Riding Hood by Lindsay Dudeck

Riding Hood by Lindsay Dudeck

I’m moving fast this morning because we all know it’s dangerous for young women to walk alone in the dark. Monsters lurk amidst skyscrapers, psychopaths with knives weave their way through violent drug deals, cloaked in manhole mist. It’s therefore important I walk in open, lit spaces, quickly and without distraction to avoid being ensnared. Also, I have an early meeting.

Last week I did get momentarily distracted by my reflection in a mirrored building. My sharp bun and even sharper suit cleaved in the blinding sunrise and with each click of my step, I saw myself fragmenting in the windowpanes. I had the sudden fear I might break apart and be absorbed into the building, forever trapped in pieces in a beautiful modern glass prison. It’s coming up here on the right after I cross, but it’s not supposed to be sunny today so probably I’ll remain intact and on the outside.

The meeting this morning is a concept viewing of our new product marketing. There’s a lot of money invested in branding, so every detail must be debated by the team. Sometimes I think the product has permeated our brains, and that the fumes are making us all crazy.  The irony is we almost never even smell our own perfume. We just sell it to other people who smell it. Really though, what we do is create fantasies for purchase in tiny bottles.

& & &

In the conference room now, I am both intact and sharp. My business persona has arisen with the daylight, like a werewolf in reverse. Buttons are pushed; lights dim. A whirring noise as the blinds lower on the city. I swivel towards the screen, coffee in hand, ready to criticize.

A misty forest appears at dusk. Drumbeat escalates and a howling flute emerges. A white wolf is running, we are inches from his face, his haunches. His breath rising in mist.

Now a woman emerges. Beautiful, with widely spaced features. She too is running, wild white hair behind her. We see her face up close as she turns over her shoulder to look directly into the camera, back at the wolf.

We are inches from her running thighs. Her skin has beads of sweat. More howling, less flute, faster drums. She makes it to a river and dives in.

But wait. The wolf jumps in too.

We are underwater now. Fast shots between wolf and woman, both swimming in turquoise swirls. They are making circles with their torsos like performing dolphins. A muzzle. A shoulder. They stop. Bubbles form between them. Obscuring one face and then the other. Their eyes remain fixed, image flickering between the two.

Cut to the land. They are still wet but less wet. Laying together in the dirt. Mud on her hands and thighs and under her fingernails. We never see her parts but they are implied. She is caressing the wolf’s face now. She looks at the camera again, this time in apparent satisfaction. Her lips part slightly. She has long canines. They’re very white.

Music fades out. A vaguely accented voice whispers “Fang, by Hoisen.” A square of milk white glass with gold lettering and two pointy white bits at the top appears on dark green grass.

The lights raise and electric shades buzz open revealing floor length panes and a multitude of windows in a cloudy sky. I shift again in my chair to face the table.

“Well?” Paul asks.

Bridgett speaks first, “It really evokes the power of nature. Like, very wild. I love how the woman tames the wolf but also becomes the wolf, you know?” Bridgett has been lusting after Paul since her divorce finalized.

“Exactly. That’s what we were going for,” Paul says. “And isn’t she great? She barely looks human.” He strums his fingers on the table for emphasis.

“Oh totally. So good,” Bridgett nods, smoothing her cardigan.

Daria takes a sip of coffee and says, “But does it make sense?

“Daria, it’s like she’s afraid of her wildness, her sexuality,” says Paul. “It’s chasing her and chasing her, and then she conquers it and can finally be happy. See?”

Bridgett is nodding but says nothing.

“Yeah, I get that” Daria says, “but if a wolf is chasing you and catches you, he’s gonna bite you. It’d be a bloody mess.” Daria is not British.

“No, it’s like his power transfers to her,” Paul says. “That’s why she has fangs at the end.” He is pointing to his teeth and making the subtle head nod and hand rolling movement that generally means duh. He sits and loosens his tie, taking a sip of pineapple kombucha.

“Also,” Daria begins, “don’t you think the bottle looks a bit like a tooth? I mean, I know it’s called Fang, but it looks like a cartoon tooth in a dentist’s office. Like one that would be dancing with a toothbrush.” Paul looks furious.

“Oh it kinda looks like a bunny!” says Bridgett. “The points are his little ears.” She lifts two fingers of each hand to the top of her head.  To Paul, “But it’s so cute, I’d totally buy it.”  

“Martin, what do you think?” Paul looks at our silver haired boss.

“I think modern women want to feel wild. They want to cut loose, feel the wind in their hair, and maybe their teeth too.” He is shimmying his shoulders as he says this and winks at Bridgett. He’s not entirely incorrect in my opinion but this is a bad look on him.

Bridgett starts to subtly shimmy her shoulders too but is now biting her lower lip so her front teeth stick out like a rabbit.

“I read somewhere that the women who get the best sleep are single women who sleep with their dog,” I say.   

Daria nods emphatically. “That’s exactly right. Modern women want peace. Quiet. No one bothering them.” Daria is married and has three children under five.

Paul disagrees. “Come on, where’s the passion? Who doesn’t want to feel alive? Like pulse racing, loins throbbing, sweaty frenzy!” His suitcoat is off, and his palm is smacking the table.

Bridgett is blushing now and removing her cardigan.

Daria has warmed to her idea. “Maybe we could show her walking through the woods in a really comfortable, but pretty,” she clarifies quickly, “nightgown. Something flowy and white that matches her hair. We could close-up on her feet, not dirty” she lifts an emphatic pointer here, “with shimmery blue polish, walking on luscious green grass, and then she stops at a floating cloud, like those art installations, but the cloud is actually a white down comforter on a Tempurpedic mattress.  And she lays down and the wolf curls up at her feet, and they both go to sleep.” She pauses for effect. “The image fades to just clouds,” she whispers as she spreads her hands over the invisible clouds in front of her.

Whispering and mimicking her hand gesture, I say, “We could call it, Unconscious, by Hoisen.”

“I don’t know that women want to be unconscious,” says Bridgett. Good for you girl. But some do.  

“But some do,” counters Daria, “and that’s an untapped market, in my opinion.”

Martin loves an untapped market. “Tell me more about her toenails. Blue?”

“I think blue really evokes the idea of unconscious,” I offer. “Like being hypothermic, or in a coma.”

“Right. And it’s trendy,” says Daria.

“Maybe,” says Bridgett, “we could do the nightgown and sleep thing, but then she could be dreaming about a dark wolf walking through the woods, who is then like, stalking her bed. And then he climbs into the bed, and she wakes up and it’s actually a man, a hot man. With fangs.” She’s looking at Paul.

“Well, she would need to have red nail polish then, no?” says Martin. I’ll give it to him, he’s right.

“I see your point,” says Daria.

Paul is miffed but clearly fancies himself a wolf climbing into a bed, so he is being gracious. “We could do that. Brush her hair so it’s more fluffy and less cavewoman. The CGI black wolf was actually really striking on film. Its eyes were so green, like emeralds. Freaky,” he says, lifting his eyebrows at Bridgett.

“Then maybe we should feature some big honkin’ emeralds,” Martin begins.

“No,” say all three of us in unison. Come on Martin, for fuck’s sake.

“Maybe Unconscious is wrong,” I say. “Too non-consensual.”

“Agreed,” says Daria. “We could call it Little Red. Oooh, wait, no,” she pauses, hands spreading in reveal again, “Riding Hood.”

“I love it,” says Martin. “Very woodsy, very fairy tale.”

“But a little dirty,” adds Bridgett.

Paul’s locked in. “So maybe she’s in a red cloak, with red toenails, walking through the woods. She finds the cloud and takes off her robe and she’s naked, and then she goes to sleep.”

Daria tilts her head and opens her mouth to speak but then shrugs and nods. 

Paul continues, “so, we pan to the dark wolf, stalking the bed, and pouncing on it.”

“Then it cuts to a close-up of the woman and man rolling around in bed, and her hair is wild again. And they have fangs,” says Bridgett.

“They don’t need to have fangs anymore Bridgett,” says Daria. Bridgett is trying to tuck in her lower lip, so it looks like she has fangs. This is not successful.

“I like the fangs actually,” I say. “There is still a wolf after all. And everyone loves vampires.”

“So true,” sighs Bridgett.

“Why does everyone love vampires?” Daria asks.

“Because they’re dark and mysterious and they transform you.” I say.

Martin touches his finger to the side of his nose and then points at me, “And that is exactly what women want when they buy perfume. Paul, can you rework this?”

“Yeah, on it.” He looks at us each in turn, slaps his bag shut, and says, “Meet again next week?”

We agree and leave the conference room. I spend the rest of the morning in my gray cubicle completing meaningless tasks and answering emails in a contrived language I do not recognize as my own. It’s not that I don’t hope the marketing director finds herself well, I do, I met her once at a dinner and she’s lovely. I just find myself buried under so many layers of pointless nonsense that sometimes it’s hard to breathe.

& & &

At lunchtime, I start thinking about noodles but somehow end up in the nail salon at the corner. The wall of rainbow-organized bottles transfixed me through the window. As I ponder the selection, I think how distinctly human it is to line up a hundred small objects by color. It’s also very human to be enchanted by such a wall. My mind feels like a pinball machine that lights up and dings when presented with a multitude of choices, especially when they’re packaged in sexy symbols. Lo Mein really doesn’t offer that kind of transformation.

Blue, I decide, but Mermaid Romp, or Cloud Angel? Both have sparkles, both will evoke a vaguely dead slumber from which I can awaken a new woman. It’s hard to pick but ultimately mermaid wins because angel implies needing to concern oneself with doing the right thing, whereas mermaid has a more, I don’t give a fuck vibe, and I feel that. I also feel that taking off my itchy nylons and just throwing them in the trash is a good idea, so I do.   

There is a menu of scents to choose from, and I pick citrus because acidity seems cleansing. As I sit with my feet in grapefruit foam, I imagine the conference room debate that led to the exact shape and label on this tiny bottle of blue sparkles. Perhaps their team was permeated by polish fumes and an alternate version of Daria and Paul argued the virtues of mythical female beings.

“Daria, again with the clouds?” says Paul, throwing a wolfish glance towards Bridgett. “Women want to feel sexy, not angelic. Think crawling out of the ocean with sand stuck to their skin.”

The alternate version of me that lives in the wall in the fragrance district contributes, “I think Paul’s right. Also, mermaids have a reputation for messing with sailors, which is fun.”

“Exactly, very mischievous,” says Bridgett.

Daria ultimately nods in agreement. “Fine, but the bikini shells need to be white.”

My pedicure is wrapping up and I am then going back to the office where my toes will be covered, and my time will be further consumed by fabrications of reality. I’m thinking maybe I should find a way to get out of the city and get some air.

& & &

“How do you feel about wolf camping?” I ask my friend Ruby a week later after we finish vinyasa flow. We are lightly sweaty and having acai bowls with extra cacao nibs at a café under an awning of fake leaves. 

“What are you talking about?” Ruby says.

I pull up the website on my phone. “It’s a wolf sanctuary in Maine, and you can camp there and listen to the wolves howling. Maybe even see some, I don’t know. I want to go.”

Ruby looks at me with one eyebrow slightly raised. “And the last time you camped was…?”

“Never. But you can rent stuff from them. See?” I angle my phone towards her.

She looks at the screen and scrolls. “It says there’s ten acres, and that you get firewood with your rental. That means you’d have to build a fire,” she enunciates each word.

“Yeah,” I say, “but I can rent something called the Biker’s Bunkhouse and store my motorcycle and be in a cabin. Maybe I could do that?”

“Your motorcycle?” she laughs.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind feeling the wind through my hair,” I say. “You’’ll come with me? It’ll be amazing.”

“Ummm, no, absolutely not,” she answers.

“Ruby, come on. I just…,” I pause. “I need to get out of the city. Away from all this,” I am gesturing to the plastic leaf awning and perfectly curated bowls with my irresistible little neon spoon. I chose green, Ruby orange.

“Dude, you’re going to get eaten by a wolf.” She looks at my red yoga tank. “Little red riding hood style.”

& & &

It’s the next full moon and I have done it. Through the open back doors of my rented van is a bright full moon. As the sun set, the sky was streaked with apricot and violet but now it’s just navy with wispy clouds. I watched the entire dusk progression, not looking away, while lying on a mattress with a fluffy white comforter. It’s nice. The motorcycle really was a bit of a stretch, though I did have all the windows open for part of the drive. My hair is a tangled mess.

It took about five hours to get here. I did not get car snacks because I am doing a fast, which is supposed to induce mental clarity. I try to sit with my legs pretzeled at the edge of the van but it’s uncomfortable and I think it’s important I put my bare feet on the ground. I step out onto the clearing and see nothing humanmade. To the east is water. To the west is woods. The grasses are high and scratchy, and the night is cold.

I walk in an ever-widening circle around my camp, surprised to find I have no fear of the wolves. The danger out here in the dark is in getting lost or getting too cold. This fear feels cleaner and less complicated than the city monsters. I climb onto a large flat rock and from here I see an inlet of one of the harbors. The moon’s silver light is fractured across the ocean and wind whips hair across my face, briefly obstructing my vision. Then suddenly all is calm. I stand very still.

Out of the dark a searing cry. It’s a long, pure noise that just keeps going. Now joined by other voices, initially throaty and then rising into the same plaintive, hollow sound. I rotate slowly, but I can’t see them. Their voices are points in the darkness, their sound creating lines that intersect in the space above this rock. I turn my face to the moon and try to howl, which is not as ridiculous as it might have been, but neither is it as sexy or powerful as the wolves. The light catches my silvery blue toes.

There’s a meditation I read about somewhere, where you imagine your own death, your last breaths in this world, and I decide to try this now. I lie down on the rock and picture a white she-wolf emerging from the trees. Her eyes are amber, and she stares at me. She is hypnotizing and I cannot move but I am not afraid. She then bears her fangs and leaps forward taking my throat in her jaws. I feel hot blood pouring onto my skin. I am fading, quiet. I hold my breath and the nothingness until I need to inhale. I sit up and breathe and look around. The wolves are silent now and I take my time breathing the cold air and staring at the ocean. For these moments I only look outward. Eventually, I make my way back to the van and sleep soundly on the down comforter until sunrise.

It’s morning and I am preparing to leave. It takes no time to ready my things, so I just get into the driver’s seat and turn the engine on. As I back out, I stop, lift my sunglasses and look at myself in the rearview mirror. I flash a tiny smile, looking for my fangs, but all I see are my stupid human teeth. I start the long drive home back to the city.  

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Lindsay Dudeck 2026

Image Source: Denny Müller from Unsplash.com