Trailer Park Vignettes: “A Butterfly Farewell”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had lived long enough in the rural squalor of Evergreen Estates that his ability to perceive joy and sorrow on the level of a typical human being had been compromised. After so many years of wallowing in an environment of poverty, alienation, social decline, and chaotic relationships, he had been transformed into a lifeless lump of clay. Literally unable to experience common emotions that were once part of his personal makeup. He had not laughed loudly, or been moved to shed tears, in longer than he could remember. Each day was simply a slow crawl from his dirty, disintegrating mattress, into the kitchen, his back bedroom, and finally, the front porch. He was nearly always drunk by the afternoon. That fog of bourbon was his salvation. It formed a barrier between his conscious mind, and the junkyard atmosphere that surrounded his plain, singlewide abode.

 

Yet on a Tuesday, as news of Dolly Parton having passed circulated throughout the civilized world, he felt a drip of sadness ebb from his reddened eyes.

 

The old recluse had never been one to fixate on celebrities or cultural icons. He paid no attention to awards shows, star-studded events, or over-hyped promotional appearances. But the name of that Tennessee figure resonated with unique importance, in his thoughts. As someone also born of an Appalachian bloodline, he felt connected with the noted recording artist and entrepreneur. She had been authentic in a way now seemingly lost as part of the American experience. And her ability to transcend boundaries of all sorts, lines of color, creed, gender, social standing, and politics, was a quality he adored and respected.

 

With a wash of Jack Daniel’s dampening his gray beard, the contrarian hermit whispered a prayer for her transcendent spirit, and family members that survived.

 

“She is with you now, Lord. Take care of her in eternity. And let her sing to all the angels in heaven...”

 

On a wall near the entrance to his bedroom, a framed poster still hung in tribute to the legendary performer. One that had been autographed during a visit to Pigeon Forge. It was a relic of yonder days when the alcoholic loner had been married, busy as a parent, and active in pursuing career goals. All things that were mystical from a modern perspective. He could barely remember the embrace of his wife, or her gentle kisses in the morning and at night. The regular routine they had enjoyed vanished with the inevitable passage of time, along with a descent into petty disputes and consternation.

 

He could still recall how she had pleaded for a reset in their relationship, once the son they had raised was safe and on his own.

 

“Let’s get away from all of this! Dump our responsibilities, live for ourselves, and forget about working to make other people rich. Our love is worth more than money! More than silver and gold, and any currency we can spend. I believe in God, and I believe in us! What do you believe, Link? Open your heart and tell me the truth!”

 

He had gambled on promotions and advancement as his fuel to go forward. That choice would eventually seal his fate with company reorganizations, buyouts, and new ownership. In the aftermath, he found himself bankrupt, alone, and abandoned. Marked for what he had done with good intentions and bad judgment.

 

Still, the music of his mountain queen retained its healing power, and vitality.

 

While sipping whiskey amid a buzzing of seasonal insects, and the roar of rusty vehicles on parade down his street, he revisited familiar lyrics that were loose in his head. Words written with the tenderness of someone who came of age in the midst of natural beauty, and the humble traditions of a simpler age.

 

“Today as I was walking

In the fields just down the way

I sat down on a fallen log

To pass the time away

And as I looked around me

The more that I did look

the more I realize that I am viewing

God’s coloring book

 

I saw a golden ray of sunlight

A silver drop of dew

A soft, white floating cloud

Sailing across the sky ‘a blue

A yellow dandelion

Pretty evergreen

And some red and orange flowers

Growing wild along the stream

And the more I look around me

And the more that I do look

The more I realize that I am viewing

God’s coloring book...”

 

Contact with anyone from his previous adventures was rare. In a sense, he willfully avoided confronting those memories, in favor of being negated and erased as a person. It was a safer strategy than meeting those truths, face-to-face. Less challenging than gazing into a mirror of introspection and self-analysis.

 

He received little comfort from neighbors, friends, or relatives, after crashing at the trailer enclave in northeastern Ohio. But the hillbilly songstress who had inspired so many with her own journey still touched his spirit with grace. That example of pure spirituality, a oneness with Mother Earth and all of her children, continued to endure. It gave him a feeling of hope when there was no other cause to celebrate still being alive. Even upon hearing that her own walk of faith had finally been completed, while in the flesh.

 

That gift of music and wisdom had been enough to carry him forward.

 

Lincoln fell silent, as the sunset drew near. Around the isolated park, signs of decay were evident, nearly everywhere. Gravel strewn over the cracked pavement. Weeds popping out of crevices in between slabs of concrete. Bins of trash that were neglected and full. Broken windows mended with duct tape, porches built from pallet wood, yards teeming with dog waste and rubbish.

 

Abandoned pickup trucks and cars, in driveways along the avenue.

 

But as he slid deeper into a state of inebriation, the shaggy bum listened to a livestream of classic tunes on his cell phone. Selected tracks being played in tribute, for the one who had finally gone home to her creator, in the cosmos.

 

The aging rebel felt hollow inside, with his butterfly heroine having departed. And yet, bolstered by a sense that she would never actually be gone. Because of what she bestowed with the magic of her birth, and rise to prominence. A voyage that took her around the globe, and back home again. All of us were able to bear witness to that miracle as it happened.

 

He repeated the prayer offered before. But this time, in a more serious tone of reverence.

 

“She is with you now, Lord. Take care of her in eternity. And let her sing to all the angels in heaven...”

 

“Journey’s End”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

The end of a long journey

Too quickly, I am here

At the water’s edge, and wondering

About a lifetime that has disappeared

I see my reflection in the azure pool

A birthright, unwisely squandered

This act was foretold in a fable of old

In a prophecy, over yonder

At Sunday School, I heard the quip

“There’s no hope for you!”

And though I was a child, barely born

I accepted that those words rang true

The teacher spoke with wisdom

He had a manner that made me still

I held my breath and listened hard

His assessment gave me quite a chill

From that day, I knew my place

A deviation from the family form

My footsteps never met the mark

I found myself, tempted and torn

The examples that I had to learn

Were numerous, and nice enough

Yet I often stumbled along the way

Too easily becoming wild and rough

The verses remained inside my head

I knew the map and read it well

But gambled with the treasure chest

And exchanged that cause for a sorcerer’s spell

It made my mother cry with pain

Her tears were falling as a sign

In a shadowed corner of my room

Ashamed of what I had in mind

The book I knew was given with grace

Did not chasten an obedient heart

Instead, I turned to rhythmic tones

To summon what sermons could not impart

That kind of living was foreign to us

Not a thing ever seen among the brood

I shocked her soul, with a whisper

Too confident and metaphorically rude

I thought that by the work of hands

A foundation laid might come to pass

But once I had seen the yield of crime

There was a specter in the looking glass

A weary face, lined and crisp

Seasoned by long years of labor

It did not bring me a happy home

It did not find me friends or favor

Upon that rock that became my bed

I met the night, in a restless embrace

With eyes closed and a penitent pose

I returned to the spot that began this race

Back again, to where I was

A primal prancer, on my toes

Spinning around to view the ledge

Where this jolting journey came to a close

That revelation wrote the epitaph

That echoes still inside my skull

I cannot mute the voice that chants

“No hope, no hope!” like a mocking seagull

Taunting terms are indelibly said

So loudly that they pierce the veil

From another plane, where saints await

To chart the cryptic poet’s trail

If I behold the glistening lake

In all its fullness, filled and fine

I might be forgiven by the master

Who sits on a throne of borrowed time

The charge is given to conform

And I have answered with a trick

A leap across the great divide

A pirouette on my walking stick

That intention set me free

And also stained my flesh with red

A crimson badge to wear forever

An inglorious grab of fear and dread

Hear my explanation, please

I’ll offer it as my shield and sword

This failing is a flight, beyond

Sent to signify my final reward

God, grant me peace and comfort

This is what I ask of thee

Make a place where I may linger

In the vast realm of eternity

When the drumbeat at my core

No longer keeps its pace, provided

I will accept what is decreed

A sentence sold for a house, divided

Bowed and empty, at the end

This will be what I digest

A meal of crow and contrition, prepared

To soothe the ache inside my breast

Nothing more will follow, then

The balance has been satisfied

I’ll do what comes to those who lose

A keepsake carved, and cast aside

“Crock Pot Chant”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

A solitary son of Appalachia

Now given to hours, spent living alone

With voices from afar, calling out

In a plea to bring me swiftly home

I might be tempted hard at times

To embrace thoughts of an early escape

But the work continues, daring daily

At my desk and on this rural landscape

I have no cause to end this run

It is natural to think that the sun will rise

When I sit at my table, to pray and sup

On grits and greens, and compromise

This is the habit I took from those

Who came before, with a purpose to build

In their footsteps, I still tread

They bestowed a knack for holding the quill

And another gift, given with the first

A taste for vittles, rare and raw

Smokehouse cuts, salted away

Earthy delights, hidden in the straw

Country ham dropped in the pot

With cut potatoes, upon the pork fat

Ramps arranged as a garnish, grand

Sprinkled with a water bath

I’ll cook that mess of edible parts

Until it blends out a flavor base

One which fills the belly with hope

For eternity in a better place

Grandma still stands over my shoulder

Her advice a constant help to guide

I remember when she spoke of duty

While in the kitchen, keeping stride

Never did her spirit fade

It has lasted more than a hundred years

For generations who heard and held

Those lessons of love within their ears

Now I chant her recipes

As an indication of faith at the sink

It offers a moment without affliction

A chance to pause, reflect, and think

Also at the keys, do I project

The essence of generations, come and gone

Their wisdom wandering through the mountains

Delivered both in sermons and song

If I might stand in a pulpit

It would be no different than at my stove

The choice to cook or ruminate

Is one that unlocks a treasure trove

Right hand, left hand, both will serve

To prepare what the soul needs, to survive

A meal sat upon the dinner table

A feast given from the lectern, live

I cannot decide on a path

When the hills are split with furrows, deep

Driven into the loam that lingers

Packed by the patter of traveling feet

Here were those who first arrived

From lands that I knew not by name

Their benevolence made me whole and strong

I am the one who grew to gain

A son so surely as the rest

My face is carved from stone and soil

A character conjured in the nick of time

While my kettle sits, upon the boil

Whatever language echoes in between

The holler and its walls of moss

I’ll repeat their lingo, while on the march

To find rural stations of the cross

With a slope of dirt, behind the shack

My plow turned up what was revealed

A rut to hold the seedlings safely

A place to nurture the budding meal

My heart will hold the deeds performed

As a tribute to, an age that passed

And when I also leave this orb

Those remembrances will surely last

Hail, hail, hear the cry

Of Mountaineers who haunt this place

Their memories fixed, forevermore

On the firm foundation of saving grace

 

Nobody Reads This Page: “My Pater, Explained”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

“Father Time is not always a hard parent and though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigor. With such people the gray head is but the impression of the old fellow’s hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life.” – Charles Dickens

 

As a younger man, I often pondered the slow plodding of my sire with curiosity and a measure of confusion. Because of course, I was at a point in my own earthly journey too early for the broad perspective necessary to comprehend his patient pace of movement. I knew from stories retold at family gatherings and such, that he had once been active, ambitious, and even aggressive in pursuing his personal goals. A fellow of education, experiences, and faith. But when I had reached an age advanced enough to appreciate his place in the order of things, he was a different man. Slouching and stooped by cares and woes, hobbled by physical ailments that I did not fully understand, and wallowing in the midst of reorganizing his personal priorities.

 

As a mere offshoot of the grand oak himself, I questioned how that metamorphosis could occur. He would spend long hours working at his desk, reading books, and listening to music, pausing only to refill a coffee mug which had once been a measuring vessel in an earlier life. When he sometimes became nostalgic about childhood days in eastern Kentucky, and central Ohio, I struggled to identify the person portrayed in his recollections. He spoke about traveling, playing a variety of instruments including the piano, banjo, guitar, and fiddle, while also laboring as a mechanic and later, adopting the mantle of a scholar.

 

I reckoned that some sort of divine intervention must have robbed him of inertia. Because the old soul I beheld every morning was less adventurous and more careful in his daily routine.

 

When I chose the craft of creative writing as a worthy pursuit, my early manuscripts were centered on themes of motorcycles and rebellion. This caused him to gently reflect on having owned a vintage, Harley-Davidson VL-series flathead of 74 cubic inches. An iron steed manufactured in the early 1930s. I remembered its presence in a garage barn at our homestead in Columbus, as a kid. He confessed to having sold the machine to someone who was interested in locating the metal bones for a restoration project. Apparently, photographs followed when this endeavor had been completed, to document the resurrection, and pay tribute to my father as a benefactor. Though no one in our brood saw them, directly.

 

In the moment, I was offended at not being chosen to receive the twin-wheeled beast, myself. With a careless attitude of indifference, I protested the surrender of this treasure, instead of passing it down as my logical birthright.

 

“Dad, couldn’t you have kept that bike for me? I deserved it more than a stranger in another state. I would have cherished it as part of our heritage, and traditions! I could have written a dozen stories about that old hawg! What an opportunity that would have been!”

 

My progenitor smiled and nodded without becoming emotional over this raw complaint. He knew that my firsthand knowledge about antique motors was lacking, and that I did not have the required skill to bring a valuable relic, so long neglected, back to life.

 

“Rodney, that was some time ago. You were probably about ten years old...”

 

In the years that followed, I watched his competence decline, along with other infirmities that hindered his ability to cope. He complained of sore knees and fatigue. I noted that he and my mother stopped visiting familiar sites during the summer, and became more isolated socially with their neighbors. Maintenance chores around the home were neglected until I came to visit. In general, their tempo of living gradually shifted to one governed more by necessity than personal desire.

 

A familiar quote in professional sports, sometimes attributed to the athlete Michael Irvin, says that ‘Father Time is undefeated.’ That wise expression was top of mind as I reached my own point of reference for the aging process recently, nearing the mark of 65 years. With both parents and my sister all departed to a higher plane of existence, I have felt at times somewhat abandoned in my own condition of seniority. Yet now, I am able to connect with the unspoken message so often communicated by my bloodline contributor.

 

At last, the epiphany of his own experiences has fallen upon my cerebrum, with meaning.

 

Were we able to converse directly, I might admit my guilt, face-to-face. Perhaps I would offer an apology for being impatient and willfully naïve. But instead of passing judgment, his reaction to this plea for forgiveness might come in the form of a wink, and a grin of acceptance.

 

“It’s all part of the journey, my son. As you are, I once was. As I am, you shall be...”

 

I am moved to reconsider his perspective while sitting at my own desk, here in the rural township where I reside. As with his habits, I have jettisoned anything capricious and impulsive from my regular plan of action. I move deliberately and with some effort, throughout the day. There are no frills to enjoy, any longer. No random escapades in leisure hours. No wild wandering in the dead of night, long after civilized folk have gone to bed. No retracing my steps without a justified cause making it imperative. No running, jumping, or bending my knees.

 

What I feel is gratitude, for still being a sentient member of the community. Awake, alive, and able to endure. A condition described artfully in song, by George Jones – ‘I’m Ragged But I’m Right.’ That statement of confidence is now a mantra on which I depend.

 

My sire cleared the path which I tread, today. I am simply following his lead, toward whatever finality awaits, in the great beyond.

“Contrarian Confession”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

It came with a slip of the tongue

After answering a call in the afternoon

A query lightly landed in my ear

And predictably, I spoke too soon

I might have paused there to think

More carefully than was the case

But when I had said my piece

There was a glow of red taking place

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

My bloodline contact asked about

Health concerns that were on her mind

And instead of giving it a passing nod

I responded rightly, in real time

With an honest retort, a bad decision

It only took a second to regret

That I had confessed my need aloud

And revealed secrets I should protect

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

I truly wanted to stay aloof

But my stumble came with a single step

If I had made a silent stand

It would have been better yet

Somehow though, my contact knew

That what I said was not a trick

She sighed and dropped her telephone

I clutched my belly, feeling sick

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

Seeking sorrow is not my thing

I need no sympathy to soar

My best days come when clouds arise

And discovery is my reward

But a tangle of shoelaces brings

The sideways fall that I must avoid

And when I hit the ground too hard

It’s an fate that makes me feel annoyed

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

Numbness in my mind and heart

A consequence of living long

I’ve been here on this boardwalk path

Feeling weak but staying strong

When my mouth betrays the slog

That I have been upon for years

I turn away to hide the loss

And a shedding of, snakeskin and tears

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

Somewhere in the conversation

The message shared was left unheard

I tried to stitch together thoughts

With a gentle cloth of proffered words

But my family friend did not abate

Her question time was bold and brave

I had to conjure a spell of magic

The inquisition left me afraid

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

I am a man of age and dreams

Someone who traveled far away

But at the end of every sojourn

There was a similar lump of clay

Unformed and in the sun, exposed

Which seems amazing with this in mind

I went a thousand miles on hope

But landed short of the finish line

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

When I heard the gentle wisp

Of a goodbye wish intoned with grace

I knew that my interrogation had ended

An unspoken arrival at a lonely space

I did take heart in being free

No longer under a glaring light

But the darkening dare that was preceded

Held a burden of the lingering night

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

No matter that my ruse was ruined

I guessed that the revelation would rot

What I said was no surprise

My senior state, a gift of thought

Every mortal coil unwinds

A promenade into the ashtray

Just as I am, I come before thee

I take my bow, and fade to gray

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

 

Farewell is a final term

A spark of light before the dip

Of a golden orb below the horizon

A blind spot on a sailing ship

That is where I have progressed

While bobbing on the sea, adrift

A buoy that bargained to have its place

In the hollow of a paper clip

I did it again

An unintended work of zen

“Darkness Petition”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

A petition given, on bended knee

This is the prayer of a soul, set free

Too many times, I have loved and lost

But this is the hour, to settle that cost

I know too well where the road may lead

For a jester jumping, bowed with need

I made my choices, knowing all

And turned to hear the rooster’s call

A better plan might have made my bed

But I chose a wandering life instead

The price to pay was not included

For one so sadly duped and deluded

Late in this game I saw the truth

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth

The roll was written with my name

But I erased it, succumbing to shame

 

Ommmmmm...

 

Under cover of darkness

I will greet the night

This crazy moment is justified

We have already died

Under cover of darkness

I will cheat the light

This wayward walk is not a sin

It is the seed inside

And if you want to wait

While I pause to pray

If you want to wait

I’m standing at heaven’s gate

If you want to wait

While I pause to pray

If you want to wait

I’m standing at heaven’s gate, gate, gate

 

A petition purposed for the divine

An entreaty entrusted to the ruler of time

I state my case and wait for the verdict

But the answer is not, a poke or a pinprick

The sky turns gray, above my head

I find a place among the quick and dead

Strolling bones, they age and bend

But inside that shell, the heart will mend

If I cry out, for righteous relief

And plea for mercy, boasting of belief

That simple act may fail to impress

And I will only extol my excess

But if by chance I find the way

Illuminated by the glow, of a glorious day

That will be my fortune to win

A seat at the table, when feasting begins

 

Ommmmmm...

 

Under cover of darkness

I will greet the night

This crazy moment is justified

We have already died

Under cover of darkness

I will cheat the light

This wayward walk is not a sin

It is the seed inside

And if you want to wait

While I pause to pray

If you want to wait

I’m standing at heaven’s gate

If you want to wait

While I pause to pray

If you want to wait

I’m standing at heaven’s gate, gate, gate

 

A petition made of pieces arranged

Like shards of glass that pierce the brain

Each sliver that sparkles is a testament said

A wordsmith’s document of fear and dread

I must confess what lies in the heart

The things that I carry, when friends depart

The matter of which my flesh is made

The stuff of certainty, cradle to grave

Regardless of the of the season’s change

And however random the realm and range

I still locate my place by birth

A tenant born upon the earth

Here for a moment, and gone in the morrow

A fleeting flash of joy and sorrow

My memories meld in the rutted row

As above, so here, below

 

Ommmmmm...

 

Under cover of darkness

I will greet the night

This crazy moment is justified

We have already died

Under cover of darkness

I will cheat the light

This wayward walk is not a sin

It is the seed inside

And if you want to wait

While I pause to pray

If you want to wait

I’m standing at heaven’s gate

If you want to wait

While I pause to pray

If you want to wait

I’m standing at heaven’s gate, gate, gate

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Sunset Too Soon” (Part Four)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had survived many surreal experiences after coming to Evergreen Estates as an unwilling, yet desperate resident-in-waiting. He entered the community of mobile homes knowing little about what it was like to exist in the environment of a boxcar on wheels. At first, he felt belittled and humiliated by this shift in his living arrangement. But after the passage of many years, he no longer bowed his head with shame when going to visit relatives and associates in the outside world. He had become accustomed to living as a rural refugee. Someone who had been banished from mainstream society as a result of his own poor decisions, chaotic marriages, and confrontational career escapades.

 

Failure had been his ticket to enter the rustic oasis. Now, it was the most important component of his personal identity.

 

After twice being at the point of death, the contrarian hermit had a new perspective on living alone, in a distant neighborhood. One that made him realize his ability to endure was dependent on having resources for rescue close at hand. But he chafed at the idea of being needy. It was not in his nature to seek help or kindness from anyone. He preferred the solitude of being distant from civilization. Artificial guidelines and routines made him more than uncomfortable. They stiffened his resolve to remain defiant, and independent. With the onset of drastic health issues, however, this tendency to go against the grain had been negated out of necessity.

 

Predictably, he chose to deal with the situation in a similar fashion to everything else. He stayed drunk throughout the day, until fatigue and excess finally found him falling in bed, on his sofa, or tumbling to the carpeted floor in his living room, for the night.

 

When he canceled appointments with doctors, counselors, and advisers, that brief act of rebellion gave him renewed vigor. But it also intensified the push to have him participate in some sort of supervisory regimen. Eventually, he accepted a face-time conference with his regular physician in Geneva. Dr. Zeltany Mahindra used a P2P app that gave them real-time connectivity. It provided a convenient alternative to traveling north to her office at the hospital, in person. A service that he greatly appreciated.

He had just managed to make coffee in the kitchen, and was still groggy from a restless night on his threadbare mattress. After struggling to his chair, he sat down with a noisy thud of body mass, and took the wireless device in hand.

 

Her cheerful smile appeared on his cell phone display, with stunning immediacy.

 

“Link, how are you feeling today? Your report indicates some trauma from falling, and also the cardiac events. Yet I see that you’ve bounced back with resilience. I’d say you must have good genes at work there. Most men of your age group would have been sent to a skilled-care facility after such a frightening turn of events...”

 

Lincoln frowned while sipping his java. But nodded in agreement.

 

“Yeah, the bloodline of my family must be strong, I guess. Or maybe hell doesn’t want me so soon? Either way, I’m still here for the moment. If nothing else, that’ll piss off some of the folks here at my park!”

 

The medical professional grimaced at this note of sarcasm. But maintained her positive attitude.

 

“I want to ask about your dietary habits. Are you staying socially active, exercising, eating low-fat foods, and abstaining from tobacco and alcohol?”

 

The shaggy misanthrope chortled until drool had soaked his gray beard.

 

“EXERCISE? JUST GETTING OUT OF BED IN THE MORNING IS A DAMN WORKOUT! I QUIT CIGARETTES OVER 40 YEARS AGO, SO THERE’S THAT. BUT AS FOR THE REST, WELL, YOU DON’T WANT TO HEAR THE TRUTH! AND I HAVE NEVER BEEN SOCIABLE WITH ANYONE!”

 

Dr. Mahindra tilted her head to one side, and shrugged.

 

“Yes, I actually do want to hear the truth...”

 

Her senior patient took a deep breath before answering, honestly.

 

“I live on potato chips, cheese sticks, pickled sausages, brined okra, hot peppers, and pork rinds. How’s that for a combination?”

 

The care advocate shuddered visibly. She had expected some sort of extreme response.

 

“Link, all of those choices will contribute to problems such as you are experiencing right now...”

 

Her client nodded once again.

 

“I wash it down with whiskey and brew. I figure that ought to kill any of the bad stuff, right?”

 

Mahindra clenched her tiny fists. A fit of bad temper flushed her cheeks bright red.

 

“Don’t you want to live a long life? It is important that you take my advice to heart. Otherwise, you are going to expire long before you are ready! Doesn’t that make you afraid?”

 

Lincoln exhaled forcefully, and then leaned forward in his chair.

 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but no, I’m not afraid of the Grim Reaper. He’d be doing me a favor by swinging his scythe! That’d mean one less day of living in this junkyard by the county line. One less day of hearing stray dogs barking, one less day of hearing fist-fights and police sirens, rusty trucks with bad mufflers, awful music blaring from cheap speakers, and gunfire in the woods. It’d mean one less day of wondering how I screwed up my life enough that a singlewide shack became my home. I would mean one less day of feeling like my brain died years ago, and my body hasn’t figured it out just yet!”

 

The young physician sighed loudly, and crossed her arms.

 

“You’re an ornery old man, Townshend Lincoln! But I know that deep down, you really want to keep on living. And I will do my best to make that happen...”

 

There was a moment of silence as he pondered this candid observation. Then, the weary boozer clapped his hands and yowled.

 

“Yes, yes, that’s it! I do want to keep going. I actually do! If for no other reason than to be a nuisance for my neighbors. Some of those bastards would be happy to see me gone, so they could empty my storage barn, and strip all the extra wood off of my trailer. But I’m not quite done with living, yet. Not yet, dammit! Not yet!”

 

Their conversation ended with a pledge to meet at the main office in Geneva, after a decent interval. Temporarily, the minimum requirements for his care had been satisfied. But the reclusive bum knew that sooner or later, he would have to do better.

 

Unfortunately, that change would not arrive, today.