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From: RuthiesStories@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} (Betsy) Betsy Fifty Bucks {Dr. Spin}
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Date: Fri,  2 Jul 2004 05:10:03 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Betsy Fifty Bucks.txt" begin>

Betsy Fifty Bucks By Dr.  Spin

   I saved her from a back alley rape.  Not the sort of thing I make a
habit of doing, but I thought I was doing the right thing, I suppose. 
These three guys had her down on the ground and one was kicking her,
another was ripping at her clothes, and the other was standing there
laughing.  It was about three in the morning and I was out hunching along
the streets like I do sometimes.  I see all kinds of shit and I don't care.
Usually.  But you don't kick a girl, no matter what she's done.

   I'm pretty much a scary fucker.  I know that because I see it on
people's faces and because I catch sight of my reflection sometimes and
even I might jump in fright.  I'm tall enough to be trouble and I don't
have a pretty face.  It was okay once, not so long ago.  But a few years of
doing not much but survive has made this face unsociable.  If you picked me
out of a lineup for a serious crime I couldn't blame you.  I look the part.

   I loomed up out of the darkness and told the three guys to stop.  They
swung around looking for a fight.  Then they changed their minds.  I can do
that to people.  Don't know why.  They look at my face and see, I guess,
that I don't give a fuck and then they lose their nerve.  It happens.  I
never get waylaid out on the streets.

   They slid away into the darkness, muttering and looking back.  They were
saying something about the girl but I wasn't listening.  She got up and
dusted herself off.  Little, she was.  Not much more than a kid.

   "Who the fuck are you?" she asked.  Only it was more like an accusation.

   "Nobody," I said.  "You okay?"

   She felt her ribs and winced.  "I'll live.  Thought I was in big shit
there but you came along at the right time.  Look, you want a coffee or
something?"

   "Coffee?" My natural instinct was to back off and keep moving.  But the
word, or maybe the way she said it, suddenly sounded good.  I didn't drink
coffee any more.  Hadn't had any in a long time.  Who was this girl?  I had
a prickling urge to know more.  "Where?"

   "There's an all night diner down the block."

   "Got no money."

   "No problem," she said, waving a wallet at me.  "Those bastards can
pay."

   Seemed fair.  I nodded and we walked together to the roadside diner.  We
sat on stools and the coffee was brewed, stewed, and bitter.  It bit the
back of my throat like bad memories of other days.

   "You want a smoke?" she asked.

   Now that was something else I hadn't had in a long time.  I took one
from her and she lit it for me.  My head reeled.  Fan-fucking-tastic.  I
was in heaven.

   "You been in jail?" she asked.

   "Clever kid," I said.  "No, but it's a good guess.  What's your name?"

   "Betsy, and I guess you expect to fuck me," she said.

   Another thing I hadn't done in a very good while.  Maybe it was as good
as coffee and tobacco.  But she was a kid.  "Howard," I said.  "And I
don't."

   She was wearing old jeans and what looked liked a man's white
long-sleeved business shirt hanging out.  Buttons had been ripped off in
the attack on her and the shirt was flopping forward and gaping open,
leaving much of her breasts exposed to the night air.

   She saw me looking and didn't move to close the shirt.  "Sure about
that?" she asked.  "Only fifty bucks for a fuck."

   Fucking kid was a fucking whore.  If I'd known that, I wouldn't have
intervened back there in the alley.  "Haven't got fifty bucks," I said.  On
me, anyway.

   "Or twenty for a blowjob," she suggested.

   "Haven't got twenty either."

   "Hell, what do you want?  You must want something."

   Her questions kept getting harder.  I couldn't begin to answer that one.
So I drew on the cigarette and sipped the coffee.



   It goes around and around.  The clock.  Time, I guess.  Without a second
glance or a passing thought I have arrived at a dangerous age.  I turned 34
accidentally.  It came to me on the afternoon of the day it happened.  No
shit.  I'm 34.  Hey.  What the hell is this?

   I remember being 24.  Well, I don't specifically.  But I do remember the
feeling of being 24 and invincible.  Some years later all that went away in
a rush and I started marking time.  Running on the spot.  No, that's
untrue. Not even walking on the spot.  I just, sort of, stopped altogether.

   I fell into nowhere, where I did nothing and nothing happened.  What do
you do when you're doing nothing?  I'll tell you because I've come from
there.  You eat and you shit more or less regularly.  You bathe and you
dress sometimes.  You shop when you have to.  You shave occasionally.  You
don't go out anywhere to a going-out place.  You don't play music.  You
don't read books.  But you do watch a fantastic amount of television.  An
unbelievable amount.  It's what you do when you're not sleeping.

   There's an interesting by-product of doing nothing.  You learn a lot. 
You sit and absorb information, nearly all of it from television.  You
watch a lot of game shows when you watch a lot of television and I was as
good as anybody who ever appeared on them.  I know amazing things I could
not have known had I been doing something useful.  Can you name Elizabeth's
Taylor's seven husbands in chronological order?  I can.  Sneer if you like.
I find it dazzling, a piece of sheer genius.



   Betsy came home with me the night I saved her in the alley.  I didn't
invite her.  She just tagged along.  Talking.  She never stopped talking.

   At home I sat down in front of the TV.  My TV was always turned on. 
Betsy sat down beside me on the sofa and watched the game show that was on.

   "What the fuck is this?" she asked, pointing at the screen.

   I shrugged.  "Don't know.  Just another game show."

   "So why are you watching it?"

   "It's what I do."

   We watched together in silence for a while.  Then she wriggled about
uncomfortably.  "You can fuck me if you like," she said.  "It won't cost
you nothing."

   I understood what she was saying.  She wanted to stay awhile and she'd
work off the rent on her back.  "No need for that," I said.  "Stay as long
as you like."

   She dropped her hand heavily in my lap.  "A blowjob, then," she said. 
"Free."

   I picked up her hand and gave it back to her.  "Not necessary."

   "You don't like girls, Howard?"

   "I like them fine."

   "You don't like me?  I'm not pretty enough?"

   Pretty?  I guess she was, now that I looked at her.  In a not-so-cute
sort of way, like girls like her can look.  The stud through the bottom lip
didn't help.  She really was pretty in there somewhere but she was never
going to make the finals of the Rose of Tralee contest.

   "I guess you're pretty," I said.

   "Well then.  I'm pretty and I'm pretty willing.  So why don't you want
to fuck me, Howie?"

   "Because you're too young, Betsy."

   She laughed mirthlessly.  "I was too young when I was 13," she said. 
"Still got fucked though.  Howie, I'm 18 and definitely not too young. 
I've fucked men twice your age."

   "Why?"

   "For fifty bucks, that's why.  But for you it's on the house."

   "Why?"

   "Because it's your house."

   Betsy's story unfolded in bits and pieces.  She was a part- time
prostitute, working whenever she needed shelter or cash.  She'd been doing
it for around 18 months.  She'd left home after damaging her stepfather's
skull with an iron, and I did not ask the reason.  Her departure was
unlamented.  Nobody looked for her.  Nobody wanted her.  She was flotsam.
She was trash.

   I only have one bed and I let her have it.  I rarely slept in it anyway.
Mostly I watched TV and dozed sitting up.  You can get used to things like
that.



   She went out when I wasn't paying attention.  I thought she'd gone and
how would you know anyway, because she'd come with nothing but the clothes
she was wearing.  Turned out not so.  She came back in a taxi with its boot
stuffed with bags of groceries and two battered suitcases.  I watched a
quiz show while she clattered about unpacking the groceries.

   "That will keep us going for a while," she said.  "Trouble is, all the
money's gone." To emphasise it she threw the mugger's wallet into the bin.
"You got any?  I mean, you have a house and all that.  You must have."

   "Complicated," I said.  "All my bills get paid automatically out of my
bank account.  Everything.  I don't use much cash."

   "Where does it come from?"

   "Royalties," I told her.  "From a book I wrote."

   "What book?"

   "It's about warm, loving relationships and how to keep them warm and
loving."

   She grinned at me.  "What the fuck you know about that, Howie?"

   "Nothing," I said.  "But when I wrote it I thought I did."

   "Turned out bad?"

   "Couldn't have been worse," I said.



   It couldn't have been worse.  You read about it but it's always about
somebody else.  You open the door, expecting nothing, and you see a naked
man with his dick stuck into a naked woman.  They stop fucking, frozen, and
two heads turn to look at you blankly.  Your first reaction is to say sorry
and close the door, and that's what you do.  Then it hits you.

   The woman was Cindy, my wife, and the man was Malcolm, my brother.  The
two main pillars of my life were shattered simultaneously, because I did
not love two people more in all the world.

   Downstairs, dressed, tense, panicked, they started making excuses.  It
didn't work and they switched to guilt, recriminations, and apologies. 
That didn't work either.  Nothing was ever going to work.  There was no way
back from double betrayal.

   I didn't mean to hit him.  He was my brother and I loved him.  He was
six years my junior and I'd been watching out for him since I could
remember.  But he wasn't watching when I hit him on the back of the head
with a brass Buddha.  It was heavy and he was damaged.  I dropped the
Buddha and there was blood on it.  I walked out of the house and kept
going, walking a long time, and then catching a bus and then a train.

   Eventually I ended up here, hundreds of miles distant.  I started
watching TV.  The rest you know.



   Betsy looked a bit like Cindy.  Same sort of hair.  Same sort of
heavyish figure.  Same sort of implied invitation about the way she stood
with hips thrust out and arms folded under her breasts.  The books about
body language say folded arms mean stay away.  Bullshit to that.  Cindy
used folded arms like a tray to rest her breasts on, pushing them at you.
So did Betsy.

   She stood in front of me, hips thrust out and arms folded under her
breasts.  "You haven't had a woman in a long time," she said.  It was a
statement, not a question.  "Come on," she said, picking up my hand and
pulling me from the sofa.

   On the TV a fat man with an exaggerated moustache was groping for the
answer to a missing letters puzzle.  "Faint heart never won fair maid," I
said.

   Betsy looked at me and then at the TV.  "You should go on those shows,"
she said.  "You know everything."



   My dick had forgotten how to work.  Betsy had it in the palm of her hand
where it lolled apathetically.

   She looked it and I looked at her and wondered why I wasn't up to it. 
Naked on the bed beside me, she had all the right equipment.  Breasts most
definite, like little plumped-up pillows, and a black-haired box casually
displayed.  Betsy was only 18 but she was not coy about her body.

   Not much of a waist for a girl her age.  One of those women whose torso
went from ribs to hips without much indentation, like a sportswoman.  I
remembered Cindy was like that.  Strong through the body, a bit stocky. 
Fucking Betsy would feel a lot like fucking Cindy.  And as soon as that
thought crossed my mind I got hungry and hard.

   She rolled on her back and spread her legs hospitably, a satisfied smirk
on her face.  I didn't like the way she did that.  It was too easy, too
willing, too accommodating.  A woman, especially one aged just 18, should
not be like that with a man she barely knew.

   But that was just a passing observation.  I was between her legs and
beyond conversation.  I needed to fuck her; to fuck anybody, and I needed
to do it immediately.

   I fucked Betsy and I cursed Cindy, but silently.  I hated Cindy.  Betsy
felt like Cindy inside and out, she fucked like Cindy, and with my eyes
half-closed with the effort of doing something that wasn't coming easily
and naturally, she even looked like Cindy.  Enough like her to make me ram
into her with a force driven by bloody-minded vengeance.

   Bitch.  Slut.  Whore.  Betrayer.  Brotherfucker.  Cindy, you deceived me
and cheated me out of a happy life and home and I will never forget or
forgive.  Never/push, never/shove, never/jam it up as far as it can go and
spill it all out in a hot and angry lava-like stream of bottled up
frustration and rage.



   The haze lifted and I was lying sprawled heavily across her body, my
head down and face buried in the humid valley of her neck and shoulder.

   "Jesus, Howie," Betsy said.  "What the fuck was that?"

   "Uh?" I was dim, stupid, uncertain.  What had I done?  "Uh, no good?"

   "Put it this way," she said, patting me slowly and soothingly on the
back.  "I've been raped three times and I was never battered as much as
that."

   "Shit.  Betsy, did I hurt you?"

   "I'll have a bruise on the shoulder where you punched me but I've had
worse.  But I was scared, Howie.  I thought for a moment you were going to
kill me."

   Me?  What the hell was she talking about?  I write books about marriage
counselling.  Or at least, I did once.  I used to like women once.  I used
to be interested in their welfare.  I thought relationships were two-way
partnerships and a whole pile of other horse-shit.  I used to think that.
I'm still living off the proceeds.



   "We need money," Betsy said.

   "Sugar Ray Leonard," I said.

   "What?"

   "I'm so sorry," said the smooth silver-haired guy on the TV, "but the
correct answer is Sugar Ray Leonard."

   "You should go on those shows," Betsy said.  "You never get anything
wrong."

   I looked up at her.  She was wearing an apron and cooking.  "Need
money?" I asked.  "Why?  Just book it up at the grocery store."

   "Fuck that," she said.  "I want to go out.  I need to have some fun. 
Get smashed.  Get high.  Something.  Anything."

   "Count me out," I said.  "That shit does not interest me."

   "Then I'll just go out on my own."

   "Whatever.  I've got fifty bucks lying around somewhere."

   She looked at me stonily.  "You've got cancer," she said.  "Inside. 
It's eating away everything that makes somebody nice."

   "Dame Margot Fonteyn," I said.

   "Dame Margot Fonteyn," said the only lady on the quiz panel.

   "Correct," said Silverhair.

   Betsy took off the apron and dropped it on the floor.  I think she went
straight out.



   I fucked Betsy lots more and Cindy lots less.  But the fucking was still
angry and I didn't know why.  I was not angry with Betsy.  The trouble was,
I was not anything with Betsy.  She was just there and she spread her legs
for me whenever it was necessary or convenient.

   I kept thinking I ought to tell Betsy to pick up some condoms when she
went to the grocery store.  She never asked about condoms.  Didn't seem to
be interested.  Oh well, fuck, it was her body.  And me?  Who cared?  Not
me.  Not anybody.

   I got back into the habit of fucking.  Didn't seem to do much for her,
though.  She just lay there with hips flat, legs wide, and breasts plumped
and rolling out sideways.  Not very flattering, I thought more than once.
Women look better with their clothes on than off.  Just my view, I suppose,
for what it was worth.

   "You've never kissed me," she said into the darkness when we both might
have been sleeping but were not.

   Hadn't I?  Right.  I never had.

   "Howie," she said tentatively.

   "What?"

   "Do you even like me?"

   "Sure," I said.  "Of course."

   But did I?  Was there anything to like about her?  Or was she just
another whore who opened her legs on demand?

   At least she had brought me back from a blank place.  Back to what?  Who
knows.  I was now more confused than ever.  But for a short while there was
more purpose to life and more things to do, because Betsy hung about the
house like a puppy and never stopped begging for attention.

   She was incredibly stupid.  Okay, she was only 18 and she had a perfect
right to be stupid, right?  Wrong.  This girl was experienced like most
people will never be.  Betsy was so fucking dumb.  But she was just a
whore, and whores never learn.



   After a while I stopped noticing when Betsy went out.  Sometimes she was
there, sometimes she wasn't.  But I noticed she was back that early morning
she came into the room dripping blood from her face and with a nasty tear
where her lip stud used to be.

   "Jesus, what a mess," I said, looking up from the TV.

   She burst into tears and bolted for the bathroom.  She didn't look all
that much better cleaned up.  "You want a doctor?" I asked.  "What the hell
happened?"

   "A guy punched me out," she said dispiritedly.

   "Why?"

   "I asked him for the money first.  He wanted to pay later."

   "Fuck it, Betsy.  Are you out whoring again?"

   "I need money," she said.  "You never give me any.  What else am I going
to do?  What else can I do?"

   "I give you board and lodging."

   "Barely," she whispered.

   "You never complained before."

   "I'm not complaining now, am I?"

   "Betsy, you don't have to go out whoring."

   "What's the alternative?  Staying in with you and watching game shows on
TV?  Howie, it's like you're a hundred years old."

   "I don't owe you anything," I reminded her, tired of it all.  "You can
do what you like."

   She was holding a damp cloth to the gash on her mouth.  She took it away
and looked at it to measure the blood flow.  Then she threw it at me
angrily and went to bed.



   "I'm leaving," Betsy said.

   I looked up from the TV and she was standing beside her two suitcases.
"Are you?" I was surprised.  "Why?"

   "Because you don't want me to stay."

   "Betsy, you can stay as long as you like."

   "But you don't want me to stay."

   I thought about it.  She was becoming a pain in the guts.  "You can do
what you want," I said.  "Stay.  Go.  What the fuck.  It's up to you."

   "Yeah," she said.  "That's exactly what I thought." Tears were running
down her cheeks.  "See you, Howie," she said.  "Next time you want to fuck
me it'll cost you fifty bucks."

   "Don't count on it," I said.  "I never use whores."

   She slammed the door so hard the sound echoed in my head long after
she'd gone.



   Betsy never came back.  I was sort of expecting she would.  I missed
her, vaguely.  I'd become used to fucking again and when she left I felt
the absence of it.  The girl was too fond of whining for my taste and she
was always wanting something she wouldn't spell out.  But I missed the
fucking part.

   I got another letter from Cindy addressed to my bank.  I threw it
unopened in the bin where the rest had gone.

   Cindy was a whore.  The difference between Cindy and Betsy was that
Betsy only charged fifty bucks to drop her pants, and Cindy was a great
deal more expensive than that.

   Maybe there were nice women around.  Somewhere.  Just my luck I'd never
found one.



   I took to hunching around the streets again.  Hadn't done it for a while
but all of a sudden it seemed like the thing to do.

   One night, just before midnight, I saw a guy humping a girl against the
grimy wall of a forgotten factory.  The girl was Betsy.

   I stopped for a moment and watched.  He was shoving himself into her,
upwards and inwards, slamming her shoulders against the red brick wall.  He
looked over and saw me.  "Fuck off, creep," he snarled.

   Betsy looked across as well.  "Fifty bucks," she said to me.  I thought
for a second she had not recognised me.  But then: "Nothing for nothing no
more."

   I bent my head and hunched my shoulders and kept walking.



   An ambulance van was parked diagonally across the footpath, blocking the
way.  I charted around it and a police officer warded me away from the
scene.

   I was passing by, leaving it behind because I saw too much of that shit
on the streets and it was none of my business anyway, when two paramedics
carrying a stretcher bustled up urgently, heading for the back of the
ambulance.  I looked automatically and saw the girl under the blanket was
Betsy.

   Her face was broken.  Smashed.  She'd been brutally bashed.  No quick
splash of water and a damp rag this time.  She was seriously hurt.

   The policeman put out his hand to push me away.  But Betsy reached out
from under the blanket and pointed her finger at me.  She was trying to say
something.  I looked at the copper and he nodded.  I crouched down close to
her mushy and bloodied face.

   "You," she said, softly but loud enough so I could hear.  I bent even
closer.

   "You were the worst of them all," she said.

   The paramedics pushed the stretcher into the back of the vehicle and
slammed the doors.  The ambulance took off fast with siren blaring.

   "Is she hurt bad?" I asked the copper.

   "Real bad," he said.  "They don't think she'll make it.  Why?  You know
her?"

   "Not really," I said.  "I've seen her around.  She was just another
whore out on the streets."

   "Yeah," the copper agreed.  "And plenty more where she came from."



   I keep meaning to find out what happened to her.  I expect she died, so
I guess there's no point chasing it down.  Anyway, I'm finding it hard to
get out of the house.  Except late at night when I walk the streets.

   Last night a girl with red hair came up to me and offered me her body.
She was way too young to be doing that but it was her own affair.  I asked
her how much.

   "One hundred," she said.

   "Too expensive," I advised her.  "The going rate for whores is fifty
bucks, tops."


   edited by Ruthie 

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