Brokenhearted in Bakersfield
20 - TREASURES IN THE TRASH
It was some time later I was
minding my own business and sleeping off my Bursting Pride dividends, when out
of nowhere came a fanfare of trumpets and a beating of drums and a crashing of
cymbals making a terrible clatter and a disturbance of my peace. I bolted upright from the unwelcome noise and bashed my head against the underside of my trailer. (After a night full of beer and Nyquil
shooters, this was definitely not my preferred wakeup call.)
I wiggled myself backwards and pulled myself up as quick as I could without
blacking out, and I presently emerged from under my coach into the light. The black crêpe from the recent train wreck
had completely disappeared, and it was now replaced with all kinds of balloons
and decorative ribbons blowing in the wind.
Marching band music blared over loudspeakers set out on top of a van
parked right out in front of my place.
(Maybe I should say the place I sleep under, since I’m still officially
locked out of my personal mobile home.)
Squinting into the bright daylight I could see flapping streamers in vivid
colors of silver and blue and yellow and red.
It sure got your attention, if you was properly awake. I could also see a fat old guy standing over
by the van parked out front of my trailer (the one that blasted all that music)
and he was shoutin' and sweatin' about “bargains” to be had.
“What the hell’re you carrying on about?” I yelled in his general
direction. “I could sleep another
twenty-four hours if it wasn’t for all the ruckus. Who’re you anyhow? And what the hell’re you doing in Broken
Heart Park?”
“Well hello, friend,” ol’ tubby smiled that unmistakable gray denture smile of
a used-trailer salesman. “The name’s
Wheeler,” he extended his hand in greeting, “Pervus Wheeler.” He pressed his business card in my hand,
which I held at arm’s length as I tried to focus.
Pervus Wheeler
Lollapalooza Productions
Used Trailer & Estate Sales,
Deprogramming, Cosmetology,
Rolfing and EST
“And this here’s my best friend, Buddy.”
The fat guy proudly pointed down to the sorriest, mangiest mutt I have
ever seen.
Then the annoying loud salesman cleared his throat and continued yammering, “I
have been retained by the local management to oversee the salvage operations
following your misfortune, for a tidy profit of course. You know, my friend, there are treasures in
the trash here at rock-bottom prices,” his smile widened till I could see his
serrated teeth, “and the whole world’s just gotta know about it.”
Mr. Wheeler’s flea-bitten hound came up to me and shoved his inquisitive nose
right into my crotch region.
“Hey,” I protested like any violated victim.
“Oh, don’t you worry about Buddy none,” Mr. Wheeler assured me. “He’s just a friendly ol’ hound. Why, that’s just his friendly way of asking, What’s your name?”
This was not good. I looked around. Folks was crawling all over the sacred
wreckage of other people’s dreams and picking up twisted metal and tossing it
aside like they was family hunting through a dead uncle’s pants.
(And just where was our Park
Managers in all this commotion? It’d
been so long since I had seen hide nor hair of Ferris and Rosa Twain, I wasn’t
rightly sure I could pick ‘em out of a police lineup.)
As I took in all the desolation and destruction through bloodshot eyes, I felt
Buddy sneaking up behind me and sniffing at my backside like he didn’t get my
last name. I shoved him away and tried
to concentrate on all the shredded metal and shattered windows and broken
plastic furniture throwed every which way in what was once my happy home. I couldn’t help thinking how, if maybe I’d
been there for Edna and helping her finish that bottle, how I might have been
able to convince her that it wasn’t opportunity knocking, it was a freaking
freight train fixing to rip our world asunder.
On second thought, I would have just run for it. Which got me wondering what happened to the
bottle of O Promise Me. Damn boys with
the body bags probably got it all.
Strangers can be so unkind.
Buddy was growling as he rolled around on his back in the dirt, belly exposed. “What kind of breed of dog is that anyhow?” I
inquired of Mr. Wheeler.
“Oh, he’s one of God’s own originals.”
Just like I thought: a purebred
mongrel. Right after Mr. Wheeler
clarified the dog’s pedigree, that old hound lifted one leg wide apart and tended
to some personal hygiene matters under his tail.
I pointed, “Looks to me like Buddy’s having an identity crisis.”