He ran his forefinger gently across Mary Ann’s palm. “Look at your point of insertion,” he said. “Right there between Jupiter and Saturn.”
“What does that mean?” Mary Ann looked down at his finger. It was resting between her middle finger and forefinger. “It means that you’re a very sensual person,” said the man. He began to slide the finger in and out. “That’s true, isn’t it? You’re a very sensual person?”
“Well, I …”
“Do you know you look exactly like Jennifer O’Neill?”
Mary Ann stood up suddenly. “No, but if you hum a few bars …”
“Hey, hey, lady. It’s cool, it’s cool. I’ll give you space….”
“Good. I’ll take the other room. Happy hunting.” She headed for the disco in search of Connie. She found her in the eye of the storm, bumping with a black man in Lurex knickers and glitter wedgies.
“What’s up?” asked the stewardess, boogying to the sidelines.
“I’m beat. Could I have the keys to the apartment?”
“You O.K., hon?”
“Fine. Just tired.”
“Hot date?”
“No, just … could I have the keys, Connie?”
“Here’s an extra set. Sweet dreams.”
Boarding the 41 Union bus, Mary Ann realized suddenly why Connie kept an extra set of keys in her purse.
Mary Ann watched Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman, then turned off the television and fell asleep.
It was after 2 A.M. when Connie got home.
She wasn’t alone.
Mary Ann rolled over on the sofa and buried her head under the covers, pretending to be asleep. Connie and her guest tiptoed noisily into the bedroom.
The man’s voice was fuzzy with whiskey, but Mary Ann knew immediately who he was.
He was asking for lemon candles.
Her New Home
MARY ANN CREPT OUT OF THE APARTMENT JUST before dawn. The prospect of sharing Trix for three at breakfast was more than she could take.
She wandered the streets of the Marina in search of For Rent signs, then ate a mammoth breakfast at the International House of Pancakes.
At nine o’clock she was the first customer of the day at a rental agency on Lombard Street.
She wanted a View, a Deck and a Fireplace for under $175.
“Jees,” said the rental lady. “Awful picky for a girl without a job.” She offered Mary Ann “a nice Lower Pacific Heights studio with AEK, wall-to-wall carpeting and a partial view of Fillmore Auditorium.” Mary Ann said no.
She ended up with three possibles.
The first one had an uptight landlady who asked if Mary Ann “took marijuana.”
The second was a pink stucco fortress on Upper Market with gold glitter in the ceiling plaster.
The last was on Russian Hill. Mary Ann arrived there at four-thirty.
The house was on Barbary Lane, a narrow, wooded walkway off Leavenworth between Union and Filbert. It was a well-weathered, three-story structure made of brown shingles. It made Mary Ann think of an old bear with bits of foliage caught in its fur. She liked it instantly.
The landlady was a fiftyish woman in a plum-colored kimono.
“I’m Mrs. Madrigal,” she said cheerfully. “As in medieval.”
Mary Ann smiled. “You can’t feel as ancient as I do. I’ve been apartment-hunting all day.”
“Well, take your time. There’s a partial view, if you count that little patch of bay peeping through the trees. Utilities included, of course. Small house. Nice people. You get here this week?”
“That obvious, huh?”
The landlady nodded. “The look’s a dead giveaway. You just can’t wait to bite into that lotus.”
“What? I’m sorry….”
“Tennyson. You know: ‘Eating the lotus day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of’ … something, something…. You get the point.”
“Does the … furniture go with it?”
“Don’t change the subject while I’m quoting Tennyson.”
Mary Ann was shaken until she noticed that the landlady was smiling. “You’ll get used to my babbling,” said Mrs. Madrigal. “All the others have.” She walked to the window, where the wind made her kimono flutter like brilliant plumage. “The furniture is included. What do you say, dear?”
Mary Ann said yes.
“Good. You’re one of us, then. Welcome to 28 Barbary Lane.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, you should.” Mrs. Madrigal smiled. There was something a little careworn about her face, but she was really quite lovely, Mary Ann decided. “Do you have any objection to pets?” asked the new tenant.
“Dear … I have no objection to anything.”
Elated, Mary Ann walked to the corner of Hyde and Union and phoned Connie from the Searchlight Market. “Hi. Guess what?”
“You got kidnaped?”
“Oh … Connie, I’m sorry. I’ve been looking for a place….”
“I was freaked.”
“I’m really sorry. I … Connie, I’ve found this darling place on Russian Hill on the third floor of the funkiest old building … and I can move in tomorrow.”
“Oh … that was quick.”
“It’s so neat! I can’t wait for you to see it.”
“Sounds nice. Look, Mary Ann … like, if there’s any problem with money or anything, you can stay with me until …”
“I’ve got some saved. Thanks, though. You’ve been wonderful.”
“No sweat. Hey … what’s on for tonight, hon?”
“Let’s see. Oh, yeah. Robert Redford is picking me up at seven, and we’re going to Ernie’s for dinner.”
“Ditch him. He’s got warts.”
“For what?”
“The hottest spot in town. Social Safeway.”
“Social what?”
“Safeway, dink. As in supermarket.”
“That’s what I thought you said. You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”
“For your information, dink, Social Safeway just happens to be … well, it’s just the … big thing, that’s all.”
“For those who get off on groceries.”
“For those who get off on men, hon. It’s a local tradition. Every Wednesday night. And you don’t even have to look like you’re on the make.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“There’s only one way to prove it to you.” Mary Ann giggled. “What am I supposed to do? Lurk behind the artichokes until some unsuspecting stockbroker comes along?”
“Meet me here at eight, dink. You’ll see.”
Love with the Proper Shopper
A DOZEN CARDBOARD DISKS DANGLED FROM THE ceiling of the Marina Safeway, coaxing the customers with a double-edged message: “Since we’re neighbors, let’s be friends.”
And friends were being made.
As Mary Ann watched, a blond man in a Stanford sweatshirt sauntered up to a brunette in a denim halter. “Uh … excuse me, but could you tell me whether it’s better to use Saffola oil or Wesson oil?”
The girl giggled. “For what?”
“I don’t believe this,” said Mary Ann, taking a shopping cart. “Every Wednesday night?”
Connie nodded. “It ain’t half bad on weekends, either.” She grabbed a cart and charged off down a busy aisle. “See ya. It works better if you’re alone.”
Mary Ann strode to the produce counter. She intended to shop, Connie’s pagan mating ritual notwithstanding.
Then someone tugged on her arm.
He was a puffy-faced man of about thirty-five. He was wearing a leisure suit with a white vinyl belt and matching shoes.
“Are those the things you use in Chinese cooking?” he asked, pointing to the snow peas.
“Yes,” she said, as uninvitingly as possible.
“Far out. I’ve been looking for some all week. I’ve really been getting into Chines
e cooking lately. Bought a wok and everything.”
“Yeah. Well, those are the ones. Good luck.” She wheeled sharply and headed for the check-out counter. Her assailant followed.
“Hey … like, maybe you could tell me a little about Chinese cooking?”
“I doubt it very seriously.”
“C’mon. Most chicks in this town are really into Chinese cooking.”
“I’m not most chicks.”
“O.K. I can dig it. Different strokes for different folks, right? What are you into, anyway?”
“Solitude.”
“OK. Skip it, just skip it.” He hesitated a moment, then delivered his exit line. “Get off the rag, bitch!”
He left her standing in the frozen food department, white knuckles clamped around the rim of the freezer, her breath rising like a tiny distress signal. “Jesus,” she said in a frosty whisper, as a single tear plopped onto a box of Sara Lee brownies.
“Charming,” said a man standing next to her.
Mary Ann stiffened. “What?”
“Your friend there … with the sparkling repartee. He’s a real prince.”
“You heard all that?”
“Only the parting endearment. Was the rest any better?”
“Nope. Unless you get off on discussing snow peas with Charlie Manson.”
The man laughed, showing beautiful white teeth. He was about thirty, Mary Ann guessed, with curly brown hair, blue eyes and a soft flannel shirt. “Sometimes I don’t believe this place,” he said.
“Really.” Had he seen her crying?
“The hell of it is that the whole goddamn town talks about relating and communicating and all that Age of Aquarius shit, and most of us are still trying to look like something we aren’t … Sorry. I sound like Dear Abby, don’t I?”
“No. Not at all. I … agree with you.”
He extended his hand. “My name is Robert.” Not Bob or Robbie, but Robert. Strong and direct. She gripped his hand. “I’m Mary Ann Singleton.” She wanted him to remember it.
“Well … at the risk of sounding like Charlie Manson … how about a little culinary advice for a hapless male?”
“Sure. Not snow peas?”
He laughed. “Not snow peas. Asparagus.”
Mary Ann had never found the subject so exciting. She was watching Robert’s eyes respond to her hollandaise recipe when a young man with a mustache approached with his cart.
“Can’t leave you alone for a minute.” He was talking to Robert.
Robert chuckled. “Michael … this is Mary Ann …”
“Singleton,” said Mary Ann.
“This is my roommate, Michael. She’s been helping me with hollandaise, Michael.”
“Good,” said Michael, smiling at Mary Ann. “He’s awful at hollandaise.”
Robert shrugged. “Michael’s the master chef in the house. That entitles him to make life miserable for me.” He grinned at his roommate.
Mary Ann’s palms were sweating.
“I’m not much of a cook, either,” she said. Why in the world was she siding with Robert? Robert didn’t need her help. Robert didn’t know she was there.
“She’s been a lot of help,” said Robert. “That’s more than I can say for some people.”
“Temper,” Michael grinned.
“Well,” said Mary Ann feebly. “I guess I’d better … finish up.”
“Thanks for your help,” said Robert. “Really.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Michael.
“Same here,” said Mary Ann, pushing her cart in the direction of the paper-supplies aisle. When Connie rounded the corner several seconds later, she found her friend standing glumly by herself, squeezing a roll of Charmin.
“Hot damn!” said the stewardess. “This place is Pickup City tonight!”
Mary Ann threw the toilet paper into her cart. “I’ve got a headache, Connie. I think I’ll walk home. O.K.?”
“Well … hang on a sec. I’ll come with you.”
“Connie, I … I’d like to be alone, O.K.?”
“Sure. O.K.”
As usual, she looked hurt.
Connie’s Bummer Night
CONNIE CAME HOME FROM THE MARINA SAFEWAY AN hour after Mary Ann did.
Noisily, she dropped her groceries on the kitchen counter. “Well,” she said, walking into the living room, “I’m ready for Union Street. I suppose you’re ready for bed?”
Mary Ann nodded. “Job-hunting and moving tomorrow. I need my strength.”
“Abstinence causes pimples.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Mary Ann, as Connie stalked out the door.
Mary Ann ate dinner in front of the television. She had steak, salad and Tater Tots, the fare that Connie swore by for keeping men happy. She checked out Connie’s record collection (The Carpenters, Percy Faith, 101 Strings), then looked at the pictures in More Joy of Sex. She fell asleep on the sofa shortly before midnight.
When she awoke, the room was filled with light. A garbage truck rumbled along Greenwich Street. A key chain was clinking against the front door.
Connie lumbered in. “I cannot believe the assholes in this town!”
Mary Ann sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Bad night, huh?”
“Bad night, bad morning, bad week, bad year. Weirdos! Goddammit, I can pick ‘em. If there’s a weirdo around for a hundred goddamn miles, good ?l’ Connie Bradshaw will be there to make a date with him. Fuck!”
“How ‘bout some coffee?”
“What’s the matter with me, Mary Ann? Will you tell me that? I have two tits, a nice ass. I wash. I’m a good listener….”
“C’mon. We both need coffee.”
The kitchen was too perversely cheerful for an early-morning soul-baring. Mary Ann winced at the Doris Day yellow walls and the little windowed boxes full of dried beans.
Connie devoured a bowl of Trix. “I think I’ll become a nun,” she said.
“They’ll love your outfit at Dance Your Ass Off.”
“Not funny.”
“O.K. What happened?”
“You don’t wanna know.”
“Yes I do. You went to Union Street, right?”
“Perry’s. Then Slater Hawkins. But the real bummer was at Thomas Lord’s.”
Mary Ann poured her a cup of coffee. “What happened?”
“Fuck if I know. I was having a perfectly innocent drink at the bar when I noticed this guy sitting over by the fire. I recognized him right away, because him and me did a little number last month on his houseboat in Sausalito.”
“A little number?”
“Fucked.”
“Thank you.”
“So … I walked over to where this guy was sitting. Jerry something. A German name. Buckskin pants and a turquoise squash blossom necklace and a pair of those John Denvertype glasses. Gorgeous, in a … you know … Marin kind of way. And I said, ‘Hi, Jerry, who’s keeping the houseboat warm?’ and the asshole just stared at me like I was some whore on Market Street or something. I mean, like he didn’t even recognize me. I was mortified.”
“I guess so.”
“So, finally, I said, ‘Connie Bradshaw from the Friendly Skies of United.’ Only, I said it in … like a real bitchy tone of voice so he’d get the point.”
“But he didn’t?”
“Fuck, no! He just sat there looking stuck-up and spaced out. He finally asked me to sit down, and he introduced me to this friend of his named Danny. Then the asshole just got up and walked out, leaving me with this Danny person, who had just finished his goddamn est training and was spouting all this shit about making a space, et cetera.”
“What on earth did you do?”
“What could I do? I went home with Danny. I sure as hell wasn’t gonna let him get up and leave me there munching pretzels all by myself. There’s such a thing as pride!”
“Of course.”
“Anyway, Danny had this really neat redwood apartment in Mill Valley, with lots of stained glass and all, but he was a
n absolute nut about ecology. As soon as we smoked a joint, he started babbling about saving the whales in Mendocino and screwing up the ozone layer with feminine hygiene spray.”
“What?”
“You know. Aerosol cans. The fucking ozone layer. Anyway, I was really bent out of shape at that point, and I said I thought it was a woman’s unalienable … inalienable … which is it?”
“Inalienable.”
“Inalienable right to use a feminine hygiene spray if she wanted to, ozone layer or no ozone layer!”
“And …?”
“And he said that just because I have some bizarre notion that my … you know … smells bad is no reason for me to expose the rest of the world to ultraviolet rays and skin cancer. Or something like that.”
“Well … delightful evening.”
“I mean, get him. Not only does he subject me to all this ecology crap, but … nothing happened.”
“Nothing happened?”
“Nada. Zilch. He drives me all the way across the bridge just to talk. He says he wants to relate to me as a person. Ha!”
“So … what did you say?”
“I told him to drive me home. And you know what he said?”
Mary Ann shook her head.
“He said, ‘I’m sorry you sprayed for nothing.’”
Later that day, Mary Ann moved out of Connie’s apartment into 28 Barbary Lane. The move involved only a suitcase. Connie was visibly depressed.
“You’ll still come see me, won’t you?”
“Sure. And you’ll have to come visit me.”
“Cross your heart?”
“Hope to die.”
Neither one of them believed it.
The Employment Line
ON HER FIRST MORNING AT BARBARY LANE, MARY Ann scanned the Yellow Pages for the key to her future.
According to a large, daisy-bedecked ad, the Metropolitan Employment Agency was “an individualized job placement service that really cares about your future.”
She liked the sound of it. Solid yet compassionate.
Gulping an Instant Breakfast, she put on her low-key navy-blue suit and caught the 41 Union to Montgomery Street. Her horoscope today promised “matchless opportunities for a Taurus who takes the bull by the horns.”
Tales of the City Page 2