Trashy Blondes Don’t Give A Shit

An air conditioner blasted a gust of Arctic air against the sweat under Betty Sue’s brassy blonde ponytail, sending a shiver down her spine as she pawed through the cosmetics rack. A broad, scarlet zit throbbed on her chin, and she wanted to cover it up with concealer before her date with Angel. 

“You wouldn’t break out so much if you quit using that cheap makeup,” is what her sister Heidi always said. Heidi had a downtown loft and a law degree. She kept her hair its natural chestnut brown color and used phrases like “partner track” and “investment portfolio.” But she’d never had an orgasm that didn’t require a device with a motor -- at least that’s what Betty Sue believed. 

Finally, Betty Sue found the last tube of concealer in her shade -- Number 2 Beige -- and grabbed an eye shadow palette: Electric Aqua, Terrific Teal, Sexy Silver. She grabbed a 2-liter Mountain Dew from the cooler and a stack of frozen pizzas. She brought them up to Jeffy who was working behind the counter. 

A baseball crowd roared through the speaker of a crackling radio. Jeffy wore a button-down shirt that was loose at the neck and had a wispy brown mustache sprouting from his upper lip. Betty Sue had blown him a couple of times in exchange for his help with her gas and water hookups. He was barely out of high school, though Betty Sue suspected he’d been held back at least once. Either way, he was still cherry so it didn’t take long. 

Jeffy scanned the barcodes on her purchases. The prices flashed on a digital screen. Behind Jeffy were racks of cigarette packs and a display of lottery tickets. Tree-shaped air fresheners dangled from the ceiling like Christmas ornaments. 

“What’s new, Jeffy-Jeff?” Betty Sue asked. He was such a shy kid. She always had to be the one to start the conversation. He was sweet too, and eager to please. The blowjobs had been her idea. It seemed only fair after he helped her steal water and gas from his employer. 

“Boss said the store is for sale,” he muttered without looking at her. 

“Is that right?”

“Some big company from out of state is buying it. Gonna turn it into a twenty-four-hour service station.”

“Twenty-four hours?” Betty Sue wrapped her arms across her chest. The E-Z Way Market closed every night at eleven. At eleven-thirty, Betty Sue would creep through the parking lot with hoses and clamp them onto the store’s propane and water spigots, sending liquid and gas to the Airstream she kept parked on an abandoned lot opposite the weedy edge of the store’s asphalt. She’d never be able to do that with truckers, all hopped up on No-Doze, watching from some fluorescent-lit luncheonette counter. 

“When’s that going to happen?” 

Jeffy shrugged. He put her frozen pizzas into a plastic bag and handed her the makeup so she could put it in her purse. She tucked the bottle of soda under her arm. She walked toward the silver, toaster-shaped Airstream as the heat rippled from the sizzling blacktop. At the edge of the parking lot, tough crabgrass sliced at her bare ankles. 

Inside the Airstream, she flipped on her mini TV and put away her groceries in her mini-fridge. She powered her appliances with car batteries which she was able to get from her mechanic friend, Marcus. Marcus always wanted doggy-style; he liked the sound of his balls slapping the backs of her thighs. Betty considered it a fair trade. After all, in addition to the batteries, Marcus got his uncle, who drove a vacuum truck, to come around once a week with a stinky slinky to clean out the Airstream’s septic tank.  

Betty Sue peeled off her sweaty sports bra and changed into a thong and strapless pushup bra. She pushed back the faux-wood-grain plastic accordion door to her tiny closet and fished out a pair of silver-sequined hot pants and a neon pink lace tank top. She dabbed concealer onto her angry red pimple and dusted her eyelids with all three colors from her new eyeshadow palette. She completed the look with shell-pink lipstick.

The Mountain Dew bottle hissed as she twisted the cap and poured it into an old souvenir mug. She added a splash of vodka and settled in to watch TV while she waited for Angel to arrive. The hotpants didn’t hide the purple scars just above her knee, but Betty Sue didn’t care. In high school, her boyfriend wanted to steal an AR-15 from one of his neighbors. They waited for an evening when they knew the man and his wife would be out late -- they liked the Tuesday night meat raffle at the Stein and Stag a few miles out of town. 

Once they were in the house, a rottweiler charged out of some dark corner and jammed his fangs into Betty Sue’s thigh. At the hospital, an intern sutured her gashes while a bald lawyer in a baggy suit handed her his card. They took the homeowner to court and Betty eventually won eighty thousand dollars in damages. The boyfriend had it in his head that they ought to split the take, but she refused. After all, he didn’t have miniature railroad tracks running down his quadricep. They broke up a week later. To top it all off, the house they broke into didn’t even have an AR-15. Just an old bolt-action rifle and a few buck knives. 

As soon as the settlement check came, Betty Sue bought the Airstream and moved out of her parents’ house. Heidi went off to college but every summer she slept in her old room with the daisy wallpaper and N-SYNC posters. 

Betty Sue’s Airstream sat on land that belonged to the county -- technically -- but nobody gave a shit, so she didn’t have to pay rent. Near the back of the lot, where the grass turned into brush, there was an old cement staircase that once led to the front door of a house. The staircase was sinking into the dirt, the earth slowly sucking it down as it did with gravestones. 

Angel’s 1970 GTO rumbled outside and Betty Sue ran to meet it. She didn’t bother to lock up the Airstream. Nobody would steal from her unless they thought she had Oxy and everyone knew she didn’t.

Angel leaned over to kiss her, his stubble scraping the side of her mouth. He was half Salvadoran with green eyes and gelled black hair that tumbled across his forehead. He had a cousin who rode thoroughbreds at the racetrack, so they spent most of their dates in the grandstand, watching the horses run. 

As they merged onto the highway, Betty Sue told him what Jeffy had said about the convenience store buyout. 

“So where are you going to move to?” Angel asked as he put on his turn signal. 

“Why would I move? I’d just find some other way to get water and propane, that’s all.”

Angel changed lanes and cruised onto an exit ramp. “They built one of those on Highway 61. They tore down the little store and put up a huge building with parking spaces all around. It takes up three lots.” 

The gabled roof of the racetrack grandstand appeared on the horizon. 

“So you’re saying they’re going to tear up my lot?”

“It’s not really yours,” he teased, flashing his impish grin. 

Once they were inside the grandstand, Angel went to buy beer and Betty Sue stood in line to place her bets. Angel never bet. He just liked to sit in the stands, cheer for his cousin Julio and drink cheap beer. The racetrack was the one sports venue that didn’t charge fifteen dollars for a beer. 

As she stood in line at the betting window, she thought about what Angel had said. She wasn’t worried. If some big corporation wanted to tear up the land under her Airstream, she’d find someplace else to go. If the only place she could find was a space in a trailer park, she’d find some way to get it rent-free. She wasn’t like Heidi, who worried about everything. 

In line behind her, a white-haired man held a racing guide in one hand and a pen in the other. “The analyst says to pick Discarded Doll in the second race, but it says that he’s never run on turf before. It’s a turf race. So why should I pick him if he’s never run on it?”

Betty Sue turned around to face the man, catching a glimpse of her sequined shorts reflected in his half-glasses. His lip curled slightly as he looked her over. 

“I always ignore the racing guide. They’re wrong most of the time anyway. I always bet on the horses with the longest odds. That way, if I win even one bet, I make it all back,” she said. The man nodded, but she could tell he wasn’t going to follow her advice. 

At the window, Betty Sue rattled off her picks for each race and handed the cashier a one-hundred-dollar bill. The cashier printed off her slips and Betty Sue tucked them into her bra. She caught up with Angel who handed her a cup of frothy pale ale as they made their way to the upper-level seats. 

Julio won the first two races; Betty’s picks lost. Between races, she and Angel kissed, the betting slips crinkling as he squeezed her tit. 

“Ugh, look at those two,” some woman said. 

“Forget about it,” a man said, “Trashy blondes don’t give a shit. You oughtta know that.”

In the third race, Julio rode Insert Footnote, the longshot, a skinny gray filly with a black mane and tail. 

“Twenty-to-one odds. If I win, that’s two hundred bucks,” Betty said. She gripped Angel's hand. 

The starting gate sprung open and the horses leaped forward, their hooves pounding the dirt. The favorite, a bay colt, was out in front. 

“Where is Julio? I can’t see him,” she said. 

“Looks like he’s in the middle of the pack,” Angel replied, gently squeezing her hand. As they came around the turn, the gray horse broke out of the pack. 

“There they are! Come on, Julio! Come on, Insert Footnote!” Betty Sue bounced on her toes. Insert Footnote caught up to the lead runner and surged ahead just as they crossed the finish line. Betty Sue shrieked and threw her arms around Angel. 

After the last race, Betty Sue returned to the betting window and handed in her winning slips. The cashier scanned them and opened the cash drawer. Betty walked away with two hundred, seventy-eight dollars and ninety cents. 

Later that night, Angel dozed in Betty Sue’s bed. Condom wrappers littered the floor. Betty Sue’s phone lit up with a text message from Heidi. She must have had a bad date. The only time Heidi called or texted Betty late at night was when she’d had a bad date. Heidi never wanted Betty Sue’s advice about anything, unless it was about some guy. 

Without reading the message, Betty tapped out a response: Just move on. Another one will come along soon enuf. Moments later, the phone rang. Betty turned off the sound and tossed the phone away from the bed. She went to sleep. 

She woke up as Angel was getting dressed. “I gotta go to work. But maybe later we can drive around and find you a new spot?” He kissed her and pulled his shirt on over his head. She heard Angel’s GTO growl as he started it up and listened to the sound as it faded away in the distance. 

She found her phone on the floor and saw that she had twelve voicemails from Heidi. She tapped the most recent one and listened, quickly turning the volume down as Heidi’s voice screamed from the speaker. 

“Why aren’t you answering your phone? I need to talk to you. Pick up the phone. Pick up the phone, or I will round up all your loser ex-boyfriends and pay them to tip over your stupid trailer!”

Betty Sue sighed and dialed Heidi’s number. When Heidi answered, she sounded groggy, like she’d taken something to help her sleep. 

“What happened?” Betty asked. “Who dumped you?”

“The firm,” she said. She sounded like her mouth was stuffed with marshmallows. 

“What?” Betty fished a Redbull out of her fridge and flopped down on the couch with the striped brown tweed upholstery. She picked up the remote and flipped on the TV, mashing buttons until she found a rerun of Celebrity Rehab. It was the episode that featured the singer who had finished in third place during the first season of American Idol. 

“The law firm! I was fired!”

Betty muted the TV. “Fired? What for?” But Heidi didn’t answer. Betty Sue could hear her breathing and figured she had slipped back under the weight of whatever she had taken the night before. She turned the TV off and dashed across the weedy lot. It was nine in the morning, but the sun had already warmed the tar in the parking enough to turn it into sticky black ooze. 

In the convenience store, four men stood in line, waiting for Jeffy to ring up their cigarettes and frozen burritos. The morning zoo show blared over the radio, a jumble of laughter and goofy sound effects. Betty pushed her way to the front of the line, ignoring the men’s protests and flashing her butt to mollify them as she leaned over the counter. 

“Jeffy, I need to borrow your car.” Betty never needed her own car. Why pay for insurance or gas when she could always count on one of her guys to give her a lift? 

Behind the miniature forest of tree-shaped air fresheners, Jeffy looked away and muttered something about having a lot of customers to serve. 

“Just give me your keys, Jeffy, and I’ll be out of your hair in a jiff,” she replied. 

“Hey lady,” said one of the men in line, “I’ll give you a ride if you let me squeeze that cute little heinie.”

Betty Sue turned around and scanned the faces of the men, unsure which one had made the joke. 

“It’s a deal,” she said. The man who was second in line clutched a bag of Country Hearth bread and a large jar of peanut butter. His eyes widened and his face went white. Betty Sue smiled. Guys who made the loudest come-ons were always the most chickenshit. 

Moments later, Betty Sue buckled herself into the passenger side of the man’s electric blue Camaro. The man said nothing as he tossed his peanut butter into the back seat and fired up the engine. 

As the car hummed along, the vacant lots with brittle shrubs and overgrown grass gave way to small bungalows with neatly shorn lawns, which gave way to rows of stately, newly-restored Victorians. Finally, they wound through the tall brick walls and glass foyers of downtown. 

“This is it,” she said as they pulled up next to the old warehouse where Heidi had her loft. She hesitated as she opened the car door, offering the man one last chance to cash in on their agreement but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said as she shut the door and dashed up the stairs to Heidi’s condo. The loft had exposed brick walls, gleaming stainless steel appliances and polished planks of pine on the floor. Her couch was a replica of a Mid-Century Danish square arm with slanted oak legs and lemon-yellow upholstery. 

Betty Sue found Heidi in her bedroom, tangled up in a white silk jacquard comforter. Heidi’s hair was matted. An empty vodka bottle was nestled in the fibers of a faux-bearskin rug. 

Betty leaped into the air and plopped down on the bed, jostling Heidi awake. Heidi looked up, her corneas red and the skin under her eyes sagging like a basset hound’s. 

“What do you mean you were fired?” 

Heidi rubbed her face with the heel of her hand. When she opened her mouth to speak, her breath smelled like booze and old tuna salad. 

“Sexual harassment.”

“Someone harassed you?”

Heidi buried her face in the comforter. “I was fired for sexual harassment.” The silk jacquard muffled her voice.

“You sexually harassed somebody?”

Heidi lifted her face. “We won a big case. Someone brought in champagne. I ended up in my office with one of the junior associates. We were making out. He asked me to take off my bra so I did…”

“And they fired you?”

“He’s the junior associate. I outrank him so it’s my fault.”

Betty Sue bit the inside of her lip to keep from snickering. “Ok, so, you’ll find another job.”

“I have barely enough saved to cover the mortgage for two months,” Heidi wailed. “What am I going to do?” 

“You mean with that huge salary of yours, you can’t afford this place?”

“I still have law school loans to pay off. And credit cards.”

Betty gathered handfuls of the comforter until she located the tag. “‘Canadian goose down…dry clean only.’ How much did this cost? Don’t they sell these at Neiman Marcus for about five grand?”

Heidi didn’t answer. “I never thought this would happen.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you didn’t,” Betty said as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. She reached down and picked up the empty vodka bottle. 

“Tell you what: if you sell this place, you’d have enough for a small lot in a trailer court. I can park my Airstream on it and you can live with me.”

Heidi’s lip curled. “What are you talking about?”

“Rumor has it that a big company is going to build a massive truck stop on the land where I keep my Airstream. So I’ve got to move.”

“You’ve got to be joking. You think I’d live in that tin can with you?”

“Well, I hope not. I don’t want you filling it up with NPR and tofu and candles that smell like pine cones.”

Heidi smiled and giggled. She dabbed her eyes with the comforter. Betty Sue went into the bathroom and turned on Heidi’s shower. Salon-brand hair products lined the edge of the tub like soldiers at attention. Betty Sue picked up one of the bottles and read the label. What the fuck is ‘keratin treatment’? She wondered. 

Betty took hold of Heidi’s wrist and gently pulled her out of bed. While Heidi showered, Betty Sue opened the stainless steel refrigerator to find something to make for breakfast, but the fridge’s pristine white insides were empty. 

After she left Heidi’s, Betty Sue met up with Angel. They drove out to the gravel lot behind the racetrack where horse trailers were parked and where Julio shared a camper with other jockeys. 

“Do you really think they’d let me stay here?” 

“Julio says the security guys will look the other way and the executive types won’t know the difference.”

Betty Sue sighed and gazed out the window. She watched as a stablehand led a large, chestnut horse onto a trailer. 

“What’s the matter?” Angel asked, gently stroking her bare knee. 

“I don’t know,” she said softly, suddenly feeling tears well up in her eyes. 

“It’s going to work out just fine. You know that.” 

Betty nodded. “Sure it is. I think I’m just hungry.”

Back at the Airstream, Betty turned on the oven and slid one of the frozen pizzas into it. She sat next to Angel on the couch watching TV while it baked. 

“If your sister moves in with you, we won’t be able to have nights like this,” he said, as he stroked the side of her neck with his thumb. 

“She won’t move in with me,” Betty Sue said. 

After they ate, Angel dozed and Betty checked the tanks. The propane tank was still mostly full, but she needed water. She hooked the hose up to the water tank, opened the intake valve, and waited. 

One by one, the lights in the convenience store went out. The halogen floodlight on the roof glowed like an artificial moon. She saw Jeffy’s silhouette as he locked up the store and walked around to the back. Betty gripped the hose in her right hand and crept through the grass. 

Author’s note: I came across a comment on reddit that said “Trashy blondes don’t give a shit.” I thought it sounded like a great title for a story, so I made a list of things that a ‘trashy blonde’ might do, and created Betty Sue.