Zipperful Of Hair: Short Stories by Michael Lee Smith

By Michael Lee Smith

One of the included stories in Zipperful Of Hair was recently awarded inclusion into A Tribute To Kurt Vonnegut, published by Perpetual Motion Publishing.

If you enjoy the writing of Kurt Vonnegut, Tom Robbins, Mark Twain & other writers of that genre, you might enjoy Michael Lee Smith's short stories & novels.

"Would those who believe in telekinetics please raise my hand?" Kurt Vonnegut

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Lee Smith
• Release date: Sep 27, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452346793

Michael Lee Smith

Michael Lee Smith is a Punatic (a happy, harmless lunatic living in the Puna District of the Big Island, Hawaii.) He’s a musician & writer & innkeeper who enjoys life with his wife, 3 dogs, 1 cat, 2 parrots, numerous chickens & fish.Credentials? His ancestors scratched crude communication on cave walls with sharpened sticks. Beyond that, short stories & essays published in several literary magazines & e-zines. Recently one of his stories, Modern Science Has Yet To Find A Cure was included in So It Goes, A Tribute To Kurt Vonnegut, www.perpetualpublishing.com Aloha

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Zipperful of Hair

Short Stories by Michael Lee Smith

Published by Michael Lee Smith at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 Michael Lee Smith

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Darwin’s Lexus LS 400

Urinal/Put to Dubious Use by the Dwarf

Philip’s Poem

Goosing Demons

Meanwhile, Back At The Ranch

Fat Trout Chorus

The Fun House Mirror’s Origins Are Obscure & Not Easily Researched

My Testicles Are De Happy Color Of De Cocoa Bean

Zipperful of Hair

When Feelings Have Sounds

Raw In New Places

Band Names

Darwin’s Lexus LS 400

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; her parents, hippies from the 60’s) 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 gotten. 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