A Brief Encounter With the Crimson Beauty
Let's get something straight. Some narratives, hubs, poems and sonnets are drawn to be of the serious side of life. Some are not. This one is certainly not. You can sit down, relax with your coffee, tea, or bottle of processed water and read every syllable of this personal narrative without feeling guilty. This piece, I promise, is of a timely manner. Let me explain briefly. There are only three collegiate football games left in the 2017 Regular Season. I apologize for not writing this offering earlier. But some of the feminist belief, might think that I am sexist. Maybe I am and don't know it. The bottom line is: This hub deals with girls, pretty girls, all kinds, sizes, shapes and colors of girls. Ain't God good? I think so. (Kenneth.)
Used to be, only the guys with great levels of testosterone loved to park their butts on their private place on a Saturday afternoon, mostly, and escape for three and a half hours of America's Real Sport: College Football. These football junkies are something else. They work their tails off from sun-up to sundown Monday through Friday and bring home a hefty load of bacon for his family needs it--mortgages, car payments, insurance, ya, da, ya, da. So why not let these guys have three and a half hours of their lives and enjoy their college football games--even if none of them darkened the front door of any college institution. It's all good, man.
Why I'm carrying on similar to Scrooge receiving enlightment on Christmas morning is very easy to understand. This is not a complex plan to unravel. This has everything to do with one really pretty girl whom I could not help but spot in the audience of the Home Side of Bryant-Denny Stadium, Tuscalooa, Ala., where The Alabama Crimson Tide plays football like no other college team. There is a major reason why: Head coach, Nick Saban. I could write a series of motivational hubs about Saban for Saban on his own merits, IS a walking, talking, air breathing motivational speech just ready to unleash his wisdom on his teams and coaches every day.
The camera was panning around the fans watching Bama beat LSU on Nov. 4, Saturday night. I was enjoying the broadcast while sipping a fresh batch of Southern Ice Sweet Tea brewed by my wife, Pamela, who has some anointing of God to produce such tasty tea that I've tried over our 42 years to market the stuff. We'll be millionaires. Heck, the Lipton family did it. But back to the awesome blond that caught my eye. She was a bit older than a freshly-graduated college student--maybe 21, a paralegal or CEO Assistant in some powerful corporation down in Dixie. She was dressed in Crimson, not because I thought she wanted to look festive for Christmas being just around the door--no. I assumed that she was a Tide fan as her also-hot and pretty girls were because all three were waving to the camera in, I mean, perfect unison. They could have been ballerina's and toured the world in tutu's.
But . . .this one girl's smile was so warm, so genuine, that it had to be natural. Not white-washed that I took a longer look than usual because I do not like Plastic Women or Girls of this age bracket. They give off the nauseous vibe that nothing bad will happen to them and they have the world and all of its rainbows at their beck and call at anytime. Not this pretty girl. No, sir. I took a hefty sip of my delicious tea began to think of how she must have grown up. This is not easy for young people these days. Times are tough. Only the clever and good-looking people can keep a positive disguise for eight or twelve hours a day. Many of these "actors" are washed away with the tears of disappointment when their masks are torn off by the reality of how cruel they really are when they are directly responsible for getting an old guy fired for being late one day out of his 33-year career. These are the same plastic-hearted girls who grow quickly into plastic-hearted women who learn quick that all they need to get the key to the Executive Wash Room is her sizzling smile and smooth legs.
These girls. Not the pretty girl with her pretty right hand waving proudly. I knew right off that this girl was, with all that I've learned about girls, was she came from good stock. How? She was not wearing a pair of expensive, designer gloves. Ah, ha! Bet you thought that master detective, Charlie Chan was the only sleuth who could profile a person by what they wore or didn't wear.
Another thing about this girl was her hairstyle. It was not really a New York Special costing about $245.00, plus tip, from (a) "Mr. Sharone," Stylist for The Well to Do. It looked like she, herself styled it with just a brush and a few strokes of her comb. Honest to God. There was "that" something about this girl because the camera paused more than three seconds to get a good look at the camera operator, that sly dog! I looked at her and went back in time to when I had youth, a fair amount of looks, but hardly any self-confidence. My own daughter, rest her soul, told me a treasured female secret that she shared without me latching onto it and she said, "Pop. Girls love men with confidence. They are like hungry Great White's. They can just smell the confidence rolling off of a man." For a girl of 22, she was actually thinking like a girl who had been around--if that phrase is still used. She was always saying things that was fueled with wisdom. I never got to apply any of her wisdom about confidence being that I am still married to her mom. That would not have ended well.
This Crimson Beauty, we'll call her, was smiling from ear to ear. And every heterosexual guy on or near her age around her was smiling as well. What guy wouldn't? She was surely someone's girlfriend, but maybe she needed some time apart to just "sort out her feelings." I loved films and TV shows when that overly-used line is said. It gives my spine waves of laughter and I quiver with disgust. Or maybe this Crimson Beauty was just single and out with her two equally-gorgeous friends who were having a great time enjoying each other's company. It is all in the realm of possibility.
Okay, single, gainfully-employed, heterosexual guys with testosterone just running over the brim, the girl was hot. And I do mean H-O-T as in Rio De Janiro. That kind of hot. But she was not one to flaunt it--especially on that one night when she went to see The Crimson Tide go against LSU, one of their perrenial SEC football powers. This girl, I could tell, had a lot of proper social and secret behavoiral skills. Probably her mom, "Muriell," helped with her raising while her dad, "Arthur," who started out with one building project when "Muriell" was carrying her and by the time that she had graduated a public high school, he was the owner, lock, stock, and barrel of his own Building and Architectural Business, but he kept both feet on the ground. He never missed her activities at or after school. Even her Christmas plays when she was a sparkling little snowflake with no lines. She was made the more thankful to have parents like "Muriell" and "Arthur," for giving her so many opportunities. No. She was not uppity. Not one bit.
During my brief-but-pleasurable sight of her waving, I had another fantasy. A very clean, family-type fantasy. I fantasized about me magically-appearing in Tuscaloosa in Bryant-Denny Stadium and standing on the aisle where she was standing--and just waiting for her and her besties to walk toward the aisle so I could ask her a few simple questions. She would not argue although I was a rank stranger, but not because I gave off a threatening vibe to her, it was due to me being from a place a few minutes from the future.
"Wy,' (giggle, giggle), you don't look anything like "Marty McFly," she would say as I walked her down the aisle down to a comfortable place where we might chat only for a moment for I knew right off just how intricate time travel can be. Funny. She never bothered to know anything about my hometown: Hamilton, Ala., but told me that her uncle "Tim," an over-the-road trucker went through there a time or two. By that statement, I knew that she was not self-centered and loved to hand over the spotlight to others.
During our brief talk, I found out that she loved fishing, but not Deep Sea Fishing. But the kind of fishing you do when you take a can of live bait (worms, crickets), a rod and reel, some sandwiches for lunch and while her and "Arthur," the dad, and CEO of his own Building and Architectural Business, a wealthy man, but as common as lye soap, would spend the Saturday on a flat bottom boat hauling in Catfish; Bream and other fresh water fish. And by her looks on my TV, I would have sworn that she loved to tan her shapely figure on the top deck of her dad's 70-foot yacht, "Peaches I," docked in Mobile, Ala.
I also found out that her electric smile that was not painted on, but genuine, was hiding something sad. I found out that her younger brother, "Joe," was in Iraq with the Marines doing Bomb Disposal and had something sad to share with her and the folks upon his return home at Christmas. What sadness? My respect for her, and the tears that welled-up in her deep, blue eyes kept me from being nosy. For once.
Fact is, the girl, Crimson Beauty, did impact my heart which does grow crusty from dealing with and seeing the Plastic People who lie for survival and sell people down the river for fun. And get away with it all with a slap on the wrist. Need I elaborate?
Crimson Beauty, was everything that I thought. And not anything like I had imagined. She was real. Warm, attentive, and had "that" Natural, Un-Deceptive Charm about her. And you can bet your last muffin in the kitchen that she has today many, okay, a few, of the very eligible guys who are for now, just friends until that one guy becomes exclusive with her.
And like her mom, not a "Muriell," but a former college head cheerleader, "Janet," will end up marrying this one guy--just like her dad did over 23 years ago.
And her dad isn't a building and architectural business owner, but a Pediatrician, who works for free in a clinic on the rough side of some big town, not necessarily Tuscaloosa, and takes care of the little kids who are not seen by the doctors of a bigger Medical Complex somewhere--who are only there for money and prestige.
How come I didn't see this in her before she smiled and walked away with her friends?
© 2017 Kenneth Avery