Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin Page A

and the label seemed as apt as any at this point. “Well,” he sighed, “I guess I’d better go confront my kitchen sink. It’s beginning to grow penicillin, I think.”
    “Brian?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Would you care to smoke a quick joint with an old lady?” Her huge blue eyes blinked at him unembarrassedly.
    “Sure,” he smiled. “I’ll bring the joint, if you bring the old lady.”
    Her apartment seemed fussier than ever, as if the doilies and tassels had taken to breeding in their unguarded moments. Still flanking the archway to the dining room were the two marble statues that had fascinated Brian on his very first visit to the landlady’s home: a boy with a thorn in his foot and a woman with a water jug.
    Mrs. Madrigal sat on the ancient velvet sofa, curling her feet up under her kimono in a movement that seemed surprisingly girlish. She took a short toke off the joint and handed it to her tenant. “So who is she, dear?”
    “Who?”
    “The creature who’s driving my carefree boy to utter distraction.”
    Brian held the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible. “I think you’ve got the wrong carefree boy.”
    “Have I?”
    Her eyes were on him again, offering refuge.
    “Mrs. Madrigal, it’s late and I don’t feel like playing games.” His abruptness embarrassed him, so he laughed and added: “Of course, if you know any … creatures, I could use another notch or two in my gun!”
    “Brian, Brian … that isn’t you, dear.”
    He snapped at her. “Would you just lay off with the—”
    “I worry about you, dear. Hell, I know I’m a nosy old biddy, but look, I’ve got nothing better to do. I mean, if you ever want somebody just to talk to …” She leaned forward slightly and smiled like a stoned Mona Lisa. “May I give you some unsolicited advice?”
    He nodded, feeling more uncomfortable by the second.
    “The next time you meet a girl—someone that you really like—pretend that you’re a war hero and that all your basic plumbing got shot off in the war.”
    Brian grinned incredulously. “What?”
    “I’m perfectly serious, dear. Don’t tell a soul—especially her, for heaven’s sake—but pretend to yourself that this dreadful thing has happened and the only way you can communicate your feelings is through your eyes, your heart.”
    “And what if she wants to go home with me?”
    “You can’t , dear. You’ve lost your wee-wee, remember? All you can do is smile bravely and invite her to dinner the next night—or maybe a nice walk in the park. She’ll accept, too. I promise she will.”
    Brian took a long drag on the joint. “So how long …?” He exhaled in midsentence, making sure he maintained an expression of amused tolerance. “How long am I supposed to keep pretending?”
    “As long as possible. Until she asks you.”
    “Asks me what?”
    “If you were wounded in the war, of course!”
    “And what do I tell her?”
    “The truth, dear. That everything’s intact. It’ll be a lovely surprise for her.”
    He folded his arms across his chest and smiled at her.
    “And,” she said, raising her forefinger, “you’ll have a nice surprise too.”
    “What?”
    “You’ll know the poor dear, Brian. And you might even like her by then.”
    Minutes later, as he stood in the window of his little house on the roof, he marveled at how well Mrs. Madrigal could read him, how swiftly she had detected “the creature who’s driving my carefree boy to utter distraction.”
    Did it show on his face now? Did his pupils dilate from the sheer, loin-twitching force of the fantasy? What set of the jaw or tic of the eye betrayed the passion that had begun to consume him?
    At two minutes before midnight he lifted his binoculars to his face and focused on the eleventh floor of the Superman Building.
    She appeared, as he prayed she would, on the hour. And he heard himself whimper when their binoculars locked in mid-air.

Bobbi
    E XHAUSTED BY THE DRUGS AND THE LONG BUS RIDE, Mona