Hot Summer Hippie Love

By Elizabeth Foreman

____________________

"Is this a fruit or vegetable? Mind you, it has seeds in it." I looked up to see the hottest hippie ever pointing a raw green bean at me and waving it back in forth, waving like the waving of the flag that his hippie parents burned to protest ‘Nam. He took a bite out of the bean with his sexy, full mouth and perfectly white teeth, his wild man-hair bundled back into a ponytail- the only thing associated with an animal that you could find on this guy.

"It's a fruit- a legume." That's right, I speak French!

Such went my first encounter with the unwashed, rugged, humpable hippie in my biology class. I didn't know much about him, save, his name was Mike and his ass was more spankable than that of a defiant toddler. What I could tell about him was the following; he needed a shave and definitely some better clothes. He wore one of those bright yellow beaded fanny packs that screamed, "ask me about my backpacking experiences in South America." And though I am sure his narrow escapes from the grasps of death were interesting, they were not pursuing my attention nearly as much as his sexy, good-for-mother-earth, a little too tight P.E.T.A. t-shirt. I confess I have nothing against that tight t-shirt, in fact, it makes the distance between his pert nipples and my own feel almost absent.

Often, I find myself in class starring at him, thinking about him, smelling his clothes until he pushes me away. He's so smart, so eco-aware, so against popular music- probably masturbates to Peace Corps pamphlets and Eddie Bauer catalogues. I bet he drives something ecologically sound to school, like a dolphin, or he attaches two giant turtles to his feet and uses them like skates. Maybe not; that's a little far-fetched. Let's go with the dolphin thing.

I'm no wallflower. In my mind, I've gone over all the possible ways to trick him into going out with me someplace. Someplace where I would have the opportunity to spike his wheat grass juice with PCP or another drug that would make him less likely to resist my conservative, republican superiority. The list, though mostly endless, has included taking him to a protest, or possibly inventing a fake one. Alas, when we are the only ones there to acknowledge the plight of the elusive and endangered Hippopotosquirrel, an animal that I made up just for him, he will fall into my arms desperately sad that no one seems to care about the condition of this dwindling population of three ton rodents. It is there in the grassy knolls of the National Mall that I will take advantage of his duress and make him my own. My sign, which on one side will say "SAVE THE HIPPOPOTOSQUIRRELSES!" will be turned over to reveal my true intention written out, "PUT DOWN THAT PROSTEST SIGN AND GIVE IT UP LIKE YOUR HIPPIE ANSCESTORS... UNSHAVEN AND WITHOUT DEODERANT." In case he likes to be tied up or just tries to run away, I will bring some rope with me. Hemp rope.

He might act like he doesn't want to be with me, running in the other direction when he sees me, screaming for help when I won't let go of his Birkenstock, but I know it's all in the game of love. Later this week when he calls the police on me for breaking and entering when he finds me in his apartment, which is just a garage he is renting with a hole in the ground for bathing, I know secretly he will be sending me that restraining order as a type of legal love letter. I will sign it with hearts around my autograph and his and send it back, keeping a copy for myself on my cell wall to remind me of days past and summer loves gone.

__________________ 

Elizabeth Foreman grew up in the whack ass ghettos of Fairfax County. She was temporarily blinded by the mace of a metro cop, while trying to join the Bloodz by eating a doughnut on the platform where she waited for the train. Currently, her muse is a naked man in a trench coat living inside her brain who waits for the most imperfect times to expose himself to the world. At this very moment, she is living in her parents' house but hopes to one day make the big move into their basement, like a real adult.