Babycakes Read Online Free

wouldn’t buy it. He stood there for a moment with his arms folded, then pulled up a chair and sat down across from Michael. “If you’re fine, I’m Joan Collins.”
Michael smiled at him. He couldn’t help thinking of a waitress he had known years ago in Orlando. She, too, had called him “hon” without ever knowing his name. This man had a black leather vest, and keys clipped to his Levi’s, but he reached out to strangers in exactly the same way. “One of those days?” he asked.
“One of those days,” said Michael.
The waiter shook his head slowly. “And here we are on the wrong side of town, while Betty is having dinner at Trader Vic’s.”
Michael skipped a beat. “Bette Davis?” The waiter laughed. “I wish. Betty the Second, hon. The Queen.”
“Oh.”
“They gave her a fortune cookie … and she didn’t know what it was. Can you stand it?”
Michael chuckled. “You don’t by any chance know what the fortune was?”
“Uh …” The waiter wrote in the air with his finger. “
‘You … will … come … into … a … great … deal … of … money.’ ”
“Sure.”
The waiter held his hands up. “Swear to God. Nancy Reagan got the same thing in hers.”
Michael took another sip of his wine. “Where did you get this?” This guy was awfully nice, but his dish seemed suspect.
“On the TV in the kitchen. Mary Ann Singleton has been covering it all night.”
“No kidding?” Good for her, he thought, good for her. “She’s an old friend of mine.” It would tickle her to know he had bragged about that.
“Well, you tell her she’s all right.” The waiter extended his hand. “I’m Michael, by the way.”
Michael shook his hand. “Same here.”
“Michael?”
“Yep.”
The waiter rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I think that half the fags in the world are named Michael. Where did they ever get this Bruce shit?” He rose suddenly, remembering his professionalism. “Well, you take care, hon. Maybe I’ll see you around. You don’t work in the neighborhood, do you?”
Michael shook his head. “Not usually. I did this afternoon.”
“Where?”
“Across the street. At the switchboard.”
“Yeah? My friend Max worked there for a while. He said it was exhausting.”
“It is,” said Michael.
“This one guy called every other afternoon, while his wife was at her Dancercise class. He usually wanted Max to be … you know … a butch trucker type. Max said it took him ages to come, and he said the same thing over and over again. ‘Yeah, that’s right, flop those big balls in my face.’ Now, how the hell you can flop your balls in some guy’s face over the telephone …”
“Wrong place,” said Michael, feeling a faint smile work its way out.
The waiter blinked at him. “Dial-a-Load?”
Michael shook his head. “The AIDS hotline.”
“Oh.” The waiter’s fingers crept up his chest to his mouth. “Oh, God. I am such a dipshit.”
“No you’re not.”
“There’s this phone sex place upstairs from that new savings and loan, and I thought … God, I’m embarrassed.”
“Don’t be,” said Michael. “I think it’s funny.”
The other Michael’s face registered gratitude, then confusion, then something akin to discomfort. Michael knew what he was wondering. “I don’t have it,” he added. “I’m just a volunteer who answers the phones.”
A long silence followed. When the waiter finally spoke, his voice was much more subdued. “My ex-lover’s lover died of it last month.”
An expression of sympathy seemed somehow inappropriate, so Michael merely nodded.
“It really scares me,” said the waiter. “I’ve given up Folsom Street completely. I only go to sweater bars now.”
Michael would have told him that disease was no respecter of cashmere, but his nerves were too shot for another counseling session. He had already spent five hours talking to people who had been rejected by their lovers, evicted by their landlords, and refused admission to local hospitals. Just for