Brokenhearted in Bakersfield

 

4 - EVER THE TWAINS SHALL MEET

Word about Ferris and Rosa Twain’s installation as the new Park Managers spread real quick, and by ten o’clock the next morning every sober and ambulatory tenant gathered out front of No. 1 to hear what they had to say.  It was festival seating to hear Ferris and Rosa make their inaugural speechifying.  A golden glow rose up behind them as the lucky First Couple leaned against each other and grabbed the iron railing guarding the entrance to their double-wide domicile.

Ferris was known for his watery eyes, his nose of bulbous proportions made purple from a web of broken capillaries, and a voice so shrill it made dogs cry several counties away.  He raised one bony hand to call for silence.

“Rosa and I wanna thank y’all for coming out to welcome us to our new job,” he shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.  “And we want y’all to know that we’re gonna work extra hard to make this here Broken Heart Park the best damn mobile home community in Bakersfield if not the entire damn world.  We want y’all to know we got lots of plans on how to achieve our aims and mutual goals.”

Ferris stopped shifting for a moment like he expected applause or something, then he held up both skeletal hands and nodded his head in a gesture of trying to quiet down the silent crowd.

“Now I don’t want to badmouth no one,” he squinted, “but the last Park Manager stayed here for less than nine months and all he ever did was dig up the grounds in front of our homes and try to convince everyone that Broken Heart Park was getting ready for a planting.  And then he never planted nothin’.  Well, we ain’t gonna be like that.”

Ferris paused again, leaning over and wrapping a wasted arm around Rosa’s enormous brown torso at the wide spot between her tube top and her cutoffs where tufts of curly brown hair sprouted.  He pumped his fists into the sky and shouted, “And I won’t say nothing about the sordid company Ol’ Jack used to keep!”

After pausing to enjoy the crowd’s nonexistent cheers, Ferris bobbed his head up and down before plodding on.  “And I promise you I will see to it that the driveways around Broken Heart Park get oiled down at least once or twice during the summer so we don’t gotta eat dust every time a truck or waste removal van rolls by.  And if our soil can’t support actual lawns for our friends here in Broken Heart Park, then we’ll damn sure see to it that everyone gets a potted geranium to put out front of their trailer.”

The dead quiet persisted.

“Well, that’s about all I gotta say, except that the door to the First Coach is always open to y’all, our esteemed friends and valued neighbors, unless...” Ferris turned to nod knowingly at Rosa, “...this here trailer’s a-rockin’.”

More silence.

“Well, thanks for coming, y’all.”  With that, the Twains gave everyone a formal smile and a final wave and they proceeded to disappear into their manufactured mansion.

Everybody kind of looked around at everybody else with expressions betraying nothing, and then we all wondered off.  It wasn’t but two minutes before the sounds of stereos blasted, and pots and pans banged in interactive domestic harmony.  Broken Heart Park returned to its familiar, reassuring commotion.

I prodded Owen. “I don’t see Mary.  Let’s go find out what she has to say about the new management hereabouts.  If anybody knows what’s going on, it’s her.”

We crossed to the other side of Broken Heart Park where we found Hippie Mary cooling off with Chet on the steps leading to their trailer.  She was reclined up against her old man with her arms resting on his thighs like he was a shaggy upholstered lounge chair.  They looked so contented how the mass of their unrestrained bodies pressed against each other.  Soon as she saw me she raised a hand, “We’re out of beer.”

“I didn’t come to drink your beer,” I tried not to betray too much hurt or disappointment.  “I wanted to get your take on the way things are being run around here.”

“New Park Managers don’t necessarily add up to new management.”  Hippie Mary leaned her great moon face in Chet’s.  “Babe, should I tell them?”

Chet’s head seemed to hover over his old lady’s.  “Momma, everyone’ll find out soon enough.  May as well be from you.”

“This is good,” she leaned forward as if to share a secret.  “The other day when I saw the Sheriff’s car pull in to pay a little visit on Ferris and Rosa, I figured something was up.  So I wandered over that way to see if I might catch wind of something.  First off, Pig Al asked all these questions about how well Ferris knew Ol’ Jack Philpot, to which Ferris said he didn’t know Ol’ Jack any better than to pay his rent to him, and that Ol’ Jack was always digging around Broken Heart Park but he never planted anything like he always said he was going to do.  Then Pig Al dropped the big one….”

We hung expectantly on Hippie Mary’s next words.

“He said Ol’ Jack entirely cleaned out the Broken Heart Park improvement funds before clearing out of town.  While Ol’ Jack was in charge he signed a bunch of phony improvement bills and invoices and he fraudulently charged them to the Broken Heart Park franchise, but before anyone could find out about his embezzlement he made off with the money.  The Twains can make all the promises they want, but the truth is, there’s no money left to put out one potted geranium let alone oil down the drive.”

Hippie Mary’s eyes peeked over pink sausage fingers cupping her mouth, apparently so no one could read her lips although there was no one else around.  She continued, “It seems Ol’ Jack ran north because he’s got a sister he can sponge off of.  And it turns out, he’s also been implicated in a separate crime.”  She started to giggle uncontrollably.  “It seems the Minister’s Son confessed to Pig Al that it was Ol’ Jack who was responsible for the disappearance of Lorleen Littlesum’s bicycle.”

I was shocked, truly shocked.  Lorleen’s little red Huffy was her pride and joy, not to mention her only mode of transportation to work at The Stardust Lounge.

“Why’d Ol’ Jack wanna steal poor Lorleen’s bike?”

“Nobody knows.  But according to Pig Al, the Minister’s Son admitted buying pork rinds and blue eye shadow from the money Ol’ Jack gave him.  Filled with remorse, the Minister’s Son has now offered to give the eye shadow to Lorleen.”

Hippie Mary started to laugh until tears rolled down her face like added sweat, but I was feeling too sorry for poor Lorleen to share such a lighthearted moment.  I thought back on when Lorleen first appeared here in Bakersfield, possessing only her Huffy bicycle and a burning desire to entertain.  She soon found success at The Stardust where she’s danced professionally as The Princess, whose performances feature a loosely Native American interpretation.  I have often paid to see The Princess’s show, and I can personally attest to her many stirring star qualities.  I love seeing her come out on stage all done up in a feathery headdress and covered with beads, and it’s always culturally inspiring to watch her dance around in torn buckskins.  She’ll cut loose with a few excited war-whoops while gyrating around a totem pole erected in the center of the stage, and she takes off her necklaces and tosses them out to appreciative members in the audience.  Once she’s tossed all her necklaces she’ll come on down among the paying customers to retrieve her props, and this is the portion of the program that allows for gratuities.  I myself have forgone the pleasure of many a pickled egg with my beer just so’s I could have a few extra bills to tuck in the leather loincloth of The Princess to thank her for her artistic endeavors.

But Ol’ Jack’s thievery had a further devastating effect on poor Lorleen.  Her ankles swelled from walking to and from her job, and worst of all, her dancing slipped a notch or two from its usual high standards.  Owen even commented how The Princess’s performances somehow lacked passion and her dance steps didn’t have the same lively enthusiasm.

If comedy is nothing but sustained tragedy, it’s a wonder we don’t die laughing.