Little Barbs Over Slur About Bakersfield

There I was, just minding my own business and watching the World Cup in a fern bar packed with noisy Brazilians. I was sipping on something called “a Rio Rhumba” when I felt a tug on my pants cuff.

“You’ve got to hide me!” a small voice said.

I looked down and was delighted to see my old friend and confidante Deputy Mayor Barbie. She was out of breath. But as always, her clothes were perfect, and every strand of blond hair was in place. Mayor Riordan’s most important aide--she joined his office as a pay-back for Riordan’s work with the Mattel Corp.--seemed pleased to see me.

So pleased, in fact, that she scurried up my shin, pulled herself up my necktie and then flung herself toward my face. Her tiny hands put a death grip on my nostrils.

“Eeeeeeyyyooooowwww!!!” I said, no longer delighted.

“You’ve got to hide me!” she repeated. There was desperation in her baby blues. “It’s my cousin! She’s going to kill me!”

Suddenly, there was the loud blast of gunfire. Everybody jumped, except for Deputy Mayor Barbie, who swung from my nostrils into a back flip with a full twist, diving expertly into the interior breast pocket of my sport coat.

There was silence and the aroma of burnt gunpowder. Only then did I notice the source of the commotion--a tiny yet leggy woman standing just inside the doorway. Minuscule six-shooters were pointed toward the heavens. Bits of acoustic ceiling fell like snowflakes. She stared us down as she twirled and holstered her revolvers.

“They call me Bakersfield Barbie!” she announced. “Y’all got a problem with that?”

*

The Brazilians didn’t, so long as she didn’t shoot the TV. I feigned interest in the game, but couldn’t resist an occasional glance toward the new gal in town. The resemblance was striking. They looked more alike than those cousins on the old Patty Duke show.

The Barbie I know prefers pepper spray to pistols. And she shops at Nieman-Marcus, not Howard and Phil’s. Never before had I seen a pink Stetson, pink cowboy boots and a pink holster. “BARB,” the buckle declared.

It dawned on me why Bakersfield Barbie was so steamed. She must have figured out that her cousin was the real culprit in Mayor Riordan’s unkind verbal barbs on Bakersfield. The mayor, you may recall, recently spent the longest 3 1/2 hours of his life touring the Gateway to that other Valley, the San Joaquin. This peace mission was his way of making amends for proclaiming “Bakersfield is boring” in a radio interview in February. Riordan managed to get in a few more rips on his visit. When civic boosters gave him subscriptions to the local magazine and newspaper, Riordan said he would read them “every night when I have insomnia.”

And now, Bakersfield Barbie must have realized something I knew all along. Riordan wasn’t doing this on his own. The Deputy Mayor for Damage Control was coaching him. And why shouldn’t she? If you’re an Angeleno, it’s good to be reminded that things could be worse. The City of Angels has its flaws--earthquakes, riots, fires, crime and such--but at least it’s not Bakersfield.

“Hey, handsome,” Bakersfield Barbie said.

What can I say? She noticed me.

“Buy me a drink, big boy?”

Before I knew it, she was sitting on my lap. Are all Bakersfield women this fast? Inside my sport coat, Deputy Mayor Barbie trembled with fear. Bakersfield Barbie noticed the flutter of my jacket--but maybe she would just think it was the pounding of my heart.

Slowly, she drew her guns. She pointed one at the bulge in my sport coat and one between my eyes.

“So, handsome, who put those little paw prints on your nose?” she asked.

“Is that my cousin in your pocket? Or are you just glad to see me?”

*

“Don’t shoot.”

Deputy Mayor Barbie climbed out of my sport coat and met her cousin’s cold stare. Neither one of them blinked.

“Come on, cuz,” my old friend said. “Admit it. I did your hometown a favor. It needs the publicity. When’s the last time people in L.A. really thought seriously about moving to Bakersfield? Seattle, yes. Oregon, sure. Good God, people even go to Vegas. But Bakersfield ?

“Bashing that place is a win-win proposition. It’s good for L.A. It’s good for Bakersfield.”

She can really turn it on when she needs to. Deputy Mayor Barbie has that big-city confidence. She can roll with the punches. Bakersfield Barbie is a small-town girl whose feelings are easily hurt.

She holstered her guns. “Come on,” I said, lifting them to the bar, “let me buy each of you little ladies a drink.”

Bakersfield Barbie pouted. “I’ve got to go. Cowboy Ken is waiting for me.”

With that, she grabbed the umbrella from my Rio Rhumba and leaped from the bar, floating down like Mary Poppins. “Bye, cuz,” she said as she floated to the floor. Then she looked at me. “See ya later, handsome.”

We watched her zigzag past the dancing Brazilians and out the door.

“You’re shameless,” I said. “A win-win proposition?”

The deputy mayor shrugged.

“She’s really a lot like Bakersfield,” she said. “Nice enough . . . and a bit slow.”

Scott Harris’ column appears Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday.