Brokenhearted in Bakersfield

 

88 - SOUTH OF THE BORDER

Sometimes when life gets tough, it’s fun to go for a little ride.

Abel Chase drove Maggie’s car while Little Billy rode shotgun.  I sat in the backseat watching urban blight turn to sprawl.  Mr. Chase caught my eye in the rearview mirror.  “Now don’t you worry,” he assured me, “we have the law in all its magisterium in our lap.  And as long as you got Abel Chase on the case, justice hasn’t got a clue.”

I didn’t respond.  We silently rode on out of Bakersfield proper towards the outskirts of town and my trailer home.

By the interstate off-ramp I saw a bunch of fellahs in orange vests picking up trash along the side of the road.  I recognized the head trash-picker. “Whoa, stop the car,” I shouted.  “Stop!”

Mr. Chase obliged and I hopped out.  “I’ll catch up with you later,” I waved as Maggie’s car disappeared down the road carrying Little Billy and the lawyer.

I whistled.  “Owen!  You ol’ road apple!”

Owen Purty looked up from his toil.  “Well lookit who’s come to visit the afflicted,” he grinned that dumbass grin of his as he tossed a crumpled beer can into a bag slung over his shoulder.

“How ya do’n?” I asked.

“Ain’t so bad, ain’t so bad,” he repeated.  “I’m on this here community service program, and my public defender is in negotiations to restructure my sentence.”  Owen tossed another can in his sack.  “So, how’s tricks by you?”

I heaved a heavy sigh.  “They just hauled Maggie downtown to the police station ‘cause she’s under suspicion of murdering the Minister’s Son, and the Kachingas gave us either two weeks or a year and two months to get out of Broken Heart Park, depending on who ya talk to.  Aside from that, everything’s just great.”

There we stood at the side of the interstate, grinning at each other under a blazing midday sun, but our silent communion was broken by a terrible ruckus coming up from down the interstate.  Engines was whining and metal was tearing and all we could see was a big ol’ cloud of dust rising up, lit by a glittering ball of cherry red.  Me and Owen watched in amazement as that cherry red ball drew closer and closer until it drove right up and rested beside us.  Damned if it wasn’t a cherried-out ‘62 Ford Falcon covered in metal fleck paint.

The strange part was Owen’s camper was hitched behind this vintage set of wheels.

We both bent down to get a look at who was inside.  Sitting behind the wheel, dancing in the lap of hot pink fur seat covers sat the Fine Lady herself, Babbs Montez.  She leaned out the driver window and shouted to Owen, “Hop in, lover boy.  We’re making a run for it.”

She pulled on a chrome lever and the front of her tricked-out ride began to bounce up and down like it had its own built-in magical fingers.

“I sold my Porsche and bought this beauty.  I’ve got enough left over to open my own Fine Lady’s School of Nail Design, and maybe give some dancing lessons on the side.  We’re in business now.  Hurry up, we don’t have time to screw around.”

“Hey, Babbs,” I tried to yell over the piston roar of the hotrod’s engine.  But the Fine Lady batted at fuzzy dice dangling off the rearview mirror and blew me off.

“Come on,” she hollered at Owen.  “It’s a long way to Ensenada.”

Owen smiled and handed me his trash bag and orange vest.

“Uhhh, Owen, ain’t you got your legal obligations to perform?” I reminded.  “Ain’t you gonna fulfill your debt to society?”  My old amigo just hocked a loogie and piled into the cherry red hotrod.

Over all that engine noise, Fine Lady Babbs cranked up the car radio, and as she and Owen sped off together, heading down Mexico way, I could hear their voices trailing, “Down Mexico way… aiyiyiyi-aiyiyiyi-aiyiyiyi-aiyiyiyi…aiyiyiyi-aiyiyiyi-aiyiyiyi-aiyiyiyi….”

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