______
D a r w i n ' s
L e x u s
L S 4 0 0
______Smith
"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, he stood scowling into the camera like he thought he was Jagger.
Brittle words out of the corner of his mouth: "I think that's enough."
Immediately she lowered the camera. Blinked. Throw me! Damn it, let go and see how I land. I'm betting you lose.
He pushed a grin in front of his smirk. Her response to the smile was automatic, a machine smiling back with coyness as over-applied as her eye shadow. Everything is a machine, he thought. Everyone. And women, especially women, are such easily manipulated machines. Momentarily he marveled at his mechanical ability. But the marvel slipped off like a cheap wrench. Too easy. He 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. Queenie Bange discretely picked up her smile from off the floor, held the camera, and did a little marveling of her own. Marveled at the transformation of her brain to a wad of putty, and consequently, at what little smart-asses her facial muscles had become. Rebellious, with 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 Mark Dark (his real name?!) to be all the things male models were thought to be: vain, deep as the proverbial spoon, conceited, the works. And he was, yes ma-am, 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, feeling as calm as a land mine.
"Satisfied?" Mark looked up at her, wide-eyed, innocent, wiping his bare, baby-oiled chest with a towel.
"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."
He rubbed his index finger and thumb together insistently.
"Scaredie-cat," she said, marveling once again, this time at how quickly tides sometimes turn.
Stines Double grinned from the wings. He 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 lit 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 sulk the rest of the day and be an insufferable lunch companion." His eyes popped open, a look of 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, was a rare-feeling geometry of intimidation.
"You know what we always say, Mark," Stines said, jutting his 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), was almost that striking silver some men's attained prematurely. A bit on the longish side, over his ears. Dignified. Wire-rimmed glasses, the lenses slightly tinted.
"Stines Double," he said out of the center of his mouth, showing piano keys. His eyes radiated amusement. "This lout you've already met." He motioned lavishly toward Mark, who was still thinking about the unauthorized picture and how far he should push.
"The radio talk-show guy?" Queenie had heard Stines Double`s show, accidentally, picturing him to be overweight, balding, the kind of guy who used to get bullied in school. But in person he seemed . . . well, possibly a younger, more handsome version of William F. Buckley.
Lovely, she thought, referring not to him but to the source of this adventure. She had stolen a routine-looking assignment from Sarah, the whiny little scab-of-a-waif-with- a-camera down at the agency, and wound up with a romance- cover model and a radio personality jousting for her. Who was the fool who said 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 picture and negative if you come."
Stines leaned forward, found her ear and breathed a ticklish message: "Let's leave the boy behind." 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." He raised an eyebrow, testing the waters. "Mother a 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-deprecating 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." He grinned conspiratorially. "But you know what? It ain't no bullshit. I buy it all, hook, line, and sinker."
Queenie scrutinized him. Was he being 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 returned, saving her a wasted argument. He wore a dark, Italian-cut suit.
Stines excused himself and headed for the washroom. Mark replaced him, sat beside her. He looked away, still pouting.
"Stines gave me an interesting rundown," she said to him, testing waters of her own. "Your history."
Mark's smile said, `How could you have even considered not taking me with you?' She wondered if there was a mirror nearby, one in which he was looking at himself.
"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.
Mark shrugged again, this time a shrug scratching its own head.
"Is Mark Dark your real name?"
Long pause, silence like after a gunshot.
"Michael Jones," he said. Then in reflection, "Curse the parents who give a child such a common name. It makes him seek dangerous unconventionality."
Stines' words, she knew somehow.
Stines was back, rubbing his hands together. Looking at the beautiful couple seated in front of him, he stopped relishing the possibilities before it became obvious. "We're ready then?"
A sound of disjointed harmony, like some shrill, climb-the- wall jazz composed by musicians in electrotherapy sessions, worried at Queenie as they walked through the parking garage.
Music's like a tatoo, someone once said, and the 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. She would 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 beltin' out the depths of its owner's gray loneliness?
"Double-check the maestro," she said to herself, no pun intended.
She in the middle, Stines talking rapid-fire, a 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 talk-show. Mark, or rather Michael, seemed lost in his own world. In reality, still worrying about how Queenie's surprise snapshot might make him look ordinary. Like a "Michael Jones."
Just as Queenie had triple-checked her conscience and felt the stinging responsibility of co-composition, and 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.
"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." Leaned into the car and grabbed a frayed gray tennis shoe. "Come on, buddy. Out of the car!"
Ragman stirring under floppy-eared cap. Queenie could see through the dull eyes, portholes into his scull, to cogs not meshing, fear, abandonment, maybe some genetic chemical milkshake completely curdled. Stines tugged the shoe, hard. Ragman's eyes widening. Cornered dog.
Stines pulled at the pant leg, ripping the cloth.
"Stines . . . " Queenie said. But Stines had to show his possession, his outrage.
Then Ragman was a blur of loose fabric, dervish, flying out at them. Bared yellow teeth. Grimacing, cowering and swinging at the same time.
Queenie was pushed backward. Stumbled, but caught herself. Mark still standing. Inertia of reluctance, or something much more complex. Then he was helping Stines, corralling Ragman's flying arms.
"He's out!" she heard herself shouting. "Let him -- "
But Stines and Mark were 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 stumbled away, hand pressed to the side of his head. A grimace. Then the slow-motion realization and look of rage that took her a moment to decipher. Ragman had spoiled his instrument. A trickle of blood from a suddenly imperfect lobe pooled in his upturned hand.
Mark on him again in a fury. Ragman collapsed in a heap, sliding down lacquered silver sheet metal, stubbed fingers splayed across red plaid cap, protecting his head. Stines stepped back, gaining leverage for a kick. Mark held Ragman down.
Queenie 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 screeching to a halt in front of her.
Next morning. Macmillan Temporaries. Lobby. Queenie hunted for, found Sarah sitting in a fold-up chair, looking hopeless as usual. Enthusiastic Victim Waiting For --
Queenie stood above her, looked around the empty room. Announced loudly, "Somebody ought to just hit me in the face." Waiting for Sarah's response. After a long minute she reached down and pulled Sarah up by the shoulders, close enough to see the veins in the kid's eyes.
She started to say, `Don't you ever let me do that again. Me or anyone else,' but didn't. She thought of Ragman cowering on the concrete, and she began to shake the shutter- urchin. "Listen. Listen to me. Only the strong -- " She stopped. No use. Heard herself sigh.
Figured her best bet was to become Sarah's watchdog, her big sister. She leaned forward and planted a fat kiss on Sarah's cheek. Then a big grin full of thanks for things the girl would never understand.
`I always took her for one of those,' thought Sarah as she watched
Queenie walk away.
Michael Lee Smith writes, "My ancestors scratched crude communication on cave walls." His work has or will appear in The Paradoxist Literary Movement, The Longneck, RFD, The Raven Chronicles, So To Speak, PBW, XIB, and ZIPZAP. He lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
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