Uncle Bogun
by Doug Lang
he's the only mazappa old enough to remember mom and dad's
first days in the new world after coming over from russia. not
that uncle bogun can remember, but he's old enough to. none of
the mazappa children knew where he was for many years, three
decades almost. we remember him as kids, coming around with
that fiddle of his, playing tunes that put tears in our elders' eyes,
tunes from the old country i guess. to us kids, though -- billybob,
cletis, bruno and buddy -- those same tunes caused us to jam our
fingers in our ears. i don't know, but i suppose they were polkas
or something, and the slow ones? they were so mournful that we
had no idea, being too young to have enough feelings to
understand. i'm not sure that billybob or cletis have any of those
feelings even now. bruno? he's the one who always seemed to get
what uncle bogun was all about. as for me, buddy, i could just as
soon go walk to the river until the old guy put that fiddle away.
funny, now, that we're playing music that in a lot of ways comes
from the same resonant place that bogun's old fiddle was sawing
back then when mom and dad were raising four kids on dad's dirt
wages from the woolen mill.
we'd played some of the bars up near indian wells, east of
barstow into the foothills of california, on the edge of the desert.
we played the old navy bar in ridgecrest one night. i sang merle
haggard's song 'today i started loving you again,' and this old guy
sitting in the corner got up, came to the stage, and said, "did you
boys know that after he got out of prison and stopped living with
his parents in a boxcar, merle played his first paying gig here in
the old navy bar?" no, we didn't know that. the old guy started
singing, "from now on all my friends are gonna be strangers, i'm
all through ever trusting anyone..." another of hag's early tunes.
his name was sam featherstone. he's probably dead by now, but
he bought us a round after we did a whole medley of haggard
tunes to close the second set.
it was in needles, near the fort mohave indian reservation, that
we were having a few drinks, when we saw this old guy wearing
a hat and glasses thick as ashtrays, pouring back shots of
bourbon like tomorrow had been cancelled. we were listening to
him jabbering happily away at the waitress. seems this old dude
had won a whole lot of money the day before up in vegas, which
was only a two-hour drive north along the colorado river. we
watched him slap down twenty dollar bills like they were sheets
of toilet paper, and then when the waitress, lindy was her name,
tried to give him change he'd blow her a kiss and say something
suggestive, his eyes crinkling up to slits behind those ashtray
glasses. cletis, billybob, trixxie and me were into our sixth or
seventh shot ourselves and too full of ourselves to notice much,
but bruno had grown silent and was eyeing this old man. we
figured he might be thinking of rolling him outside later. then
bruno stood up.
"BOGUN! uncle bogun mazappa!"
well, that old man turned as slow as one of those old bobble-head
poodles people used to keep on the back dash of their cars. he
looked over. i doubt he could see us fifteen feet away, so he got
up and walked toward us. bruno meet him halfway. when they
got about five feet from each other, uncle bogun broke into a
smile.
"bruno?" and they hugged and the rest of us joined the hug,
whooping like we'd just discovered america. uncle bogun
mazappa and his four nephews all showing up at the same time
in needles, california. what are the odds? trixxie got right in
there, too, and ol' bogun gave her a salacious squeeze as i
eyeballed the table he was sitting at to see if there was any sign
of a fiddle case. god help us.
trixxie grabbed her camera and got bruno and bogun into a shot,
then the rest of us, and then she got the waitress lindy to squeeze
between bruno and bogun. they kept the bar open late. naturally,
when you're getting seventeen dollar tips with every shot of
bourbon, you want to stay open all night. turns out bogun had
won about $15,000 in vegas. he'd been living in boulder city,
nevada, with some wealthy old gal he'd met on vacation an
earlier time in las vegas. after winning this money, he drove
home to boulder city but, at the last minute, decided to keep
driving, figuring he had enough to live it up a while. it got dark
near needles, so he pulled in and started partying by himself.
now, we could all party, on his nickel.
i have to admit it was my idea to invite uncle bogun to be our
agent. fifteen grand was more than buddy & the mazappas would
make in a year. with bogun's money we could maybe get us a
record out, buy a bus to travel in, do it up in style. i guess bogun
had had it with his girlfriend, 'cause he agreed. he was willing to
put in ten thousand dollars, he said, long as he got 50% of any
money we made through the music. he was pretty drunk at the
time, so we got him to sign a napkin saying he'd give the band
the ten grand for 50% of future earnings.
it was a few days later, in jerome, arizona, that we noticed old
bogun couldn't pay up after a big late-night meal after the gig.
we'd run up about a $200 tab. we searched uncle bogun's pockets
and tote bag, but there wasn't more than thirty bucks in there.
turns out cletis had to use one of his credit cards. later that night,
driving because we had no money for a motel, uncle bogun told
us that it must've not been $15,000 that he'd won, that it was only
$1500...
that's mazappa luck for ya. so we used cletis' credit card again to
fill the car with gas, and we drove bogun up to boulder
city. bogun had been away ten days by this time. we sent him in
to see if he could get some money from his girlfriend. turns out
she'd found another honey and he was no longer welcome. she
kicked him out. he had nothing but a suitcase with a few clothes,
and his fiddle.
we pitched the tents that night near the hoover dam. built a fire,
fried up weiners and beans. uncle bogun still had the napkin in
his pocket. "it's a binding contract," he said, "and besides, i'm
family." we all got out our instruments and began to play. uncle
bogun tuned up his fiddle and bowed a little on the uptempo
merle haggard and hank williams, and was all over a sad red
sovine tune. later, bruno asked him to play something from the
old country. he did. it sounded as bad as ever to me, though i
have to admit that my eyes were tearing up all the same... we
were all crying... tears in the nevada desert.