beware of red heads and mafia angels

written by LJ on October 31, 2008

Beware of Red Heads and Angels in Concrete Cowboy Boots

I feel moronic and heavy as if there is a misguided angel wearing cement cowboy boots sitting on my shoulder. Wouldn’t you know it? That’s the angel who would find me. He’s perturbed because his wings are out of service. Angel and I survey the landscape of humanity through a hole in the clouds, but he won’t talk about his mafia past, so I explain to him that I’m passionately drawn to the cocky redhead glowing above all the other men in the shuffle below. Alas, the redhead doesn’t acknowledge my distant wave. I try again extending both arms over my head and fluttering my fingers in what I hope is a Marilyn Monroe mid-air gyration, but he instinctively turns his shadow to my face.

Although I want him to join us on cloud 10, and I’m willing to boost him up to our level, I realize that I cannot NOT demand the minimum of what I require from his appealing form and electric intellect. Hot as a passionate desire can shout fornicate, a woman needs what a woman needs.

For me, communicating exclusively online is the kingdom of the socially retarded and the interpersonally deformed, so I wondered as the days passed if we would ever speak on the phone. The age-old question a modern woman phrases in a contemporary fashion goes something like this: Is he ever going to ask for my phone number and actually use it or am I deluding myself into thinking he is interested?

I started to see myself as an online cartoon character virtually grinning and strumming the alphabet song for his amusement, an animated figure he could dress up in outrageous red miniskirts that weren’t my style, clad in black leather hooker boots that hurt my feet: adding a sway to my hips at the touch of his mouse. I cried out to be real. I wanted to wear my blue jeans with a small hole in the buttocks. Couldn’t he hear me?

In her world, he was unwilling to break through the screensaver and hold the hand of a Midwestern girl who naively wanted to know him, desperately wanted to ask a million questions about what was churning around in his brain, from the mundane to the colossal, nothing about him was insignificant to that girl.

So much for building a mending wall; dismantling the barricade of mistrust cemented around her feet and rising to her navel. A redheaded masculine tone of voice exuding carbon dioxide was out of her environmental reach.

What does she do when she doesn’t see the eyes of the man on the other end of the Internet connection? She remembers them as being blue. She doubts his intentions and wonders if he’s an online super freak, that boy is super freaky. She hopes that isn’t the case but online communication compounds her distrust.

The red haired boy slips outside the circumference of the cloud peephole at the same instant Angel spots the man who designed his concrete boots. “That son of a bitch,” Angel hisses as his story begins.