Thursday, March 4, 2010

Hen's Teeth Marks part three: What happen?

This isn’t turning out like I conceptualized it at the beginning. I guess that makes it mirror life and I guess that’s what writing at its truest is supposed to do. I intended to use the phrase “red terror” multiple times through the series. It was going to be funny. It was going to be a tales of sad luck dames doing our hero wrong. I would be this hero enduring the slings and arrows of unabashed angry redheaded femininity. In every entry there would be tales of warm beer and cold women. Then I started and stumbled filling the web with enough schmaltzy sweetness to make a turd taste like dessert. I gave up on fighting the current on the first two knowing that I was done wrong enough to exude enough venom to create some spectacular dark humor in the third. Flo Page was the thief of most of my romantic milestones. She had taken my first kiss, she was my first girlfriend, and she took my virginity in a matter of an hour. She was the ultimate pirate. I was going to go after her with the fervor of a hanging judge, but I can’t. It seems that my mind can’t put things down that have driven me for years when they are not true. The truth is Flo was beautiful. Her porcelain skin was framed by hair that looked of still glowing embers ready to ignite at any minute. She had a gentle form that contained enough moxie to power a locomotive. She didn’t walk through life, she danced. Maybe that’s why it didn’t work out. That’s why it wouldn’t have been fair to her if it had worked out. I am a wall flower and I don’t dance. I am a square. She would have been held back and I would have died of guilt for holding her back. I’m not an asshole. The burning embers have changed colors over the years but she’s still beautiful. She gets to dance and I blossom on the wall watching her from afar. It’s a great show. Hens teeth are supposedly hard to find but there marks are always there for you to see and remember. Look at me pondering the warm women in my life over a couple of cold beers. It’s almost enough to make an old emotionally distant guy be somewhat human…almost.