Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot...

I was sitting on my couch with my partner last night. He was known here in the past as "the boyfriend", but after 22 years together and well into middle age, "boyfriend" seems too silly, so "partner" it is. I heard him laughing and looked to see him reading a book. "What are you reading?" I asked.

"Your blog" he replied.

See, back in the Before Times, pre-Covid, I had decided to have the blog printed and bound. Whatever my feelings toward our time in Bako, I was still quite fond of the blog and didn't want to leave its existence up to the Tech Lords at Google. It got me through some terrible times and I didn't want to discover one day it had just vanished into the ether. I found an online service and it seemed pretty pricey but went ahead and ordered it. Imagine my surprise when a 20lb package arrived on my doorstep containing the blog in hardcover... all THREE volumes. Did I really write that much? At any rate, after thumbing through them revisiting some highlights (or lowlights as the case may be) they went up on the bookcase and there they have sat, gathering dust like an outdated encyclopedia, for years.

Until last night.

It's been 12 years since we left Bako. Honestly, our two and a half years in exile could have easily broken us, but in the end it made us stronger and made our love deeper and enduring. I never would've survived this experience without him, and I know he feels the same. His new career took off fairly quickly and soon I had a new path as well. Together, we've become somewhat prosperous and respectable, which is why I ultimately decided against outing myself in this final post. A friend once told me I should try and sell this blog to Netflix or HBO, and while I was flattered, and as entertaining as people have found this adventure, "The Sopranos" it's not. Besides, my employer would most likely be aghast if they read this blog.

My partner still refuses to use the "B word". Like Voldemort, it is The Place That Shall Not Be Named. If it must be referred to, and he really wishes I wouldn't, we usually just euphemistically allude to the time we lived "up north". With the passage of time, and some artful fudging of the dates we left LA and arrived in Orange County, we have effectively memory-holed Bako.

We spent sometime last night reliving some of the foibles of our time in Bako, misty watercolored memories of the way we were. But looking over the blog, one thing bothered me and that was the final post. I always aimed for snarky and frequently crossed over into spite, but the final post in retrospect seemed especially heartless. So I decided to try and log in and rectify the situation, deleting that final post and giving this blog a proper epilogue. God bless Apple - this blog was created four computers ago but I still had the login credentials stored in memory. So here we go...

Several years ago we were attending an extended family reunion in Lake Tahoe. We decided to drive, which left us with two options. We could travel north on highway 99 right through the heart of Bakersfield, possibly triggering underlying PTSD. Or we could take the backroad, traveling up Highway 395 on the backside of the Sierras through the "Valley of Meth", the no man's land between Victorville and Lone Pine. We ultimately chose the 99 - it was the fastest route and we figured enough time had passed and the highway is mostly below grade as it passes through Bako, so other that the ridiculously tall sign for "Buck Owens' Crystal Palace", there would be little to see to remind of us of our time in exile. Just throw on some club music and focus on the road ahead and we'd be in Shafter before we knew it.

As we approached the "Bako metro area", maybe around Pumpkin Center, the 99 ground to a complete halt. After inching ahead for about 20 minutes, we decided to, God help us, turn on a local AM station to see if we could find any information on the what the problem was. That's when we learned that the CHP had shut down the highway in both directions because some poor soul was clinging to the railing of an overpass, threatening to jump.

Totally relatable - been there.

Without even thinking or consulting a map, I blithely said "Lets just hop off at Panama, cut over to Stine and then cutback on Ming..."

My partner looked at me as if he had seen a ghost. What was wrong with me? Why did I still know that? After YEARS?

Just goes to show you that while you can leave Bako, Bako never really ever leaves you.

And you know, I'm OK with that.

 

The Best Thing About Bakersfield...

Leaving.


***************************************

I'll post an epilogue of sorts sometime next week with news, if any, of future plans.

Eric

Quivering With Anticipation

I was watching the news a week or so ago and they were showing the story of the Costa Allegra, the cruise ship which suffered a fire and subsequently lost power and spent several days adrift in the pirate infested waters of the Indian Ocean. Ultimately it was towed to port in the Seychelles and when it arrived there were reporters dockside to interview the passengers. One woman summed it up...

"It was horrible, it was miserable, it was frightening. The heat was unbearable, what little food there was was inedible, the people didn't seem to know what they were doing. But worst of all was the stench..."

Honey, you just described the last two years of my life.

Her voyage mercifully ended, and ours is about to begin. Within 24 hours in fact. I couldn't sleep last night, neither could the boyfriend. He drove back last night for the last time and we packed until 3.

With just one day left, I suppose I could be charitable. I wish I had some profound lessons learned to share at this point, but about the best I can come up with "to each, his own". I have to say that the vast majority of the people in Bakersfield wouldn't dream of living anywhere else. Most of them were born and bred here and their families go back for generations. All that inbreeding has resulted in an odd little ecosystem that suits them to a T. It can be rough on outsiders, but that's beside the point... it isn't meant for us.

It reminds me of a nature show I saw awhile ago where they profiled these bizarre creatures that lived on the sea floor. Specifically, they had adapted and evolved over the eons to live comfortably around some boiling hot sulphuric vents. That environment would be toxic to all normal creatures, but they thrived in it.

So who am I to judge? I couldn't stand this place, but most of the people here are happy as clams. Little, toxic, mutant clams.

So to the people of Bakersfield, I wish you all well. Don't take this the wrong way, but I hope never to see you again. I'm sure the feeling is mutual.

One. More. Day.

Into The Great Unknown

I'm finding myself feeling somewhat adrift these days.

Part of it is the isolation; I've been in solitary confinement now for over a month, no offense to the dogs. And I mentally checked out of Bako weeks ago. I find on the rare occasion I leave the house or watch the local news, I've reverted to the same "what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-these-people" bemused detachment I had when I first moved here, before the reality and despair set in.

But the void has yet to be filled. I'm excited to be leaving, thrilled actually, but because I really have no idea where we are moving, rather than anticipation I'm feeling more trepidation. I have a vague idea where we'll be from the map and a few fuzzy online pictures of our future home, but other than that, it's a mystery to me. The boyfriend assures me it will all be great, but his continued use of words like "snug" and "cozy" isn't having the calming effect I think he thinks it does.

But in the end, it all doesn't matter. We'll be away from here and that's the important thing. I just want it over with already.

There’s Something Rotten In Bako

As I find myself wrapping things up and winding things down, I have to admit I've had pangs of guilt in regard to this blog. Have I been too mean? Have I been too hard? Have I been too judgmental?

And then yesterday I went to the market.

I found myself in line behind an attractive young guy. And then I noticed the giant tattoo on his forearm.

A swastika.

A big one too; you couldn't miss it.

I'm not sure which was more horrifying, the swastika or people's reaction to it, which was... nothing.

The woman in front of him chatted him up, the cashier cheerfully made small talk, the box boy happily offered to help him out with his bags, no one seeming to notice or care. But you couldn't not notice it.

I'm not so naive as to think there aren't neo-nazis or white supremacists lurking in any given part of the country, but I never thought I'd see them accepted as part of polite society.

It would be easy to dismiss if it was an isolated incident but it's not. A few weeks back the dogs took an unexpected detour through a vacant lot around the corner. The lot is huge and the neighborhood kids use it as a dirt bike park, building up mounds of dirt to make jump ramps. I was just gazing at the ground as we walked along when suddenly we came to a trench that had been dug in the hard dirt. It was about a foot wide and went in a straight line for about 20 feet where it made a sharp 90 degree turn. "What the hell?" I thought as we walked along and then I looked up and realized we were standing in the middle of a 50 foot swastika.

Why on earth would someone take that much time and effort to carve a 50 foot swastika?

I'm glad we aren't sticking around to find out.

“We Can’t Be Beat!”

We came up with a partial solution to our new dollhouse accommodations... Fire Sale!

The reality is our new place lacks both a family room and spare bedroom, so those are two rooms of furniture we'd have to pay to store, not to mention sundry other soon-to-be-homeless pieces of furniture. That simply isn't in the budget. And after moving three times in three years, we've decided to stay put for awhile, regardless of the circumstances, so there was little chance the stuff would be used again anytime soon. Plus, our move is going to be priced by the pound. A ton here, a ton there, it adds up quick. So if we can drop hundreds of pounds off the move, so much the better.

Everything went up on Craigslist last week and initially business didn't look promising. The only calls we received were from cracked out meth heads hoping we might be interested in, you know, giving it away for free.

Let me think on that a moment... NO.

Business picked up on the weekend. A woman called inquiring about the family room furniture and after checking it out, she decided to buy it. She said she'd return with some help to move it and was back in a surprisingly short time with what I assumed to be her family. There was a disheveled, middled aged man I took to be her husband, and three sketchy teenagers I guessed were her children. Turns out they weren't family in the traditional sense, but rather members of the same "group home", which was where our furniture was destined.

"It's a half-way house and it's right around the corner" the jittery teen girl announced. "There are a lot of them around here."

Well, that explains a lot.

And then there was Rachel.

Rachel and her husband were relocating here from LA. Her husband had accepted a job here six months ago and had been making the 300 mile round trip every day since. It had finally gotten the better of him and they reluctantly decided to move here. Rachel was interested in the bedroom furniture and came by to look it over.

She seemed anxious right off the bat and as she told her story she only got more so. When I told her that we too had moved here from LA, she looked to me for reassurance.

"It's nice here, right? she asked, almost pleading.

"Absolutely", I lied.

"Lots of things to do? Nice people?"

"Definitely", I lied.

Shameless, I know. But I couldn't afford to scare her off and lose the sale. Did I mention we pay for the move by the pound?

Rachel seemed visibly relieved and agreed to buy the whole room. She said she'd be back the next day with her husband to pick it up.

Sunday, they showed up to pick up the furniture and Rachel seemed somewhat stressed, her husband too. More than that, they both seemed apprehensive, maybe a little scared. I know the feeling well. That's how we were in the days before we moved here.

I wished I could tell them it would all be OK, but I'd already told enough lies for one weekend.

The Countdown Begins...

My last Monday in Bakersfield.

Just writing that brings a smile to my face.

And I do mean LAST. I will never set foot on this side of the Tehachapis again. Evah.

If at some point in the future I need to travel north, I'll fly. Won't even pass through this neck of the woods again. I'm afraid the smell will bring on PTSD.