I’d Fuck Becky Green


JERRY SAYS, “Yeah, I’d kill the hooker.” He rolled the cigarette tight and uniform, as I’d seen him do a thousand times before, and like his pa did before him. He pulled the lighter from his pocket and gave it a few taps with his index finger. He said once that it ‘primes’ the fluid inside. Then placed the cigarette on his wet bottom lip, paused and added, “Hell yes, I would” before lighting up.

That was just like Jerry, saying some flippant shit just to piss me off. Sometimes I wondered why we were even friends, why I was always sticking up for his dumb ass. Making sure the Rig Supervisor, Hal Bigsby, didn’t know when Jerry was late due to nights out drinking and carousing. Fixing his time sheet so he’d get full pay. Even keeping certain habits of his from Sally Sue, his wife. Always cleaning up after the sumbitch. It was a goddamn full-time job. I huffed, and banged the platter of steaks down on the patio table.

>We were doing our normal Saturday night routine, cooking steaks on my grill, drinking Pabst, and dodging our fat wives, who we could see through the patio door, waddling around the kitchen making pinto beans, potato salad, and yeast rolls. No doubt talking about us: our oily piles of clothes left on the bedroom and bathroom floors, grease from our hands left on the Lava soap in the kitchen, stains on the carpet and how best to get them up. I saw them shaking their heads at times like dogs do after a bath. Rita’s dark hair like a lab’s, Sally Sue’s like a retriever’s. Our four combined kids were panting around their heels, little pups.

I’d been hearing it from Rita for twelve years, ever since I took the job with Baker Hughes Oil as a pipeliner. I steadily moved up, and now I’m Field Supervisor. But I still get dirty with the boys. I hired Jerry on as a floorhand six years ago, but now he’s my Lead Hand. He never would have gotten the position without me. It’s hard, dirty work and long hours. I’d seen men come onto the field with big, soft white bellies like frogs’ and, within months, harden into bronzed gods. Laying pipe and drilling is not for the faint of heart.

But our women never complain when we bring our checks home for them to deposit on Saturday mornings. They always go get mani and pedis and get their hair lightened, or whatever women do. Rita tried to get me to go years ago, said my feet are like an old man’s, all corns and yellowed, ingrown nails.

“Like hell,” I said. “You’d have as much a chance of getting me in one of those there salons as I’d have of getting you in my truck to go muddin’.”

“Oh shut up, Mr. Macho Man.”

“I’ll show you Mr. Macho Man later tonight,” and I slapped her a good one on the rump.

She cackled, turned away, and waggled that big behind at me. I started gettin’ hard. She hadn’t gotten me hard in a while.

I’d Fuck Becky Green continues...
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About h. l. nelson


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h. l. nelson is Editor-in-Beef for Cease, Cows mag, Fiction Editor for Black Heart mag, and a former sidewalk mannequin. (Yes, that happened.) Children and old people love her, but h. l. always wears a disguise. She has been published in several zines, but she only desires to wear a fez. Red, the color of...read more everything that's best. Tell her what you're wearing right now: hlnelson.com
3 comments
Discussion
  13 months ago
When I was writting and publishing fiction (years ago) my main characters were always men but my bi-line gave me away as a woman. I really thought a man wrote this. bravo, great read.
  27 months ago
Great story, I really enjoyed reading it.
  27 months ago
Great! This came together really well.

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