Brokenhearted in Bakersfield

 

3 - STARDUST

I was still blotting sweat when Owen Purty’s battered heap roared up behind me kicking up a choking cloud of dust.

“Yeeeehawwwwww!”  Owen hollered from his car window.  “Hey amigo, feel like going to The Stardust?”  He shot me a wink and flashed a wad of greenbacks.  “Today’s payday,” he winked again.  “I’m feeling the urge to unwind a bit, know what I mean?”

I knew what he meant.

“Let’s go toss back a few cold ones in air-conditioned splendor and enjoy some of the finest dancers in Kern County if not the whole damn Central Valley?  I’m cravin’ the fleeting companionship of feminine artistes, know what I mean?”  He winked again, and I was beginning to wonder if Owen was developing a nervous tic.  However, the combination of air-conditioned splendor, icy longnecks and dancing feminine artistes was irresistible.

Owen Purty is a neighbor who first showed up around Broken Heart Park only a few months back.  He set himself up in a little camper off near the exit to the interstate.  Nobody’s exactly sure if he has a true lot number or not.  He seems like a regular dude, I suppose, if maybe a little mangy around the edges.  He is not the kind you’d want to loan a socket wrench even if it was yours to lend.  In any case, Owen’s company would be fine by me if he was driving and buying.

“What’re we wait’n for,” I brushed dirt off my jeans.  “Let’s roll.”  I jumped into Owen’s rusted heap with the trashed upholstery and plastic wrap windshield.  I hadn’t barely slammed the door shut to seal myself in with duct tape before he pushed the pedal to the metal as we set out on a mission to The Stardust Lounge.

“Guess you know there’s gonna be some big changes around Broken Heart Park?”

“What the hell’re you talking about?” I asked while busy duct-taping myself to the seat.

“Ferris and Rosa Twain are taking over as the new management team.”

“No shit.”

“I shit you not.  Didn’t you hear?  Ol’ Jack Philpot hightailed it outta Bakersfield.  Word is he headed north somewhere, one step ahead of the law.”

“Ol’ Jack never did much to improve things when he was the Park Manager,” I hocked a loogie out the window.  “But I guess he did improve Bakersfield if he left it.”

Owen explained with the smug air of the employed how he was going to his part-time job at The Recycling King when Ferris himself gave him the news about the managerial shift, and that he and Rosa had moved their stuff on over to the First Coach on lot No. 1.

The First Coach is a dream.  It’s a huge double-wide provided for the Park Manager to live in (or in this case, the two co-Park Managers to live in).  It includes decorative lace curtains, a lavishly cemented patio painted various shades of green and surrounded with red plastic geraniums, and it looks real luxurious from up on the interstate.  And best of all, it was rent-free to its occupants.

Owen whirled the fake-fur lined steering wheel with his palm locked in a death grip around the plastic suicide knob, and his rusty ol’ wreck fishtailed into the near empty parking lot of The Stardust Lounge.  Our arrival was announced with an explosive backfire.

I gave Owen two thumbs-up.  I was in the mood for a cool dark place, and whatever Lady Luck might sling my way.