Elizabeth (I call her Betty)

Elizabeth (I call her Betty) ? Alan Smith 2003, 979 words

Betty is driving. She does so much better than I these days, because
she has lots more patience, with the other drivers, I mean, not with
me.

'Tunnel toll!' she says. Our conversation is often abrupt these
days.

I pass her three dollars. It's not that long ago that crossing the
harbour cost twenty cents. Everything is so expensive. 'These
days?'

'What was that?' she says.

Damn. I must have vocalized my thoughts! 'Nothing dear.'

She humphs a big humph in my direction without moving her head, and
drives with unerring precision into the longest toll queue. Betty Rule
#1: Given any number of lanes from two to fifty two, Betty can find the
slowest. Corollary: If at first she does not choose the slowest lane,
she will change into it.

In times way past I would comment, carefully, on her choice, but at
least in this matter, I have learnt the wisdom of silence. 'Are you
criticizing my driving' she says.

'No, darling.'

'Don't "darling" me!'

'Sorry Love.' We are now crawling down to the tollbooth as the nation's
wiser drivers zoom on by. A question leaps into my brain: Who are these
other people making our lane so slow, what is their problem? Do they
all these cars have a Betty?

'I don't like your tone of voice.' says Betty.

'What tone of voice?'

'That one. The one you used with Janet. When you divorced her'

Time to say nothing. You can't get into too much trouble if you?

'That shut you up didn't it? Too close to the mark, I guess. You got
tired of her, and now you're getting tired of me.'

This is crunch time. Answer the question with some form of 'No!' which
is both a good thing, and the truth, and you get: 'You're just saying
that, you think I'm b-o-r-i-n-g , boring!' And there it is: the dreaded
b-word! Betty can wield the b-word like a sword.

So what else can you do? Say nothing? She uses the same lines. You
agree with her, in a really sarcastic tone, and you get the double
prize: told off for sarcasm, and you're still headed toward the
b-word.

We are about ten cars from the toll booths when she repeats the
question. 'You are tired of me, aren't you?'. I choose silence, not as
a solution, but it has less repercussions later, less handles to swing
on.

Eight cars. T for tired switches to B for bored. 'You think I'm boring,
don't you?' she says.

I say nothing.

Six cars from the booths, she girds her loins, to deliver the body
blow: 'But you know what? You're the boring one. You're so predictable.
You're? ?What are you doing? Ray?'

But I don't say a word. I open the door (the car is stopped, I'm not
that silly.) I get out. Throw my watch onto the front seat. And wallet,
and belt. Belt? I am getting carried away. O well, in for a penny. Off
come the pants. And without a word I walk off, through the toll booths
and down the road to the harbour tunnel entrance. A stream of blaring
horns follows me, as do whistles and cat calls. Now I tread the small
footway on the left as two lanes of traffic wizz past. No one can stop
here, and after a few hundred metres, I see our car go past. She hits
the breaks as though to stop, but another blaze of horns sends her
onward again.

The tunnel widens out at its lowest point, enough for cars to stop.
Maybe she's there. Reality is setting in. I have no money, and no
pants. The tunnel authorities have almost certainly sent for the
police. So I walk faster.

Eventually the wide section comes into view. And yes, Betty is there.
Yahoo, I win! Predictable huh?. Never predicted this, didya, Bett, I
crow in my mind. A huge smile blossoms on my face. I love her, and
maybe, just maybe, I have regained some respect in Betty's eyes.

She has opened my door for me. Great.

As I reach the back of the car, something comes hurtling out of the
door. My trousers. The car accelerates away out of sight in
seconds.

I have my trousers on by the time the police arrive. I have no belt, no
watch or wallet, but at least I am covered, provided I hold my
waistband up. The two young constables are laughing fit to choke,
especially blond Lyn, who is younger than my daughter.

North Sydney police station is big, modern, and fairly friendly. My two
police escorts radio ahead, and they are all out like a gauntlet.
Clapping me. I do not feel clapworthy. I just want to wind the clock
back to before I got out of the car. It was a stupid idea, and I am in
the shit forever.

I sit for what seemed like hours, refusing to let them take me home.
They clearly want to get rid of me, but I'm too scared to go near
Betty.

Then Lyn has a brainstorm. Off we go to the shopping centre in
Chatswood in a police car, and spend some police money. Then
home.

The car is in the driveway. The front door is open, and Betty is
sitting in the front room, ready to pounce on me. Then she steps
backward, doing a double take. I see her smile, I really do. Then she
starts to laugh, I laugh, the police join in. My stomach hurts, because
we laugh so much..

It's pretty hard not to when you are confronted by a giant fat yellow
chicken, carrying an 'I love you and I'm sorry' sign, and two dozen
helium balloons, escorted by two police.

And laughter's got to be a good thing, doesn't it? In these times?