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    Tales of the City: A Novel
    Tales of the City: A Novel
    Tales of the City: A Novel
    Ebook459 pages5 hours

    Tales of the City: A Novel

    By Armistead Maupin

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    A PBS Great American Read Top 100 Pick

    The first novel in the beloved Tales of the City series, Armistead Maupin’s bestselling San Francisco saga, and inspiration for the Netflix original series, Tales of the City

    “A consummate entertainer who has made a generation laugh. . . . It is Maupin’s Dickensian gift to be able to render love convincingly.”— Edmund White, Times Literary Supplement

    For almost four decades Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City has blazed its own trail through popular culture—from a groundbreaking newspaper serial to a classic novel, to a television event that entranced millions around the world. The first of ten novels about the denizens of the mythic apartment house at 28 Barbary Lane, Tales is both a sparkling comedy of manners and an indelible portrait of an era that changed forever the way we live.

    Editor's Note

    Love letters…

    You don’t have to live in San Francisco to be blown away by this collection of love letters to the beloved city by the bay. Come for the wonderful cast of characters, stay for their thrilling adventures, and be entertained throughout. Maupin’s classic got a Netflix miniseries adaptation starring Laura Linney, Olympia Dukakis, and Elliot Page.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateJun 7, 2011
    ISBN9780062112392
    Tales of the City: A Novel
    Author

    Armistead Maupin

    Armistead Maupin is the author of the Tales of the City series, which includes Tales of the City, More Tales of the City, Further Tales of the City, Babycakes, Significant Others, Sure of You, Michael Tolliver Lives, Mary Ann in Autumn, and The Days of Anna Madrigal. His other books include the memoir Logical Family and the novels Maybe the Moon and The Night Listener. Maupin was the 2012 recipient of the Lambda Literary Foundation’s Pioneer Award. He lives in London with his husband, Christopher Turner.

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    Reviews for Tales of the City

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    • 5/5
      This is a Reading Good Books review.Tales of the City is a love letter to San Francisco. It celebrates the rawness and the wildness of this beautiful city. The characters embody what San Francisco (during that time, at least) is all about.Unlike a lot of reviews that I’ve read, I have not seen the PBS miniseries (although I should get on to it because of Thomas Gibson). What I’ve seen was the musical staged by the American Conservatory Theatre in 2011. I liked it a lot and it was so much fun to watch. Since then, I wanted to get my hands on the book and read it.Tales of the City is a story about the life and times of the residents of 28 Barbary Lane. Mary Ann Singleton visits San Francisco in 1976 and falls in love with the place and the culture. She then decides to stay for good. She meets the landlady Mrs. Anna Madrigal, who readily takes Mary Ann under her wing; the other residents, Mona Ramsey and Michael “Mouse” Tolliver; and other colorful characters. All of them have their own baggage and journey.The book is a very easy read. It has (very) short chapters and each chapter is a peek into a character’s life. Think, episodes. And as you read on, you will realize that all of them are somehow connected. The different ways they are connected are hilarious. It makes it so much fun to follow each storyline to find out how two seemingly unrelated characters are connected to each other. The various plot and character twists are hilarious. I can see how people, not just the LGBT crowd, can relate to these characters. It is real, candid, and heartfelt. While it is not a “great” piece of literature, it is definitely a good read.But just like what I said about the musical, “The characters are relate-able enough but it can be a little bit confusing for non-San Francisco, non-Bay Area people. I’m not and I admit, I didn’t get some jokes.” Nevertheless, this book made me care about these characters enough for me to look for the other books and find out their journeys through life.Rating: 5/5.Recommendation: If you like LGBT lit, this one is a must-have, a must-read.
    • 5/5
      Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin is the first volume in a group of novels that consist of stories written originally in a serialized form that appeared as installments in the San Francisco Chronicle. In this volume, the stories were inspired by his observations of life in the city during the mid 1970’s and feature a group of people who are loosely interconnected, but the star of the book is the city of San Francisco.There is a marvellous mix of characters from gay to straight, old to young, male to female. They are sympathetic, vibrant and realistic. Their stories run the range of emotions from playful to sentimental, humorous to touching. The author effortlessly carried me back to the 1970’s with a simple whiff of Charlie perfume, a mention of a movie called “Young Frankenstein” and a stray pamphlet encouraging one to vote for Jimmy Carter.Like a small time capsule, Tales From the City captures that short period in San Francisco when the hippies had moved on and AIDS and HIV had yet to appear. Maupin captures the rhythms of the city that he writes about and with it’s authentic setting and whimsical stories, I enjoyed this book immensely.
    • 5/5
      This series has been on my radar for a long time, and most recently again with a family members move to San Francisco. I really enjoyed this book and all the quirky characters. I'm so happy there are more yet to read because I'm not ready to say goodbye to them just yet!
    • 4/5
      A fast, fun, light read with plenty of quirky characters. It's so San Francisco.
    • 5/5
      The classic San Francisco novel introduces a family of characters who live in Mrs. Madrigal's rooming house on Barbary Lane. The book is so full of dialogue that it reads like a script. Very funny, quirky, mind-opening, and heart-warming.
    • 4/5
      Yay for serial novels! The characters are really funny and warmly portrayed; the story feels largely effortless. Maupin could have spent a lot of time waxing poetical about San Francisco, but instead he lets the city shine through the characters. The jokes made cheerfully at the expense of seventies' culture are still funny because, man, the seventies were pretty strange.

      Hoping that the rest of the series is this good!
    • 4/5
      Charming and hilarious little story about life in San Francisco in the 1970s.
    • 4/5
      Enjoyed this book even more than I expected. The San Francisco setting, however fictitious, was interesting, and the characters suprised me pretty often. I don't read many short story collections for some reason, enjoyed these. It was nice to come and go from the book without feeling like I'd missed much.
    • 4/5
      Very entertaining reading, esp for anyone who may have nostalgia for the 70s and San Francisco in the 70s in particular. I was a child in the 70s so most of the pop-culture references were beyond me, but the stories were still fascinating and fun to read--probably because Mary Ann is an outsider too. Thank goodness. These were originally serialized in a newspaper, which explains why the tales never seem to get anywhere. As a book, it doesn't conclude; I guess one just has to keep reading the whole Tales of the City series...
    • 4/5
      Revisited via audio CD. It was lovely to be back on Barbary Lane with the kids, but odd that they are kids now and not too long ago they were glamourous grownups. Sweet and improbable and dated in the nicest sort of way. There's one prescient moment where Brian says to Michael that it's likely that someday they will be sad old libertines lost in a world of uptight kids, because the pendulum always swings.
    • 4/5
      Originally published as a serial in the late 1970's, this novel remains an entertaining read. The characters are clever, realistic and easy to relate to in spite of the passage of time and, as one would expect from a serial, the story incorporates enough twists and turns to keep the reader guessing a little bit which is always a treat.
    • 3/5
      goofy but entertaining tales
    • 4/5
      Maupin introduces us to a large ensemble cast of quirky, complex, and lovable (well, mostly) characters from all walks of life, building what feels like a very realistic microcosm of San Francisco in the mid-1970s. The story is a bit choppy due to extremely short chapter lengths -- this work was originally published as a newspaper serial -- but that same issue also becomes something of a strength, since it forces the author to be economical with his words. Description is minimal but precise, and characterization is accomplished mostly through sharp, often funny and just as frequently heartbreaking dialogue. Some of the coincidental meetings and frankly bizarre plot developments are a little far-fetched, but the breezy tone keeps you turning the pages. I love these characters, who are as real in my mind as any I've ever encountered.
    • 4/5
      Tales of the City is based on Maupin's 1970's newspaper serial in the San Francisco Chronicle. Between the pages we meet a group of unforgettable characters AND we get to remember what it was like to live in the 70's. Drugs, Sex and secrets are what make up Tales of the City. The story opens with Mary Ann Singleton a small town girl from the Midwest who falls in love with San Francisco while on vacation and decides to move there. The adventures start as soon as she makes this decision and it's as if we move right into the Barbary Lane apartment with her. The story unfolds in soap opera fashion as we meet Mouse ( who's gay), Mona ( the ad exec), Mrs. Madrigal (The landlady who grows pot), and Brian ( the womanizer) . The story is written in short snippets that at first seem a bit disjointed. The story jumps around from one set of characters to another. But as the story unfolds we see how it all fits together like a jigsaw puzzle and how everyone is connected in some way. And Maupin knows how to write a good story so you'll be hooked soon enough. This is the first of 7 books.
    • 3/5
      I can't really believe it's taken me this long to find these gems, but sometimes it's the ones that lie undiscovered under your nose that prove the most surprising. These books detail the lives of a motley band of individuals who live in San Francisco on Barbary Lane under the watchful eye of the matriarchal Anna Madrigal. The pluses and minuses of these stories all stem from the fact that they were initially serialisations in a regular newspaper column. It makes them an addictive doddle to read - each book is divided into bite-sized chunks that have an element of self-containment mixed with a splattering suspense that leaves you wanting more. The characters are skilfully drawn and quickly come to life and become much-loved friend - a testament to Maupin's skill as a writer. They are each a little window onto life in San Francisco at the time - an interesting documentation of society there.I guess, should you choose to, you could level the criticism that the interlinking storylines are all-to-convenient and readily wrapped up .... but I didn't find it problematic. It is an inherent quality of the original media they were published in and you have to allow for that format. I'm just glad to see them put together as a book so that they can be enjoyed by everyone. I think that if you cannot overcome objections to plot and structure, then these books were probably never meant for you. Personally, once I found them, I couldn't put them down and I'll certainly be looking forward to the next batch.
    • 5/5
      Oh, cute, cute, cute. What more does anybody have to say? Go read someone else's review and just consider mine positive.
    • 5/5
      I knew I'd love this book from the first sentence, and it didn't disappoint. So readable, a real page-turner, you can't put it down, the clever plot leads you to the next chapter and the next until you find you've finished the whole thing. Wonderful to find that there are 5 equally good sequels.
    • 5/5
      Great story, great backdrop, great characters. Definitely read this book.
    • 3/5
      Synopsis: Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City has blazed a singular trail through popular culture -- from a groundbreaking newspaper serial to a classic novel to a television event that entranced millions around the world. The first of six novels about the denizens of the mythic apartment house at 28 Barbary Lane, Tales is both a wry comedy of manners and a deeply involving portrait of a vanished era.Vanished era is right. Boy was it hokey. All the drug references were kind of quaint – the pot and the Quaaludes and the overt casualness of their use. Funny. Same with the pre-AIDS bed hopping by both straight and gay people. No wonder we had an epidemic; these people had all the restraint of alley cats. They all wanted (whether they admitted it or not) a serious relationship, but they all just moved from bed to bed. It’s hard to believe that people actually did this. It seems detrimental not only physically, but emotionally. What a way to live. No wonder they needed drugs.The story is something out of Melrose Place. Well, the reverse. Whatever. It’s very soap operaish. Maybe that’s where Spelling got his idea for the trashy series. I didn’t like many of the people in this story though. The lead character, Mary Ann, is compared to everyone else, priggish and judgmental. She thinks she isn’t, but she is and her constant waffling between “loving” the new city and wanting to move back to the safety of the staid Cleveland gets annoying. She is dense and I was sick of reading about her.None of the other characters were likeable either. The landlady who gives out joints to people and says that her house chooses them and not the other way around. The rich couple with marriage problems – he is actually gay, but won’t come out of the closet. There’s Mary Ann’s boss who is dying of some disease, can’t stand his wife anymore because she didn’t stay a 20-year-old and who begins a “love” affair with the crazy landlady. There’s the bed hopping single guy who is up for sex with either gender. Two roommates; a lesbian who wonders if she’s a fag hag for hanging around with her roomie, a “twink” who goes in for jockey shorts competitions at gay bars. And finally, the reclusive guy upstairs who claims to be a private investigator who really turns out to be a child pornographer. Oy vey. The writing in this one was not nearly at the level of The Night Listener, either. Maupin’s writing definitely improved between the writing of the two. In Tales he struggles with creating suspense without giving away the game and fails in a lot of storylines. But the story wasn’t compelling; each of the character’s situations were trivial and lame. I didn’t care about any of them. Bah.
    • 5/5
      Maupin's delightful and fascinating characters find their way through San Francisco in the heady 70s.
    • 3/5
      Reading this book is a bit like a history lesson. Set in San Francisco in the late-1970s, this book was remarkable for presenting homosexuality as part of mainstream popular culture. In 2011 this is hardly shocking, but thirty-five years ago it was. This is important to recognize before going into the book. With the stage set, I felt like this book read like a sitcom. The characters engage in crazy antics. They get involved in humorous love triangles. The series began in the newspaper, and I can see how that shapes the book. The book is comprised of short chapters and small vignettes. It is humorous and easy reading, a bit of mind candy. By the end I was left with some unanswered questions. What was the issue with the landlady? As this is the first book in a series, I'm going to assume that Maupin is setting up for the next book. I'll be reading it to find out.
    • 3/5
      This is one of the PBS Great American Reads 100 best books.It tells the story of the various occupants of a building at Barbary Lane in SAN Francisco in the late 1970s. The writing style consists of short 3-4 page chapters and mostly dialogue between the characters. Characters include Anna Madrigal, the bohemian landlady, Mary Ann Stapleton, a secretary from Cleveland; Michael Tolliver, very gay and promiscuous waiter; Mona, an advertising executive, Brian, a womanizer; Norman, mystery man; Edgar Halcyon, owner of the Halcyon advertising agency; Frannie, his alcoholic wife;Dede his daughter, married to closeted Beauchamp...All of the characters’ lives interact in the city for a period of 6 months. This is period before AIDS is in the news so promiscuity is a way of life.IMHO, not a great book but I can understand how became an important book for the bohemian, gay west coast culture.
    • 4/5
      Just thoroughly enjoyed the book. Looking forward to the rest of the series.
    • 3/5
      A fun read, and also interesting to imagine it being published in a newspaper more than 20 years ago.
    • 5/5
      This is truly one of the most charming books that I have read. Having once lived in San Francisco I think it captures the atmosphere and ambiance of the area beautifully. One of the best moments is when Mrs. Madrigal tells her suitor that those that come to San Francisco are believed to be the people of Atlantis returning. This makes the story feel like a cohesive family unit, which is what Maupin seemed to want to project in the story with the cast of 28 Barbary Lane, specifically with that character.

      While the story feels like you are reading a soap opera I think that is what it is supposed to feel like overall. The story originally was written in the San Francisco Chronicle, so the chapters are very short and present part of the story in a fast and effective manner. This makes the book pretty easy to read.

      While some of the material may seem a bit lewd to some people it feels like it is in a proper place within the story. Maupin sets up each plot masterfully so you are not left scratching your head when something is revealed, instead you simply state to yourself "OH! Now it all makes sense." When you get to the end of the book though you will be wanting to read the next volume because it leaves many things open still, which makes for a good series.
    • 3/5
      A friend recommended this book and I got hooked on the quirky characters of Barberry Lane. Entertaining and engaging. I read the 6 books in the original series one after the other. You do want to read them in order as the relationships between these friends, lovers, spouses, build through the series. Some implausible plotting as the series progressed and I got tired of them. The first two are the best.


      Date read reflects when I finished the first book, but I had read all six within a couple of months.
    • 5/5
      Re-reading this makes you feel seriously old! At one stage in my live I practically knew the Tales of the city books by heart: I haven't looked at them for ages, but reading Mary Ann in autumn prompted me to dig them out again (and fire up my vintage VCR to watch the TV adaptation again as well).The thing you forget, especially if you have the TV series in mind, is that this isn't seventies nostalgia. It is The Seventies. Tales of the city came out in book form in 1978, the same year as Dancer from the dance and Faggots. While New York was inventing "gay writing", Maupin was writing about lesbian, gay and transsexual characters as though there was nothing about their sexuality that was the least bit more profound, spiritual, absurd, or grotesque than there was about the strange things that heterosexuals get up to. He was normalising the whole sodom-and-gomorah world of seventies San Francisco for his readers by writing about it in a superb pastiche romantic comedy style, heavily laced with references to the most down-to-earth bits of fifties American popular culture. And he got away with it! It's basically the same trick they use in The Simpsons: if you make the audience laugh, give them a bit of sentiment towards the end, and never bore them or pretend that you know better than they do, then you can discuss almost any subject. It's a trick, but it takes a lot of skill, and in Maupin's case it would never have worked without his amazingly sharp dialogue. All those references to Hitchcock, Tennessee Williams and Noël Coward aren't there by accident: Maupin clearly has a very sharp eye for what works on stage and screen, and uses it to pare down his text to the absolute minimum. Brilliant stuff: he's definitely up there with writers like Kipling, Raymond Chandler and P.G. Wodehouse at the very top end of popular fiction.
    • 5/5
      Centred on 28 Barbary Lane, San Francisco, the home of Anna Madrigal, Tales of the City chronicles the day to day life of Mrs Madrigal and her assorted tenants, along with their friends and colleagues. The eccentric Mrs Madrigal considers her residents as her family, leaves them notes accompanied by a joint and serves brownies suitably fortified. The residents include twenty five year old Mary Anne, a naïve young secretary newly arrived from Cleveland; Mona, a successful copywriter working for ad agency Halcyon Communications; Brian Hawkins, a randy waiter and one time lawyer in his thirties; and Michael (Mouse) Tolliver, a thoroughly likeable lively gay twink. Among the friends and colleagues, and very much part of the story are Edgar Halcyon, head of Halcyon Communications; and Beauchamp Day, his promiscuous son-in-law and business partner; along with their respective wives. By a remarkable series of coincidences the lives of residents, friends and acquaintances connect and interweave to comic effect.Their escapades range from the devious to the outrageous, ruthless to movingly caring; their sexual interests/orientation from straight to gay, and not always necessarily consistent; the whole providing an hilarious and touching account full of adventure.A thoroughly entertaining, funny and fast moving read, with some endearing and very likeable characters, I highly recommended it; and very much look forward to the subsequent developments in the many sequels.
    • 5/5
      I started this book over the weekend to take a break from all the vampire books I'm reading. I thought at first this book must have been written in the early 1990s because the descriptions of San Francisco are spot on. I was surprised to see that this book dates to 1978! My goodness -- the City hasn't changed! I'm laughing my ass off at this book. I'll have to read the other books by this author. It is so much fun to read a novel about a city that is just minutes away. I would give this book a 20 if I could. The City and Peninsula haven't changed from when this book was published. The book might have well been published last year because so much of what is described is still around and still as wacky. The wonderful variety and types of characters portrayed in this book haven't changed either. The ending was quite a kicker!
    • 4/5
      I enjoyed this work very much. I hesitate to call it a novel, since it is a string of episodes, a soap-opera for the page, telling the stories of interwoven lives in San Francisco in the 1970's. Maupin is warm and funny and seems genuinely fond of his eccentric cast of characters. I greatly admire the way he keeps all plates spinning in the plot, and the dialogue is a joy. I have already ordered More tales of the City.Also listened to the audiobook but found it difficult to follow without the book in my hand.

    Book preview

    Tales of the City - Armistead Maupin

    Taking the Plunge

    MARY ANN SINGLETON WAS TWENTY-FIVE YEARS old when she saw San Francisco for the first time.

    She came to the city alone for an eight-day vacation. On the fifth night, she drank three Irish coffees at the Buena Vista, realized that her Mood Ring was blue, and decided to phone her mother in Cleveland.

    Hi, Mom. It’s me.

    "Oh, darling. Your daddy and I were just talking about you. There was this crazy man on McMillan and Wife who was strangling all these secretaries, and I just couldn’t help thinking…"

    Mom…

    I know. Just crazy ol’ Mom, worrying herself sick over nothing. But you never can tell about those things. Look at that poor Patty Hearst, locked up in that closet with all those awful…

    Mom … long distance.

    Oh … yes. You must be having a grand time.

    God … you wouldn’t believe it! The people here are so friendly I feel like I’ve…

    Have you been to the Top of the Mark like I told you?

    Not yet.

    Well, don’t you dare miss that! You know, your daddy took me there when he got back from the South Pacific. I remember he slipped the bandleader five dollars, so we could dance to ‘Moonlight Serenade,’ and I spilled Tom Collins all over his beautiful white Navy…

    Mom, I want you to do me a favor.

    Of course, darling. Just listen to me. Oh … before I forget it, I ran into Mr. Lassiter yesterday at the Ridgemont Mall, and he said the office is just falling apart with you gone. They don’t get many good secretaries at Lassiter Fertilizers.

    Mom, that’s sort of why I called.

    Yes, darling?

    I want you to call Mr. Lassiter and tell him I won’t be in on Monday morning.

    Oh… Mary Ann, I’m not sure you should ask for an extension on your vacation.

    It’s not an extension, Mom.

    Well, then why…?

    I’m not coming home, Mom.

    Silence. Then, dimly in the distance, a television voice began to tell Mary Ann’s father about the temporary relief of hemorrhoids. Finally, her mother spoke: Don’t be silly, darling.

    "Mom… I’m not being silly. I like it here. It feels like home already."

    Mary Ann, if there’s a boy…

    There’s no boy.... I’ve thought about this for a long time.

    Don’t be ridiculous! You’ve been there five days!

    Mom, I know how you feel, but … well, it’s got nothing to do with you and Daddy. I just want to start making my own life … have my own apartment and all.

    "Oh, that. Well, darling … of course you can. As a matter of fact, your daddy and I thought those new apartments out at Ridgemont might be just perfect for you. They take lots of young people, and they’ve got a swimming pool and a sauna, and I could make some of those darling curtains like I made for Sonny and Vicki when they got married. You could have all the privacy you…"

    You aren’t listening, Mom. I’m trying to tell you I’m a grown woman.

    Well, act like it, then! You can’t just … run away from your family and friends to go live with a bunch of hippies and mass murderers!

    You’ve been watching too much TV.

    O.K.... then what about The Horoscope?

    What?

    The Horoscope. That crazy man. The killer.

    Mom… The Zodiac.

    Same difference. And what about … earthquakes? I saw that movie, Mary Ann, and I nearly died when Ava Gardner…

    Will you just call Mr. Lassiter for me?

    Her mother began to cry. You won’t come back. I just know it.

    Mom … please . . I will. I promise.

    But you won’t be … the same!

    No. I hope not.

    When it was over, Mary Ann left the bar and walked through Aquatic Park to the bay. She stood there for several minutes in a chill wind, staring at the beacon on Alcatraz. She made a vow not to think about her mother for a while.

    Back at the Fisherman’s Wharf Holiday Inn, she looked up Connie Bradshaw’s phone number.

    Connie was a stewardess for United. Mary Ann hadn’t seen her since high school: 1968.

    Fantabulous! squealed Connie. How long you here for?

    For good.

    Super! Found an apartment yet?

    No… I … well, I was wondering if I might be able to crash at your place, until I can…

    Sure. No sweat.

    Connie … you’re single?

    The stewardess laughed. A bear shit in the woods?

    Connie’s Place

    MARY ANN DRAGGED HER AMERICAN TOURISTER into Connie’s apartment, groaned softly and sank into a mock zebra-skin captain’s chair.

    Well … hello, Sodom and Gomorrah.

    Connie laughed. Your mom freaked, huh?

    God!

    "Poor baby! I know the feeling. When I told my mom I was moving to San Francisco, she had an absolute hissy-fit! It was a zillion times worse than the summer I tried to join Up With People!"

    God… I almost forgot.

    Connie’s eyes glazed nostalgically. Yeah… Hey, you work up a thirst, hon?

    Sure.

    Sit tight. I’ll be right back.

    Thirty seconds later, Connie emerged from the kitchen with two airlines glasses and a bottle of Banana Cow. She poured a drink for Mary Ann.

    Mary Ann sipped warily. Well … look at all this. You’re practically a native, aren’t you? This is … quite something.

    Quite something was the best she could manage. Connie’s apartment was a potpourri of plastic Tiffany lamps and ankle-deep shag carpeting, needlepoint Snoopy pictures and Hang in There, Baby kitten posters, monkey pod salad sets and macramé plant hangers and—please, no, thought Mary Ann—a Pet Rock.

    I’ve been lucky, Connie beamed. Being a stew and all … well, you can pick up a lot of art objects in your travels.

    Mmm. Mary Ann wondered if Connie regarded her black velvet bullfighter painting as an art object.

    The stewardess kept smiling. Cow O.K.?

    What? Oh … yes. Hits the spot.

    I love the stuff. She downed some more of it to demonstrate her point, then looked up as if she had just discovered Mary Ann’s presence in the room. Hey, hon! Long time no see!

    Yeah. Too long. Eight years.

    Eight years… Eight years! You’re lookin’ good, though. You’re lookin’ real… Hey, you wanna see something absolutely yucky?

    Without waiting for an answer, she leaped to her feet and went to a bookshelf made of six orange plastic Foremost milk crates. Mary Ann could make out copies of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, How to Be Your Own Best Friend, The Sensuous Woman, More Joy of Sex and Listen to the Warm.

    Connie reached for a large book bound in burgundy vinyl and held it up to Mary Ann.

    "Ta-ta!"

    "Oh, God! The Buccaneer?"

    Connie nodded triumphantly and pulled up a chair. She opened the yearbook. "You’ll absolutely die over your hair!"

    Mary Ann found her senior picture. Her hair was very blond and meticulously ironed. She was wearing the obligatory sweater and pearl necklace. Despite the camouflage of an airbrush, she could still remember the exact location of the zit she had sprouted on the day of the photograph.

    The inscription read:

    MARY ANN SINGLETON

    Still Waters Run Deep

    Pep Club 2,3,4; Future Homemakers of America 3,4;

    National Forensic League 4;

    Plume and Palette, 3,4

    Mary Ann shook her head. Rest in peace, she said and winced.

    Connie, mercifully, didn’t offer her own biography for examination. Mary Ann remembered it all too well: head majorette, class treasurer for three years, president of the Y-Teens. Connie’s waters had run fast and shallow. She had been popular.

    Mary Ann struggled back into the present. So what do you do … like for fun?

    Connie rolled her eyes. You name it.

    I’d rather not.

    Well … for instance. Connie bent over her hatch-cover coffee table and dug out a copy of Oui magazine. You read that? asked Mary Ann.

    No. Some guy left it.

    Oh.

    Check out page seventy.

    Mary Ann turned to an article entitled Coed Baths—Welcome to the World’s Cleanest Orgy. It was illustrated by a photograph of intermingling legs, breasts and buttocks.

    Charming.

    It’s down on Valencia Street. You pays your money and you takes your chances.

    You’ve been there?

    No. But I wouldn’t rule it out.

    I’m afraid you’ll have to count me out, if you’re planning on…

    Connie laughed throatily. Relax, hon. I wasn’t suggesting we… You’re a new girl. Give it time. This city loosens people up.

    I’ll never be that loose … or desperate.

    Connie shrugged, looking vaguely hurt. She took another sip of her Banana Cow.

    Connie, I didn’t…

    It’s O.K., hon. I knew what you meant. Hey, I’m hungry as hell. How ’bout a little Hamburger Helper?

    After dinner, Mary Ann napped for an hour.

    She dreamed she was in a huge tile room full of steam. She was naked. Her mother and father were there, watching Let’s Make a Deal through the steam. Connie walked in with Mr. Lassiter, who was furious at Mary Ann and began to shout at her. Mary Ann’s mother and father were shouting at Monty Hall’s first contestant.

    Take the box, they screamed. Take the box....

    Mary Ann woke up. She stumbled into the bathroom and splashed water on her face.

    When she opened the cabinet over the sink, she discovered an assortment of after-shave lotions: Brut, Old Spice, Jade East.

    Connie, apparently, was still popular.

    A Frisco Disco

    THE DISCOTHEQUE WAS CALLED DANCE YOUR ASS OFF. Mary Ann thought that was gross, but didn’t tell Connie so. Connie was too busy getting off on being Marisa Berenson.

    The trick is to look bored with it all.

    That shouldn’t be hard.

    If you wanna get laid, Mary Ann, you’d better…

    I never said that.

    "Nobody ever says it, for Christ’s sake! Look, if you can’t deal with your own sexuality, hon, you’re gonna get screwed but good in this town."

    I like that. You should make it into a country-western song.

    Connie sighed in exasperation. "C’mon. And try not to look like Tricia Nixon reviewing the troops." She led the way into the building and staked out a battered sofa against the wall.

    The room was supposed to look funky: brick-red walls, revolving beer signs, kitschy memorabilia. Henna-rinsed women and rugby-shirted men clustered decoratively along the bar, as if posing for a Seagram’s ad.

    While Connie was buying their drinks, Mary Ann settled uncomfortably on the sofa and commanded herself to stop comparing things with Cleveland.

    Several yards away, a girl in cowboy boots, sweat pants and a red squirrel Eisenhower jacket stared haughtily at Mary Ann’s polyester pantsuit. Mary Ann turned away from her, only to confront another woman, looking blasé in a macramé halter, black fingernails and a crew cut.

    "There’s a dude at the bar who looks exactly like Robert Redford." Connie was back with the drinks. A tequila sunrise for herself, a white wine for Mary Ann.

    Warts? asked Mary Ann, taking the wine.

    What?

    That guy. Does he have warts? Robert Redford has warts.

    That’s sick. Look… I feel like a little heavy bumping. Wanna hit the disco?

    I think I’ll just … soak it in for a while. You go ahead.

    You sure now?

    Yeah. Thanks. I’ll be O.K.

    Suit yourself, hon.

    Seconds after Connie had disappeared into the disco, a long-haired man in a Greek peasant shirt sat down next to Mary Ann on the sofa. Mind if I join you?

    Sure… I mean, no.

    You’re not into boogying, huh?

    Well, not right now.

    You’re into head trips, then?

    I don’t know exactly what…

    What sign are you?

    She wanted to say, Do Not Disturb. She said, What sign do you think I am?

    Ah … you’re into games. O.K.... I’d say you’re a Taurus.

    He rattled her. All right … how did you do it?

    "Easy. Taureans are stubborn as hell. They never want to tell you what sign they are. He leaned over close enough for Mary Ann to smell his musk oil, and looked directly into her eyes. But underneath that tough Taurus hide beats the heart of a hopeless romantic."

    Mary Ann moved away slightly.

    Well? said the man.

    Well, what?

    You’re a romantic, right? You like earth colors and foggy nights and Lina Wertmuller movies and lemon candles burning when you make love. He reached for her hand. She flinched. It’s all right, he said calmly. I’m not making a pass yet. I just wanna look at your heart line.

    He ran his forefinger gently across Mary Ann’s palm. Look at your point of insertion, he said. Right there between Jupiter and Saturn.

    What does that mean? Mary Ann looked down at his finger. It was resting between her middle finger and forefinger. It means that you’re a very sensual person, said the man. He began to slide the finger in and out. That’s true, isn’t it? You’re a very sensual person?

    Well, I…

    Do you know you look exactly like Jennifer O’Neill?

    Mary Ann stood up suddenly. No, but if you hum a few bars…

    Hey, hey, lady. It’s cool, it’s cool. I’ll give you space....

    Good. I’ll take the other room. Happy hunting. She headed for the disco in search of Connie. She found her in the eye of the storm, bumping with a black man in Lurex knickers and glitter wedgies.

    What’s up? asked the stewardess, boogying to the sidelines.

    I’m beat. Could I have the keys to the apartment?

    You O.K., hon?

    Fine. Just tired.

    Hot date?

    No, just … could I have the keys, Connie?

    Here’s an extra set. Sweet dreams.

    Boarding the 41 Union bus, Mary Ann realized suddenly why Connie kept an extra set of keys in her purse.

    Mary Ann watched Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman, then turned off the television and fell asleep.

    It was after 2 A.M. when Connie got home.

    She wasn’t alone.

    Mary Ann rolled over on the sofa and buried her head under the covers, pretending to be asleep. Connie and her guest tiptoed noisily into the bedroom.

    The man’s voice was fuzzy with whiskey, but Mary Ann knew immediately who he was.

    He was asking for lemon candles.

    Her New Home

    MARY ANN CREPT OUT OF THE APARTMENT JUST before dawn. The prospect of sharing Trix for three at breakfast was more than she could take.

    She wandered the streets of the Marina in search of For Rent signs, then ate a mammoth breakfast at the International House of Pancakes.

    At nine o’clock she was the first customer of the day at a rental agency on Lombard Street.

    She wanted a View, a Deck and a Fireplace for under $175.

    Jees, said the rental lady. Awful picky for a girl without a job. She offered Mary Ann a nice Lower Pacific Heights studio with AEK, wall-to-wall carpeting and a partial view of Fillmore Auditorium. Mary Ann said no.

    She ended up with three possibles.

    The first one had an uptight landlady who asked if Mary Ann took marijuana.

    The second was a pink stucco fortress on Upper Market with gold glitter in the ceiling plaster.

    The last was on Russian Hill. Mary Ann arrived there at four-thirty.

    The house was on Barbary Lane, a narrow, wooded walkway off Leavenworth between Union and Filbert. It was a well-weathered, three-story structure made of brown shingles. It made Mary Ann think of an old bear with bits of foliage caught in its fur. She liked it instantly.

    The landlady was a fiftyish woman in a plum-colored kimono.

    I’m Mrs. Madrigal, she said cheerfully. As in medieval.

    Mary Ann smiled. You can’t feel as ancient as I do. I’ve been apartment-hunting all day.

    Well, take your time. There’s a partial view, if you count that little patch of bay peeping through the trees. Utilities included, of course. Small house. Nice people. You get here this week?

    That obvious, huh?

    The landlady nodded. The look’s a dead giveaway. You just can’t wait to bite into that lotus.

    What? I’m sorry....

    Tennyson. You know: ‘Eating the lotus day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of’ … something, something.... You get the point.

    Does the … furniture go with it?

    Don’t change the subject while I’m quoting Tennyson.

    Mary Ann was shaken until she noticed that the landlady was smiling. You’ll get used to my babbling, said Mrs. Madrigal. All the others have. She walked to the window, where the wind made her kimono flutter like brilliant plumage. The furniture is included. What do you say, dear?

    Mary Ann said yes.

    Good. You’re one of us, then. Welcome to 28 Barbary Lane.

    Thank you.

    Yes, you should. Mrs. Madrigal smiled. There was something a little careworn about her face, but she was really quite lovely, Mary Ann decided. Do you have any objection to pets? asked the new tenant.

    Dear… I have no objection to anything.

    Elated, Mary Ann walked to the corner of Hyde and Union and phoned Connie from the Searchlight Market. Hi. Guess what?

    You got kidnaped?

    Oh… Connie, I’m sorry. I’ve been looking for a place....

    I was freaked.

    I’m really sorry. I… Connie, I’ve found this darling place on Russian Hill on the third floor of the funkiest old building … and I can move in tomorrow.

    Oh … that was quick.

    "It’s so neat! I can’t wait for you to see it."

    Sounds nice. Look, Mary Ann … like, if there’s any problem with money or anything, you can stay with me until…

    I’ve got some saved. Thanks, though. You’ve been wonderful.

    No sweat. Hey … what’s on for tonight, hon?

    Let’s see. Oh, yeah. Robert Redford is picking me up at seven, and we’re going to Ernie’s for dinner.

    Ditch him. He’s got warts.

    For what?

    The hottest spot in town. Social Safeway.

    "Social what?"

    Safeway, dink. As in supermarket.

    That’s what I thought you said. You sure know how to show a girl a good time.

    For your information, dink, Social Safeway just happens to be … well, it’s just the … big thing, that’s all.

    For those who get off on groceries.

    "For those who get off on men, hon. It’s a local tradition. Every Wednesday night. And you don’t even have to look like you’re on the make."

    I don’t believe it.

    There’s only one way to prove it to you.

    Mary Ann giggled. What am I supposed to do? Lurk behind the artichokes until some unsuspecting stockbroker comes along?

    Meet me here at eight, dink. You’ll see.

    Love with the Proper Shopper

    A DOZEN CARDBOARD DISKS DANGLED FROM THE ceiling of the Marina Safeway, coaxing the customers with a double-edged message: Since we’re neighbors, let’s be friends.

    And friends were being made.

    As Mary Ann watched, a blond man in a Stanford sweatshirt sauntered up to a brunette in a denim halter. Uh … excuse me, but could you tell me whether it’s better to use Saffola oil or Wesson oil?

    The girl giggled. For what?

    I don’t believe this, said Mary Ann, taking a shopping cart. Every Wednesday night?

    Connie nodded. It ain’t half bad on weekends, either. She grabbed a cart and charged off down a busy aisle. See ya. It works better if you’re alone.

    Mary Ann strode to the produce counter. She intended to shop, Connie’s pagan mating ritual notwithstanding.

    Then someone tugged on her arm.

    He was a puffy-faced man of about thirty-five. He was wearing a leisure suit with a white vinyl belt and matching shoes.

    Are those the things you use in Chinese cooking? he asked, pointing to the snow peas.

    Yes, she said, as uninvitingly as possible.

    Far out. I’ve been looking for some all week. I’ve really been getting into Chinese cooking lately. Bought a wok and everything.

    Yeah. Well, those are the ones. Good luck. She wheeled sharply and headed for the check-out counter. Her assailant followed.

    Hey … like, maybe you could tell me a little about Chinese cooking?

    I doubt it very seriously.

    C’mon. Most chicks in this town are really into Chinese cooking.

    I’m not most chicks.

    "O.K. I can dig it. Different strokes for different folks, right? What are you into, anyway?"

    Solitude.

    OK. Skip it, just skip it. He hesitated a moment, then delivered his exit line. Get off the rag, bitch!

    He left her standing in the frozen food department, white knuckles clamped around the rim of the freezer, her breath rising like a tiny distress signal. Jesus, she said in a frosty whisper, as a single tear plopped onto a box of Sara Lee brownies.

    Charming, said a man standing next to her.

    Mary Ann stiffened. What?

    Your friend there … with the sparkling repartee. He’s a real prince.

    You heard all that?

    Only the parting endearment. Was the rest any better?

    Nope. Unless you get off on discussing snow peas with Charlie Manson.

    The man laughed, showing beautiful white teeth. He was about thirty, Mary Ann guessed, with curly brown hair, blue eyes and a soft flannel shirt. Sometimes I don’t believe this place, he said.

    Really. Had he seen her crying?

    "The hell of it is that the whole goddamn town talks about relating and communicating and all that Age of Aquarius shit, and most of us are still trying to look like something we aren’t… Sorry. I sound like Dear Abby, don’t I?"

    No. Not at all. I … agree with you.

    He extended his hand. My name is Robert. Not Bob or Robbie, but Robert. Strong and direct. She gripped his hand. I’m Mary Ann Singleton. She wanted him to remember it.

    Well … at the risk of sounding like Charlie Manson … how about a little culinary advice for a hapless male?

    Sure. Not snow peas?

    He laughed. Not snow peas. Asparagus.

    Mary Ann had never found the subject so exciting. She was watching Robert’s eyes respond to her hollandaise recipe when a young man with a mustache approached with his cart.

    Can’t leave you alone for a minute. He was talking to Robert.

    Robert chuckled. Michael … this is Mary Ann…

    Singleton, said Mary Ann.

    This is my roommate, Michael. She’s been helping me with hollandaise, Michael.

    Good, said Michael, smiling at Mary Ann. "He’s awful at hollandaise."

    Robert shrugged. Michael’s the master chef in the house. That entitles him to make life miserable for me. He grinned at his roommate.

    Mary Ann’s palms were sweating.

    I’m not much of a cook, either, she said. Why in the world was she siding with Robert? Robert didn’t need her help. Robert didn’t know she was there.

    She’s been a lot of help, said Robert. That’s more than I can say for some people.

    Temper, Michael grinned.

    Well, said Mary Ann feebly. I guess I’d better … finish up.

    Thanks for your help, said Robert. Really.

    Nice to meet you, said Michael.

    Same here, said Mary Ann, pushing her cart in the direction of the paper-supplies aisle. When Connie rounded the corner several seconds later, she found her friend standing glumly by herself, squeezing a roll of Charmin.

    Hot damn! said the stewardess. This place is Pickup City tonight!

    Mary Ann threw the toilet paper into her cart. I’ve got a headache, Connie. I think I’ll walk home. O.K.?

    Well … hang on a sec. I’ll come with you.

    Connie, I… I’d like to be alone, O.K.?

    Sure. O.K.

    As usual, she looked hurt.

    Connie’s Bummer Night

    CONNIE CAME HOME FROM THE MARINA SAFEWAY AN hour after Mary Ann did.

    Noisily, she dropped her groceries on the kitchen counter. Well, she said, walking into the living room, I’m ready for Union Street. I suppose you’re ready for bed?

    Mary Ann nodded. Job-hunting and moving tomorrow. I need my strength.

    Abstinence causes pimples.

    I’ll remember that, said Mary Ann, as Connie stalked out the door.

    Mary Ann ate dinner in front of the television. She had steak, salad and Tater Tots, the fare that Connie swore by for keeping men happy. She checked out Connie’s record collection (The Carpenters, Percy Faith, 101 Strings), then looked at the pictures in More Joy of Sex. She fell asleep on the sofa shortly before midnight.

    When she awoke, the room was filled with light. A garbage truck rumbled along Greenwich Street. A key chain was clinking against the front door.

    Connie lumbered in. "I cannot believe the assholes in this town!"

    Mary Ann sat up and rubbed her eyes. Bad night, huh?

    "Bad night,

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