Brokenhearted in Bakersfield

 

30 - MY DEAR OLD AUNT FANNY

Fanny Kartone was my dear old Aunt Fanny, but I never knew she was a freakin’ movie star.  We’d have to talk.

I thought back to my boyhood days living here with Aunt Fanny in Ulele.  She was the one who raised me to young manhood, after my Mama was forced to abandon me back when times was getting tough.  I still have fond, if dim, memories of being on the road with Mama.

Can’t say I recall there being a Daddy around the premises.  Mama explained he wasn’t one for letting no moss gather under his feet, which I can understand, but I wish I knew who my Daddy was.  I still have a blurry recollection of my Mama’s many business agents, and I recall calling each one of them as my uncle.  I mostly remember my favorite uncle, Uncle Roy.  My uncles collected the money Mama’s many fans and admirers paid to see her live performances in the back of our wagon.  They tell me she could do up to five acts a night during her show days.  My Mama was a genuine star.

But Mama reluctantly concluded her traveling wagon wasn’t big enough for her and her growing boy, plus her agent, her various business associates, and the many talent scouts who came sniffing around.  So she brought me to Ulele to be with Aunt Fanny.

At the time I hadn’t seen the insides of many freestanding houses.  Matter of fact, I still ain’t seen too many, being a dedicated aficionado of the trailer park lifestyle.  I had never seen such beautiful stuff before as I beheld in my Aunt Fanny’s house.  Her place had an actual sofa and a chair that matched, and the cigarette holes didn’t show on the pillows.  There was little tables and lamps spread all over the place, and she had a separate room to cook in, other rooms just for sleeping, and smaller rooms with porcelain conveniences cleaner than a gas station’s.

While I sat at a fancy carved wooden table quietly adding my initials with a pocketknife, Mama and Aunt Fanny got into what you might call an animated conversation about the prospects of extending my visit.  While Aunt Fanny screeched she wanted nothing to do with a sticky little brat, I couldn’t help but notice Mama edging closer and closer to the front door.  Just when she reached the threshold she flung it open and spun around, and clutching at her breasts Mama shouted, “I’m still big, it’s the sideshows that got small!”  After expressing her desire for artistic changes, she was gone.  Gone for good.

Aunt Fanny caught me adding my carvings to her antique table, and she aggressively wrestled the pocketknife from my grip while ordering her manservant to come and take me away to disinfect me in a bathtub.

I fondly remembered these things as I trudged up unfamiliar streets.  I wondered if I could find my way back to Aunt Fanny’s?

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