"Well, time to head back to Shitsville..."
I laughed out loud and it punctured the gloom that had descended on us as the hours ticked down to the end of our weekend furlough. I guess we wouldn't be running off to Mexico after all.
There was a certain relief though. Not with returning to Bakersfield. God no. But with that one sentence all fears that the boyfriend had crossed over and Gone Bako on me were laid to rest. We were on the same page.
And headed back to Shitsville.
Shitsville! What an awesome name. I wish I had thought of it. It has the benefit of being both figuratively and literally spot on.
Figuratively in the sense of, well, just read this blog. A worse place you'd be hard pressed to find.
But also literally, in the sense that... Bakersfield smells.
You smell Bakersfield before you ever catch sight of it. At Thanksgiving, as we descended down the Grapevine, I had half-dozed off in the passenger seat with the dogs in my lap. Twenty miles later, with the windows rolled up, and my eyes shut, I knew we were nearly there. Eau de Bako.
I can't really quantify the scent. A mixture of toxic air, manure and pesticides, but I'm just guessing. You know it when you smell it.
So off we go. As I type this post they're playing "Road to Nowhere" by the Talking Heads in the background.
Sounds about right.
