“Broken Bed, 1977”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

Out of bed, nearly one o’clock

On a morrow blustery and chilled, no thaw in sight

This is the way

That doors swing on their hinges

Embracing creative binges

That tax my reserve

A snippet, sampled

Of what it means to be seen and heard

I used to look forward, longing for such an escape

When sitting in that plain, ranch house

About three miles out

From the city’s edge

Unknown, unloved

Unaware of what awaited

An adventure written in ink

A cough of circumstance, over the kitchen sink

Nursing a bottle of Wild Irish Rose

Things began to appear from the ether

When this trick was employed

I was an oddball schoolboy

Shunned by popular friends

Quill in hand

Jotting down notes, like formations in marching band

I kept a bound book on the typewriter table

A sheaf of short takes

Scribbled, when I was able to write

Trading lost hours, overnight

In exchange for a warm glow of patronage

A salutation to sorcery, of a kind

Delving into crevices of the subconscious mind

The homestead was quiet

But not in that corner room

Not while I sat by the light repurposed from an aquarium hood

And channeled words, unspoken

Silent at their inception

Yet vocally amplified

With the majestic tone of an eagle’s cry

Careful and quick

Mother and father must have wondered

What reason I had

For breaking bad

Sister in her comfort zone

Brother in the basement, nodding off

A radio under his pillow

Its tiny, tinny speaker loosing the flow

Of a broadcast bruiser

That moment passed with the intensity of a seasonal gale

Lingering just long enough

To remind me of morning, and a rote routine

Back to the classroom, in my bell-bottom blue jeans

Legs akimbo, in a back row spot

Pencils flipped from end to end, and back

The lesson plan made me laugh

A messy moral, yielded from a mimeograph

Intended to inspire

When all I wanted, all I needed

Was to be awake when the day reached its daring denouement

When the vacuum of a vacant eve

Gave me what I was eager to receive

A restless ride, with eyebrows raised

A run toward the shadows

A preamble in the margin

Noted and knotted

Dutifully ink-blotted

Before finally surrendering to the fade of fatigue

Torn-out pages across my knees

Pens on the rug

A trace of cheap wine left in my coffee mug

A telltale sign of magic, deployed

Standing wobbling, stiff and slow

Back to the broken bed I go

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 2: Escape

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

Hearing that his father had passed away affected Parker Redman in two conflicting ways that unsettled his inner sense of balance. He was grieving for the loss of his sire, and guilty over having abandoned the family for so many years. Yet oddly, he also felt a sense of release. One that finally freed him from the metaphorical prison of being destined to follow in footsteps that were not his to inherit. He had remorse for the distance placed between himself and the bloodline, but not over having escaped willfully, to find his own path. The dirty, damned existence into which he had fallen was his alone. He owned no one else a tribute of any kind, for choosing to wander, and taste mortal pleasures, without inhibition.

 

On the first night after receiving news of this tragedy, he got drunk at a local tavern. Something that was not out of the ordinary. Except that instead of playing the jukebox, flirting with trashy women who happened to be present, and playing billiards, he sat alone in a dark corner, brooding silently. In the morning, he awakened to sensations of fatigue and regret, instead of celebration over having imbibed liquor with friends. Then, his next course of action became apparent. He had reached an inflection point. A time to make decisions that would be difficult and challenging. It was not a task that he welcomed.

 

What followed was emotionally raw and true to form. His significant other would not understand.

 

He trashed the apartment where they lived, in a righteous fit of rage. Furniture, vinyl records, photo albums, beer signs, and the front windows all fell to his swinging fists and a long-handled sledgehammer. His girlfriend and main squeeze, Sandra, had been at work at the tavern. She came home to discover the chaotic aftermath, once he had departed. She collapsed on the carpet in their living room, sobbing over the wreckage left in his wake. Her eyes reddened with tears, and a sweaty smear of cosmetics. In the distance, a roar of his Shovelhead Harley could be heard fading into the background.

 

They would not see each other again.

 

Fishtail had a cousin in the West Virginia city of Grafton, a distant venue nestled in the hills. Living in a shack situated along the Tygart Valley River, in Taylor County. It was a place that had transcended time with a careless disregard for the progress and preferences of more populated areas. Homes dotted the road, here and there along the main route, as if they had been dropped from the heavens. Bends were sharp and unpredictable. Often curving right at the edge of a building or garage. Yards sloped precipitously downward, with rooflines bordering the blue skies overhead. There were brick structures still in use from more than a hundred years before. Cars and trucks parked with their metal hindquarters dangerously close to the flow of traffic. Lights flashing out warnings unheeded, as if they had no purpose. Pedestrians leaping the curbs while carrying shopping bags full of pepperoni rolls. And stray pets navigating narrow corridors in between one crooked street, and the next.

 

From central New York, on a hardtail cycle beset with vibration of the mechanical kind, the ride was one that rattled his bones. He nearly went deaf from the twin blast of unmuffled, drag pipes. His right hand ached from twisting the throttle. At sufficient intervals, he stopped for gasoline, grub, and a piss break along the tarmac. He was not shy about unzipping his denim trousers in public. Though any bystanders he encountered quickly averted their gaze. At over six feet tall, weighing 300 pounds, and carrying a mass of hair styled in a windstorm environment, he did not present a friendly profile.

 

It was long after sunset when he arrived at the clapboard hovel. Sheets of aged, tarpaper-shingles hung from the walls. There was a bare light, on in the kitchen. He could see the outline of a shotgun, aimed at the front entrance.

 

“Hey there! It’s yer cuz, boy! Don’t shoot me when I’ve just gotten here. I’m making a social call of sorts. Dad died in Kentucky, I heard. I’ll be heading out that way pretty soon. But for the moment, I wanted to make sure you were aware of what happened...”

 

Bodean Pringle peered through a loose slat in the exterior wall. He was scrawny and long-legged. A different wrinkle on the family’s genetic profile. With a careful droop of his elbows, he lowered the antique firearm. Then appeared from the shadows, inside.

 

“Gawdamn, Feesh! I knew the sound of that bike, but couldn’t believe ya would show up here, right now. Ain’t there still warrants out fer yer arrest? Shit man, it’s good ta see ya though!”

 

Parker shrugged and let his pinging hawg lean restfully on its sidestand.

 

“No warrants. Nothing so crazy as that, trust me. Though I did leave the Empire State in a hurry. I might’ve hurt some feelings. Not that it matters at this point...”

 

Bodean stroked his jutting chin and huffed slightly.

 

“I never knew where y’all had ended up. My folks haven’t kept in touch with yer pa. Though they did tell me he was still in his pulpit. Still thumpin’ that Bible like a backwoods prophet! Ya shoulda followed his lead, cuz. Yer name has been mud ever since. The talk around here is ya wasted yer talent!”

 

There was a pause as the visitor clenched his fists. Then, he slumped against a post on the concrete stoop. He spoke slowly and with an edge to his voice.

 

“I’ve heard it for years. You can guess where that started. My sister, Rhubie, bless her memory! Truth is though, I never wanted to don that straight-jacket. I’d prefer my leather, instead...”

 

His cousin nodded and grinned, with understanding.

 

“I get it dude, I get it. Y’all are independent as frig. That’s all good in my book. But it didn’t win any awards around here. A lot of the old preachers are dyin’ off. There ain’t enough men willing ta take on the mantle, ya know? Ta wear the cloth, and the white coilar. It’s part of our traditions. I might not go to church, but I’ll always consider myself ta be a Mountaineer.”

 

Parker shucked his jacket, and lit a smoke.

 

“One night’s accommodation, that’s all I ask. I’ll be riding to Kentucky in the morning. But for the moment, I’d be grateful for your hospitality...”

 

Bodean smacked his relative on the right shoulder.

 

“GET YER ASS IN HERE, FEESH! WE’VE GOT TA CHEW THE FAT, AND DRINK SOME WHISKEY!”

“Ready”

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

Are you ready?

Ready for a spin on Let’s Make a Deal

Rushed into experiences, sublime, yet surreal

With a howling of hucksters, an overwhelming appeal

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

For a chance crossing of a two-lane road

Like a chicken chasing wildly, after a toad

Under a bald eagle screeching, ‘Hey, look out below!’

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

To admit that life is a gamester’s get

A full measure of captives in a butterfly net

A memory too precious to ever forget

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

To read a love letter to the one you desire

While sitting on the perimeter of a blazing, bonfire

Wondering about goals to which you aspire

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

To bow your head low, and accept having failed

With all of the guilt that act would entail

A step off the edge of a woodland trail

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

To witness the elevation of a saint to his spot

Above all the faithful, waiting out in the parking lot

A tradition, time-tested, for those who have not

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

For a cadence of marchers, high-stepping along

With a chorus of carolers, uplifting their song

While a dance is performed to the clang of a gong

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

For the last gasp of breath that comes before sleep

When the darkness enshrouds those who quietly creep

Into a realm of spirits who boldly repeat -

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

For a gift given after the experience has passed

To be first on the roster, and shuffled to last

To receive a proud pouring, into the wine glass

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

For a sunset of days that will erase all creation

Like a blackboard swept clean, of its information

Will you weep or rejoice, with sheer adulation

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

To be lifted on high, with wings to behold

Wide and feathered lightly, with trimmings of gold

A compensation offered, growing feeble and old

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

To read the last sonnet composed by a bard

Spray-painted crudely, on a garage in the yard

Dealt swiftly and sure, like a hand of playing cards

Are you ready?

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 1: Genesis

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

Pastor Podmore Redman had many joys in life. His marriage to wife Charlene, his children, and a simple home in eastern Kentucky where he had grown up, but rarely lived for any length of time afterward. He kept the slab-sided, hilltop cabin as a point of reference. A marker that indicated where his journey in service to the Lord, as a gospel preacher, had begun. He was known within the Church of Christ community as a leader worthy of respect and renown. Only one failing dogged him, as this life of many blessings unfolded. Specifically, the wayward tilt and wandering of his eldest son, Parker.

 

As a child, this budding entity took root in the hillbilly soil, while manifesting talents that assured others he would follow in his sire’s footsteps. He was smart and studious. A good helper in Sunday School, and always interested in learning the doctrine of his forebears. He rarely interacted with other students at school, preferring the company of parishioners. His appearance was clean-cut and carefully groomed. Almost to the point of military specifications. He was careful to make his bed, every morning. He doted on his mother, and maternal grandma. He was polite and courteous. No one ever had a negative opinion to offer of this aspiring figure. It seemed certain that he would also inherit an existence of esteem and holiness.

 

But the mystery of faith became more muddled when their brood was whisked off to a small, suburban congregation in Pennsylvania. Still young and developing, he attended a public school where knowledge of his non-denominational fellowship was lacking. Bullying from others in his classes, and even from teachers on the staff, was soon a component of every day. He found himself isolated and withdrawn from the neighborhood where they lived. His temper flared occasionally, which brought on pangs of guilt and remorse. He argued with his parents, something that had never happened before. Then, at the age of 17, he disappeared completely. Many prayers were raised, over this unexpected development. Posters were put up around town. Police officers were enlisted to assist in the hunt for clues. Yet the yield was a zero sum. A vacant chair at the dinner table. An empty mattress in his bedroom. Books and bibles, abandoned. With broken hearts throbbing from despair, in his wake.

 

Parker shucked his skin at that moment, for a new beginning. He hitchhiked around the region, remembering ads in the back of Cycle World Magazine for those interested in mechanical trades. He was taken by the sounds and smells of garage laborers, who worked magic with primitive tools and their wits. He soon had grease and oil under his fingernails. His hair grew long and shaggy. His beard flourished from neglect. At a parlor in western New York, he purchased a first tattoo, a design based on the classic, company logo of Harley-Davidson, out of Milwaukee. It was paid for through a bargain with a benevolent stranger who rode with a club dressed in leather and denim. A man with no children, who had become a widower while employed at a local dealership. Through the embrace of this adoptive malcontent, a blue-collar boozer with calluses and scars, a redemption of sorts was bestowed. The underaged, greenhorn rebel earned his stripes as a prospect, while doing odd jobs around the shop. And, the ownership of a 55 cubic-inch, Ironhead XLCH. A 1959 Sportster motorcycle.

 

A custom exhaust system, fabricated by hand, gave this two-wheeled hoss a unique appearance. A style intended to echo fashionable trends of long ago. Twin pipes stuck out behind, with flared tips on each side. A garish statement of excess noted by everyone else in the gang. Before long, a nickname was given to endorse and commemorate this happening. One that would stick like a gooey piece of duct tape, for many years to come.

 

Friends and foes alike called him Fishtail. Before long, the memory of who he had been faded into insignificance. He had been reborn.

 

While growing older, stronger, and wiser, he gained a reputation in counties west of the Finger Lakes region. He had absorbed skills with a wrench and screwdriver that made him an object of desire for brothers in the wind. He was oddly handsome, in spite of a flowing, tangled mane that sometimes made him appear to be a lion prowling for prey. Women who were already connected with other riders sought out his company, and companionship. Fights ensued when these interactions were too friendly in nature. He received a busted jaw, flattened nose, and even a broken leg after an accident, leaving town in a hurry. But all of these challenges served to harden his resolve. And sharpen his focus on survival.

 

He was in and out of jail, frequently. Fingerprinted and documented, by members of law enforcement. He had morphed from a kindhearted kid, into a raucous rogue with blood-red eyes and his fists always clenched. Anger over this metamorphosis still burned in his gut. He was short on patience. It did not take much to make him lash out with violence. Though the core of his philosophical outlook retained its foundation on a preference for solitude. Eventually, he once again withdrew from any social interaction. He refused to participate in sanctioned events. He dumped his apartment, and girlfriend, choosing instead a vagabond sojourn. He did not bathe or eat, or do anything to maintain his health. Bourbon whiskey was his lifeblood. It soon curdled his insides like a crockery cask of clotted cheese.

 

Then, there was a notice in the newspaper, discovered by a member of his erstwhile club. An obituary for the one man who had literally given him everything. His genetic profile, his gait and girth, his original identity. That contribution was one he had willfully denied for decades. And now, it came rushing back in a wave of sorrow and reflection.

 

“Church witnesses have reported that Rev. Podmore Redman, 93 years old, a native of Whitehouse Kentucky, was found dead in his study at the Mt. Carbon sanctuary in Johnson County, on Monday evening...”

 

 Suddenly, all of the rage, rebellion, and consternation in his heart fell away. He was a seedling once more. A pale, scrawny, naïve understudy to the single person who had ever truly held his interest as an example to emulate.

 

His chest heaved with spasms of judgment, and the agony of consequences. His face burned with traces of salt and grit in every pore. He doubled over, eventually falling to his knees. And then, there was a gentle whisper in his ears. A voice so familiar as to be close in character to his own.

 

“Listen to the Great Commission, Parker. Do you recall what Jesus said to his disciples? From the Gospel of Mark, ‘Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost; Teaching them, to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen.’ Believe in that, my beloved son. Trust in it. I am with you, always...”

 

 

Trailer Park Takeover, Postscript

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

“No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out on the other side. Or you don’t.” – Stephen King

 

In all the years I have lived at Evergreen Estates, little has ever changed about my trailer community. It is a place oddly situated in the rural hinterland. Evenly distant from population centers in the eastern Ohio counties of Geauga, Lake, and Ashtabula. I cannot guess what originally prompted a landowner to construct such an inhospitable cluster of mobile homes on muddy soil that has never seemed to stabilize. Structures shift with the seasons, streets pit and crack, while poles tilt and sway. All in a seemingly physical rejection by nature, of its very existence. The neighborhood is not pretty or pleasant, to behold. It is not convenient as a living space. No one has ever cheered about having membership within this herd. And yet, for many of us, it was the last stop on a journey. If not for being on one of these rented, concrete slabs, I myself might be back under a bridge overpass, in central New York. Shivering in the cold, and cursing an empty stomach and sore bones.

 

Our boxcar oasis can be described with many adjectives that are rude and unflattering. But the most important of these tells the tale. It is, for better or worse, a home base from which to operate. As we do our best to get through the day. With hope that tomorrow might shine more favorably, as a new sunrise glistens from the east.

 

Most of my fellow residents continue to do battle with their fates. But for me, that challenge has long since passed. I no longer aspire to be clean, respectable, or beloved. I do not crave attention or accolades. I desire no rewards for my meager accomplishments. Instead, every afternoon spent drinking away cares and concerns is a joy that I cherish. To be drunk and left alone is more than enough. I relish my solitude. As I do each breath of life, taken as a gift.

 

When I first arrived on this site, my skills as a creative writer were languishing. I had no edge to my abilities. No cause to excel. While laboring as a business steward, for money, I sought the energy of heroes such as John McCahill, Hunter S. Thompson, Lou Reed, John Cooper Clarke, Mike Royko, and Charles Bukowski. I envied their passion and naked honesty. Their lack of inhibitions. Their fiery wit. Yet after almost a quarter-century here on the hallowed ground of this township, I have inherited a soul reshaped by circumstance. The hard lessons learned at this spot have electrified my consciousness. Even perhaps, elevated it, and intensified the need to be heard. I never thought of myself as someone who could speak forcefully and with meaning, to others. But now, stumbling along with my disability canes, back arched with the weight of sorrows, and head down as I face prevailing wind gusts, I am whole. A new image, rendered in charcoal and whiskey, blood, and dirt. This is my golden age. I have never been better, in terms of the mind, if not in the condition of my body.

 

When I speak of such things out loud, those who share this pre-fab grid often stare blankly as if I had just blurted out some phrase in Arabic. Or maybe, in an alien dialect as yet unheard by human ears. Their eyes grow wide. Their lungs are stilled, holding breath tightly inside, until I might confess having played some kind of joke, for fun. But my observations are not given for amusement. They are a zealous offering of praise, for receiving an epiphany. This damnation, to exile in the pines, has provided a new beginning. One I could never have expected, when entering the park as someone headed for divorce and career chaos.

 

It has been so long that I can barely remember my origin point. Yesterday is now faded in memory. What remains is the essence from which I sprang, as a sentient, biological seed. Heart and mind, thumping away with the cadence of being. That spark of existence is still mine to hold. Therefore, I will not surrender it willingly. Though at times, I massage it gently, with liquor and brew for medication.

 

I have watched singlewide trailers here burn to the ground. I have seen homicides and evictions, and extractions of offenders by the sheriff and his deputies. I have witnessed symbols of extremist groups, and firearms, being brandished with impunity. I have been pelted with stones, and marked as an outlier and misanthrope. I have fallen down, and fallen again. Broken bones and furniture, electronic devices, and felt broken inside. I have perched so close to raging bonfires, in a stupor of alcohol, that holes burned in my clothes. I have stayed up all night baring my sins to unsuspecting witnesses, and then gone back to work without sleeping. I have mourned the loss of cousins and parents, siblings, and dear friends. I have punched holes in the drywall. Broken windows. Lobbed empty bottles like projectiles, at moldy, unoccupied huts along the avenue. I have sobbed in the dark of night, with dreams of lost associations returning to mock me as I slept. All these things, failing to kill my spirit, have strengthened it instead. They put steel in my spine. They hardened the tortoise shell on my back. They gave me clear vision and fine concentration.

 

Though some might feel injured after surviving such experiences, I have a different reaction. One of penance, and gratitude. I have been blessed. In Biblical terms, born again.

 

I am Townshend Carr Lincoln. A descendant of our 16^th American president. Fallen from grace, yet rescued and revived, by the same. This is my testimony. Hear it, and believe. Do with it what you will.

 

So help me, God.

 

 

 

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 30: Amnesty

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

In the colorful history of Evergreen Estates, every negotiating tactic had been tried at one time or another. Every measure of corrective discipline, employed. Every strategy for finding a resolution. Every educational opportunity, taken. Every teachable moment. Every chance for changing course. Every epiphany delivered, for the purpose of inspiration. And yet, nothing ever muted the siren call of futility. The shabby oasis remained rooted in hardship and self-reliance. It was not a place to raise awareness, or improve social standing. On the crumbling streets of this trailer combine, time itself had ceased to tick forward. There was no flow of mainstream consciousness, as in the outside world. Instead, one agonizing day was very much like those before. And any that would follow. That destiny had been chiseled in stone by the first inhabitants who came east from our county capital, seeking affordability and isolation. They did not know what would befall them on this former swampland property. A spot fortified with construction waste, rubbish, and landfill materials. But soon, a new tradition had begun. One of hopelessness and willful ignorance. A literal descent into dark pits of ruin, from which few human exiles would ever return.

 

So, it came as a something of a shock when the Proletariat Property Co-op issued their verdict on the stalemate at our park. This communique stung bankers and lenders throughout the area. And inspired disbelief with judges and elected officials. Yet it reflected the aim of those student volunteers and hippie veterans, to respect basic humanity over making a buck. Copies of their letter were jammed in every door-handle around the community. After finding my reading glasses, I sat with a tumbler of bourbon, and scanned the text, feeling great interest and curiosity.

 

“TO ALL RESIDENTS – Those of us in your new ownership group have given much thought to the situation at this mobile-home development. We understand that some leaseholders were upset with the $75.00 per month rent increase, originally set in motion by Wells Fargo Financial. It has never been our intention to cheat of defraud our patrons in any way. While we must exercise good judgment in expenditures on maintenance and operations, it is our desire to offer value to those who choose to live here. Therefore, we are announcing a two-phase plan to address these concerns. First, there will be a period of amnesty for all residents. Anyone who comes forward to resume paying lot fees may do so with no amount in arrears. No late charges will be applied. Everything will start over. Second, we will forego the extra charges that were implemented until one year from now. The savings for those of you who decide to remain will be enormous. Anyone with cash or credit issues is invited to apply for membership in our union of partners. We will do our best to help families weather the storms of inflation and economic chaos. If possible, we would like to avoid evicting anyone, for any reason. We ask you to cooperate with us, as we move forward to make this park better and more secure for the future...”

 

Down the street, I could see that militia commander Aimes Hefti was at the brown, pre-fab hovel of Linn & Haki Speck. He had a copy of the PPC literature in his gloved paw.

 

“HORSESHIT! THIS IS NOTHING BUT GAWDAMNED HORSESHIT! YOU’D HAVE TO BE A FREAKIN’ FOOL FER THIS, WHY TAKE THE BAIT? EFF THOSE BASTARDS! LET’EM CHOKE ON THEIR UNPAID BILLS! THEY CAN SHOVE IT RIGHT UP THEIR PANSY ASSES!”

 

Linn was red-faced and sweating, due to an unexpected thaw in temperatures. But oddly upbeat about the offer.

 

“Things are so expensive everywhere. My wife was searching for an apartment online, and the prices are crazy! We couldn’t really afford a move right now, you know? This deal sounds, well... pretty darn decent to me!”

 

Commandante Hefti spat out his chaw of tobacco, and began to curse.

 

“ARE Y’ALL NOTHIN’ BUT A DUMBASS LOSER? A CHUMP MIGHT GO FER THIS, BUT NOT ANYBODY WITH A DAMN SPINE! WE GOTTA STAND UP TO THESE IDIOTS! THEY NEED TO GET THE FRIG OUT OF OHIO! THIS AIN’T A PLACE FER PURPLE-HAIRED, PIERCED AND TATTOOED FREAKS! THOSE ANTIFA CLOWNS AND DRAG QUEENS BELONG SOMEWHERE OTHER THAN IN GOD’S COUNTRY! THIS STRIKE IS WHAT’LL MAKE IT HAPPEN! SHOW SOME BALLS, SOLDIER! GROW A PAIR!”

 

A commotion had arisen nearby, around the maintenance garage. There was a line of citizens at the office door of Dana Alvarez, our manager. Checks were piled in a stack on her desk.

 

“Ayyyyyy, it’ll take me all afternoon to process these rent payments. That’s a whole lotta dinero sitting there, boy! Dios mio! What a job!”

 

Aimes felt his supreme authority slipping away. He unholstered his sidearm, then ran down to the corner, firing warning shots in the air.

 

“NOBODY GIVE ‘EM A GAWDAMN CENT! SCREW THOSE JAGOFFS! WE GOTTA SEND A MESSAGE, NOT KISS ASS! HAVE Y’ALL FORGOTTEN WHO RUNS THIS PLACE? IT’S US, PEOPLE! WE GOT THE POWER! WE GOT THE NERVE! WE GOT THE GUTS AND GUNS! WE GOT OUR RIGHTS!”

 

I was still on my wooden bench, with a jug of Kentucky spirits. The burn in my throat offered hope. Soon, I would be very drunk, and insulated from the reality of living in a dirt-poor cluster of modified shipping containers. That alone kept me focused on surviving the day.

 

“Give it up, commando. Nobody is listening now. You’re a eunuch, buddy. A bellicose, loudmouth with nothing left in your boxer shorts...”

 

My opponent by the park office could not hear this crude observation, of course. As I watched from a safe distance, he foamed at the mouth, stomped his combat boots, and howled angrily.

 

“LET’S GET ON THE MARCH, TROOPERS! TELL THAT COMPANY BITCH Y’ALL AIN’T GONNA GIVE HER NOTHIN’ FER THE MONTH! NOT A DAMN THING! TAKE BACK YER CHECKS! RIP ‘EM UP! RIP ‘EM UP RIGHT NOW, RIGHT IN FRONT OF HER FACE!”

 

Though the liquor had already taxed my brain cells, I did some calculating on the porch. Cutting the increase would cost about $900.00 per home, for a whole year. Multiplied by at least 100 residents who refused to pay, that added up to a considerable sum. I wondered how the owners would cover that disparity in their ledgers. Still, it was a gesture that seemed to resonate with the rank-and-file.

 

Conditions in the atmosphere were fluctuating, once again. Strong winds were sounding, with loose skirting and debris blowing across the boulevard. I knew that a forecast for more freezing rain and snow had been issued. Yet somehow, I was warm inside.

 

With this latest crisis behind us, the continuum at Evergreen Estates would go on, without an interruption. It was our life sentence, to be served in full. Humbled and hobbled by fate, we were the inheritors of an inglorious legacy. One written in mud and booze. And the ashes of summer bonfires, long since extinguished.

 

I raised my drink skyward, and offered an alcoholic toast of sorts.

 

“Here we go, Lord. Another damn year at Evergreen Estates!”

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 29: Paralysis

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

Evergreen Estates has always been a community where the priorities of its isolated population do not necessarily follow a ranking set by logic. Things that are considered important may follow trends set around improvised bonfires, and in church pews, rather than on the ground. Therefore, to understand how residents at the park think and act, one must consider this modus operandi from a perspective framed differently than in other places.

 

I pondered this disparity while watching my neighbors react to events such as the election of New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani, and the capture of President Nicholás Maduro, in Venezuela. Neither of these stories mattered more on the streets of my mobile-home community, than the fact that lot rent had not been paid by a majority of leaseholders in the development. Yet there seemed to be no appetite for addressing this glaring mistake. Without any income flowing into the ownership coffers, it was impossible to think that their hold on our property could survive. No one manifested any concern over this situation, however. Instead, they continued to rant about vague social issues, political tribalism, and the combative relationship of those with different sports loyalties. From my front porch, it appeared to be a train wreck in progress.

 

Yet a more accurate term might have come to mind, if I had imbibed more whiskey to steel my cerebral synapses. Specifically, paralysis.

 

Manager Dana Alvarez was a fiery Latina with her focus on maintaining employment as our company representative. She knew well that it would be impossible to get paid if there was no profit from operating the residential business. Sheriff Tom T. Rath had made his career as a member of law enforcement, and could not veer away from the discipline that entailed. But he knew the junkyard village was always a tinder box. Ready to burst into flame at any moment, with the slightest provocation. He had no interest in setting the park ablaze with a mass eviction. Nakano Volca, a graduate of Cornell University in the Finger Lakes Region, wanted to preserve the ideological integrity of his progressive group. That meant solving issues through diplomacy and cooperation, not the brute force of bankers, judges, and police officers.

 

The upshot of all this was clear. No one wanted to make a first move, for fear of causing everything to collapse.

 

With the New Year fully present, I kept drinking and watching from my wooden bench. Happenings on the streets of our rustic village were dramatic enough to witness. But if I had been at the Proletariat Property Co-op headquarters, a situation even more dire would have been unfolding. One that threatened the viability of their firm, and its stated mission.

 

After financial officers in charge had taken a seat around an iMac computer, first on their roster of responsibilities was reading through e-mail messages collected over the weekend. As they scanned the list of communications received, one immediately stuck out as being most important of all. It was a brief, desperate plea, sent by one of their partners in the heartland.

 

“From: Deedra Kahlo, Lake Erie Credit Combine

Re: Thompson MHP

 

In case you haven’t heard this from other sources... we’ve got an insurrection happening here in Ohio. Those living at Evergreen Estates are staging a rent strike, not an escrow creation as the courts denied their petition. But instead, a full-blown uprising! Only three members of the community have paid as usual. It is a standoff, because the local sheriff is hesitant to enforce eviction orders. So, what can we do? Our manager at the development wants action. Backchannel contact with the township trustees tell us they fear a collapse of the local infrastructure. A quiet confab with the governor revealed that he wants no part of a National Guard assignment to quell potential rioting. I know you don’t favor interdiction, legally, but something has to be done. This is quickly spinning out of control...”

 

Volca sipped his Chai tea while thinking. Then, he turned to other partners around their conference table.

 

“Look everyone, it would be easy to drop a hammer here. Our position vis-à-vis the law is clear. We could just boot all those who haven’t paid, and recruit new residents. The housing market is tough right now. Deedra went on to say that small apartments in Chardon, a few miles away, are over $1000.00 per month. That whole county is prime real estate. They are close enough to Cleveland for working in the metropolitan area, but distant from the urban congestion. So, we could just toe the fascist line, and whack anyone who won’t conform. But you know that isn’t our goal. We want brothers and sisters joining the family, in solidarity. Not victims becoming bitter because we used a heavy hand!”

 

Selden Pate, the lone member of their team who had been raised on Buckeye soil, wheezed and tapped his phone stylus on the tabletop. His pale complexion became even more ghostly when hearing the opinions of his boss.

 

“Nakka, I get your groove here, nobody wants to be a money-grubber like the Orange Man and his minions. But if we don’t get any cooperation on this, then how do we pay our own bills? We’re backed into a corner, dude!”

 

Heads nodded around the room. It seemed that every member of the staff agreed.

 

Nova Caine, who had toned down her drag appearance for the meeting, was particularly expressive in echoing the sentiments of their superior.

 

“I get it, honey! I get it completely! Now, you’d have to expect those hillbilly hicks to put up a fight over the rent increase and bad maintenance, but it’s just for show. They’re trying to look tough for their butch friends who don’t have to live in mobile homes! Understand? I know what they really want. I see them sneaking in the door when we perform at places like the Cove, a little club up at Geneva-on-the-Lake. Hee hee, they love us! We are faaaaaabulous!”

 

Nakano cleared his throat with embarrassment.

 

“Well then, you think that busting them would be a bad move? If that’s right, which I think it is, the=n how do we solve this problem? How do we cover our expenses?”

 

His underling shook her head, and giggled loudly. A gesture that almost toppled the platinum-blonde wig from it’s perch on her scalp.

 

“Give ‘em some sugar, baby! Give those dunces something sweet, before you sit them in the corner! That always worked with me when I was in school! Ooh ooh ooh!”