"Going Away"

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

Stubbed my toe on a stone stuck in the way

A metaphorical block, that I could not escape

I went down

In a fit of wailing worries

I went out

Leaving too late, and in a hurry

I might have known the end result would disappoint

But the sacrificial lamb was mine to anoint

All good

Hey, hey

 

Now there has often been a measure of regret

When looking over events that I want to forget

I turn pale

With the flat tones of a jealous rube

I turn away

With that stone still in my shoe

It does not matter to be cursed and kicked

I’m better off for having survived such tricks

This I believe

Hey, hey

 

Now I know some will read this tome and be untouched

Fully immune to the tap of an emotional crutch

But that’s the breaks

I’ve been there many times

That’s what it takes

To pop a cork from the wine

With that celebration taken fully in hand

I have the option to call myself a better man

I believe

Hey, hey

 

There is often a voice carried on the wind

A resonant sound that tingles my ears and chin

I know it well

This diversion from the plan

I know it true

Though it might have been banned

I learned a lesson from shivers in the cold

More meaningful than taking a gamble, bright and bold

Nothing gained

Hey, hey

 

Somewhere among the clouds of morning, displayed

There is the hope that my black heart might be saved

It burns down

To a coal of memories

It burns hot

Until judgment brings a reprieve

I might have guessed that the battle was won

When I counted out, this meager sum

Of myself in the lurch

Hey, hey

 

Tell me truly, teacher, if you rightly recall

What happens to the dead, when they scale those prison walls

I know not

What the eventual will yield

I know nothing

About meeting God for an appeal

The only guess I have to fake is a grin

Alive and well, and then born again

That is the chance

Hey, hey

 

I won’t tarry among the losers and lame

I have no interest in bouncing, on a board game

I fall down

Right to my knees

I fall out

Like dropping, dry leaves

If someone thinks that glory guards my descent

Then let them prattle on about my intent

With no clues

Hey, hey

 

Years beyond a final tick of the clock

Crowing loudly, this barnyard cock

Beak held high

Like a king, pecking seed

Held strong

Never bowing to need

I would have liked to be so majestic in my stance

But there’s a dribble of consequences, in my pants

I feel it now

Hey, hey

 

Warning, warning, this is the call

Of a jester jumping into a dimension, held in thrall

I am the one

Can you identify my face?

I am done

Transported to outer space

With a yearning for the scenes of a yonder yesterday

I meld with blue, with the azure haze

Going away

Hey, hey

 

I’m going away

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 23: Standoff

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

Thanks to swift action by our park manager, Dana Alvarez, I learned officially that only three residents of Evergreen Estates had paid their lot rent at the appointed time. I was the first, followed shortly by our local matron, Maylene Jefka, who lived across the street. And Miss Poindexter, the nearsighted, gamer-girl on my western flank, came in third. We were singled out and shamed, as part of an association newsletter that got mailed to every other person in the development. Written by Linn & Haki Speck. A badge of honor that I took as an amusing measure of negative esteem. Yet with what appeared to be the impending doom of a mass eviction at hand, nothing happened.

 

A philosophical and practical standoff between opposing factions had been sired by this citizen protest.

 

Our on-site supervisor rightly believed that if funds were left uncollected, the community could not survive. Her logic was rooted in the sturdy habit of commerce. An exchange of money for goods or services. But Sheriff Tom T. Rath balked at the notion of dumping so many leaseholders in a single expulsion. The resulting chaos would be something he and his deputies were unprepared to handle. Public opinion was likely to side with families left out in the cold. He had no appetite to be painted as Ebeneezer Scrooge, with Christmas close at hand.

 

Nakano Volca had been raised on the populist dogma of his mother and her fellow students at Cornell University. The thought of running inhabitants out of their homes, into the harsh climate of winter, disgusted him completely. He could not abide throwing in his lot with bankers and their legal partners. Though the board at his firm clearly recognized that the outlaw strike was illegitimate, and unwarranted, none of them sought to punish those involved. Negotiation had always been their tool of choice. Building bridges and seeking partnerships for future growth.

 

The result of this conflicted stance was that for the moment, nothing happened. Life at the rural village of mobile homes continued on, as before.

 

My own predisposition toward drunkenness and isolation meant that in personal terms, this momentary calm was welcome. A brief thaw in temperatures allowed me to spend longer periods outside, on my wooden bench. There, I felt present in the neighborhood without being too exposed. Anyone who passed my singlewide dwelling did so at a safe and comfortable distance. I liked having this buffer zone in effect.

 

My pleasant detachment from the park continuum lasted late into the afternoon. But then, I noted that a caravan of jacked-up, smoke-belching trucks had begun to circle the area. My own pre-fab hovel, and those of the two others who had kept their bargain with our ownership, were situated in a triangle that straddled the crumbling boulevard. Attention seemed to be focused only on our specific residences. And finally, the intention of this odd parade became clear. A barrage of rubber bullets was fired, as if to make a statement about our cooperation. Afterward, two of the big-wheeled behemoths split off, and took aim at my lot, and that of the contrarian geek, next door.

 

Aimes Hefti rolled down his window, and lifted a bullhorn until it was nearly pointed at the sky. The militia leader had donned a tactical uniform, and carried an assault rifle at his side.

 

“ALIGHTY THEN, LINK, HERE’S THE DEAL! GRANNY MAY GETS A PASS, ‘CAUSE SHE’S OLD AS DIRT, AND STUCK ON LIVIN’ RIGHT! BUT YOU ‘N THAT LESBO BITCH ARE RIGHT IN MY CROSSHAIRS! FER THIS IDEA TO WORK, EVERYBODY HAS TO PITCH IN! THAT MEANS 100% OF US HOLDIN’ BACK OUR LOT RENT, EVEN IF THE GAWDAMN COURTS WON’T APPROVE ESCROW ACCOUNTS! DO YA GET IT? 100% OF US! THAT MEANS NO SLACKERS, NO TRAITORS! BUT SOMEHOW, Y’ALL TWO DIDN’T GET THE MESSAGE! SO, GET READY FER A SHOWER OF REAL LEAD! MAYBE A LITTLE BIT OF VENTILATION IN THAT SHITBOX OF YERS WILL MAKE A DIFFERENCE!”

 

Expended ammunition flew wildly. As a reflex action, I ducked my head. Though of course, this would make little difference if I had been targeted.

 

“Commando, you’re cutting into my drinking time! That’s a sin, neighbor! Go pester somebody else, I am in the zone and just getting started on a bottle of whiskey!”

 

The enraged militant was not impressed by my complaint. He locked the transfer case of his Chevy Silverado into 4-wheel low, and tore up a long strip beside my driveway.

 

“THIS AIN’T NO GAME, OLD MAN! YOU ‘N THAT QUEER CHICK ARE GONNA GET IT, GOOD! THIS TAKEOVER IS GROUNDS FER A REVOLT! I’LL BET WHEN THOSE STUDENT KIDS FROM NEW YORK SEE WHAT WE’VE GOT PLANNED, THEY’LL BEG WELLS FARGO TO TAKE BACK THE DEED! WE DON’T WANT THEM HERE, OR THEIR WEIRD-ASS IDEAS! THIS IS NO PLACE FER FREAKS AND HIPPIES AND WHATEVER-THE-FRIG THEY ARE! SCREW ‘EM! THEY CAN GO TO HELL!”

 

I was still too sober for listening to his redneck banter. I needed to drown my senses in alcohol.

 

“You’d be scary if I took this place seriously. But figure it out, we’ve been here for years and never yet been kicked to the curb. The township trustees don’t want us here, but they damn well can’t send us anywhere else. We’d be like undocumented migrants getting bussed to Martha’s Vineyard, they’d hustle us out of town, pronto! People who live out in the wealthy suburbs wouldn’t have us nearby! We’re trash, to put it politely. Offal, in their eyes. Worse than horse manure on the streets of Middlefield!”

 

Aimes peppered the wall next to my seat with gunfire. Shards of vinyl siding scattered across my porch. The kitchen window cracked along its base.

 

“GIVE UP, ASSHOLE! Y’ALL HAVE BEEN OUTSMARTED AND OUTMATCHED! ADMIT THAT YA MADE A MISTAKE PAYIN’ THOSE MOTHER-EFFERS, AND SWEAR THAT IT’S ONE Y’ALL WON’T MAKE AGAIN! SAY IT QUICK, BEFORE I GOT TIME TO RELOAD WITH ANOTHER CLIP!”

 

I slammed a double-shot of Evan Williams Bottled-in-Bond. The burn tingled my nose. I shivered just a bit, as the liquor settled in my belly. But a pervasive numbness took hold, at last.

 

“Look, you can’t kill me today. I’ve been dead inside for years, since coming to this junkyard wasteland. We’re all dead to the world. Some of us just haven’t figured it out yet. Take a hard look in the mirror, dude. One of those poor bastards is you...”

“Holiday Surprise”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

Somebody led a caravan up my street

Hey, what a surprise

They came bearing gifts of holiday treats

What a surprise

I did not expect to see

Anyone crossing, so gallantly

But here they came like a winter breeze

What a surprise

 

Somebody had the courage to check

Hey, what a surprise

On this old bag ‘o bones, a physical wreck

What a surprise

I sat there puzzled and unsure of myself

But these visitors had stories to tell

Of Christmas cheer and Santa’s elves

What a surprise

 

Somebody came to get in touch

Hey, what a surprise

I was bundled up in flannel and such

What a surprise

A frosty day that had me gloved and capped

Thinking St. Nick had missed my spot on the map

But at the door there was a gentle rap

What a surprise

 

Somebody came in a chorus of chance

Hey, what a surprise

Me sitting here in my pajama pants

What a surprise

They started talking and I wanted to run

My mood was something to overcome

Not used to being a favorite son

What a surprise

 

Somebody seemed to know that I was awake

Hey, what a surprise

They brought candies and a slab of fruitcake

What a surprise

A dinner plate for my holiday reprieve

And conversation, long into the eve

Festive chatter that I could not believe

What a surprise

 

Somebody rightly had their trip arranged

Hey, what a surprise

To warm the holder of a heart, unchanged

What a surprise

Across the yards, buried in white

Lingering in the glow of Yuletide delight

It took a moment to get my head right

What a surprise

 

Somebody offered eggnog, spicy and thick

Hey, what a surprise

As the cuckoo clock continued to tick

What a surprise

Then it was time to continue this dare

To greet others who were also unaware

After they left, I sat in my chair

Saying, “What a surprise!”

 

Somebody might have thought this was a gleam

Hey, what a surprise

A vision vaulted from a literary scheme

What a surprise

But I can promise the encounter was cool

Not a fantasy, composed by an old fool

I prospered, as a keeper of the golden rule

What a surprise

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 22: Payoff

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

With the rent strike in effect, I did not anticipate encountering a line at the door of Dana Alvarez, our park manager. In fact, I suspected that no one else in the community was likely to pay their monthly bill on time. Except perhaps for my neighbor across the street, Maylene Jefka. She was a matronly old widow with a strong sense of duty and honor. For her, shirking the responsibility of a leaseholder might represent a slide into sin. That was something too distasteful to imagine her embracing. Yet for anyone else, the notion of evading contractual obligations would be welcome. There had already been plenty of grousing about the rise in our regular fee, of $75.00.

 

On my way to our village office, I had to pass the corner home of Linn and Haki Speck. I could see that one of them had hidden behind tattered drapes in their front window. The reflected glare of binocular lenses flashed briefly, as I hobbled along. This telltale sign almost made me want to raise a one-fingered salute while in motion. Yet I restrained myself, and kept silent. Standing guard at the maintenance garage was Aimes Hefti, who had positioned himself so as to be out-of-sight from the personnel who were present. I expected some sort of confrontation to occur, and while dragging my canes across the tarmac, he stepped into my path with the boldness of an instigator.

 

“WHERE YA GOIN’ LINK? Y’ALL GONNA HAND YER CHECK OVER TA THAT BIG-EYED BITCH, IN PERSON? I FIGURED THIS SITUATION MIGHT’VE WOKEN YER ASS UP! BUT NO, YA DON’T DESERVE THAT MUCH CREDIT! GO AHEAD AND KISS HER ROUND BUTT, DO IT LIKE A GOOD LITTLE DICKHEAD! Y’ALL MAKE ME SICK!”

 

I paused to catch my breath. His challenge stiffened my resolve. As a visceral reaction, I wanted to swing one of my canes toward his teeth. But I could see that he was carrying his sidearm in a holster. It hung from his belt as an open invitation for chaos. Something I did not need or want.

 

“Commando, you’re a damn nuisance. Let me pay my tribute and go home, okay? I don’t need the sheriff calling when Christmas is so near. My plan is to get drunk and pass out, so Santa Claus can leave me a lump of coal by the garbage bin, like last year...”

 

Aimes adjusted his stance, and grunted with a growl of disgust.

“OLD MAN, YA GOT NO EFFIN’ BALLS! I THINK THIS SHITHOLE HAS SCREWED UP YER HEAD! AIN’T YA BEEN FRIGGED ENOUGH OVER THE YEARS? THESE CROOKS ARE DONE ROBBIN’ US, THEY’LL GET NO MORE MONEY FROM ME OR ANYBODY! THEY CAN CALL OUT THE LAWMEN, I DON’T GIVE A DAMN! LET ‘EM STAMPEDE IN HERE LIKE A HERD OF BULLS! WE’RE UP FER SOME ACTION! THE PARK MILITIA IS ARMED AND READY!”

 

I knew his attitude would be different with deputies on our streets. But arguing the point was useless. I let him chatter away while turning toward the office door.

 

Upon entering, I could hear Dana Alvarez pleading with a distant representative, over her cell phone. There were still swaths of spray paint on the outside walls, and bags of rubbish sitting around its perimeter.

 

“Ayyyyy, you gotta do something, boss! These people have gone loco, you get me? They tore up my little spot here, and I don’t have one check in the drop box! No dinero, compadre! We are broke for this month, totally, flat-ass broke! You gotta do something! Call the big guy, Sheriff Rath, at the county’s safety center!”

 

 The voice of Nakano Volca buzzed in her ear, from his own workspace in Ithaca, New York. He did not sound pleased.

 

“Ms. A, I thought we had made some progress with the takeover by my credit cooperative. Don’t these people understand that we are trying to help improve their station in life? Every owner that has worked with Wells Fargo seems to have exploited their ignorance. We want to give them a measure of dignity, and a fair shake! Why isn’t that good enough?”

 

The on-site supervisor shrugged while tapping at her computer keyboard.

 

“Hey, I don‘t know! This is nothing like managing apartments, the people here are dirty and dumb. They want everything for free! I’ve seen dozens of ‘em come and go already, and I ain’t been here too long. Ay caramba! But it’s a job, you know?”

 

He sighed regretfully while making notes about the unpaid bills.

 

“Our strategy as a collective is to work with those in debt. We don’t like dealing with police officers, of any kind. It is against our philosophy. This is a refuge from traditional bankers and their enforcement partners...”

 

Alvarez snorted cigarette smoke. She wanted to end the call and lock her door.

 

“Okay, okay, I get you. You ain’t gonna do nothin’ about this, right? So, what happens next month? And the month after that? And the next month, after that? How are you payin’ the bills here, señor?”

 

Her comrade from the Proletariat Property Co-op was stymied by this logical appeal. Yet unwilling to surrender his viewpoint without analysis and discussion.

 

“There’ll be a way to negotiate, let me have a conversation with the governing board at my company. A hasty decision would not be wise. Trust me on this, we have been in business for a long time...”

 

The park caretaker slammed her device on the desk. Then, she stubbed out her smoke.

 

“I’m done with that imbécil. He can beso my culo grande! I’ll call Mister Tom myself. That guy will get things done, he has some big cojones! He knows how to handle this redneck dump!”

 

Stacey Perk, a young secretary at the safety center, took this desperate call as a polite gesture. But did not forward the request for contact until a superior was available. The morning had been busy with meetings and press inquiries. But finally, her petition to be heard was granted.

 

Sheriff Tom T. Rath was at his desk in the department facility. He wanted to enjoy a coffee break before sorting through postal mail and handling disputes left from the previous day. But his underling insisted on being acknowledged.

 

“Sir, I got a call from the manager at Evergreen Estates. I’m sure you are very familiar with that location, it is the development of mobile homes in our northeastern township. She said you need to serve eviction orders for some of their residents, immediately! The court filings have already been made. She has called three times, today!”

 

The law professional bowed his head in reflection. He had been glad not to deal with issues in the park for several months. Something that seemed like a miracle.

 

“Alright, alright, I hear you! We never have good luck in that place, it’s always a headache. But it comes with the territory. How many notices has the judge signed? How many families do we have to chase out of their homes?”

 

Stacey shuffled a stack of official, faxed documents they had received. There were more than she could count, quickly.

 

“Umm, to be honest sir, it looks like... almost all of them!”

“Death Isn’t Funny Anymore”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

As a youngster, I thought that seniors were slow

Their worries seemed oddly burdened with woe

I didn‘t understand what they came here for

But death isn’t funny anymore

With the artful lament of a bullying boss

I learned about God, and Christ on the cross

And that rote revelation opened the door

Death wasn’t funny anymore

 

Once I as a child, without a reserve

Of images and concepts, templates and words

I struggled just to speak about family folklore

But death isn’t funny anymore

At that primal point, I was too young

To perceive the finality of a firing gun

But in older years, I learned so much more

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

Barnabas in his coffin, hiding from Angelique

Rednecks with longnecks, running up and down my street

Football contests without any scores

And death Isn’t funny anymore

Waiting for coffee at the crest of a day

Pondering the penance that I must pay

For waiting too long to admit being bored

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

Last in line at the pearly gates

An outcast by nature, destined to wait

Ernest Tubb, walking the floor

But death isn’t funny anymore

Fresh eyes see what the soul denies

The palest blue of unclouded skies

But under this garment of sin that I wore

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

I read and studied, until almost blind

Right to the limit of my classroom time

Hoping that there might be a reward

But death isn’t funny anymore

When I saw it fall upon a friend

And my sister who journeyed to a bitter end

That was a moment that chilled to the core

Death wasn’t funny anymore

 

Compliments offered left me feeling numb

I was no wiser to inherit that sum

Though saying it aloud made me a son to abhor

Yes, death isn’t funny anymore

I paddled in circles on a frozen lake

Headed in a direction that was my mistake

I could have used a wider oar

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

John Wayne riding in cowboy chaps

Evel Knievel two-wheeling ‘cross the map

All of these heroes from days of yore

Knew that death isn’t funny anymore

I held them close, in high esteem

Fully in awe of their glamourous gleam

But the yield of fandom was a curse to implore

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

Now I am old and bent to the turf

Wondering about what this life is worth

In the breach, there’s a treasure I adore

But death isn’t funny anymore

It comes after dark, when I am weak

Breathing the ether of otherworldly mystique

A vapor that vanishes into my pores

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

As an innocent cub, examples were enough

To fortify a child, yearning to be tough

But when I took my battle to the fore

Death wasn’t funny anymore

Captain Kirk and aliens from afar

Flying through the cosmos, from star to star

They seemed to inspire like a lion’s roar

Death isn’t funny, anymore

 

In this age of rheumatism and rot

I find myself stuck in the crevice of a mail slot

Unable to move as I did, before

Death isn’t funny anymore

A keeper of junk without a clue

No special attraction, earmark, or value

A narrow passage constrained at the bore

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

Hair turns gray and sights will fade

This is the promise of a clockwork parade

Marching stiffly, as if off to war

But death isn’t funny anymore

I know the glory of which men sing

A chase of trophies, and the bright, brass ring

But in the fullness, there’s a potion to pour

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

When I at last lie down and sleep

And the kiss of oblivion is mine to meet

There’ll be a lingering, love metaphor

Because death isn’t funny anymore

The first in line went long ago

And then the second, summoned below

My turn will come, a legacy to restore

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

No one may protest, at the appointed hour

When lonely regrets bud up, and flower

Yet perhaps I will purse my lips and deplore

That death isn’t funny anymore

Unseen and invisible, run out of luck

Drowning in consequences, dredged from the muck

That is the target at which I aimed, heretofore

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

Listless and lost in the vastness of time

An outlier still hobbled by a purpose, sublime

No credit for the badges that generals wore

Death isn’t funny anymore

Lincoln and Kennedy, both rightly revered

A dazzling duo, too soon taken by fear

And I am simply a stumbling matador

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

Through the halls of history, wisely recorded

Scribblers do their best to keep news, reported

While I am humbled, to be a soldier in the corps

Death isn’t funny anymore

I once aspired to be grand and great

To dine with delicacies on my dinner plate

But now, a bricklayer has made my decor

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

To tread on stones, worn smooth by the saints

Is a privilege of commoners, in puddles of paint

Stained with the mark of a precious ore

Death isn’t funny anymore

I should be grateful for this epiphany of gold

And feel blessed, to grow both feeble and old

The final lesson, is ‘caveat emptor’

Death isn’t funny anymore

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 21: Strike

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

After the Sunday service at our township’s Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven, I knew what to expect upon coming home. Evergreen Estates would be overrun with parishioners who wanted to exorcise the demons of a new ownership group, from taking root in their local community. A fire of rebellion had been lit with torches flaming from citizen unrest. Now, that conflagration would burn down every obstacle in its path.

 

My hope was to be inebriated before things got completely out of hand.

 

While sitting on my front porch, still bundled in seasonal apparel, I could hear a mob gathering around the park office. No one was on duty of course, because weekends always meant an absence of supervision. Yet Aimes Hefti insisted that the militia troops be rallied. He carried a borrowed bullhorn, which amplified his voice to such a decibel level that it could be heard, several streets away.

 

“THIS IS THE START OF A WAR, DAMN IT! Y’ALL KNOW WHAT’LL HAPPEN IF LOT RENT DON’T GET PAID! BUT BY GOD, WE’RE GONNA STICK IT TO THEM! NOBODY, AND I MEAN NOOO-BODY, WILL DROP THEIR CHECKS IN THIS BOX BY THE ENTRANCE DOOR. I’M SMASHIN’ IT SHUT, RIGHT NOW! THIS IS OUR FREAKIN’ INDEPENDENCE DAY!”

 

He put the vocal aide aside, and picked up a sledgehammer. One swing of this heavy tool crushed the slot effectively. Then, he turned to the angry horde of leaseholders, and raised his fist in a salute. No more words were necessary.

 

Linn Speck cheered at the display of militant bravado. His suit and tie were rumpled from the wind and snow. But he persisted in demonstrating support for their rent strike.

 

“I’m on board with what Aimes had to say! Do any of you want to give your money to a bunch of invaders from New York? An ugly, dirty, collective of recycled hippies, druggies, trans freaks, and AntiFa terrorists? Well I don’t! And I won’t! They’ll get nothing from me but a swift kick in the rear! And directions to ride their butts out of town!”

 

Haki was shivering from the cold. But did not fail to boast about her portly husband.

 

“Honey, you’re a hero! You tell ‘em, my big man! Everybody knows you ought to be in charge of the residential association, right now! I couldn’t be prouder to wear your wedding ring! It’s a great day to live in this mobile-home development!”

 

I had to groan over her fawning rhetoric. Yet nothing I heard was unexpected.

 

Someone in the restless crowd produced a can of spray paint, and began to adorn the office building and maintenance garage with controversial symbols of the old Confederacy. Then, sacks of rubbish and miscellaneous construction waste were dumped around the perimeter. Finally, members of the former Jonovic brigade lined up to give a rifle retort, to seal their loyalty to this cause.

 

Gunfire ripped the sky overhead. Each crack of expended ammunition echoed from trailer walls and outbuildings.

 

Commandante Hefti clicked his heels together, and barked with a gruff, canine edge to his voice.

 

“THESE GAWDAMN CHUMPS ARE GONNA GET ONE HELL OF A SURPRISE, WHEN THEIR REPRESENTATIVES VISIT FROM THE EMPIRE STATE! WE DO THINGS DIFFERENTLY HERE IN OHIO! WE LIVE FREE, AND DIE HARD! THERE AIN’T NO WORRIES HERE ABOUT BEIN’ POLITICALLY CORRECT OR WOKE! EFF ALL THAT BULLSHIT! THEY CAN TAKE IT STRAIGHT TA HELL!”

 

Linn wobbled his flabby jowls while whistling. He felt excited to finally be preeminent among the other inhabitants of their neighborhood.

 

“I agree, agree, agree! This is our Boston Tea Party, friends! When Dana Alvarez shows up here, tomorrow, she’ll be in tears! I can’t wait to learn what she tells those weirdos from the PPC! They’ll be ruined for good! Wells Fargo will have to repossess this property, one more time! And all of us can say good riddance to bad garbage, from the halls of Cornell University!”

 

A rowdy chant went up from those who were participating in the impulsive uprising.

 

“GOD AND TRUMP! GOD AND TRUMP! WE LOVE AMERICA, GOD, AND TRUMP!”

 

My eyes were burning. This sting of fatigue matched the fiery growl of my stomach. I knew that continuing to drink so heavily, at such an early hour, would mean passing out on my wooden bench. Something that would tempt frostbite and frozen limbs. Yet the passion of resistance gave me courage to forge ahead. I wanted to be zoned out and snoring before any of the others on my crumbling avenue returned from their misdeeds.

 

“Frig it! Glasses off the table, everybody! Here’s a toast to this junkyard rathole that we call our own! Be it ever so humble, as they say, there’s no place like home! And there’s damn well no place like this spot in the pines!”

 

Once the smoke of gunpowder had cleared, I could hear diesel trucks spinning their turbochargers. Oversized tires began to tear at the field, by our park entrance. Crystallized clods of grass and mud filled the air. Icicles fell from the garage roof, as ominous vibrations shook the earth. Then, the afternoon was still.

 

My fellow county-line exiles must have been exhausted after their horseplay. Even from a distance, I could see that the area around our main concourse had been reduced to a shambles. There was little left to do, but wait for a response regarding a mass, non-payment of lot rent. In a sense, I would now be safe in my longbox hovel, even without the numbing effects of high-proof bourbon. Yet I had already uncorked my jug. I wanted to swig my swill until the comfort of unconsciousness took me far away from this prefabricated wasteland. To a place where acrimony and division could never hope to reach. Where the rude and rough conditions of a laborer’s life were not signs of depravation, but instead, talismans of glory.

 

Where people like myself were not shunned for eschewing the primitive mentality of an animal herd in motion.

 

I fell asleep, with the thermometer hanging on a nail behind my head reading nine degrees. It took only a matter of minutes for my core body temperature to drop precipitously. Then, somehow, I crawled inside. A blackout followed that kept me anesthetized for several hours. When a glare of morning sun returned, I was on the floor in my living room. Fully clothed, sweaty, and dribbling piss in my boxer shorts.

 

I cursed softly, at the thought of being awake. A better fate, one of final rest, had not been mine to inherit. I would have to face another day at Evergreen Estates. That reality stuck in my craw.

 

“Lucky me! Lucky, lucky me!”

 

 

 

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 20: Gossip

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

Gossip has always traveled rapidly when compared to factual reporting, in every civilization. But with the advent of social media platforms, its velocity has been magnified many times over. And at Evergreen Estates, the ability of half-truths and rumors to spread is unmatched anywhere else in the region. Yet when I mentioned being contacted by a mysterious figure from the Proletariat Property Co-op, there was no fear of causing an uproar, attached. My neighbor, Trina Trelane, had often been an advocate for radical causes of various sorts. But within the park itself, she remained mostly anonymous. Her political bent did not fit the conservative tilt prevalent on our streets. So, few if any residents were connected with her, via cyberspace. Even when she promised to post about one of her drag heroines being a member of the New York credit union that had acquired our development, I did not flinch. It seemed unlikely that anyone nearby would be paying attention.

 

But I had forgotten an x-factor that would potentially upset the relative calm in our remote community.

 

Miss Poindexter, as she was known to many residents, did keep in touch with Darby Stronelli, the bold, spiky-haired snoop on my eastern flank. They were not close by any means, but stayed friendly because of a shared interest in gaming and making TikTok videos. So, when the news of Nova Caine being employed as a PPC representative went public, my long-time contact across the empty lot was intrigued. This innocent tidbit stuck in her head, quietly. Until enjoying an evening of female company in her party barn. As the Bud Light began to flow, her lips were loosened. Soon, she was babbling all sorts of nonsensical, nasty rubbish about others who lived up and down the boulevard. With a trio of ladies listening, intently.

 

Haki Speck had come straight to the festive meet from a workout session in her living room. She was still dressed in a pink sweatsuit, with her golden curls pulled up in a purple scrunchie.

 

“Dar, you always know how to spill the tea! You must stand at your window with binoculars or something! I think you have dirt on just about everyone in this place!”

 

Her sister-from-another-mister was amused.

 

“Nahhhhh, I don’t actually know too many people here. Not too many. But now and then I do hear something. And I do! Like with the new owners, now there’s a story! Oh boy, a messed up one, I think! Did you know they got a drag queen on their staff? How nuts is that? A big, fat, queenie who wears makeup like it was slapped on with a putty trowel! Ha ha ha ha! What is it with gay dudes, why do they go overboard like that?”

 

Haki blushed from embarrassment. She did not know how to respond.

 

“Oh really? Ohhhh, really? That is so shocking. Oh myyyy...”

 

Later in the evening, she remembered this candid comment, while at the dinner table with her husband. An insignificant wad of metaphorical fluff that she had carried home. But when she related being told about the financial adviser having a secret life, her husband nearly fell out of his chair. He did not take the report lightly.

 

“WHAT THE HECK DID YOU SAY, HONEY? A MAN IN WOMEN’S CLOTHES AND HIGH HEELS? WORKING AT THE COMPANY OFFICES OF OUR OWNERS? THIS IS AN OUTRAGE! A GENUINELY DISGUSTING OUTRAGE! NO WONDER WELLS FARGO KEPT US IN THE DARK UNTIL THE DEAL WAS DONE! THIS POOR NEIGHBORHOOD WILL BE LIKE SODOM AND GOMORRAH, VERY, VERY SOON! I WON’T STAND FOR IT! WE WON’T STAND FOR IT! I’M GOING TO CALL PASTOR FORESTER AT OUR CHURCH OF THER LORD JESUS IN HEAVEN, RIGHT NOW! HE’LL PUT A STOP TO THIS NONSENSE! ONCE AND FOREVER!”

 

On Sunday morning, services at the township square were more boisterous than usual. After a brief sermon, holy communion, and prayer, the clergyman closed his Bible and asked parishioners to linger for a moment longer.

 

I stayed in the back row. Somehow, my presence was not noticed among the flock.

 

The preacher steadied his hands by gripping both sides of his lectern. Then, his speaking voice became hard and measured. He did not want to flub the appeal for action. It was too consequential, to be weak in the moment.

 

“Brothers and sisters in Christ, I have always implored you to be vigilant in defending the gospel. It is our mission as soldiers for God. But now, I ask you to remember what is written in the scriptures, specifically, in Psalm 94:11-16...”

 

He reopened his copy of the good book, and began to read, dramatically.

 

“The Lord knoweth the thoughts of man, that they are vanity. Blessed is the man whom thou chastenest, O Lord, and teachest him out of thy law; That thou mayest give him rest from the days of adversity, until the pit be digged for the wicked. For the Lord will not cast off his people, neither will he forsake his inheritance. But judgment shall return unto righteousness: and all the upright in heart shall follow it. Who will rise up for me against the evildoers? Or who will stand up for me against the workers of iniquity?”

 

A silent pause stilled those in attendance. Then, they chanted in unison.

 

“AMEN PASTOR! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

 

Forester straightened his necktie, with a nervous twitch. And then raised his hands in praise.

 

“This is the will of our Heavenly Father! That we never grow tired in fighting for the faith! Every day of struggle is a gift to our creator! It is a blessing to serve! And we must serve now, as ambassadors for moral conduct. It has come to my attention that the new owners of that trailer community down the hill have plans afoot that are not in keeping with God’s word. They want to interject unwelcome ideas among our believers! Sinful, woeful ideas! Have you heard this, my friends? There was a movement to withhold rent payments, until this wrong has been made right. But it stalled. And yet now I tell you that indeed, it must happen! It will happen! Let none of you pay even a single cent in tribute to these arrogant masters in New York! Give them nothing but a rebuke from the Holy Spirit! Give them nothing but the wisdom of God, Almighty! Give them nothing but motivation to turn away from their seedy, salacious path, and find salvation in reverence to the Lord!”

 

The sanctuary erupted with religious zeal. I could feel the walls vibrating.

 

“AMEN! AMEN! AMEN AMEN!”

 

Stumbling along on my disability canes, I managed to exit the service ahead of everyone else. I knew that in the days ahead, there would be much conflict at our rural park. But for now, only one plan of action seemed in order.

 

I was going to get completely and utterly drunk.