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    “We could have kept it going,” she said. “I mean, it had a life of its own, didn’t it? We shared everything … the acid, the music, the sex, the Avalon, the Family Dog, the Human Be-In. There were fourteen freaks in that flat on Oak Street, fourteen freaks and six sleeping bags. It was fucking beautiful, because it was … was, like, history. We were history. We were the fucking cover of Time magazine, man!”
    Mrs. Madrigal was polite. “What do you think happened, dear?”
    “They killed it. Not the Pigs. The Media.”
    “Killed what?”
    “Nineteen sixty-seven.”
    “I see.”
    “Nixon, Watergate, Patty Fucking Hearst, the Bicentennial. The Media got bored with 1967, so they zapped it. It could have survived for a while. Some of it escaped to Mendocino … but the Media found out about it and killed it all over again. Jesus … I mean, what’s left? There’s not a single fucking place where it’s still 1967!”
    Mrs. Madrigal winked at Mary Ann. “You’re being awfully
    quiet.”
    “I’m not sure I …
    “What’s your favorite year?”
    “I don’t think I have one.”
    “Mine’s 1987,” said Mrs. Madrigal. “I’ll be sixty-five or so … I can collect social security and stash away enough cash to buy a small Greek island.” She twirled a lock of hair around her forefinger and smiled faintly. “Actually, I’d settle for a small Greek.”
    After dinner, on the way to the bathroom, Mary Ann lingered in the landlady’s bedroom. There was a photograph on the dresser in a silver frame.
    A young man, a soldier, standing beside a 1940s car. He was quite handsome, if a little awkward in his uniform.
    “So you see, the old dame does have a past.”
    Mrs. Madrigal was standing in the doorway.
    “Oh … I’m prying, aren’t I?”
    Mrs. Madrigal smiled. “I hope it means we’re friends.”
    “I …” Mary Ann turned back to the photograph, embarrassed. “He’s very good-looking. Is that Mr. Madrigal?”
    The landlady shook her head. “There’s never been a Mr. Madrigal.”
    “I see.”
    “No you don’t. How could you? Madrigal is … an assumed name, as they say in the gangster movies. I cleaned up my act about a dozen years back, and the old name was the first to go.”
    “What was it?”
    “Don’t be naughty. If I’d wanted you to know it, I wouldn’t have changed it.”
    “But …?”
    “Why the Mrs.?”
    “Yes.”
    “Widows and divorcees don’t get … what’s Mona’s word? … hassled. We don’t get hassled as much as single girls. You must have figured that out by now.”
    “Who’s hassled? I haven’t had so much as an obscene phone call since I moved to San Francisco. I could use a little hassling, frankly.”
    “The town is full of charming young men.”
    “To each other.”
    Mrs. Madrigal chuckled. “There’s a lot of that going around.”
    “You make it sound like the flu. I think it’s terribly depressing.”
    “Nonsense. Take it as a challenge. When a woman triumphs in this town, she really triumphs. You’ll do all right, dear. Give it time.”
    “You think?”
    “I know .” The landlady winked and put her arm across Mary Ann’s shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go join those tedious people.”

Rendezvous with Ruby
    R UBY MILLER’S HOUSE WAS ON ORTEGA STREET IN THE Sunset district, a green stucco bungalow with a manicured lawn and a bowl of plastic roses in the picture window. A Rambler parked in the driveway bore a bumper sticker that said: HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS.
    Edgar parked the Mercedes across the street. He was locking the doors when he saw Mrs. Miller waving from the window.
    He returned the wave. Christ! He felt like a shoe salesman coming home to the wife.
    Mrs. Miller turned on the porch light, took off her apron and fussed with a strand of gray hair. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, you are! I’m a mess…. I didn’t plan …”
    “I’m sorry. I hope it’s not too much trouble.”
    “Don’t be silly. I’m tickled to