…drinking with a woman is better than going thirsty…but not much…
Monroe D. Underwood
When Betsy came out of the bedroom I was sitting on the couch.
I was reading a copy of Eagles magazine.
Betsy was wearing powder-blue pajamas.
Very sheer.
Betsy picked up the newspaper and curled herself into a big chair.
Like all the beautiful cats in the world.
After a few minutes she said I see here that necrophiles can now go to heaven.
I said who says so?
Betsy said the National Unified Council of Churches.
I said does God know about this?
Betsy said it doesn’t say.
She said what is that you’re reading?
I said something of consequence.
I said Eagles magazine.
Betsy said oh that’s just an old pulp thing.
She said my grandfather always read that stuff.
She said where do you get them?
I said this place in New York got about a million of them.
I said get a load of this.
I read to Betsy from “Hell in the Clouds” by Arch Blockhouse:
Biff Brimstone kicked left rudder savagely. He jammed the stick against the instrument panel. The golden Spad heeled over and slammed out of the sun down down down in the wake of the frantically fleeing fuchsia Fokker. The wind wailed through the brace wires like berserk banshees. Biff Brimstone hit the triggers and the Vickers twin machine guns yammered out their doubly deadly diabolical duet of death.
I grinned at Betsy.
I said how about that kiddo?
Betsy yawned.
She said Chance what do berserk banshees sound like?
I shrugged.
I said probably something like wind wailing through brace wires.
Betsy snapped her fingers like a craps shooter.
She said why of course.
She said I should have known that.
She went back to her newspaper.
The thunder rumbled and crackled.
Lightning hung in the dark sky like bright broken worms.
Betsy leaned back and stretched.
When Betsy leans back and stretches any number of interesting things happen.
Betsy folded her newspaper.
She dropped it on the floor beside her chair.
She said it will probably rain forever.
She said let’s get drunk.
I closed the Eagles magazine.
I looked Betsy right in the eye.
I said Betsy getting drunk is retreating from reality.
I said it is candid acknowledgement that we are no longer capable of coping with our problems.
I said it is surrender pure and simple.
Betsy said look do you want to get drunk or don’t you?
I said you better believe it.
Betsy went into the kitchen.
She was back in a trice with an ice bucket and a quart of vodka.
I said Betsy how long is a trice?
Betsy said I have no idea.
She said why?
I said you were back in a trice.
Betsy placed the ice and the bottle of vodka on the coffee table.
She said what else do we need?
I said I could sure use a glass.
Betsy said I’ll be back in half-a-trice.