FireVaney

Bet lives contently in an empty single serving carton of milk the size of six “modern, portable, self-contained outhouses manufactured of molded plastic” * arranged as one would find a half dozen eggs at the local grocer.  And she believes every single lie she tells you.  When Bet is not looking out the window, waving at the passersby, she’s watching CNN; but she tells you that her schnozzola is forever stuck in some Victorian novel, some Neolithic autobiography that she doesn’t, in fact, own, or hasn’t, in fact, borrowed--if, in fact, it at all exists.  Regardless, whatever she claims to be reading, she couldn’t tell you its title or its author.  “There are so many,” she’ll say.  True enough, true enough.    You wheel her out of her milk carton--beyond which lies a homey nursing home corridor--over to the elevator, into the elevator, and up to the third floor, out into another homey nursing home corridor of a different color scheme, for a visit with...