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Authors: Armistead Maupin
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herself to say it.
Something for Jed
T HE DEFLORATION OF HIS NEPHEW BECAME BRIAN’S PET project. After reviewing half a dozen candidates for the job, he narrowed it down to Jennifer Rabinowitz and Geordie Davies, two Golden Oldies from his personal Top Forty. Jennifer, it turned out, was in Nebraska visiting her brother, so the honor fell by default to Geordie.
Geordie was thirty and lived alone in a garden apartment near the southern gate of the Presidio. They had met one night at Serramonte Mall while buying software for their Macintoshes. Feverish with lust, they had babbled clumsily about Macpaint and Macdraw before beating a hasty retreat to the parking lot. He’d followed her home in his Jeep.
Since that night—two, almost three years ago—he’d visited her cottage less than a dozen times. Neither her lover nor his wife had intruded on their lovemaking, which was refreshingly devoid of romance. Geordie was a true bachelor girl, who liked her life exactly the way it was.
The problem, of course, was how to set it up without scaring Jed off, but Geordie would probably have a few ideas of her own. When he called her cottage in midafternoon, he got her answering machine, which surprised him with its minimalist instruction to “leave your name and number at the tone.” Usually her tapes featured barking dogs or old Shirelles tunes or her own unfunny impersonation of a Valley Girl.
His guess was that she was home auditioning callers, so he used his manliest tone of voice when he left his name and number. It didn’t work, or she was out. You never knew for sure with Geordie.
By evening, he had decided to make his request in person. The scheme might not seem as cold-blooded if there was eye contact involved. “Do me a favor and fuck my nephew” wouldn’t quite cut it on the telephone.
After dinner, he told Mary Ann he was going down to Barbary Lane to visit Jed.
She looked up from her homework, a book about scalp reduction, the subject of tomorrow’s show. “Don’t let her corner you,” she said.
He didn’t get it.
“Mrs. Madrigal,” she explained. “She’s obsessed with those steps. It’s sweet, but it’s a hopeless cause. Hasn’t she told you about it?”
“Oh, yeah … she mentioned it.”
“Personally,” said Mary Ann, “I think she gets off on being colorful.”
“I like the steps,” he said ineffectually.
“Well, so do I, but they’re lethal. And the city isn’t about to build brand-new wooden ones.” She returned to her book, closing the discussion.
He headed for the door. “I won’t be late.”
“Say hi to Jed,” she said.
It took him twenty-five minutes to reach Geordie’s cottage. He parked in the driveway of the house in front and made his way through the fragrant shrubbery to the rear garden. There was a light on in her living room.
He rang her bell, but there was no response. He had never before shown up unannounced, so it was entirely possible that her lover was visiting. She was probably madder than hell.
When she came to the door, however, her pale face seemed drained of all expression.
“I was going to call you,” she said.
Escape to Alcatraz
O N HIS FIRST DAY OF VACATION, MICHAEL TOLLIVER took his mail to the Barbary steps and stretched out in the sunshine. According to the paper, there were fires still blazing to the south, and the warm spell showed no sign of imminent departure. His sluggish Southern metabolism had ground almost to a halt.
He plucked a stalk of dried finocchio and chewed it ruminatively, Huck Finn style. In the spring, this stuff was lacy and pale green, tasting strongly of licorice, a flavor he had never understood as a kid. It grew anywhere and everywhere, remaining lush and decorative in the face of constant efforts to exterminate it.
Finocchio, he had read somewhere, was also Italian slang for “faggot.”
And that made sense somehow.
He set aside the less promising mail and tore into a flimsy blue envelope from England.
Something for Jed
T HE DEFLORATION OF HIS NEPHEW BECAME BRIAN’S PET project. After reviewing half a dozen candidates for the job, he narrowed it down to Jennifer Rabinowitz and Geordie Davies, two Golden Oldies from his personal Top Forty. Jennifer, it turned out, was in Nebraska visiting her brother, so the honor fell by default to Geordie.
Geordie was thirty and lived alone in a garden apartment near the southern gate of the Presidio. They had met one night at Serramonte Mall while buying software for their Macintoshes. Feverish with lust, they had babbled clumsily about Macpaint and Macdraw before beating a hasty retreat to the parking lot. He’d followed her home in his Jeep.
Since that night—two, almost three years ago—he’d visited her cottage less than a dozen times. Neither her lover nor his wife had intruded on their lovemaking, which was refreshingly devoid of romance. Geordie was a true bachelor girl, who liked her life exactly the way it was.
The problem, of course, was how to set it up without scaring Jed off, but Geordie would probably have a few ideas of her own. When he called her cottage in midafternoon, he got her answering machine, which surprised him with its minimalist instruction to “leave your name and number at the tone.” Usually her tapes featured barking dogs or old Shirelles tunes or her own unfunny impersonation of a Valley Girl.
His guess was that she was home auditioning callers, so he used his manliest tone of voice when he left his name and number. It didn’t work, or she was out. You never knew for sure with Geordie.
By evening, he had decided to make his request in person. The scheme might not seem as cold-blooded if there was eye contact involved. “Do me a favor and fuck my nephew” wouldn’t quite cut it on the telephone.
After dinner, he told Mary Ann he was going down to Barbary Lane to visit Jed.
She looked up from her homework, a book about scalp reduction, the subject of tomorrow’s show. “Don’t let her corner you,” she said.
He didn’t get it.
“Mrs. Madrigal,” she explained. “She’s obsessed with those steps. It’s sweet, but it’s a hopeless cause. Hasn’t she told you about it?”
“Oh, yeah … she mentioned it.”
“Personally,” said Mary Ann, “I think she gets off on being colorful.”
“I like the steps,” he said ineffectually.
“Well, so do I, but they’re lethal. And the city isn’t about to build brand-new wooden ones.” She returned to her book, closing the discussion.
He headed for the door. “I won’t be late.”
“Say hi to Jed,” she said.
It took him twenty-five minutes to reach Geordie’s cottage. He parked in the driveway of the house in front and made his way through the fragrant shrubbery to the rear garden. There was a light on in her living room.
He rang her bell, but there was no response. He had never before shown up unannounced, so it was entirely possible that her lover was visiting. She was probably madder than hell.
When she came to the door, however, her pale face seemed drained of all expression.
“I was going to call you,” she said.
Escape to Alcatraz
O N HIS FIRST DAY OF VACATION, MICHAEL TOLLIVER took his mail to the Barbary steps and stretched out in the sunshine. According to the paper, there were fires still blazing to the south, and the warm spell showed no sign of imminent departure. His sluggish Southern metabolism had ground almost to a halt.
He plucked a stalk of dried finocchio and chewed it ruminatively, Huck Finn style. In the spring, this stuff was lacy and pale green, tasting strongly of licorice, a flavor he had never understood as a kid. It grew anywhere and everywhere, remaining lush and decorative in the face of constant efforts to exterminate it.
Finocchio, he had read somewhere, was also Italian slang for “faggot.”
And that made sense somehow.
He set aside the less promising mail and tore into a flimsy blue envelope from England.
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