Betty's House

This short story Betty's House is well crafted and straddles the genre of Literary and Urban Literature. Betty is a take-charge woman with a weakness for men down in their luck. Her men soon prove themselves to be unfaithful and suffer Betty's wrath. Her latest nameless lover is no different. He cheats on her with her so-called best friend. Sitting in the "Chicken N Biskit" he lusts after Bonnie while despising Betty. He admits he is a "dog." What else would you be if you make love to a woman in a cemetery? The story embraces the themes of manhood and strong women. Willy the can collector summed it up best at the end when he shouted to poor whipped lover boy, "She stripped you naked and made a man outta you!" Excerpt: I have been living with Betty, in Betty’s house, for six months now. Her purse dangling at the end of its long chain bumped me when she rose from the table that day in the Chicken N Biskits. Betty rubbed my arm slowly and softly. When she left, there was a crumpled wad of paper on the table--a ten-dollar bill with her name and phone number scrawled over Hamilton’s smug face. I was insulted that such a troll would think that the likes of me would give her one second of my time. I kept the ten spot and a little voice told me to put the number in my jacked up flip phone with the missing zero. I tell you, a brother is having a hard time when he don’t even have a zero on his phone. When Friday came and the eagle hadn’t flown, the Manager tossed my things out into the rain, with a nest of bugs to keep me company. The first time I said that I loved Betty I thought a frog had jumped in my throat. My voice cracked and my insides fluttered. She wrapped her fat arms around my neck and stroked the back of my head. “Who you gonna love forever?” “Nobody but Little Bet.” I knew what was coming next. I jumped from the bed and slid into my pants. “Baby, I’m sure hungry. How about some bacon and eggs?” “When did you start being so hungry? You know in my house, my eggs don’t crack for nobody unless I say so.” I tickled her feet to put her at ease and went into the kitchen to start a late breakfast. The ten o’clock sun peeked through the venetian blinds. Betty shuffled into the kitchen in sky-blue baby doll pajamas. Her hair looked like it had been in a fight with a cat and lost. She plopped down in her red velvet dinette chair with its heart-shaped back. Her feet barely touched the floor. I looked at Betty and hated myself. “You know baby,” I said flipping an egg, “It’s time I got me a job. I’ve been watching the Greensheet. It looks like things are picking up a little and . . .” “You don’t need no job. I’m your job.” I sat a plate of four eggs and five pieces of bacon in front of her. I tried to do a con number on her. I said, “My mother would die if she knew her son was living off someone’s generosity. She always taught me to be self-reliant.” Betty nudged her toe between my thighs. “You very reliable.” I jumped back in my chair. “What you jumping for?” Betty smiled, but a hint of malice knitted her eyebrows into a frown. “Ain’t too many folks down here going to pay no Black man twenty dollars an hour to slap a name on a car. If I recall right, they don’t make no cars in Houston. I’ll give you a job though,” she said touching my leg with her big toe. She laughed and skipped back to her bedroom.