Brokenhearted in Bakersfield

 

84 - READY, WILLING AND ABEL

I’d never seen a larger gathering around #1 Broken Heart Park.  Kachingas told us we gotta evacuate the premises in a few days.  I wasn’t sure what was hurting worse, my feelings or my ass.

Suddenly, a big ol’ cloud of dust rose behind a car racing up the drive.  The beat up Chevy skidded to a halt in front of the official double-wide.  Like a magician stepping out of a puff of smoke, there emerged before us a sweaty little man.  He was dressed in polyester.  His belly hung over a white belt that matched his scuffed-up shoes.  (If the Good Will store had a catalogue, he’d be a featured model.)  I knew I’d seen this man before.

“Howdy, folks, Abel Chase at your service.”  He started handing out business cards.

Oh, yeah:  Abel Chase, Esquire, Junior Partner of Lynch & Levy, Defenders of the Rights of the Civilly Disadvantaged Since 1978 for Cash.  He was the pesky lawyer who had once disturbed my tranquility trying to get us to go after Ol’ Jack.  Mr. Chase glanced toward Ms. Luckyfeather and the big chief as he continued his fast talk.

“We have been informed that you’d be infiltrating with an order of ejaculation,” he exhorted, “based upon a flimsy ethnic injunction.”

“You’re being absurd,” Ms. Luckyfeather was angry.

“Let’s leave my ethnicity out of this,” Mr. Chase replied.  “More to the point, we have not yet been restrained to defend the residents of this trailer court, but we have ascertained they would rather not be moved without having us conspire on their behalf to achieve the full benefits that prepaid legal counsel might provide under the majesty of the law.”

Out of a small beaded armadillo bag suspended from her leather belt Ms. Luckyfeather pulled a lipstick and mirrored compact.  Slowly she began applying fuchsia color to her lips as she studied the image reflected in the small round mirror.  Satisfied, she snapped the compact shut, replaced the cosmetics into her bag and smiled a steely smile at Mr. Chase.  “And just how would you have us assist you in this matter?”

“Well, first off,” Mr. Chase got all squinty-eyed as he cocked his head from side-to-side, “I’d like to see your papers.”

Ms. Luckyfeather answered back, “Screw you.”

Mr. Chase smiled a tight-lipped smile right back at her.  “I did not cast aspersions on your worthiness of citizenship in the land of the Great White Father.  I merely requested your officious documentation pertaining to, and regarding herewith, these premises known as Broken Heart Park, the trailer home establishment of a potentially lucrative client base.”

I could feel Ms. Luckyfeather’s eyes burning into me as I passed the envelope with all the Kachinga eviction paperwork over to our legal eagle, Mr. Abel Chase, Esq.

As soon as Mr. Chase opened the envelope and began studying the eviction papers, Kachingas gathered more tightly round to hear what was going on.  Maggie stood by my side while Miss Dorothy showed up and dispensed snacks.

“Hummmmmm,” Mr. Chase hummed.  “Hummmmmhummmm,” he hummed again.  “Yummmmm, hummerhummerhummer.”

He flipped a page with a flourish and looked up.  “From what I’ve been able to ascertain and conjugate, it appears that the ultimate duration of residency prior to deportation is for an accumulation of one year and two months, and with the right judge, perhaps we could extenuate the circumstances even more.”

Everyone was expecting me to say something.  “Well, Mr. Chase,” I sounded soberly engaged, “my legal counselor, Mr. William Peevy, has moved on into an honest line of work, and, since I ain’t educated in such matters as yourself, you’ll have to pardon me when I ask, What in the hell are you talking about?”

The portly lawyer in polyester beamed.  “Well, it so happens I studied the Kachinga tongue as a boy, and if they are telling you to vacate by 14 moons, then you don’t need any Navajo code-talker to know that that means 14 months, not inconsidering any Blue Moons mind you.  Therefore, according to my celestial arithmetic, you got at least a year and two months before being ejected.  A great many litigious things could get conflicted in that amount of time.”

Mr. Chase turned his gaze back on Big Chief Like-A-Horse and Ms. Luckyfeather, as the Kachinga attorney was busy digging around in her armadillo bag.

“Is that not right?” Mr. Chase asked her, waiting for a public response from Ms. Luckyfeather.

I could see the Kachinga lawyer’s tight body constricting into a tighter package, and her dark brown eyes taking on a hardness and molten determination I’d only seen in my Maggie.

“I said two weeks, and you’re out!”  Sashimi Luckyfeather scanned the gathering, “All of you!”

Abel Chase smiled.  “But you wrote 14 moons.  That means, 14 full moons.”

Ms. Luckyfeather looked over at the Big Chief, who’d been silently observing events, but he just shrugged.  She kicked the dirt, “Hey, I wasn’t raised on a reservation, you know.  Maybe I’m not fluent in Kachinga, but I said I want everyone out in two weeks, and that means I want everyone out in 14 days.  And in my legal opinion, that’s too generous.”

Ms. Luckyfeather waved a sharp war-painted fingernail in the direction of Mr. Chase.  “Don’t try screwing me, you hayseed, or I’ll render that leisure suit of yours in pork fat with you still in it.”

Well that triggered a crossfire hurricane of legalized mumbo-jumbo.  The two lawyers was bickering back and forth when an official-looking SUV drove up.  A tall, chestnut-haired guy authoritatively unfolded his uniformed self out of the vehicle.  Once out, the officer sauntered on over.

“Lucky?  What seems to be the problem here?”

“Whitey,” Ms. Luckyfeather pointed at Mr. Chase, “this night school law clerk is trying to block our moves.”

The Deputy Sheriff walked over to Abel.  Our apparent legal representative handed Whitey the eviction papers without a further peep of protest.  Then the officer forcefully shoved the papers into my chest, smiling through gritted teeth, “Be out in two weeks.”