Brokenhearted in Bakersfield

 

2 - OPEN FOR BUSINESS

I was sitting back all relaxed and swishing beer from cheek to jowl when I heard pebbles crunching under familiar footsteps.

“Mornin’.”

“Mornin’,” I nodded back to the massive shape casting a long shadow.  It was my neighbor, Chet Baker.  Even in the shadows you couldn’t help but recognize Chet Baker.  He slowly hunkered himself down on some steps below where I was sitting.

“How ‘bout a little wake-and-bake?”  Chet passed a lit roach and slipped out a breakfast beer from his overalls.

“That’s neighborly,” I appreciatively accepted his offering and quietly pushed the first can of beer behind me.  (I figured it was already warm, so it’d still be warm when I got back to it later.)  I cracked open the frosty cold one Chet handed me and listened to the excited hiss of foam kissing the oval opening, then I unhinged my lips and released the frothy liquid.

“Ahhhhhhh,” I wiped dribbles of the tasty libation with the back of my hand.  Taking another swig, my eyelids closed in pure pleasure.  My eyes slowly reopened to witness Chet pleasuring himself with a cold one.

I swear to God, ol’ Chet never changed at all.  Again he was dressed up in his customary blue denim overalls, the ones that held his modesty in check by two frayed button-down straps, with his hairy shoulders all exposed.  I just had to look away.

“We need to figure out how to get us some money.”

“I know,” I nodded in agreement, “but we nearly got busted stripping that pickup last week, and we may as well face it, our days collecting copper tubing off oil rigs is over.  I swear to God, scrounging around with the can-rats and tin-kickers for recyclable junk don’t fit our image as entrepreneurs.  I’m done picking up aluminum cans in ditches and culverts along the highway, and I’m absolutely refusing to be a cart-pusher at MalMart.”

“I still don’t see why we don’t try breeding llamas or chinchillas or something like them new beak-less chickens.”

“Beak-less chickens?”

“Yeah, I read about it online.  Some college kids working on a grant from an agribusiness conglomerate scientifically engineered a beak-less chicken, or so they said, and now chicken farmers don’t gotta worry none about their birds pecking each other’s eyes out, and the chickens have pretty limited survival options outside the coop.  I hear they’re now trying to develop a new breed of chicken without feathers or legs so you don’t need to chase ‘em down, and best of all, they’re practically cleaned and ready to eat except you don’t get no drumsticks.”

“Hmm, I don’t know.”

“Man, engineered livestock could be just our ticket.”

As much as I wanted to get my ticket punched, I still wasn’t completely sold by Chet’s enthusiasm for beak-less, feather-less or drumstick-less chickens.

“You seen that billboard near downtown that says ostriches is The Beef of the Future?” Chet asked.  “Think of the distribution business we could establish with our own free-range ostriches.”

“Who’s the birdbrain you got in mind to run this operation?” I slapped my neighbor’s shoulder.  We both started to laugh without trying to come up with a truthful answer.  After a bit we settled down into a quieter if not exactly sober repose, and we guzzled more beer and gazed off in deep thought in the direction of the fast moving interstate.

Breakfast servings continued with somewhat warmer beers produced out of Chet’s pockets while we continued our due diligence on the pros and cons of numerous investment options, including the proposal to start up a mutant chicken enterprise in the environs of Broken Heart Park.  It was not unnatural for us to spend entire days pounding back brewskis and estimating profit margins.  Chet’s overalls was definitely big enough to hold a wealth of inspiration.

The blistering sun started bearing down over the top of my trailer.  I gave Chet a nudge with my foot, “Maybe we’d best find someplace a little shadier?”

“Guess so.”

We struggled to our feet and shuffled around to the other side of my trailer where I grabbed a couple’a lawn chairs hidden from recyclers.  We barely got settled in before Chet’s old lady showed up.

“There you are,” Hippie Mary waved.  She picked up a milk crate from a neighbor’s lot to join us.  Bracelets and bangles jangled down her arms as strands of colored beads swung across her expansive braless bosom.  She set the basket down.  As her hips smothered the milk crate, pearls of perspiration gathered on her forehead.  I was dazzled by the little mirrors sewn on Mary’s dress which sparkled like a thousand stars.

“I thought you boys might enjoy a little something,” she pulled a pan of chocolate brownies from her basket.

Chet reached out to grab a hunk of brownie right out of the pan.  Hippie Mary shooed his hand away and proceeded to cut a large piece of brownie, which she politely offered him on a decorative paper plate.  She offered me the same with the addition of a fresh paper towel.  It was just like Hippie Mary to provide proper paper accessories out of a sense of genteel courtesy.

Now, you might not expect warm brownies would go real good with warm beers on a hot day, but then maybe you’ve never been to Bakersfield and tasted brownies as good as Hippie Mary’s.  Even before my mouth was full, I could tell she’d whupped up another righteous batch.

“You know, I’ve heard you two hatch moneymaking schemes for years but nothing ever comes of it.”

“Now, Momma,” Chet licked globs of brownie off his fingertips.

Hippie Mary placed her hands on her hips, “Has it ever occurred to you that our neighbors might not appreciate genetically modified animals overrunning our community and dropping nuggets of fertilizer?”

Our silence merely implied the truth that we hadn’t actually taken this possibility into consideration.

(My attention began to wander as a piss-lizard skittered by.)

“Have either of you thought about how you’d handle rustling?  People around here may not be certifiably sophisticated, but once you run a flock of The Beef of the Future under their noses you’re inciting them to thievery, murder and barbecue.”

“Oh yeah, rustlers.”  Chet frowned as chocolate oozed from both sides of his mouth.

“You know what I think?  I think we should farm natural fibers.”

(My attention was drawn to a family of piss-lizards sunning themselves on a nearby rock.)

“The peaceful cultivation and harvesting of sustainable and cruelty-free crops.”

Chet and me was dumbfounded.

“I’m saying we grow organic natural fibers.  I’ve clipped horticultural articles and researched how to make fabrics, rope and other useful things out of natural fibers.”

Chet and me didn’t say a word, so she clarified the matter for us.  “Hemp.  Hemp.  That’s what I’m talking about.  Growing hemp.  Hemp can provide all our natural fiber needs, and a life of holistic harmony for a profit.”

Chet and me sat spellbound like heathens on the sandy beach of discovery.  A sudden look of understanding passed between us, a look that conveyed everything.  Hippie Mary sat on that tiny milk crate nibbling her brownie eyeing us when we all busted out laughing.  We laughed and laughed and laughed some more.  Our search for a career direction was finally over, and it had been so simple.

(I noticed the family of piss-lizards was scattering, as if suddenly alarmed by something.)

Although I could tell we was dreamily pleased over our new business venture, nobody was talking shop just yet.  We kept rocking back and forth and giving each other knowing glances to make sure we was all hanging onto the moment.  After what turned out to be a long moment, I broke the silence.  “Mary, where do you think we can grow a crop of hemp around here?”  I spread my arms open wide to take in the expanse of brown gravel surrounding us.

Hippie Mary remained quiet for a while longer, hugging her knees the whole time and rocking even harder, and she whispered, “I was thinking about the ditch.”

Chet bolted upright.  “Momma, you don’t mean back where the busted septic tank drains off?”

“No place better.  Nobody ever goes back where the septic tank drains, not on purpose anyhow, and there ought to be plenty of rich soil for cultivating our non-edible products.  With a little tender loving care there’s no reason we couldn’t raise a mature crop of natural hemp fibers in about three or four months.”

“I’m not one to harsh the vibe,” I tried not to sound too discouraging, “but what’ll we do for starter seeds?  Chet and me can’t be expected to just go on over to Shucker’s Garden Supply and ask the store clerk for his biggest bag of hemp seeds.”

Again Hippie Mary placed hands to hips.  “Do you think I would propose a deal of this magnitude and include the two of you if I couldn’t make it work?”  Chet and me ate what was left of the brownies and washed them down with the last of our warm beers, and tried to stay focused and disciplined as Hippie Mary went on.

“An old girlfriend up in El Dorado sent me a bunch of starter seeds in a bag of potpourri.  I’ve got twenty-five little babies growing in our bathroom right now.”

“You do?” Chet hollered.

“Babe, they’ve been germinating in the tub for over a week now.” Hippie Mary gave her overripe lover a tender love pinch to his stubbly double chin.

We all agreed to bind our fates, our fortunes, and whatever honor we may still possess in a joint enterprise of hemp farming.  Hippie Mary had it all worked out.  She reached into her basket and pulled out a yellow pad and began reading out our strategic business goals, advising how Chet and me should only tend our natural fiber crop during the early morning hours after midnight.  She rambled on and on about a whole lot of other details that no doubt meant sound business sense.

We concluded our first formal staff meeting by agreeing to adjourn.  The brownies was all gone and everyone was a little sleepy.  Chet gradually shifted his shape out of my bent lawn chair and set a big bear paw around his old lady’s midsection.  “I’d say it’s time we went home and had us a little lay down,” he stifled a huge yawn.

“Babe, you got me.”

After watching my two business partners prop each other up and slide along the shady side of a neighbor’s coach, setting the pitbull out front to incessant barking, I squatted down to the crawlspace under my own trailer to get some well-deserved R&R.

My erstwhile plans was interrupted when I heard the sound of baked soil crunching under tires and I saw the patrol car making one of its rounds through Broken Heart Park.  Sheriff Al and Deputy Perro paid regular visits to Broken Heart Park, although residents rarely looked up or greeted the two officers.  It was enough for us to feel the grip of the long arm of the law.  The mellow spell was gone.

I hunkered down on my knees and pretended to be digging in the dirt until they passed on by.  As usual, the officers turned a slow circle before I heard the Sheriff’s vehicle tear out onto the interstate with sirens blaring and lights flashing.

I got up and wiped burning sweat from my eyes.  I was now wide awake, and wondering what to do next.