Free Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin

remembering.
    He grabbed a pillowcase off the bed, returned to the closet and stuffed the pillowcase with dirty boxer shorts, shirts and sheets.
    He almost sprinted down Barbary Lane.
    The Come Clean Center squatted unceremoniously at the intersection of Lombard and Fillmore, across the street from the Marina Health Spa. It was blue and Sixties Functional, bland enough to have sprouted up in Boise or Augusta or Kansas City. A sign by the doorway said: NO WASHING AFTER 8 P.M. PLEASE.
    Brian smiled at the notice, appreciating the management’s chagrin. Some people stayed until the bitter end. He checked the time: 7:27. He had to work fast.
    Inside, along a wall of tumbling Speed Queens, a dozen young women pretended to be engrossed in their laundry. Their eyes darted briefly toward Brian, then back to their machines. Brian’s heart felt like a Maytag agitator.
    He took stock of the men he could see. Not much competition, really. A couple of leisure suits, a bad toupee, a wimp with a rhinestone in his ear.
    Tucking in his shirt and sucking in his belly, he moved with pantherlike grace toward the detergent dispenser. Every detail mattered now, every ripple of a tendon, every flicker of an eyelid….
    “Psst, Hawkins!”
    Brian spun around to see Chip Hardesty grinning his worst game show grin. Chip was a bachelor who lived in Larkspur and practiced dentistry in a converted warehouse on Northpoint. His office was full of stained-glass panels and silken Renaissance banners. People frequently mistook it for a fern bar.
    Brian sighed peevishly. “O.K…. So this turf’s already staked out.”
    “I’m leaving. Don’t get your bowels in an uproar.”
    That was pure Chip Hardesty. Don’t get your bowels in an uproar. He may look like a TV sportscaster, thought Brian, but his wit is straight out of the Chi Psi Lodge, circa 1963.
    “No luck?” asked Brian, goading him.
    “I wasn’t looking.”
    “You weren’t, huh?”
    Chip held up his laundry basket. “See?”
    “I guess they don’t have laundromats in Larkspur.”
    “Look, man, I’ve got a date tonight. Otherwise I’d be scarfing up on a sure thing.”
    “In here?”
    “As we speak, ol’ buddy.”
    “Where?”
    “Hey, man, do your own legwork.”
    “Fuck you very much.”
    Chip chuckled and cast his eyes to the corner of the room.
    “She’s all yours, ol’ buddy. The one in orange.” He slapped Brian on the shoulder and headed for the door. “Don’t say I never did you any favors.”
    “Right,” muttered Brian, as he regrouped for the attack.

Post-mortem
    B EAUCHAMP?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Is that side O.K. for you?”
    “Yeah. It’s fine.”
    “Are you sure? I don’t mind changing.”
    “I’m sure.”
    Mary Ann sat up in bed and chewed her forefinger for a moment. “You know what I think would be neat?”
    Silence.
    “I saw a sign out on the highway for one of those rent-a-canoe places. We could pack a picnic lunch and rent a canoe and spend a nice lazy Sunday morning paddling up … What’s the name of that river, anyway?”
    “Big.”
    “The Big River?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, that could be improved on, but I’m an expert paddler, and I could recite all the poetry I wrote during my senior year in …”
    “I have to get back early.”
    “I thought you said …”
    “Mary Ann, could we get some sleep, huh?” He rolled away from her, inching closer to the edge of the bed. Mary Ann remained upright and kept silent for half a minute.
    Finally:
    “Beauchamp?”
    “What?”
    “Are you …?”
    “What?”
    “It doesn’t matter. My mind was wandering.”
    “What, goddammit!”
    “Are you … upset about tonight?”
    “What the hell do you think?”
    “It doesn’t matter, Beauchamp. I mean, it may matter to you, but it doesn’t matter to me at all. You were probably just tense. It was a fluke.”
    “Terrific. Thank you very much, Dr. Joyce Brothers.”
    “I’m only trying to …”
    “Skip it, will you?”
    “You could’ve had