Read Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City for Free Online

sailing got tougher. Or so Brian told himself.
    Nevertheless, he lit a joint upon returning to Barbary Lane and crooned along euphorically while PP&M sang “If I Had a Hammer,” “Five Hundred Miles” and “Puff the Magic Dragon.”
    Had it really been eighteen years—Christ, half his life!—since Nelson Schwab had cornered him during Hell Week at the Deke House to impart the privileged information that “Puff” was really an underground parable about—no shit!—smoking marijuana?
    Yep, it really had.
    He fell into a black funk, then snatched the record off the turntable and shattered it with the hammer he kept in the tool box under the kitchen sink. Inexcusable symbolism, but somehow richly satisfying.
    So much for the iron grip of the past.
    Now, what about the present?
The Chronicle “help wanted” ads were so dismal that Brian postponed any immediate career decisions and trekked downstairs to help Mrs. Madrigal plan Mary Ann’s birthday party. He found the landlady installing a Roach Motel in a dark corner of her pantry.
    Looking up, she smiled defeatedly. “I told myself I would never buy one of these dreadful things. Those TV commercials seem so sadistic. Still, we can’t love absolutely all of God’s creatures, can we? They haven’t found their way up to your place, I hope?”
    Brian shook his head. “The altitude’s too much for ’em.”
    Mrs. Madrigal stood up, wiping her hands against each other as if they were sticky with blood. She cast a final glance at the grisly Motel, shuddered, and took Brian’s arm. “Let’s go sit in the sunshine, dear. I feel like Anthony Perkins waiting for Janet Leigh to check in.”
    Out in the courtyard, she ticked off a list of prospective delights for Mary Ann’s upcoming celebration: “A nice roast of some sort with those baby carrots that she likes … and some ice cream from Gelato, of course, to go with the birthday cake. And … well, I guess it’s about time for Barbara Stanwyck, isn’t it?”
    “A movie?” asked Brian.
    Mrs. Madrigal clucked her tongue at him. “Miss Stanwyck, my dear boy, is my heartiest specimen yet.” She pointed to the edge of the courtyard where a sensemilla plant as big as a Christmas tree was undulating softly in the warm spring breeze.
    Brian whistled in appreciation. “That stuff knocks your socks off.”
    The landlady smiled modestly. “I didn’t name her Barbara Stanwyck for nothing.”
They previewed Miss Stanwyck. Then they wandered down the hill to Washington Square and sat on a bench in the sunshine, docile and groggy as a couple of aging house cats.
    After a long silence, Brian said: “Does she ever talk to you about me?”
    “Who? Mrs. Onassis?”
    Brian smiled languidly. “You know.”
    “Well …” Mrs. Madrigal chewed her lower lip. “Only about your extraordinary sexual prowess, that sort of thing … nothing really personal.”
    Brian laughed. “That’s a relief.”
    The landlady’s Wedgwood saucer eyes fixed on him lovingly. “She cares about you a great deal, young man.”
    Brian tore up a tuft of grass and began to shred it. “She told you that, huh?”
    “Well … not in so many words …”
    “It only takes three.” His voice was tinged with doubt, more than he wanted to show. “I don’t know,” he added hastily, “maybe it’s just her work or something. She’s so obsessed with becoming a reporter that nothing else seems to matter. I don’t know. Screw it. It’s no big deal.”
    Mrs. Madrigal smiled wistfully and brushed the hair off his forehead. “But it is, isn’t it? It’s an awfully big deal.”
    “It wasn’t before,” said Brian.
    The landlady’s eyes widened. “Oh, I know how that can be.”
    “I want this to work out, Mrs. Madrigal. I never wanted anything so bad.”
    “Then you shall have it,” said the landlady. “My children always get what they want.” She gave Brian’s knee a friendly shake.
    “But she’s one of your children,” said Brian. “What