Brokenhearted in Bakersfield

 

44 - A PLANTING

The crowd at the cemetery for Fanny’s planting was amazing.  I’d never seen so many old folks in one place in my entire life.  It was like they was all sent straight from central casting.  Some carried little pink poodles with sunglasses and others fondly cradled tiny plastic ukuleles.  From behind the safety of the tinted glass of Uncle Roy’s limo, all I could see was an army of hideous zombies pushing walkers.

Sprinkled among the crowd was fans wearing turbans and sunglasses, and many holding up pictures of Fanny in honor of her glory years.  It was scary driving up in the stretch black Buick between throngs of people peering inside the car trying to get a glimpse of what celebrities might be hiding out inside.

Uncle Roy turned to me and said, “We figured that the crowds would be too big to have any kind of memorial service in a building, so we’re just going to have things right out here in the open.”  Roy pointed out the car window, “The wet bar and buffet were Fanny’s idea.”

He gestured with a roll of his wrists, “And over there is the tent with chairs set out for the immediate family.”  With a nudge of the knee, “That would be you and me, kid.”  Uncle Roy then gestured toward a long row of bleachers, “And over there, behind the velvet ropes, is the area reserved for what I like to think of as the many friends and fans of our own Fanny Kartone.”

High over a hole in the ground the body of Fanny laid sunny-side up.  Unlike a regular casket, all four sides of this box folded down so she could be viewed in all her wonder.  No expense had been spared to create the spectacle that her fans had traveled to see.  Even if she was laid out in an open field on a day that promised to reach close to 100-degrees, she had been nipped and tucked and pulled and painted until she appeared to be in her early nineties.

Dressed in gold lamé peddle-pushers, black angora sweater and topped with a black and gold turban with a large onyx pin stabbed into the middle, Fanny radiated style, dead or not.  Her toes had been painted the same Jungle Red as her fingers, and she was wearing simple gold sandals.  I thought the sunglasses made a nice touch, too, considering they made her look more natural from most viewpoints.  Uncle Roy said the fans expected to see Fanny Kartone as the famous star she’d been in life, and Fanny wouldn’t want to disappoint her audience of all the little people who’d gathered to pay their final respects.

We took our seats under the big top.  Wedged between Uncle Roy and Cy Squeel, I waited and greeted the passing mourners.  One ol’ geezer came up to me and tenderly grasped my hand.  “Is that really her?” he asked in a shaky voice.  “I used to spend all my money just to see her, day after day, night after night.  In them days there was a new Fanny Kartone feature every week.  I actually ended up living in the Bijou Theatre, but they eventually found me.  By then I had lived on floor popcorn and toilet adventures for three months.”  He adjusted his turban and slowly faded away.

Next, a sack of flowery print with blue hair and painted wrinkles approached, dragging a tall thin stick of a man sporting a thick layer of shoe polish reminiscent of Harry Oskarlic’s slicked-back ‘do.  The old man was slathered in pancake makeup, and he clutched a ukulele tight to his chest.  The old woman leaned forward and unburdened her heart, “I modeled my entire life on Fanny Kartone.  What the hell was I thinking?  I hooked myself up with one ukulele player after another, over and over again.  You name one, and I probably married him.  Now my family is dead, I have no children, and all I got left is a long line of fruity uke pluckers for exes.  Please, please, please,” she pleaded.  “Push me in on top of Fanny.  I want to die.”

The endless stream of adoring fans continued to shuffle past, giving me one painful story of loss after another painful story of loss.

I couldn’t help noticing that even with all the carnations, lilies and roses banking her casket (and the pervasive smell of seeping natural gas in Ulele), you could still catch the faint scent of bleach emanating from Fanny’s elevated platform.  (This made me wonder what had become of Lars, who I hadn’t seen since that day in Squeel’s office.  I was having my suspicions.)

After what seemed like an eternity, Brother Hickpacker finally stepped up to the podium to speak.  He tapped the microphone, turned his head and gave the cough of eloquence.

Brother Hickpacker arranged some papers on the podium and placed what appeared to be a pile of handkerchiefs nearby.  As hot as it was, I could understand him wanting to be prepared for perspiration, but this was overkill.

“Friends, I’m sure I need no introduction.  I am, after all, the celebrated local radio personality, Brother Hiram P. Hickpacker, of inspirational broadcast fame, and I’m joining you today on this most solemn occasion, the occasion of putting Miss Fanny Kartone into sacred ground.

“Hallelujah!

“True, Fanny Kartone may have been of the Twelve Tribes, but she had feelings just like the rest of us. And even though she was a rich and powerful movie star, I cannot count the number of times she called upon me with her concerns as a concerned citizen.

“Why, I remember the time she called me up and said to me, ‘Brother Hickpacker, I am concerned.’

“And I said, ‘About what, Miss Kartone?’

“And she said, ‘Why Brother Hickpacker, I’m concerned about the scourge that has blighted the face of our nation.’

“And I said, ‘Miss Kartone, what scourge is that?’

“And she said, ‘Why, herpes of course.’

“And I consoled her, ‘Miss Kartone, you put those concerns out of your pretty little head right this minute, for I have found the solution to this mighty scourge.’

“And friends, I have.  Let me hear a Hallelujah!”

With a wink Brother Hickpacker lifted what could no longer be mistaken for a pile of handkerchiefs.

“Friends, I have before me a stack of clean, white, cotton panties.  I have laid my hands on these panties over and over and over again.  Now they are ready to come to you.

“Hallelujah!

“You send me, Brother Hiram P. Hickpacker, $19.95, that’s right, just $19.95, and I will personally send to you a pair of my pure, white, anti-herpes panties for your very own.

“Once you put on a pair of my pure, white, anti-herpes panties, and refrain from all sexual contact, and never use a public toilet again, I promise, you will be safe from the scourge of herpes.

“Can I hear an Amen?

“And friends, for the first 100 of you to avail yourselves of this special offer, I will throw in my new catalogue of anti-herpes foundation garments, including the anti-herpes bra and edible panties in four mouth-watering flavors.”

Mesmerized, I hadn’t noticed that Uncle Roy left his seat until he started shoving Brother Hickpacker away from the podium.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Uncle Roy cut in over a screech of feedback.

“Thank you Brother Hickpacker for those inspiring words.  Fanny would be touched by your heartfelt tribute.”

Then came the plunkitty-plunk of canned ukulele-strumming over loudspeakers as Uncle Roy waved his arms to the workmen standing beside the grave.  “Okay, boys, you can close ‘er up and drop ‘er down!”

With that, the emotional eulogy for my dead Great-Granny concluded.  Next, the sides of Fanny’s casket lifted and the lid was locked, then the box sank slowly down inside the ground.  I walked to the edge of the grave and, as tradition demands, I tossed in a fistful of dirt.

I returned to my seat and surveyed the multitude of aged fans and mourners hobbling past as best they could, many offering a small memento to join Fanny in the land of no retakes.  Old photographs, yellowed posters and countless little ukuleles piled up high in the hole (like a mini-Bottomless Gorge) where Fanny Kartone would rest in eternal peace.

While the crowd thronged by us, I noticed Cy Squeel smiling to himself, no doubt because he was adding up the fees and retainers from running a $500 million piss-lizard foundation.  Brother Hickpacker kept gazing up into the sky beseechingly as he repeated, “Hallelujah.”  Uncle Roy continued reaching over to pat my thigh in heartfelt assurance.  I felt a sudden urge to fulfill a long standing obligation, so I excused myself and headed direct for the complimentary Port-a-Potty.