Hirsute Pursuit

HIRSUTE PURSUIT

         The bathroom mirror flung Jerry Northbrook's image back at him. An image of intelligent blue eyes, set wide in a handsome face and a nose that, like his golf drives, hooked a bit to the left. Beautifully capped teeth...and a slick, barren expanse of scalp where hair should be.

         Not a hair on his head. No eyebrows or lashes. Not a hair anywhere on his body, thanks to a severe childhood illness. A lingering high fever had made him a freak.

         Alopecia Totalis they called it. His hair fell out in bushy clumps. It never grew back.

         His shelves were crammed with failed hair-restoring ointments, gels and lotions, both over-the-counter and the newer prescription varieties. None had produced a single hair on Jerry's shiny, furrowed head.

         His lack of hair was the biggest hurdle in Jerry's dream to gain the attention and affection of Marie, the new switchboard operator in his office. Her image tantalized his fevered brain, like the smell of brewing coffee tantalizes the nose. And what an image she was.

         Luxurious strawberry-blonde hair cascaded over slim shoulders, down her straight back -- to the outward curve of her full, rounded bottom. A derriere that, in motion, made Jerry marvel at the mechanics involved in producing such mesmerizing undulations. Emerald green eyes, with a slight Asian tilt, bordered her long, regal nose. Her lips -- ah, those lips -- full, sensuous, swollen in a perpetual pout.

         Jerry watched his mirror-image flush red when he thought of Marie's high, prominent breasts and the delicious curve of her legs as she continually crossed and uncrossed them at her desk. The short skirts she favored rode higher with each movement, each inch showing only more perfection.

         Rejected often during his life, Jerry was toughened now -- steeled for battle. Today he was asking Marie out.

         He dressed impeccably in a navy-blue suit, white dress shirt, complemented by a hand-painted silk tie in blue and scarlet horizontal stripes, and black wingtips buffed to a blinding sheen.

         Blessed with a splendid body that required little exercise, Jerry rolled his broad shoulders and patted his flat, hard-muscled stomach. He squinted his eyes tight, looked in the mirror again and pictured himself with hair. "If only I had a mane of brown to cover my bony skull, I'd be very handsome," Jerry told the mirror.

         Cool air washed over him as he stepped out of his apartment building onto the sidewalk. Fall rushed in, racing through the wind-tunnels created by the towering buildings lining both sides of the wide avenue. The wind carried the pungent scent of pine, blown from the mountains.

         The morning was so pleasant Jerry decided to walk to the advertising agency a mile away instead of driving his BMW. His coattail fluttered in the wind and his tie waved like a colorful, living thing. Silken, painted wings flapped to dart away.

         After walking three blocks he turned right -- and found himself caught up in the midst of a small, but powerful, whirlwind. Cinders and debris whipped about him, stinging his eyes. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the dust devil dissipated. Jerry dabbed his eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief then continued on, stopping after only a few steps, disoriented.

         The drug store was missing. Had he become turned around in the whirlwind? No. He could read the street sign. It was the right street, but there was no drug store. Perhaps it had gone out of business, he thought.

         The shop just ahead was unfamiliar. A weathered sign over-hanging the sidewalk proclaimed: TAYLOR'S COLLECTIBLES AND ODDITIES.

         Certain he had never seen the place before, Jerry scanned the grimy showcase windows in passing. Five steps past the store he wheeled about and hurried back to the window. He stooped to read the words scrawled on a small white card resting against a small, blood-red vial.

         "TAYLOR'S PERSONAL FORMULA will give you a rich, thick head of REAL HAIR!" the card read. "Guaranteed to grow hair or your money back!. Inquire within."

         Jerry glanced at his Rolex. Plenty of time to stop. As Chief Advertising Executive he didn't worry about being on time. Too valuable to reprimand. Thirty-one and on his way to the top.

         The glass door opened sluggishly, the bottom scraping the floor with a dull screech that sent a primal shiver up Jerry's spine. The yellowed linoleum bore the imprint of the door's arc. The place reeked of cheap cigars, insecticide and mold.

         To his left the rusted skeletons of bicycles and warped corpses of stringless guitars hung from wires attached to the ceiling. To the right, ceiling-high shelves stuffed with paperback books leaned precariously. A cardboard sign tacked to a shelf announced: For Sale or Trade.

         Jerry lifted a book from the stack. The pages were dry and brittle like a dead butterfly's wings. They rustled as he flipped through them like an old man's cough.

         Jerry sneezed. The dust and mold on the books triggered his allergies. He tossed the decades old science fiction novel back onto the sagging shelf and turned toward the rear of the store where a waist-high glass counter spanned the room from bicycles to books, a distance of twenty feet.

         "Anyone here?" Jerry called out.

         "May I assist you, sir?" a raspy voice answered, a foot from Jerry's right shoulder.

         Jerry yelped involuntarily. The stoop-shouldered old man standing next to him was cadaverous, his skin as pasty, dry and dusty as his books. His face was a mask of hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. He smiled, showing twin rows of brown-stained teeth. Some appeared to be chipped away clear to their gray gum lines. An over-powering scent of flowers rose from him in an almost visible aura.

         Jerry stepped back, unable to tolerate the stench. "I saw the sign in your window -- for hair restorer," Jerry said. "Does it really work?"

         The old man clawed at the beard stubble on his wattled neck. "Yep. As advertised."

         Jerry reached for his wallet. "How much?"

         The old man limped toward a space in the counter, dragging his left leg. Once behind the glass barrier he planted his skinny rump on a tall stool. "Twenty," he said.

         "Kind of steep, Pop. How much of the stuff does it take to get results?"

         "Name's Taylor -- not Pop. And one vial is sufficient. Used as directed and you'll need a haircut in a week."

         Jerry eyed Taylor skeptically.

         Taylor drummed dirty fingernails on the countertop. "Take it or leave it, Sonny. You're the one looks like Tor Johnson -- not me."

         Jerry's eyes narrowed. He almost snapped a curse at the old man, but held his anger in check. He slapped two ten-dollar bills on the counter. "Give it here."

         Taylor snorted in amusement. "You misunderstand, young fella. Twenty thousand dollars. You think something you want so desperately would come cheap? Dreams made reality are worth only twenty lousy bucks? Heh- eh-heh. I seriously misjudged your intelligence. And your desire." Taylor brushed Jerry's money aside.

         Astounded, Jerry sputtered, "You're out of your mind. I wouldn't pay that kind of money for anything you own, you old fart."

         "Out!" Taylor ordered. "You know the price and you know what you want most. If you can't afford it, tough."

         "This is like a horror story I read. Where Satan exchanged goods for people's souls," Jerry mused.

         "Get serious," Taylor hissed. "I have no need for your soul. Souls are cheap and plentiful these days. I just want twenty grand. That's my price . . . no less."

         "Screw you and your potion," Jerry spat. Snatching up his money he rapidly left the shop.

         His anger grew as he walked. He was still muttering beneath his breath as he marched passed Marie. He entered his office and slammed the door. "What!" He barked, hearing a tentative knock.

         Marie peeked in cautiously. Glorious in a short green skirt and ruffled yellow blouse, she held out a steaming mug. "Coffee, Mr. Northbrook?"

         Jerry jumped up from his chair, banging his knee painfully on the desk drawer, but managed a broad smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . . ."

         "It's okay. We all have our bad days," Marie replied, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow. She swayed across the thick carpet and set the mug on Jerry's desk.

         "Thanks."

         She tossed her red mane over her right shoulder and turned for the door. "No prob. Buzz me if you need anything."

         "Marie . . . wait. I . . . ."

         "Hmm?" She smiled, facing him.

         "Listen, how about dinner tonight? Maybe a movie after? Or a play if I can score some tickets?" Jerry offered, hoping he didn't sound like he was begging; praying silently that she wouldn't look up. Wouldn't involuntarily let her eyes dart fleetingly to his bald head.

         Damn.

         She looked up.

         She stared at his shining dome; the browless, lashless eyes. An embarrassed blush darkened her smooth cheeks.

         "I-I'm sorry, Mr. Northbrook. I already have plans."

         She lied.

         Yeah, he could tell. She lied. "Some other time, then?" Jerry pressed, a glutton for punishment.

         "Uh, well, maybe," she said hesitantly.

         Translation: Not in this life time, Mr. Clean, Jerry thought heatedly. He nodded. She left his office without looking back.

         Jerry's hands curled into tight fists. A shame to waste such anger, he thought. He kicked his roller-footed chair half-way across the room. The high back of the chair smashed against the wall, gouging a softball-sized hole in the sheetrock. That was so satisfying Jerry continued his tantrum. He slammed his fist down on his desk, sloshing coffee over several files, then swept his in-out baskets to the floor with a swipe of his arm. Papers scattered in a plume of white like an exploding ghost.

         "Damn," he fumed though clenched teeth. "If I only had hair. What would it be worth?" He tugged his checkbook from his inside coat pocket. The balance was just under eight-thousand dollars. He had additional assets, but they weren't liquid. Stocks, bonds, IRA's, even some gold, but too hard to get at quickly. Maybe the old man would take the eight thousand as a down payment and let Jerry pay the
balance later. Couldn't hurt to ask, he decided.

         Fifteen minutes later, Jerry stood in Taylor's shop, checkbook in hand. "Hey. I'm back, Taylor. Come out and talk to me," Jerry shouted, seeing no one.

         "Knew you'd be back," Taylor's voice responded, standing close to Jerry's elbow.

"Damn! How the hell do you do that?" Jerry asked, shaken by the man's appearance from nowhere.

         "Just sneaky," Taylor replied. "Where's the money?"

         "Look," Jerry said, waving his checkbook. "I can give you eight grand right now and the rest over the next two months. How about it?"

         A disgusting sound issued from Taylor's throat. He slowly chewed, then re-swallowed whatever he had hawked up. "You're wasting my time. I told you the price and it hasn't changed. It might go up though if you wait," Taylor taunted.

         For the second time that day Jerry's hands curled into fists. He remembered how good it felt to trash his office. He lashed out, striking Taylor above the left ear with a brain-jarring thud. Taylor collapsed into a boneless, unmoving heap.

         Jerry ran to the glass counter and vaulted it easily. He yanked out drawers, strewing their contents of marbles, tops, baseball trading cards and comic books from the 40's in a pile at his feet.

         No hair restorer.

         Wild-eyed and gasping, Jerry returned to stand beside the motionless old man. "Got to be here somewhere," Jerry said aloud, attacking the book shelves, tearing the books from their resting place, creating a cloud of gray dust.

         Nothing. Jerry sneezed and coughed -- kicked at the books in defeat.

But wait! The vial in the window display! Jerry remembered hopefully. He dashed to the window, reached in, and grasped the red bottle. He held it up in conquest. Now he knew how Arthur felt when Excalibur slipped free of the rock. Jerry stuffed the vial in his pocket, left the shop, and hurried to his apartment. Once there, he called his office and told Marie he was ill and would be out the rest of the day.

         "I hope you feel better tomorrow," she purred, her silken voice igniting his Paphian feeling for her.

         "Thanks," he said, already forgiving her her rebuff. He would ask her out again -- when he had hair. "See you Monday."

         Jerry hung up, removed the bottle from his pocket and held it in his palms--as though he were viewing a precious gemstone. He read the sun-bleached, peeling label:

         Mix co tents wit one quart wat r
         rink twice daily for 3 d ys (

         Simple enough. Jerry found a plastic quart container and a long-handled wooden spoon in his kitchen. He filled the container almost to the rim with cold tap water, then removed the brittle cork plugging the mouth of the vial. It came free with a tiny "pop". His hand trembled as he tipped the vial and poured the iridescent green, viscous fluid into the container of water. It sunk heavily to the bottom. Taking up the spoon, Jerry stirred until the hair restorer blended with the water, producing a bilious looking, foul-smelling concoction.

         He hoisted the container in a silent toast and drained off approximately a sixth of the mixture in a single, long swallow, gagging as his mouth and throat were singed by the noxious brew. His head swirled and swam and his vision blurred briefly. He puffed out his cheeks and blew air through pursed lips while his stomach churned. "Tastes like crap," he said aloud, placing the remainder of the potion in the refrigerator.

         A peculiar warmth started in his gut and radiated through him. Beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead and shiny pate. Then fatigue. Numbing fatigue that made his muscles seem limp and useless. Jerry undressed, the inner heat growing more intense, and flopped limply onto his sofa. "Rest a minute. That's all I need. Watch a little television," Jerry mumbled, thumbing the "on" button of the remote controller. The picture snapped on. Oprah. With a stage full of guests, the smallest weighing easily four hundred pounds.

         Within seconds Jerry's eyes drooped shut and a deep, dreamless sleep took him.

         " . . . But, Candy is a good dinosaur," the voice of a cartoon character whined. "Really! He would never eat the boat!"

         Jerry fought his way to wakefulness. He squinted first at the television where multi-colored dinosaurs cavorted in some Jurassic forest, then at his watch. He had slept nearly twenty hours. It was Saturday morning.

         An enormous, jaw-cracking yawn escaped him. He covered it with his palm -- felt a prickly sensation against his hand.

         Whiskers?

         Fully awake now, Jerry saw curly, brown hair covering his arms and legs. His chest.

         With a trembling hand he brushed his head.

         Yes! Hair!

         He stumbled to the bathroom mirror. Oh, yes, he thought in wonder, seeing the crop of short, downy hair covering his scalp. He admired the lanuginous carpet covering his body.

         Hair.

         Beautiful hair.

         And eyebrows.

         And eyelashes.

         Tears spilled from his eyes as he laughed, then cried. His heart pounded in his chest. Just as he thought -- the addition of hair helped to cover his protruding ears and his ugly, furrowed skull. He was a handsome man. A happy man. And a man ashamed, now, of his behavior toward old man, Taylor. Especially now -- knowing that the formula actually worked.

         Jerry resolved to pay the price Taylor had set. He would cash in his bonds, his IRA's -- whatever it took to satisfy his debt. He had to make amends with Taylor immediately. Pulling on a sweat shirt and jeans, he ran to Taylor's shop.

         A tattered shade was drawn over the glass in the door. Knocking drew no response from within. As he turned to leave, Jerry saw that a new bottle stood in the window, replacing the one he had stolen. The label on this bottle was clear and unfaded, the printing sharp.

         Blood roared in his ears as he read the directions on the new bottle:

         Mix contents with one quart water.
         Sprinkle twice daily for 3 days,
         then massage in.

         Not drink -- sprinkle. And massage in!

         Jerry sneezed, cursed his allergies, then froze as he saw his reflection in the shop window.

         He was fully bearded. Hair fell in long, dirty tangles from his head; flowed passed his shirt collar. His brows were fat, brown caterpillars, rapidly joining together over his nose.

         Hair? No -- fur actually, grew course and shaggy from his hands and arms, so thickly matted he could scarcely see his skin beneath. "What have I done to myself?" he questioned, turning his hands over. He could see the hair growing! It snaked out of the pores of his hands, tingling. "Razor blades. And that stuff women use on their legs -- depilatory cream. That's what I need. No need to panic. I can control this, I know I can," Jerry whispered aloud, his eyes taking on a feral glint.

         Then the whirlwind, gusting and spinning, struck again. Grit filled his eyes, momentarily blinding him. Then the wind was gone. So was Taylor's shop. In its place was the pharmacy he had looked for yesterday -- exactly where it should be.

         Bewildered, on the verge of panic, Jerry bit his lower lip -- tasted blood. The pain jerked him back to reality and cleared his head. Determined to have his dream at any cost he pushed open the Pharmacy door and went inside.

         He scanned the shelves, finally filling his hands with a safety razor, three packets of blades and shaving foam -- items he had never had a reason to own -- and two jars of depilatory cream. He dropped his selections on the check-out counter. An attractive young girl eyed him warily as she rang up his purchases and took his money.

         Fearing what he must look like now, he tucked his chin against his chest and hastened back to his apartment.

         Behind locked doors Jerry went to work. He stripped naked, found a pair of scissors and sat on the edge of his bathtub, his feet and legs inside. He snipped the coarse hair covering most of his body as short as he could with the scissors then used the razor and hair remover on those places he didn't want hair--like his ears--where the fur stood out like miniature fans to a length of three inches.

         The tub filled with hair.

         As he labored, he sneezed and coughed repeatedly. Am I allergic to my own hair, he wondered, though not really caring. Once he had the growth under control he would gladly take antihistamines for the rest of his life if necessary. Anything to keep his hair.

         Finished at last.

         Jerry gathered up a wad of hair from the tub that was nearly the size of a basketball. Then he showered, marveling at how good it felt to wash his hair, to run his fingers through it while lathering it with a bar of soap. He could imagine the feel of Marie's fingers, entwined in his hair, pulling his face toward hers, kissing his lips as they made love. His eyes closed, letting the image unfold, until he felt himself sway and nearly fall.

         Fatigue pressed upon him. He was close to exhaustion from the stress of the day and the work involved in cleaning himself up. He stepped from the shower and dried himself. His legs wobbled weakly.

         Jerry dragged himself to the sofa, using furniture and the wall to lean upon. He slumped, loose-limbed, onto the sofa and urged his body to turn until he was on his back, his feet inclined on the sofa's arm. He clasped his hands behind his head and thought of how different his life was going to be.

         Pain.

         A tightness grabbed at his breastbone. He massaged the dull ache with the heel of his hand, wondering how he could have heartburn when he hadn't eaten all day. His breathing became shallow. Shallower still.

         Jerry could hear the air whistling out of his mouth when he exhaled. Shivering now, his skin tingled and burned horribly. A shadow above his eyes frightened him. He rolled them upward in their sockets and saw his eyelashes growing rapidly.

         The telephone rang.

         Jerry raised his arm and saw that the hair, clipped and shaved only moments before, was back, even longer, bushier.

         The telephone rang again--the sound a knife in Jerry's ears.

         He tried to sit. Found he could not. Whimpered softly. A rheumy discharge oozed from his nose, from inflamed rhinal passages, and trickled through his thick mustache into the corner of his mouth.

         At the third ring his answering machine clicked on. Jerry heard his own voice say: "I'm sorry I missed you. Leave your name and number at the beep and I'll get back with you when I can."

         After the beep, he heard the familiar voice, husky, sultry, filled with promise of pleasures untold. "Hi. Mr. Northbrook? Uh, Jerry . . . this is Marie . . . from the office?"

         He tried to swallow but gagged. He coughed painfully and felt long, fine hairs spew from his mouth and hang down his chin. With a trembling hand he tugged at these hairs and felt a sharp pain deep in his nose. God, he thought, as comprehension filled him.

         His nasal hair had grown--up, into his nose--then down, down, down--the strands becoming undulating tendrils filling his throat . . .

         "I just wanted you to know why I didn't accept your dinner invitation," Marie continued. "This is embarrassing, but, well, I've always been really turned on by bald men."

          . . . filling his lungs, clogging them like wet hair clogs a bathtub drain. Now he didn't sneeze. Now he didn't cough. His body spasmed briefly . . .

         "I didn't want you to think I was easy, you know, since I've only known you a couple of weeks. But I haven't been able to get you off my mind and . . . ."

         . . . and a muted "chuffing" gasp spewed from Jerry's wide open mouth . . .

         " . . . I'd love to go out with you tonight if you're feeling better. Or I could just come to your place and we could, umm, get to know each other?" Marie giggled.

         Jerry's hand stretched helplessly toward the telephone, reaching out for Marie. A final hiss rattled from deep in his chest. His eyes fluttered, then glazed.

         "Call me, okay? My number is . . . ."

The End

DM