looking vaguely hurt. She took another sip of her Banana Cow. “Connie, I didn’t …”

  “It’s O.K., hon. I knew what you meant. Hey, I’m hungry as hell. How ‘bout a little Hamburger Helper?”

  After dinner, Mary Ann napped for an hour.

  She dreamed she was in a huge tile room full of steam. She was naked. Her mother and father were there, watching Let’s Make a Deal through the steam. Connie walked in with Mr. Lassiter, who was furious at Mary Ann and began to shout at her. Mary Ann’s mother and father were shouting at Monty Hall’s first contestant.

  “Take the box,” they screamed. “Take the box….”

  Mary Ann woke up. She stumbled into the bathroom and splashed water on her face.

  When she opened the cabinet over the sink, she discovered an assortment of after-shave lotions: Brut, Old Spice, Jade East.

  Connie, apparently, was still popular.

  A Frisco Disco

  THE DISCOTHEQUE WAS CALLED DANCE YOUR ASS OFF. Mary Ann thought that was gross, but didn’t tell Connie so. Connie was too busy getting off on being Marisa Berenson.

  “The trick is to look bored with it all.”

  “That shouldn’t be hard.”

  “If you wanna get laid, Mary Ann, you’d better …”

  “I never said that.”

  “Nobody ever says it, for Christ’s sake! Look, if you can’t deal with your own sexuality, hon, you’re gonna get screwed but good in this town.”

  “I like that. You should make it into a country-western

  song.”

  Connie sighed in exasperation. “C’mon. And try not to look like Tricia Nixon reviewing the troops.” She led the way into the building and staked out a battered sofa against the wall.

  The room was supposed to look funky: brick-red walls, revolving beer signs, kitschy memorabilia. Henna-rinsed women and rugby-shirted me
n clustered decoratively along the bar, as if posing for a Seagram’s ad.

  While Connie was buying their drinks, Mary Ann settled uncomfortably on the sofa and commanded herself to stop comparing things with Cleveland.

  Several yards away, a girl in cowboy boots, sweat pants and a red squirrel Eisenhower jacket stared haughtily at Mary Ann’s polyester pantsuit. Mary Ann turned away from her, only to confront another woman, looking blasé in a macramé halter, black fingernails and a crew cut.

  “There’s a dude at the bar who looks exactly like Robert Redford.” Connie was back with the drinks. A tequila sunrise for herself, a white wine for Mary Ann.

  “Warts?” asked Mary Ann, taking the wine.

  “What?”

  “That guy. Does he have warts? Robert Redford has warts.”

  “That’s sick. Look … I feel like a little heavy bumping. Wanna hit the disco?”

  “I think I’ll just … soak it in for a while. You go ahead.”

  “You sure now?”

  “Yeah. Thanks. I’ll be O.K.”

  “Suit yourself, hon.”

  Seconds after Connie had disappeared into the disco, a long-haired man in a Greek peasant shirt sat down next to Mary Ann on the sofa. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Sure … I mean, no.”

  “You’re not into boogying, huh?”

  “Well, not right now.”

  “You’re into head trips, then?”

  “I don’t know exactly what …”

  “What sign are you?”

  She wanted to say, “Do Not Disturb.” She said, “What sign do you think I am?”

  “Ah … you’re into games. O.K…. I’d say you’re a Taurus.”

  He rattled her. “All right … how did you do it?”

  “Easy. Taureans are stubborn as hell. They never want to tell you what sign they are.” He leaned over close enough for Mary Ann to smell his musk oil, and looked directly into her eyes. “But underneath that tough Taurus hide beats the heart of a hopeless romantic.”

  Mary Ann moved away slightly.

  “Well?” said the man.

  “Well, what?”

  “You’re a romantic, right? You like earth colors and foggy nights and Lina Wertmuller movies and lemon candles burning when you make love.” He reached for her hand. She flinched. “It’s all right,” he said calmly. “I’m not making a pass yet. I just wanna look at your heart line.”