Read Online Significant Others by Armistead Maupin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Armistead Maupin
Ads: Link
These short but vivid bulletins from his old friend Mona had become enormously important to him.
Dearest Mouse,
The tourist season is upon us at Easley, and we’re up to our ass in Texas millionaires. I’d say to hell with it, if we didn’t need the money so badly. I am actually dating the postmistress from Chipping Campden, but I’m not so sure it’s a good idea. She uses words like Sapphic when she means dyke. Also, I think she likes the idea of Lady Roughton more than she actually likes me, which is pretty goddamn disconcerting, since I don’t feel titled. (Mr. Hargis, the gardener, insists on calling me Your Ladyship when there are tourists around, but I’ve got him trained to lay off that shit the rest of the time.)
Wilfred got a mohawk for his eighteenth birthday and has taken to lurking in the minstrels’ gallery and terrorizing the tourists. He’s grown at least three inches since you last saw him. The mohawk looks good, actually, but I haven’t told him so, since I’m afraid of what he’ll try next. He’s signed up for fall classes at a trade school in Cheltenham, but he’ll be able to commute from here.
They’ve finally heard of AIDS in Britain, but it mostly takes the form of fag-baiting headlines in the tabloids. According to Wilfred, their idea of safe sex is not going to bed with Americans. He misses you, by the way, and told me to tell you so. I miss you too, Babycakes.
M ONA
P.S. Did you know there is still a Greek island called Lesbos? It’s supposed to be wonderful. Why don’t we meet there next spring?
P.P.S. If you see Teddy, tell him Mrs. Digby in the village wants to install an automatic garage door. I’m pretty sure this isn’t allowed, but I want his support before I say no.
Smiling, Michael put down the letter. Mona’s green-card marriage to Teddy Roughton was apparently the best thing she’d ever done for herself. By swapping countries with a disgruntled nobleman, she’d found a perfect setting for her particular brand of eccentricity.
And Teddy, obviously, was enjoying himself here.
Michael had yet to decide on the disposition of his vacation time. Some of it would be spent on reassuring domestic rituals: writing letters, painting the kitchen, helping Mrs. Madrigal with her garden. He had also promised to distribute fliers for her save-the-steps campaign, which had so far met with indifference in the neighborhood.
After lunch, he drove to Dolores Street for a Tupperware party hosted by Charlie Rubin. Charlie had come home after another scary stint at St. Sebastian’s and was making up for lost time.
The Tupperware saleslady was a big-boned Armenian woman whose spiel had been written expressly for housewives. A creature of cheerful routine, she apparently saw no reason to alter the scheme of things now. When she proudly displayed the Velveeta cheese dispenser, the thirteen assembled men erupted in gales of laughter.
Mrs. Sarkisian smiled gamely, pretending to understand, but he could tell her feelings had been hurt. He felt so sorry for her that he bought a lettuce crisper immediately thereafter and later spent five minutes telling her in private how much it would change his life.
When the rest of the guests had straggled home with their booty, he joined Charlie on the deck. “Well, that was different,” he said.
Charlie stared out at the neighboring gardens, a patchwork of laundry and sunflowers. “I always wondered what one was like,” he said. “Didn’t you?”
Michael nodded. “And now we know.”
They were both quiet for a while. Then Charlie said: “I made a list when I was in the hospital, and that was on the list.” He paused, then looked at Michael. “You haven’t commented on my new lesion.”
What was there to say? It was a dime-sized purple splotch on the tip of Charlie’s nose.
Charlie cocked his head and struck a stately Condé Nast pose. “It doesn’t suit me, does it? Should I get my money back?”
Managing a feeble laugh, Michael moved
Dearest Mouse,
The tourist season is upon us at Easley, and we’re up to our ass in Texas millionaires. I’d say to hell with it, if we didn’t need the money so badly. I am actually dating the postmistress from Chipping Campden, but I’m not so sure it’s a good idea. She uses words like Sapphic when she means dyke. Also, I think she likes the idea of Lady Roughton more than she actually likes me, which is pretty goddamn disconcerting, since I don’t feel titled. (Mr. Hargis, the gardener, insists on calling me Your Ladyship when there are tourists around, but I’ve got him trained to lay off that shit the rest of the time.)
Wilfred got a mohawk for his eighteenth birthday and has taken to lurking in the minstrels’ gallery and terrorizing the tourists. He’s grown at least three inches since you last saw him. The mohawk looks good, actually, but I haven’t told him so, since I’m afraid of what he’ll try next. He’s signed up for fall classes at a trade school in Cheltenham, but he’ll be able to commute from here.
They’ve finally heard of AIDS in Britain, but it mostly takes the form of fag-baiting headlines in the tabloids. According to Wilfred, their idea of safe sex is not going to bed with Americans. He misses you, by the way, and told me to tell you so. I miss you too, Babycakes.
M ONA
P.S. Did you know there is still a Greek island called Lesbos? It’s supposed to be wonderful. Why don’t we meet there next spring?
P.P.S. If you see Teddy, tell him Mrs. Digby in the village wants to install an automatic garage door. I’m pretty sure this isn’t allowed, but I want his support before I say no.
Smiling, Michael put down the letter. Mona’s green-card marriage to Teddy Roughton was apparently the best thing she’d ever done for herself. By swapping countries with a disgruntled nobleman, she’d found a perfect setting for her particular brand of eccentricity.
And Teddy, obviously, was enjoying himself here.
Michael had yet to decide on the disposition of his vacation time. Some of it would be spent on reassuring domestic rituals: writing letters, painting the kitchen, helping Mrs. Madrigal with her garden. He had also promised to distribute fliers for her save-the-steps campaign, which had so far met with indifference in the neighborhood.
After lunch, he drove to Dolores Street for a Tupperware party hosted by Charlie Rubin. Charlie had come home after another scary stint at St. Sebastian’s and was making up for lost time.
The Tupperware saleslady was a big-boned Armenian woman whose spiel had been written expressly for housewives. A creature of cheerful routine, she apparently saw no reason to alter the scheme of things now. When she proudly displayed the Velveeta cheese dispenser, the thirteen assembled men erupted in gales of laughter.
Mrs. Sarkisian smiled gamely, pretending to understand, but he could tell her feelings had been hurt. He felt so sorry for her that he bought a lettuce crisper immediately thereafter and later spent five minutes telling her in private how much it would change his life.
When the rest of the guests had straggled home with their booty, he joined Charlie on the deck. “Well, that was different,” he said.
Charlie stared out at the neighboring gardens, a patchwork of laundry and sunflowers. “I always wondered what one was like,” he said. “Didn’t you?”
Michael nodded. “And now we know.”
They were both quiet for a while. Then Charlie said: “I made a list when I was in the hospital, and that was on the list.” He paused, then looked at Michael. “You haven’t commented on my new lesion.”
What was there to say? It was a dime-sized purple splotch on the tip of Charlie’s nose.
Charlie cocked his head and struck a stately Condé Nast pose. “It doesn’t suit me, does it? Should I get my money back?”
Managing a feeble laugh, Michael moved
Similar Books
