Brokenhearted in Bakersfield
47 - HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS
Full of pie and flush with
coffee, I returned to my Great-Granny’s house on the Rue de Vallée. It was clear my work here was done. Leisurely I took a bubble bath and then
rummaged through Lars’ closet for a change of dry clothes. All I needed now was to find some more pocket
money for the trip back home. I went
through every drawer that was open, and I pried open every drawer that wasn’t.
I’d begun to worry the house was clean of cash when, by pure luck, while I was
tearing up the kitchen, I knocked over the cookie jar. There, lay’n on the floor in a pile of
cracked crockery and cookie crumbs, was all the dough I needed. With a fresh wad in my pocket and my stock
certificate shoved down my sock, I was good to go. I was more than ready to get myself down to
the train tracks under the cover of darkness an’ board a night train back to
Bakersfield.
It wasn't long before I was all aboard and heading home. Settling into the soft seats of the
observation car, all I could see was my own reflection in the glass and the
darkness beyond. I thought of my
half-sister, Baby Harmonica, lost somewhere out there in the dark.
Suddenly, my thoughts was drawn by the rustle of cloth. Across from my seat sat a beautiful little
redheaded girl with thick shiny pigtails tied back with bright red ribbons. The tiny darling was all dressed up in a
frilly red party dress, with little red socks and little red patent leather
shoes. I imagined my own baby sister was just as sweet.
I couldn’t help but smile as she began to play peekaboo with me. She pulled up her skirt and peeked from
behind the ruffles, then she pulled the skirt down quickly and laughed and
laughed, then she pulled the skirt up over her head again, and then she peeked
out to see if I was watching. It made me
think what I have missed not knowing my own sister.
The sweet little redheaded girl continued her game for a few minutes then she
dismounted from her own seat across the way and climbed up into the seat right
next to me.
“Hello,” I smiled down at her. “And
what’s your name?”
“Bwittany.”
“Bwittany?”
“No, Bwittany. Mister, are you making
fun of my wisp?”
I decided to change the subject.
With an innocent smile I inquired, “Where’s your Mommy?”
“Pwaying Thwee-Card Monte in the cwub car.”
“That’s nice,” I patted her head. “Do
you like riding on trains?”
Her face lit up. “I wike widing on
twains. But I wike pwaying horsy
better.”
“What’s praying horsy?” (I didn’t know;
I’d had a difficult childhood.)
“No, it’s pwaying horsy. That’s where
you give me twenty dollars so I won’t tell the conductor you were pwaying horsy
with me.”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard right.
“Fork it over.”
I’d heard right.
The little redheaded girl started to snort and sniffle, and as the other
passengers began to look and see what all the fuss was about she rubbed her
hands all over my pant leg.
“Hey!” I protested.
“Mister, wet’s do this the easy way and just give it to me.” She held out a pudgy little hand, and I
reluctantly surrendered my cash into her chubby grasping fingers.
“Pweasure doing business,” she stuffed the money inside her pretty red
panties. Then she pulled a red cherry
lollipop out of her red patent leather purse and handed it to me. “So it shouldn’t be a total woss,” she stuck
her tongue out. The little redheaded girl
merrily skipped away, shouting, “Suckerrr!”
I just knew Bwittany was going pwaces, and I pwayed that Bakersfield wasn’t one
of ‘em.