More Tales of the City

by Armistead Maupin

  “Well,” said the houseboy, suddenly more sure of himself. “It’s time for our bath, I suppose.”

  Outside in the toasty Sonoma sunshine, Helena Parrish was janing at the top of her lungs.

  Bedside Manner

  WHEN MICHAEL WOKE AT ST. SEBASTIAN’S HOSPITAL, Jon was at his side, armed with a pot of mums, three back issues of Playgirl and something in a brown paper bag.

  “Look at you,” smiled Michael. “A queen’s wet dream.”

  Jon winked at him. “How ya feeling?”

  “Less and less. But that’s normal, isn’t it?”

  “Sure. It usually … ascends. Michael … it gets worse before it gets better.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Are you … can you feel it moving?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Kind of a tingling, right?” He placed his hand on his leg just below the groin. “Won’t be long now, kiddo. Better get it while the gettin’ is good!”

  Jon laughed. “Speaking of which, I just checked out the orderly. I’m a lot more worried about him than I am about … this.”

  “Right. So what’s in the bag, liar?”

  Jon dropped the bag in his lap. “Guess.”

  “My very own Accu-Jac?”

  “Open it, turkey.”

  Michael picked up the bag. A Little Lulu comic book fell out. “God, Jon! It’s … vintage! It must be late fifties at least! Where did you find it?”

  “That comics store on Columbus.”

  “Christ!” He flipped excitedly through the comic book. “Look! There’s that clubhouse with the No Girls Allowed sign! And the ads must be … Oh, God, I gotta see the ads!”

  “Whatdya mean?”

  “You know … joy buzzers and whoopee cushions and that goddamn little metal thing that was supposed to turn you into a ventriloquist when you stuck it under your tongue. Christ! Didn’t you ever send off for one of those?”

  The doctor shook his head, smiling.

  “No,” sighed Michael, “of course you didn’t. And you never read the Charles Atlas ads either. You were never a ninety-eight-pound weakling. Or was it ninety-seven?”

  “You got me. And listen, asshole, if you were ever a whatever-pound weakling, you got over it pretty quick.” He reached over and felt Michael’s bicep, then kept his hand cupped gently against the muscle.

  Michael looked down at his arm. “That’ll go.”

  “Michael …”

  “And the pecs. The pecs’ll go down like a preacher’s daughter.”

  Jon chuckled. “Where the hell did you pick that one up?”

  “Where else? Florida. Land of the Free and Home of the Butch. When will this be over, Jon?”

  Jon let go of his arm. “Well … sometimes the syndrome can run its course in a matter of weeks.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “A high percentage of cases have—”

  “Jon, what the fuck. I’m gonna be paralyzed, aren’t I? Completely.”

  The doctor nodded. “I think so.”

  “How am I gonna breathe?”

  “It may not spread that far.”

  “What if it does?”

  “If it does, a tracheotomy may be necessary. It’s not as awful as it sounds, Michael. In most cases, the condition is only—”

  “You poor bastard!” Michael laughed sardonically.

  “What?”

  “You thought you had a fruit, but you ended up with a vegetable!”

  “Just shut up, will you?”

  “I thought that was pretty good.”

  “Well, don’t think, then.”

  “Hold my hand, will you?”

  Jon took his hand. “That better?”

  “It’s tingling.”

  “Your hand?”

  “Uh huh. Act Two, right?”

  Silence.

  “I don’t wanna die, Jon.”

  “Michael, shut up!”

  “I’m sorry. That was terribly Jane Wyman of me.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m gonna be with you the whole time.”

  “You won’t let me get zits, will you? I’m twenty six years old … I don’t need zits.”

  “Such vanity.”

  “I love you, Dr. Fielding.”

  The answer was a squeeze of his hand.

  The Last Straw

  MARY ANN’S ANXIETY OVER MICHAEL SEVERELY hampered her efficiency at Halcyon Communications. Beauchamp Day found three typos in his letter to the chairman of the board of Adorable Pantyhose.

  “Mary Ann, for God’s sake!”

  “What?”

  “Look at this shit! I know the Old Man didn’t put up with this kind of sloppiness! Christ! I could do better with a Kelly Girl!”

  “I’m sorry. I … Beauchamp, I can’t seem to concentrate on—” She spun her chair away from him, buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

  Beauchamp watched her, unflinching. “Cheap shot, Mary Ann. Cheap shot.”

  Her sobs grew louder. “I’m not … Oh, God, I …”

  “All right. Do your little Gidget number or whatever. I’ll get Mildred’s secretary to retype it.”

  She straightened up. “No. I’ll do it.”

  “You aren’t being very professional, you know that?”

  “I’m sorry. I have a friend who’s sick. He … may die.”

  “A boyfriend?”

  “No. I mean, he’s a good friend.” She had decided earlier not to tell Beauchamp about Michael in the faint hope that Michael would recover in time to take over the mailboy job.

  Beauchamp studied her for several seconds, then said, “I’m sorry about that, but you’ll just have to cope with it, Mary Ann. I can’t afford to give you any time off right now.”

  “I didn’t ask for that.”

  “You were crying. I’ve seen that routine before.”

  “It’s not a routine.”

  He shrugged blithely. “Whatever. I’ve seen you do it before, that’s all.”

  “Gimme the letter.”

  “Look, I said I was sorry about your friend. You don’t need to get sullen with me.”

  “Gimme the letter, goddammit!”

  Beauchamp glared at her murderously, then held out the letter and dropped it, allowing it to float to her desktop. Mary Ann looked at the letter, then back to Beauchamp again. She picked up the letter and crumpled it into a ball.

  Beauchamp shook his head and smiled. “You’re pushing it, girl.”

  “No. You are.”

  “Tsk tsk. Is that right?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  Beauchamp folded his arms, staying put. “You think you’re a fucking fixture around here, don’t you? You think I won’t shitcan you because you worked for the Old Man. Or better yet, because I screwed you a couple of times!”

  Mary Ann pushed back her chair and stood up. “Actually, I think about you as little as possible.”

  “Oh, that’s clever! Farrah Fawcett-Dumbshit made a funny! Yuck yuck!”

  Mary Ann looked him in the eye. “Get out of my way.”

  Beauchamp didn’t budge. “God, you’re a laugh!”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “You’re goddamn right you’re leaving! Jesus H. Christ! How long did you really think I could stomach you and your cutesy-pie Snoopy cartoons on the filing cabinets? And that precious goddam bug-eyed frog planter with the—”

  “Decorate it yourself, then. Maybe one of your chic closet-case friends can help out.”

  Beauchamp’s eyes were ice blue. “You’re as common as they come.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? Hah! Why the hell do you think you’re a secretary, sweetie pie? You’re a dumb little bourgeois bitch! Christ, look at you! You’re the same bland little thing you were at fifteen, and you’ll stay that way until somebody gives you a set of Tupperware for twenty years of faithful service—only it won’t be me, thank God!”

  She stared at him, blinking back the tears. “I’ve never met anyone as … horrible �
��” She pushed past him and headed for the door.

  “By the way,” Beauchamp added, “If you plan to keep pushing paper, you might as well forget about the other agencies. There won’t be any glowing references from Halcyon.”

  Mary Ann stopped in the doorway, composed herself as much as possible, then turned and raised her middle finger to the president of Halcyon Communications.

  “Go fuck yourself,” she said.

  Bruno Comes Through

  FIVE MINUTES AFTER MARY ANN STORMED OUT OF HIS office, Beauchamp used his private line to call Bruno Koski.

  “It’s me, Bruno.”

  “I know a lotta me’s.”

  “Yeah. Well … the one at Jackson Square. Look, I haven’t heard from you.”

  “The first move is yours, remember?”

  “O.K., O.K. You got the man?”

  “Yeah. I got the … person.”

  “Is he reliable, and discreet?”

  “Nah. He’s a fucked-up junkie, man. Don’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. What the fuck you think, man? My ass is on the line more than yours is!”

  “Does he know about me? Does he know I’m the one who …?”

  “Look, numbnuts! If you don’t trust me, why don’t you get another patsy to do you—”

  “All right. O.K. When is he … available?”

  “I told ya. Soon as ya get me the money.”

  “How do I know you won’t—”

  “Ya don’t. Tough shit.”

  “O.K. Look. She’s going to a League fashion show tomorrow night—”

  “League?”

  Beauchamp sighed. “Junior League, Bruno. That doesn’t matter. It’s out at the Palace of the Legion of Honor. It starts around eight, so you can tell your man … well, you can figure out when it’ll be over. She’ll be driving her mother’s Mercedes, I’m sure. The license plate says FRANNI.”

  “Her old lady’s gonna be with her?”

  “Nope. She’s in Napa, I think. I’m sure she’ll be alone.”

  “I thought you two was separated.”

  “We are, Bruno.” Beauchamp’s patience was growing short.

  “Well, if you guys are separated, how the fuck do you know all this, anyway?”

  “I read it.”

  “You read it?”

  “In the social columns, Bruno.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry. She’ll be there. If there’s a photographer around, she’ll be there.” His tone became more businesslike. “How do you want the money?”

  “Tens and twenties.”

  “Just like the movies, huh?”

  “This ain’t no fuckin’ movie.”

  “You want to meet the same place we did before?”

  “Yeah. Eight o’clock. Tomorrow night.”

  “Isn’t that pushing it?”

  “You gimme the money. I’ll call the contact. Ain’t no big deal.”

  “You sure he knows how to …?”

  “It’ll happen. You gimme the money and it’ll happen.”

  “I don’t want her …”

  “I know.”

  “I won’t accept responsibility if she’s … if it’s permanent. I want to make that perfectly clear.”

  “Right. Gotcha. You’re a fuckin’ prince.”

  After an hour-long conference with the copywriter for Tidy-Teen Tampettes, Beauchamp paced his office for ten minutes, then telephoned an office at 450 Sutter.

  “Dr. Fielding’s office.”

  “Is he in?”

  “One moment, please.”

  A thirty-second wait, and then: “Yes?”

  “What’s up, Blondie?”

  Silence.

  “Well,” said Beauchamp, “I didn’t expect a trumpet fanfare, but after all this time … well, the least you could do is muster a cheery hello.”

  “Are you calling about your wife’s pregnancy?”

  “Actually, I thought you and I might get together and make a few babies. Just for old time’s sake, mind you.”

  “I’m going to hang up.”

  “Oh, come off it!”

  “I think I made it clear to you before that I don’t want you calling this office—or anywhere else, for that matter.”

  “Whatsamatter? You goin’ steady or something?”

  “You’re a slug, Beauchamp.”

  “I’ll bet you say that to all the boys.”

  The doctor hung up. Beauchamp sat at his desk for half a minute, spinning himself around in his chair. Then he got up, went to the refrigerator and made himself a Negroni, downing it in a single gulp.

  Life, sometimes, was a pain in the ass.

  The Girl with Green Hair

  MANUEL THE GARDENER WAS GRUMPY, SO DEDE didn’t have the nerve to ask him to clean the yucky things out of the swimming pool at Halcyon Hill. Instead, she sat on the terrace, munching M & M’s and reading the copy of Fear of Flying she had bought the previous summer.

  With mother in Napa and Beauchamp in the city and Daddy only a memory, she felt like an orphan princess in the great house. As usual, her loneliness drove her to the telephone.

  Only this time it wasn’t to call Binky, Muffy, Oona, BoBo or Shugie.

  “Hello,” said the honeyed voice on the other end.

  “Hi. It’s DeDe Day.”

  “Ape Woman!”

  DeDe laughed. “I promise never to drag you to something like that again!”

  “As I recall, I dragged you, hon.”

  “You were right, though. An ape in a girl mask would have been cuter.”

  “Whatever. Hey … how’s the tummy?”

  “Bigger.”

  “But not better?”

  “I don’t know, really. I worry a lot.”

  “About what?”

  “Nothing in particular. I know it’s morbid, but sometimes I get the creepiest feeling that something is wrong. My gynecologist says that’s typical for a first-timer, so I guess I just shouldn’t think about it so much.”

  “You need to get out more.”

  “I don’t think I could handle any more Ape Women.”

  “Well, don’t feel like the Lone Ranger, honey!”

  “Actually, I was wondering if you could handle going to a Junior League fashion show tonight?”

  Silence.

  “I know it’s late notice …”

  D’orothea chuckled throatily. “You don’t know how funny that is.”

  “I know it’s kind of a bore, but I thought we might get a giggle or two out of—”

  “I used to be a model, DeDe. At your father’s agency. At Halcyon Communications.”

  “What?”

  “I was one of the Adorable Pantyhose girls.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “For one thing, your husband fired me … and I wasn’t sure if you find him as big an asshole as I do.”

  DeDe laughed, reservedly at first, then with happy abandon. “Oh, God, D’orothea. We separated, remember?”

  “Yeah, but things are so goddamn mellow these days. I mean, you two could be taking est together or going to Incompatibility Rap Sessions or something.”

  “How well did you know Beauchamp, anyway?”

  “Long enough to merit one of his infamous tirades.”

  “Why did he fire you?”

  “Oh … I didn’t show up for a couple of jobs. My skin was … I had a skin condition, and I looked like hell. It’s a long story.”

  “My precise words about me and Beauchamp!”

  “You still want me to go with you to that fashion show?”

  “Of course! Even more now.”

  “Sure they won’t check my pedigree at the door?”

  “Positive. We’re on, then?”

  “We’re on, honey!”

  Back in the city, something else was on. Douchebag had made final arrangements with Bruno Koski.

  “You got it straight now?” he asked on the phone.

  “Yeah, yeah. I got it.”

 
; “You don’t move until I call you. When I call, you run like hell up the hill to the Legion of Honor. You sure you know where …?”

  “I told you, man!”

  “It’ll be sometime after eight o’clock. I promise, punk—you screw this up and you won’t get the dough!”

  “O.K., O.K.”

  Bruno hung up.

  Fifteen minutes later, the punkette made preparations to leave. Her mother appeared in the bedroom door.

  “Do you have to wear that garbage bag?”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Heidi, for God’s sake, it’s disgusting! It’s all torn and … disgusting.”

  “I told you to buy some new ones.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you. Where are you going, anyway?”

  “I … to the Mab.”

  “The what?”

  “The Mabuhay!”

  “You’ll miss The Brady Bunch.”

  “Big deal.”

  “Heidi … promise me you won’t stick gum up your nose tonight.”

  “O.K.”

  Douchebag smiled at her mother, then retrieved a wad of Dentyne from her left nostril, popped it in her mouth and began to chew rhythmically.

  “See ya,” she said, heading out the door.

  Thinking Out Loud

  IN LESS THAN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS MICHAEL’S PARALYSIS was complete. He could blink his eyes and move his lips, but the rest of him was horribly still. He looked at his visitor using a mirror angled over his bed.

  “Hi, lover,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  “Shouldn’t you be at the office?”

  “It’s O.K. Slow day.”

  Michael grinned. “Me too.”

  “I talked to Mary Ann. She and Burke are coming over later.”

  “God, I’m popular today! Miss Congeniality. Brian and the Three Graces just left.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s what I call ‘em now. Mona and Mrs. Madrigal and Mother Mucca.”

  Jon laughed. “They’re quite a trio.”

  “Yeah. And it’s good for Mona, too. I’m glad.”

  “Are you … doin’ O.K., Michael?”

  “Well … I remembered something funny today.”

  “Yeah?”

  “When I was a kid, fourteen or so, I used to worry about what would happen when I didn’t get married. My father was married when he was twenty-three, so I figured I had nine or ten years before people would figure out that I was gay. After that … well, there weren’t a whole lot of good excuses. So you know what I used to hope for?”