Further Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin Page B

loaded as you guys.”
    “It’s because we’re all Jeanettes,” explained Michael. “Jeanettes always notice that sort of thing.”
    Mary Ann shot him a wary glance. “I’m afraid to ask.”
    Michael grinned. “Just a new theory of mine. I’ve come to the conclusion that there are really only two types of peoplein San Francisco, regardless of race, creed, color or … what’s the other one?”
    “Sexual orientation,” said Brian.
    “Thank you,” said Michael.
    Mary Ann rolled her eyes. “So what are they?”
    “Jeanettes,” answered Michael, “and Tonys. Jeanettes are people who think that the city’s theme song is ‘San Francisco’ as sung by Jeanette MacDonald. Tonys think it’s Tony Bennett singing ‘I Left My Heart in San Francisco.’ Everyone falls into one camp or another … in a manner of speaking.”
    Brian’s brow wrinkled in thought. “That makes sense, but it’s always subject to change. Mary Ann used to be a Tony, for instance. Some people don’t know …”
    “I was
never
a Tony.” Mary Ann was quietly indignant.
    “Sure you were,” said Brian breezily. “I remember. You had a Pet Rock, for God’s sake.”
    “Brian, that was Connie Bradshaw and you know it.”
    “Well, it’s the same thing. You lived with her. The Pet Rock was on your premises.”
    Mary Ann sought Michael’s support.
“He’s
the one who picked her up in a laundromat, and I get the lecture on taste.” She turned back to Brian. “If I remember correctly, you were still calling women ‘chicks’ when I met you.”
    “You remember correctly,” said Brian.
    “Well?”
    Brian shrugged. “Women still
were
chicks when you met me.”
    “Which reminds me,” said Mary Ann, ignoring his deliberate piggery. “Would you watch it with the naked ladies this time?”
    “Hey,” Brian protested. “All I did was
talk
to them. How was I supposed to know they were dykes?”
    “You weren’t,” said Mary Ann.
    “Hell,” added Brian. “It all evens out, anyway. Most of the guys down there must think I’m gay.”
    Michael smiled. “Or wish you were.”
    For San Francisco, it was a scorcher, a day when half the population called in sick to the other half. Some of them came here to recover, here to a secret, sun-drenched cove where they stripped off their clothes and offered up their cocoa buttered bodies to The Goddess.
    The beach would have been an odd sight from the air. It was checkerboarded with dozens of tiny stone forts, makeshift windbreaks accommodating anywhere from two to ten sun-worshipers in varying stages of undress.
    Michael called it The Breastworks.
    Today, the three of them had a fort all to themselves. Mary Ann and Brian sunbathed bare-chested but with bottoms; Michael took off everything, having finally decided that tan lines went out with The Seventies.
    The celebrants lay in silence for several minutes. Mary Ann was the first to speak.
    “Maybe this would do.”
    “That’s putting it mildly,” said Brian.
    “I mean, as a story. I need a really hot feature idea if I’m ever gonna get liberated from
Bargain Matinee.”
    “You need more than that,” said Brian.
    “Besides,” added Michael, “nude beaches are old stuff. They’ve been done to death.”
    “You’re right,” sighed Mary Ann. “What about S & M?”
    “Not right now,” said Brian. “I just put the Coppertone on.”
    “That’s even more tired,” said Michael. “Whenever these local stations see their ratings flagging they do another exposé on S & M. It’s like earthquake stories or Zodiac letters. Anything to keep the public spooked.”
    “The problem,” remarked Mary Ann, “is that you can’t really plan it. The really big San Francisco stories just drop out of nowhere without warning.”
    “Like Guyana,” added Brian.
    “Or Burke and those cannibals at Grace Cathedral.” This interjection was Michael’s, and he regretted it instantly. Mary Ann’s old boyfriend, Burke Andrew, was now an associate