When Sweaty Betty Met Bungee Cord Bob

Crime Fiction by Hillary Lyon

“Betty?” The man asking her name stood behind her in the grocery store check-out line. Betty ignored him as she dug through her pocketbook for her debit card.

“Excuse me,” the man persisted, “but aren’t you Betty?” She finally looked at him. He was short with thinning dark hair, and pointy gray beard that reminded her of old-school depictions of the devil. She noted he had a build that had probably once been athletic but was now going to fat. She didn’t recognize him.

Before she could answer, their eyes met and he laughed. “You are Betty! Sweaty Betty!”

Blood rose to her cheeks. She grabbed her grocery cart and quickly pushed it out to the parking lot. Betty absolutely hated that old nickname, which she’d acquired in high school because of one—ONE—time when she’d forgotten to apply her antiperspirant. It was the day of a regional choir competition, she was an alto standing next to the tenors and she was nervous. Nervous because she was insecure about her public singing, nervous because being near boys made her so.

Of course, the boys noticed the dark crescent moons that formed on her uniform, under her arms. They noticed her odor, too. Hence the nickname.

She remembered all of this as she shoved her grocery bags into her SUV’s open hatch. The memory did not make her happy. Though that incident was decades ago, it still gnawed at her. She’d accomplished so much since high school—she was an entirely different person now.

Betty reminded herself of how good her life had been since then, enumerating her travels to exotic places, her promotions at work, her romantic flings. Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the man had not only followed her out to the parking lot, but had walked up behind her.

When he spoke, she was startled. “Look, I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.” She eyed him critically. He had very pale gray-blue eyes, she noted. Like a winter day with a cloudless sky. A chill crept down her spine. She shook off this foreboding feeling as merely old insecurities resurfacing.

“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink? Make it up to you. We can talk about old times.” The man continued, his voice warm, soothing. Betty chewed her lip; he was charming, and that made her agreeable to his offer. But she had no desire to talk about high school.

“How about you meet me at the Red Dart Pub, say sevenish?” Bob lifted the last two grocery bags out of Betty’s cart and put them in her car’s trunk. She noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

“Sure,” she said. “That would be nice.”

***

7:15 found Betty pushing through the door into the Red Dart. Bob was already seated at the bar nursing a cocktail. As he sipped his drink, the little paper umbrella almost went up his nose. Betty found this awkwardness endearing.

“You made it!” Bob said as she slid onto the stool next to him. He waved to the bartender. “What would you like? A rum and coke?”

“Yeah, sure,” Betty answered. How did he know that’s what she liked?

“Just like in high school,” he laughed. Betty looked confused. “Though you were two years ahead of me, we went to some of the same parties.” He winked at her. “I remember you, what you wore, what you drank—who you dated.” Betty smiled faintly. These comments were almost … like something she’d expect a stalker to say. She shrugged off this idea as paranoia. Just because she didn’t remember him, didn’t mean he didn’t remember her. Obviously.

Sipping their drinks, they chatted about possible mutual friends—to no avail. She was unfamiliar with the teachers he mentioned, as well. She began to doubt they’d gone to the same school; but then he did know her horrible nickname.

Without asking, he ordered another round and changed the subject. “I’m now a traveling salesman—if you can believe that job still exists in the age of the internet.”

“I guess on-line shopping has devoured lots traditional jobs,” she replied. “What do you sell?”

“Sporting goods for the weekend hobbyist,” he said. “I visit mom-and-pop sporting goods stores—what few are left in this country—to peddle my wares.” He took a deep drink of his cocktail, the paper umbrella long discarded. “Which is why I’m here. I concluded my business this afternoon, and I’m due in Cleveland tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Betty said, finishing her drink. “So you’re only here for the night.” Bob rakishly cocked an eyebrow in reply.

“It’s so noisy in here now,” Bob said, grimacing at the crowd in the bar. “I can hardly hear myself think.”

He snuggled up close to her. “How about you come back to my hotel room for a night cap?” She smelled the bourbon on his breath; it was warm and sweet and set off a thrill running down her legs. “I have the most beautiful view of the harbor from my suite’s balcony—you have to see it to believe it.”

“Okay,” Betty agreed. Two drinks in and she’d lost her expansive vocabulary; she suspected with a third drink she’d lose her clothes. She giggled; it was going to be fun to be naughty for one night.

“I’ll drive us,” Bob insisted, “since you’re a bit tipsy, and you don’t want a DUI, do you?” He patted her on the back. “And don’t fret, we’ll come back in the morning to fetch your car.” He gave her a conspiratorial smile. “After breakfast, that is.”

Betty nodded in agreement. The last thing she needed was to get arrested; she’d lose her job.

With an air of humility, Bob then confessed, “Being a traveling salesman—my car’s a mess.” He pulled out several bills and laid them out on the bar, before adding, “Give me about ten minutes to clean it up before you join me.” He stood up and leaned into her. “And that way you can finish your drink, Sweaty Betty.”

She frowned at hearing that nickname again. She’d hoped they were past that.

The bartender scooped up the bills and watched as Bob stopped at the door on his way out, turning to give Betty a small wave. She waved back. To all appearances, Bob and Betty’s date was over.

***

“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you earlier, at the grocery store,” Bob reiterated, opening the car door for Betty. He’s a bit of a gentleman after all, she caught herself thinking.

“When I called you Sweaty Betty—I said it without thinking.” Bob sighed theatrically. “I was just so excited to recognize somebody I knew.”

“You know, even if I hadn’t recognized you,” Bob said as he started the car and backed out of the parking space, “I still would have offered to buy you a drink, and ….” he grinned wolfishly. Betty blushed; it had been ages since anyone overtly flattered her.

“I have a nickname too,” Bob said as he turned down the oldies station on the car radio. He kept his eyes on the road to the hotel. “Bungee Cord Bob.” He glanced at Betty out the corner of his eye to see if she recognized the name. He briefly scowled when she didn’t. News broadcasts didn’t have the reach they once did.

“Sorry.” She shrugged and looked out the window. The downtown office buildings sped by in a blur. But in some sober corner of her mind, it seemed she had heard that nickname before—but where? In the news? In a movie? On a murder podcast? She couldn’t place it, and didn’t feel like going to the effort of ransacking her brain to find it.

***

“Why don’t you go out on the balcony,” Bob said as he opened the door to his hotel room. “I’ll mix up a couple of drinks and join you in just a sec.”

Betty walked across the thickly carpeted room, slid open the glass door to the balcony and sighed. Bob is right, she thought, the view from here is beautiful. In the moonless night the harbor lights below sparkled, the stars above twinkled.

Bob unzipped his suitcase on the bed. He moved the old high school yearbook aside—one of several he’d found at yard sales. Within that book, he’d seen pictures of a young vivacious Betty, her odorous nickname scribbled by an uncouth hand throughout the annual. When he’d seen this cruel nickname tied to this pretty girl—he knew he had to meet her, had to add her to his list of conquests.

Beneath the book lay a tight coil of bungee cord. He retrieved it.

Holding this elastic rope in one hand behind his back, he joined Betty on the balcony. Without invitation, he moved in close to her, so close he nuzzled her neck.

If he’s someone I used to know, Betty reasoned, it’s not at all the same as getting picked up by a stranger in a grocery store parking lot, or a bar. She giggled and playfully backed away from Bob. If he’s just passing through, then nobody will ever know about this one night stand. She had a reputation among her friends and coworkers for being a bit of a prude; with middle-age fast approaching, she admitted to herself she was tired of being the good girl.

She convinced herself that Bob was passably handsome, and certainly charming in his way. She reasoned this one night of pleasure would give her a delicious secret that would last the rest of her life. She decided to take the plunge.

“I guess they call you Bungee Cord Bob because…” Betty reasoned aloud as she turned to the balcony’s rail, “you bounce from one relationship to another.” She was beginning to sober up, and wanted reassurance that he was not going to try to forge a relationship with her; that he was going to move on. She knew that being involved with a traveling salesman—of all things!—would sound trashy to her peers.

As she spoke, Bob secured one end of his bungee cord to the balcony’s support pillar. Betty didn’t notice, lost in her exposition as she was.

“That is, you get excited about a person and leap into the romance.” She looked over the rail; it was a long way down to the dirty asphalt-coated parking lot. “And it’s a great thrill for you, falling in love—or should we say, lust. Right?” Behind her, Bob was silent. She leaned her elbows on the rail.

“Then you reach a point where you’re about to hit the ground—reality—and whoosh! You spring back up into the ether, abandoning your romantic partner.” Betty gazed off into the glittering lights of the harbor. “I guess that is why they call you Bungee Cord Bob.”

Bob quickly, efficiently looped the other end of the bungee cord around Betty’s neck before she could protest or even turn around. With a little help Betty went over the rail, arms flailing like an inexperienced, drowning swimmer. Bob shouted as he watched the spectacle of her cartoonish fall, “Guess again.”

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Bio: Hillary Lyon founded and for 20 years acted as senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. Her horror, speculative fiction, and crime short stories, drabbles, and poems have appeared in more than 150 publications. She’s an SFPA Rhysling Award nominated poet. Hillary is also the art director for Black Petals.

Photo= Pexels

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