Now viewing: Wilma & Betty
Here’s the “trailer” from the latest Wilma & Betty story (which I’ll be reading at Jengo’s Playhouse this Saturday night–May, 29th; 814 Princess Street @ 7:00pm). A little something to wet your palette.
Come out. Bring Friends. Hear the rest of the story.
“The Identity of Betty Rubble”
There were banks a plenty in Rock Vegas but there were the casinos too. So Wilma was working on a strategy for taking her fair share of the Vegas limelight and the Vegas coin while Betty tried to look up an old acquaintance and Fred and Barney went about the business of developing healthy gambling addictions. See, Betty and Wilma had been here once before. A few years back, back when they first came to see that they didn’t owe their lives anything and, ultimately, every day was only a matter of what they wanted it to be. They’d come out here to Vegas and drank too much whiskey and maybe rode the white horse one time too many and spent too much time dancing with the men their husbands would never be and, now, sometimes, those memories came back to them.
Wilma was good enough about ignoring what this city was telling her. Her plate was full with thoughts on how to get into the Bellagirock vault and make off with a few million. But Betty, being better on the gun than on the planning table, Betty had nothing to do but remember Dive deeper…
Wilma & Betty IV: Betty and Yesterday
On the table between them, a half-empty glass of wine filled the space.
“God!” Betty exclaimed, smiling. “I just can’t believe how long it’s been.”
It had been decades since Betty last saw the woman now sitting across from her at the small, circular table in the window of Black Jurassic Java & Spirits. When Betty last saw the woman, she was not a woman at all. She was a girl, a dark-skinned Cro-Magnon girl—young and brown and glib.
“I’ve been living in New Pebble Beach,” the woman said. “I still love the sun.”
“It shows,” Betty replied.
The woman extended a thick, sienna hand and raised the glass of wine to her lips. She drank it slowly, in timid sips, as though each would be her last.
“And what have you been up to?” the woman asked. “That little gray stone on your finger tells me that, somewhere out there lost in a storm of mail, there’s an invitation with my name on it.”
Betty laughed. It was a light, sparkling laugh. It arched her back.
“I didn’t know how to get in touch with you. You disappeared after that summer, remember? It was your parents, right? They picked up and moved to Morocco. That’s what my mother told me anyhow.”
“It was something like that,” Dive deeper…
Wilma & Betty III: New Year’s Eve
The night was early. The moon was still awakening from the dusk. But, already, all of them—Wilma and Betty and Fred and Barney—were so drunk on Jack Danielstone whiskey that none of them could remember who had suggested “wife swapping.”
The four of them lay sprawled across the new saber-toothed tiger rug that Fred had bought with his Christmas bonus from Mr. Slate a few days earlier.
Wilma and Barney went first. Dive deeper…
The Further Adventures of Wilma & Betty
Episode II: A Beautiful Afternoon
Wilma had been unsettled for weeks.
“What’s been eating you?” Betty asked. The two of them sat in Wilma’s kitchen sipping coffee. In the backyard, Dino clawed the base of a wide, gray tree. Above him, in the branches, something moved. Dino yipped. Wilma and Betty watched through the open kitchen window.
“You know what’s eating me,” Wilma grumbled.
“Well,” Betty said with a wry grin, “hopefully it’s Fred.”
Wilma groaned. “Don’t even start me on that,” she said. “It’s been months. He can’t get it up no matter how many Diamond Hards his doctor prescribes. And, to be honest, even if he could get it up, I’d rather read a book.”
“Well, I feel for you,” Betty said. “My Barney’s a dynamo though. He may not look like it, but I’ll tell you, Wilma, the man’s a carnivore in a thousand different ways.”
This was old news to Wilma. This was old news to everyone in the Wilma’s neighborhood. The air around Betty and Barney’s house was always filled with guttural groans and the thick, musty scent of sweat and arousal. On warm summer evenings the neighbors often sat, quietly, on their rooftops listening—never speaking. Sometimes they smiled at one another.