Short Story Prompt

Why Betty Should Learn to Keep Her Hands in Her Pockets

Perhaps a good lesson for the whole lot of us.

Hey folks. This is a goofy little thing, in response to a tag from P.G. Barnett. Word: gesticulate. As I hear it, that fabuloso writer girl Sherry McGuinn started this whole shebang and then P.G. added a new word and tagged all these pals:

Rasheed Hooda Timothy Key Denise Shelton Holly Jahangiri Joe Luca Paul Myers MBA kurt gasbarra Whitefeather -- Brian Abbey Kristi Keller Robin Klammer Of course, Sherry, Me and anyone else tempted to play.

Most town folks had an opinion about Betty Beederman. Some simply called her Excitable Betty. The Bettlette was known far and wide for her enthusiastic habit of expressing joy with uber exaggerated hand gestures. Usually, her limbs moved twice the speed as her lips.

Case in point. The local Community Center often featured fried chicken at the Tuesday bingo suppers. When the food arrived, all guests, clutching their cards and daubers vacated any spot close to the Betts. Especially if the chicken leg was particularly crispy that night.

The die-hard players and even the hobby-bingoists knew it was time to grab the goods and head downwind.

Betty would begin with howl-at-the-moon moaning and licking her chops. Her hands were next. Those muscular limbs started frantically waving all over the place. Up, down, left, right, sweeping food and game paraphernalia all over the sticky linoleum floor.

Yes, the chicken was that good.

There was also the story about her husband, Marvin. A quiet bloke. He was known to rise early every morning to check on his barnyard critters. As a result, Marv turned in each night at the crack of darkness.

Betty, well, she was a night owl. After tending to her own evening livestock duties, she regularly settled on a comfy sofa in the basement rec room watching reruns of her favourite reality tv shows.

As the story goes, the other night, something happened in one of the episodes that got her riled. Seething, we heard.

Into the bedroom, she headed, shaking Marvin to consciousness.

Betty-boop started up, telling Marvin why he was just like that buffoon, Donald, on the show. She was insisting the Marv get up and watch. No longer could she deal with her hubby showing any more of those lame Donny-boy traits.

Her hands were a-waving, and her feet were a-stomping. Bee started shouting:

“You gotta get your act together, Marvin.”

She poked him as her hands moved at warp speed.

Marv, now wide awake, sat up in bed. He spoke in a moderately annoyed and grave voice, doing his best John Wayne imitation.

“Betty, you are ticking me off, and on top of that, it’s late.”

Betts replied, all flustered like.

“Marv, don’t say LATE and TICKING YOU off. I was jes, jes…”

Marv was still sounding like the Wayne-ster.

“Jes what?”

“I was jes, jes …”

Quickly Marv grasped her flailing arms, looked lovingly in his Betty’s eyes and said, “I know honey pie. You were jes tic u lateing me.”

The Bettster grinned with relief.

“Oh, Marvie -Wharvie. Kissie poo. You go back to sleep. I will jes tic u later.”

© Suzanne V. Tanner, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

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