Indigo Samson (2)

   
   "Indigo Samson (2)"
   
   Samson Landon didn't mind being called fag due to his long hair and androgynous looks.  Pondered it for a while, but got over it, telling them:  "Hey, I'm a party type of guy."  He was 18, an adult, like all those slaughtered in NAM.  Young men and women don't know how good they have it today.
   Kept safe from horror, while poor kids are being molested, given narcotics, and nobody gives a rat's ass.
   Samson Landon knew he was fortunate--that's why he prayed.  Not due to his father's wealth, but thanking God for the sublimity of suburbia.  Strip malls, coffee shops, drug stores, and an Asian massage parlor here and there--he wondered if they gave happy endings, well, not really--there was this one girl he really liked.  Pixie cut.  Green eyes, like a moving forest in MACBETH.  And her lovely legs carried her down the row from his high school locker, with a cat's pomp and strut.  The Senior Prom approaching.  Should he ask her?  Was she interested?  
   The nervous frog in his creaking throat.  The anticipation.  A silent chase.  A view of adoration from afar.  
   He went home and talked to his Dad about it.  Not much there.  Next Mom.  She just told him:  "Be yourself Samson.  Just be yourself and ask her.  What girl wouldn't love my son, sweet boy."