DARWIN'S LEXUS LS 400
Approx. 2500 wds.
Short Story: Michael Lee Smith
Published in the Blue Moon Review
Gretchen was the one who kept saying she lacked the courage of her contradictions. - - Gary Lutz
Rearranged neurons and quashed thought. Shaking her like
dice. That's what Mark Dark (his real name, no doubt!) did as he
stood scowling into the camera like he thought he was Jagger or
something. Brittle words out of the corner of his mouth: "I think
that's enough."
Immediately she lowered the camera. Blinked. Roll me!
Damn it, let go and see how I land. I’m betting you
lose. Whistling in the dark, she was.
Mark Dark pushed a grin in front of his smirk. Her response to
the smile was automatic—a machine. Smiling machine. Smiling
back, with coyness as over-applied as her eye shadow. Everything
is a machine. Everyone. And women, especially women, are
such easily manipulated machines. Momentarily marveled at his
mechanical ability. But the marvel slipped off like a cheap
wrench. Too easy. Boring. Mark forged a yawn just to
see her response.
She looked suddenly apologetic, as if she'd done something, or not done
something to inspire the yawn.
Drum roll and cymbal crash! Queen Bange (Queenie to her friends)
discretely picked up her smile from off the floor, held the camera, and
did a little marveling of her own. Marveled at transformation of
brain to wad of putty, and consequently, what little smart-asses her
facial muscles had become. Rebellion. Wills of their own.
Surprise assignment this morning! Stolen assignment, the sweetest
kind—photograph a cover for a romance novel. More
specifically, and technically, solo shots of a polished male model for
background color compatibility. What a chuckle she'd got.
And now? Now it was like: Wide-eyed Teenage Girl Going
Ga-ga. She'd expected him to be all the things male models were
thought to be— vain, deep as the proverbial spoon, conceited, the
works. Probably a guy who didn't mind choking on a weenie every
now and again, if you get the drift. And he was—well, she didn't
know about the weenie part yet—but the rest, yes ma-am, he was
every bit of it. But still, here was her body,
dancing her around in provocative little nuances of movement she hoped
with all her heart were invisible to him.
Guerilla warfare time. "You're satisfied then," she said. Felt
like she was dancing on a land mine.
"Satisfied?" Mark looked up at her, wide-eyed, innocent, wiping
his bare, baby-oiled chest with a towel. Did he shave it?
Romance models, she'd noticed, rarely sported chest hair.
"With the shots," Queenie said. His eyes made her feel so silly.
"Yeah," he said, "I'm satisfied with the shots."
Rolling a couple of dice of her own, she pulled the camera up to her
face, and before he could respond, aimed and pushed the shutter button.
"That'll be the best one," she said, poker-voiced.
Mark blinked several times, surprised at the camera flash. Shook
his head. "No way, babe. No unauthorized pix."
Queenie stared at him a moment. "You're not picking up the tab,
Sparky. Your boss didn't say a thing about authorizations."
Like the head of a striking snake, out came his hand. "I want
that last picture."
She stared at him a moment. "What are you scared of?
It'll be the best shot . . . trust me."
Mark's index finger and thumb rubbed together insistently.
"Scaredie-cat," Queenie Bange said, marveling once again. This
time at how quickly tides sometimes turn.
Stines Double, grinning like a dog, watched from the wings.
Watched Mark, his long-time acquaintance, long-time . . . adversary,
losing her. Mark was an adversary because Stines wouldn't dream
of having a friend who wasn't. Now what fun would that be?
Stines leaned against the door frame in the dimly lit part of the
studio as Mark grabbed for the chickie's camera. She easily
dodged him and stepped away, smiling. "Like a dog through
flaming hoops," Stines whispered, relishing the
scene.
Stines entered the lighted circle a master of ceremonies, arms
outstretched, words at the starting line itching for the gun. "Let the
boy have his little picture, honey. He'll pout the rest of the
day and be an insufferable lunch companion." Eyes popped
open. Look of enthusiastic enlightenment spreading across his
face. "That's it! We'll have lunch and leave
him here to pout."
Sparky? She'd called him Sparky. Mark stood, mind seized
up, considering what being called "Sparky" meant. Thousands of
things, none of them . . . Stines and this chick were
looking at him. Looks of sympathy, as if he were retarded. His
face, on the other hand—a rare-feeling geometry of intimidation.
"You know what we always say, Mark," Stines said, jutting
chiseled chin. "The strong of the species shall inherit the
earth." Winked at Mark, then offered his mug to Queenie.
It was as striking a mug as Mark's. Every bit so. His hair
not as long as Mark's, which cascaded down in raven waves to his
shoulders (Raven? Boy, was she ever infected!). His hair,
the other guy, she hadn’t heard his name yet—almost silver,
that striking silver some men's attained prematurely, that looked
dignified—a bit on the longish side too, over his ears. He wore
wire-rimmed glasses, the lenses slightly tinted.
"May I introduce myself?" he said, eyes radiating
amusement. "Stines Double." Talked out of the center of his
mouth, showing piano keys. "This roughish lout you've already had
the unfortunate pleasure to meet." He motioned lavishly toward Mark who
still stood, trying to recover. Thinking about the surprise
picture, how, and how far to push the argument.
"The radio talk-show guy?" Queenie had heard Stines
Double‘s show, accidentally, always figured him to be overweight,
balding, older—the kind of guy that used to get picked on in
school. But in person he seemed . . . well, possibly a younger,
more handsome version of William F. Buckley. Lovely, she thought,
referring to the source of this adventure—stealing a
routine-looking assignment from Sarah, the whiny little
scab-of-a-waif-with-a-camera down at the agency. Winding up
with a romance-cover model and a radio personality jousting for
her. And who was it said that honesty's the best
policy? She thought of Stines' remark—the strong of the
species shall inherit—
Mark snatched at the camera. She pulled it out of reach,
barely. Should have seen him coming but was frozen in the
headlights of Stines' pale blue eyes. She clucked her tongue at
Mark and made a face.
"Tell you what," she said to Stines. "I'll go to lunch if we all go."
Stines frowned, wondering what she was up to.
Mark frowned, the newborn feeling of insignificance souring his
appetite.
To Mark she said, "And I'll give you the negative if you come."
Stines leaned forward, found her ear and breathed a ticklish message:
"What do you want to take the boy for?" Strong emphasis on the
word, 'boy.'
"What are you worried about?" she said. "The strong shall inherit
the earth."
Stines grinned scratchy sarcasm, then slowly turned, aimed it at
Mark. "Comin?"
While they waited for Mark to change clothes, Stines filled her head
with charming lies about Mark. "Father's a Vietnam draft dodger,
one of the original S.D.S. organizers. Went to Hanoi with
Fonda, sat on Ho's lap. Gave him a blow job." Raised an
eyebrow. Testing waters with the words, 'blow job,' no
doubt. All sorts of waters. "Mother: Lesbian Activist."
"Figures," said Queenie, playing along.
"Mark," Stines said, his voice dropping a woeful octave, "Heroin
addict, bi-sexual, HIV positive. Never been able to hold down a
real job. Throws his inheritance at ecological causes. All
that fashionable shit. Guilt for his looks. Writes bad
poetry, self-depreciating in nature. Reads it aloud when he's
drunk enough. Boo hoos."
"An odd couple," she remarked.
"Us?" Shook his head in wonder, as if realizing the contradiction
for the first time. "I'm working on him. Possibly his
only salvation."
"You?" she asked, speaking biographically.
He waved his hand, dismissing himself. "What you see is what you
get. The darling of the Darwinists. That's what I call the
right wing." He grinned conspiratorially. "But you
know what? It ain't no bullshit. I buy it all, hook, line,
and sinker."
Queenie scrutinized him, wondering if he were serious. Somehow
she believed he was.
"Probably a turn-off, huh? Independent woman like
yourself—career girl."
Career girl? She took a long breath, winding up, words at her
starting gate, too. Instead, she breathed, “You rake.”
Mark came out, saving her a wasted argument. Mark, wearing a
dark, Italian- cut suit.
"Be right back," Stines said, getting up.
To Mark as he walked past: "Gotta go point Percy at the porcelain."
Mark sat beside her, looked away. Still pouting.
"Stines gave me an interesting rundown," she said to him, testing
waters of her own. "Your history."
Mark smiled; how could she have even considered not taking him with
them? Then she wondered if there was a mirror nearby, one
he was looking at himself in.
"Yeah," he said. "I bet. And I could tell you he's a child
molester or something." Paused. "He is what he appears . .
. let's see, how does he put it—a 'self-centered egomaniac with
morals I compose to fit my needs and a gift for rationalization that
would make Johnnie Cochran blush with shame.'" Looked at
her. Blinked.
She'd wanted his perception, not Stines'. Wondered if he had his own.
"If he wasn't such a hit as a fascist propagandist, he could have done
himself proud as a trial lawyer, so he says. He's planning a
chain of Christian bookstores."
"An odd pair," she found herself saying again.
Mark shrugged. "Never a dull moment with Stines." Looked
like he'd heard it for the first time. Actually heard his own
words. Lot of that first time stuff going around today; wondering
if she were that good an interviewer.
Mark shrugged again, a shrug this time scratching its own head.
"Is Mark your real name?"
Long pause, silence like after a gunshot.
"Michael Jones," Mark said. Then in reflection: "Curse the
parents who give a child the most conventional name of his own
tongue. Make the child seek dangerous unconvention."
Stines' words, she knew somehow. Obviously Mark had a gift of
mimicry, but not composition.
Stines was back, rubbing his hands together. Looking at the
beautiful couple seated in front of him; stopped relishing the
possibilities before it became obvious. "We're ready then?"
A sound of disjointed harmony worried at Queenie as they walked through
the parking garage—like some shrill, climb-the-wall jazz,
composed by musicians in electrotherapy sessions. Music’s
like a tatoo, someone once said, and the tatoo application she was
bleeding through was one she feared would toss and turn her through the
night and shake her awake in the morning with a loud, vulgar
remorse. Violation. Limp to the bathroom mirror to brush
away the ick and say howdy to the real culprit.
Something about the warm-fuzzy-blankie-of-a-melody she was attempting
to make of this felt scratchy. Was it Stines’ sleek
/slimy/chrome/straight-razor/pitch-forked/lying-assed tongue making the
melody reek? Or her own nagging chorus belting out the depths of
its owner’s gray loneliness? “Double-check the
maestro,” she said to herself, no pun intended.
Her in the middle, Stines talking rapid fire—scathing attack on
something the administration had, or hadn’t, done—voice an
amusement of mock wonderment and disdain. Sounded like he was
rehearsing for his show. Mark, or rather Michael, seemed lost in
his own world—in reality, still worrying about how ordinary
Queenie's surprise snapshot might make him look. Like a Michael
Jones.
Just as Queenie had triple-checked her conscience and felt the stinging
responsibility of co-composition . . . started to . . . well,
bolt, they came to a sleek two-toned silver and cream sedan.
Stines aimed a gizmo attached to his key ring at the car and pressed a
button. Nothing happened. He slowed, took better aim.
Pressed again. Still nothing. Stines shook the
device. "Dead battery."
A moment later, they were at the car. Stines inserted the key
into the passenger-side rear door, then stopped.
"Would you look at this." Face rapidly falling into a
frown. Yanked the door open.
"Jesus!" said Stines.
Queenie looked past him. A form swathed in filthy rags lay curled in
the back seat. Street Person Finds Refuge In Warm Car.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" Stines throwing up his hands, pacing to
the back of the car, staring into the parking garage. Monster
sigh.
Mark glancing at her, unsure what comes next. Waiting for the conductor, Stines.
"It's a goddamned plague." Stines storming back. "A fucking
virus." Leans into the car and grabs a frayed gray tennis
shoe. "Come on, buddy. Out of the car!"
Ragman stirs under floppy-eared cap. Queenie sees through
ragman's dull eyes, portholes into his scull, cogs not meshing, fear,
loneliness, or maybe some genetic half-sour chemical milkshake
completely curdled. Stines tugs the shoe, hard. Ragman's
eyes widening. Cornered dog.
Stines pulls pants' leg. Cloth ripping.
"Stines!" Queenie shouts. But Stines has to show his possession. His outrage.
Then Ragman's a blur of rags, coming out. Coming out
swinging. Bared yellow teeth. Grimacing, cowering and
swinging at the same time.
Queenie's pushed backward. Stumbles, but catches herself.
Mark still standing. Inertia of reluctance, or something much
more complex. Then he's helping Stines. Corralling flying
arms.
"He's out!" hears herself shouting. "Let him . . . "
But Stines and Mark are pinning him to the car. Trapped animal
snorts. Another blur: silk suits and rags. Scuffing shoes
on the pavement.
Suddenly a scream. Mark's. "My ear!"
More scuffling. "He yanked out my earring!" Mark stumbling
away, holding his ear. A grimace. Then the slow-motion
realization and look of rage that takes her a moment to
decipher. Ragman's spoiled his ear. A trickle of blood
pooled in his upturned hand. From a suddenly imperfect ear.
Michael's anomaly is Mark's perfection.
Mark's on him again with a fury. Ragman collapses in a heap,
sliding down lacquered silver sheet metal, stubbed fingers splayed
across red plaid cap, protecting his head. But they
continue. Stines steps back and gets good leverage for a
kick. Mark holds
Ragman down.
Queenie's running, cameras banging at her sides. Gray concrete
blurring at her feet. Slits of gray sky beyond, over the
roof of cars, beneath the upper deck. Out into the street, waving
her hand. Taxi screeches to a halt in front of her.
Next morning. Macmillan Temporaries. Lobby. Queenie
hunts down Sarah -- Previous Day's Stolen Assignment Victim.
Sarah sitting in a fold-up chair, looking hopeless as usual.
Enthusiastic Victim Waiting For . . .
Queenie stands above her. Looks around the empty room.
Announces loudly, "Somebody ought to just hit me in the face."
Waits for Sarah's response. After a long minute she reaches down
and pulls Sarah up. Pulls her by the shoulder, close enough to
see the veins in Sarah's eyes.
Starts to say: "Don't you ever let me do that again. Me or anyone
else." Doesn't. Thinks of Ragman, cowering on the
concrete. Shakes Sarah. Starts to lecture her: The Strong
Of The Species Shall Inherit The . . . Then stops. Thinks
of how far that piece of theory can be taken sometimes -- how contorted
in certain hands. No use anyway.
Hears herself sigh. Figures her best bet is to become Sarah's
watchdog. Her big sister. Leans forward and plants a fat kiss on
Sarah's cheek. Gives her a big grin, a grin full of thanks for
things Sarah would never understand.
Sarah rearranges herself in the folding chair. Watches Queenie
walk away. I always suspected she might be lesbian, Sarah thinks.
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