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.

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 19: Outed

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

I have never been a person who spends time fretting over the habits of others. What they do, privately and in their own social bubble, is not my concern. Moreover, I have always adhered to the mantra, ‘stay in your lane.’ It is indeed sensible and courteous to keep focused on your own affairs. And one may observe rightly that arguments, legal disputes, and wars, often have their origin point in some sort of busybody meddling. Shades of religious dogma or political crusading only intensify this most irritating habit of the human species. To force opinions on others who may disagree, is an act rooted in arrogance. I refuse to assume such a level of self-importance, for any stance which I take freely. My own views are well-considered, I believe. Yet they are the product of an evolutionary curve etched out over many years. I do not expect anyone to necessarily subscribe to the conclusions I have reached. But I do pray that they will study and edify themselves, accordingly. Knowledge is a precious asset, to be sure. However, mortal minds still wander within the boundaries of sentient consciousness. So long as my neighbors do not inhibit the liberties which I enjoy, I wish them no harm.

 

I once saw a quote attributed to Penn Gillette that nailed the point, effectively.

 

“My take on being Libertarian is that I don’t know what is best for other people.”

 

At Evergreen Estates, this concept is, unfortunately, all but dead. Residents such as Aimes Hefti, the militia commander, and Linn Speck, the association head and moral advocate, spend much of their daily lives treading on the ground of fellow citizens. Through boastful propaganda, distributing mass literature, and clandestine firearms sales, both have a methodology founded upon persuasive coercion. On our rural property, they are twin towers of torment.

 

But across my side yard, Trina Trelane provides a visible counterpoint to this kind of behavior. She is a close-cropped, bulky, tattooed lesbian. With leanings that are generally leftward and progressive. I have never seen her hold a job of any kind. Yet she stays busy, networking with other outlier contacts, presumably in trailer enclaves around the Buckeye northcoast. Her demeanor, toward me at least, has always been courteous and cheerful. Something that I take as a sign that we must share, at least in principle, some of the same viewpoints regarding personal conduct in a public setting.

However, a recent encounter over the grassy strip between our mobile homes made me ponder how even good intentions can end up seeding chaos in an environment such as ours.

 

We had been in a deep-freeze since Thanksgiving, all across the region. But Mother Nature seemed to wake for a moment, after this frosty episode of about three-weeks. A momentary warming changed the snow to rain, with a particular weekday soaring to near 50 degrees. This meant that I could shuck my protective cocoon, at least for a moment. I sat outside on the front porch with several rounds of brew, and a bottle of brown liquor. The fresh air was invigorating, and some who passed on the street tooted their automobile horns in tribute.

 

Finally, Trina appeared on her back stoop. She was dressed in a fuzzy, cat-eared cap, a Ramen hoodie, and summer leggings with a Pokemon pattern. Her tiny pooch apparently needed a potty reprieve. Because we rarely saw each other, face-to-face, this chance encounter caused her to gasp slightly. Then, she squealed and giggled at my shaggy appearance.

 

“Yikes, Link, how long has it been since you had a haircut? Or a shave?”

 

I snorted with amusement at her query. It had been so long that I could not remember.

 

“Sometime before the Covid pandemic, I think.... does it matter?”

 

She rolled her eyes behind a pair of thick-framed, black spectacles.

 

“Of course not. But from a distance, you look like a big gnome sitting over there! My girlfriend thinks you must be scary when she visits. But I told her that actually, most of the other people here are more frightening to me!”

 

I was unsure if her remark was a compliment, or an insult. Still, either way it would have no effect on my routine.

 

“Umm... while you’re out here, I wonder if anyone has called from the new ownership group in New York? I got a ring from a... lady who claimed to be an assistant of some kind. She peppered me with questions about this park. I didn’t give her much insight though, just more points to ponder...”

 

My cohort to the west was often tagged as Miss Poindexter, by other leaseholders in our community. She displayed a facial expression in keeping with that nickname, before asking who had reached out to make a connection.

 

“Really? That’s cool. What was her name?’

 

I did not guess that passing along the information would arouse any controversy in our rural village. So, I answered with no hesitation.

 

“Nova, I think? Nova Caine. She had a brassy tone of voice that buzzed in my ear...”

 

Trina exhaled with a foghorn blast. I had never seen her react to anything so emotionally.

 

“NOVA CAINE??? THEEEEEE NOVA CAINE? REALLY, REALLY, REALLY?”

 

I was blank and numb.

 

“Yeah... umm... who is that?”

 

My reclusive friend began to dance suggestively, tossing her plump thighs left and right. She threw back her head and laughed out loud. Then sang lyrics to a popular song I did not recognize.

 

“There can’t be another Nova Caine, that has to be the one! She’s been on Ru Paul’s Drag Race, I’ve seen her dozens of times! Jinkies, what a hoot! If she works for this new company, that is wonderful! I can’t wait to post about it on Facebook!”

 

I was tipsy from the Kentucky bourbon, but not yet drunk. Her outburst left me puzzled.

 

“Drag racing? What, like up our road at the Kuhnle Strip? I didn’t know that was a thing anymore. Didn’t that go out with the Beach Boys and muscle cars? I miss my kid brother’s black, V-8 Falcon Futura...”

 

She sneered and smiled alternately.

 

“Link, you’re a crazy goof! Drag as in drag queen! Wooo, you’re really out of the loop, buddy! She’s fabulous, a dazzling darling on stage! I love her glam performances! That big transwoman is an LGBT hero! We went to see her last summer, in a show at the Cove! Up at Geneva-on-the-Lake! The club was really packed!”

 

I chugged a double swallow of fiery refreshment. It burned in my throat. My eyes watered from the taste. But it steadied my mood. I hoped the pee break for her canine pal was over. Any further details would be more than I could handle, without drowning my senses.

 

“Alrighty ma’am... well, if she calls again, I’ll tell her there’s a fan in the neighborhood!”

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 18: Revelation

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

My telephone interaction with Nova Caine was completely unexpected. But as we talked candidly about life in the rural outpost of Evergreen Estates, I began to sense that she must be jotting down notes during the conversation, for later review. Possibly to give some kind of report to her fellow participants at the Proletariat Property Co-op.

 

Her query about the park and its quirks precipitated a single comment that expressed the amazement of everyone in New York with endless disbelief.

 

“I see many reports on the internet, regarding your location. There are lots of incidents with police officers, the county courts, and even National Guard troops. But, that’s not why I called. I want to understand the mindset of inhabitants at Evergreen Estates. What makes them tick? Why do they resist our plans? Why? Why? Why?”

 

I had to think for a moment. Using a measure of diplomacy to answer seemed proper. But I couldn’t phrase my reply gently. So instead, I simply blurted out the truth.

 

“People in this cluster of boxcar homes are damaged goods. They’ve been effed over by the outside world. Screwed in the name of justice, screwed in the name of righteousness, screwed by characters both good and bad. I’m a little bit surprised that they cling to any religious traditions, because those types exist on a different level of society. Here in my township, things are dirty. There are no clean hands. No saints, just lots and lots of sinners. Maybe that’s the attraction though, because it gives them hope of attaining something better. Some like to speak about ‘shit getting real’ when they post on internet media sites. Well, to be frank, shit is very, very real here in the pines. I’ve seen neighbors dragged out of their homes by sheriff’s deputies, and heard the cries of others who were hungry and desperate, and in a state of emotional collapse. I’ve seen these long huts burn to the ground, while those watching kept drinking beer and playing games like cornhole. I’ve seen home invasions and homicides. I’ve seen elected officials show up to offer a note of sanity, and retreat afterward, feeling the sting of failure. I’ve known many, many individuals who have been betrayed and hoodwinked, and conned, repeatedly. To the point that they now trust that same sort of huckster for salvation. They are like frightened animals. Fighting even those who want to provide a rescue from this deep pit of despair. It’s a case study on the habits of humanity, gone wrong. If I were smarter and more gifted, I could write a college dissertation on the trend. One of my cousins is a professor, he’s never been stuck in a rathole like this...”

 

Ms. Caine appeared to be out of breath. I could hear her choking back tears.

 

“MY GOD, HOW DO YOU MANAGE TO GET OUT OF BED IN THE MORNING? I THINK THAT I WOULD WANT TO KILL MYSELF!”

 

Her blunt confession caused me to laugh out loud. A reaction she did not expect.

 

“Look, I’ve heard that the human race is supremely adaptable. Able to cope with extreme cold, or heat, or famine, or drought. With wars and conflicts and the foibles of mankind. Well, this dump proves the point, scientifically. These residents are hard. They came here as soft clay, and were baked like bricks in a kiln. They’ve survived destitution, abandonment, humiliation, and torment. Nobody comes to a trailer park by choice. They come here because this is the end of a long and winding road. This is the drop-off point for lonely losers, orphans, widows and widowers, or foster kids kicked to the curb. They are divorced, broken, weary, lame, and exhausted. Out of options and ideas. You wonder why they won’t trust your good intentions? That’s the answer, right there. They don’t trust anyone or anything. It has all proven to be a bogus document. Composed of artful lies and trickery. You want trust? You want cooperation? Good luck with that...”

 

Nova wiped her eyes with a tissue. She could not bear to listen any longer.

 

“Mr. Lincoln, you have the reputation of an old drunk. But I think there’s a lot of wisdom in what you’ve said today! I appreciate getting to share your insight.”

 

I felt slightly embarrassed. Compliments were rare in my part of the world.

 

“I’ll guess that your partners figured on taking over this little wasteland, and turning it into a solid asset. The up-front price must have been cheap. I know that Wells Fargo has been trying to find a reputable owner for years. They must have hated carrying the property on their books. But this ground is too swampy for real houses, and we aren’t close to any population center. It’s a freaking miracle that anything got built on this spot. We’ve had terrible water quality, and power outages, for years. The rent keeps going up, and things stay open. But I don’t know how. To be honest, getting booted off the ship would be an act of mercy. Eviction would finally set me free...”

 

I could hear the financial aide shuffling paperwork on her desk. Then, she offered a conclusion voiced in dark tones of surrender.

 

“Sir, I thank you for taking the time to chat about this situation. You’ve been very helpful. Have a good day! I hope we get to meet in person, when the weather improves!”

 

Once she had ended our call, I realized that a powerful thirst had taken hold. I rummaged through the liquor cupboard, until finding a bottle of Old Grand-Dad whiskey, behind bags of pet treats and cleaning supplies. A forgotten bonus as I had run out of everything else, while waiting for a thaw to arrive. While beginning to imbibe, I scrolled through search results on my cellular device. It seemed reasonable to get some details about my new contact from the PPC. Yet when I searched professional websites such as LinkedIn, there were no results for anyone with her name. Facebook, X, Blue Sky, and other venues all failed to yield anything useful.

 

At the end of this roster, a link to TikTok post appeared. I was confused by the thumbnail image, which appeared to be an overweight woman with a towering, red beehive, and a sparkling gown in bright green. When I clicked on the text, a short video appeared. Music from a John Waters film accompanied a performance on a makeshift stage. There were howls and hoots of support, as the punchy dame twirled and high-stepped for her audience. Then, she took a bow before ripping off her wig, which was tossed into the crowd as a trophy.

 

I nearly spilled my bottle. Suddenly, I wanted to get completely obliterated on the Kentucky hooch.

 

“WHAT THE GAWDAMN HELL IS THAT? WHAT THE EFFING HELL IS THAT???”

 

 

“Trek”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

Fingers numb, and beginning to ache

My march from the easy chair, a plodding trek

Slow and stiff with the task

I never thought too much about reaching an age where footsteps were miracles

It seemed more likely I would be dead by now

And so, I faced the future without favor or dread

Running hot

Running forward

Running, running on fumes

Running barefoot on gravel, down the driveway’s edge

This ragged ride, taken without forethought

Aches in the morning, paying tribute

To my run on the route

Now I am past a half-century, and more

Still above the loam

Shaggy and crabby, and creaky

Stumbling on stones

Carrying the memory of places seen and accomplices surrendered

To time, the restless master

Ticking off lost lives, with the regularity of a metronome

A rhythmic guide, unwavering

A set of guardrails

A galvanized pail

In which to carry all the courage of a capricious child

I need that reserve, once in a while

Like a medicine flask

It bolsters my backbone

Keeps me erect and attentive

When I want to fade

Weak and wobbly

Wishing for warming

Crouched over a shadow cast in the snow

Where my fingerprints froze

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 17: Hibernation

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

Normally, when Ohio weather turns frosty, there are periods of respite in the offing. But with the month of December well underway, temperatures continued to hover below freezing. This condition had lasted since around Thanksgiving, and effectively turned the junkyard district of Evergreen Estates into a frozen wasteland. Though I wanted to sit outside on my front porch, with a jug of bourbon antifreeze, and layers of winter gear for protection, this habit surrendered to the trend. As the meteorological cycle worsened, I joined everyone else on my street. Though this surrender to the season made me salty.

 

The entire park was now in a state of willful hibernation.

 

Even during the best of times, there were disputes and domestic squabbles, at most every lot in the neighborhood. But with the population being shut into their confined, living spaces, tempers were flaring. Broken windows appeared here and there, and were quickly mended with duct tape. Smashed furniture was left out to collect a decorative garnish of white precipitation. A few trailers appeared to have been abandoned altogether, due to unpaid utility bills, busted pipes, or broken furnaces.

 

I wanted to taste the invigorating chill of fresh air. Yet knew that as my outdoor thermometer approached readings in single digits, it would not be wise. Still, this acquiescence to reason put me in a mood of inner conflict. I did not like the feeling of being obedient to anyone, or anything. Said plainly, this need to huddle in my living room pissed me off. But the creaking and cracking of prefabricated walls assured me that my choice was well founded.

 

While lubricating my arthritic joints with whiskey, I could hear a plow truck at work. It’s diesel motor surged and popped while pushing aside mounds of fallen snow. There was little traffic along my rustic boulevard. But the effort to keep access lanes open seemed admirable. Another positive change from the neglect of previous owners.

 

I had been in a chair at the end of my couch for long enough, that it was difficult to get up for another bottle of liquor. My creep across the carpet was slow and balky. But as I reached the door where more high-proof refreshments were stashed, my cell phone began to ring.

 

I cursed while counting the cycle.

 

“Dammit! I can’t move that fast! One... two... three... four...”

 

The voicemail program picked up before I could retrieve a jug of Kentucky swill from my cupboard. As I hobbled back to the device, there was a notification chirp. Someone had left a message in lieu of having an actual conversation.

 

“Mr. Lincoln? This is Nova Caine, I am an assistant to Nakano Volca at the Proletariat Property Co-op. If you are willing, I’d like to ask some questions about the Evergreen Estates development. Your on-site manager said that you have lived in the community for many years, longer than most other residents. Please call me back at this number, sir. Thank you, and have a great day!”

 

I flopped into the upright chair with a wheeze of breath forced from my lungs. The voice I heard was smooth, and yet had an odd timbre of a kettle drum. I could not quite guess the caller’s gender. Particularly because the name indicated was not one which sounded familiar. I would normally have deleted the recording, and ignored this plea for contact. But I was still relatively sober. My drinking ritual had only started at such an early hour. So, I tapped on the number for a re-dial. Then, punched in the extension that had been included.

 

There was a hoarse announcement indicating that I had reached the proper channel in their answering system. Then, a loud click stung my ear.

 

“This is Ms. Caine, how may I help you today?”

 

I paused before answering. The deep resonance of her tone left me puzzled.

 

“Yeah, hey, this is T. C. Lincoln from Ohio. You called earlier, and I couldn’t get to my phone in time. What’s the deal with asking questions? I don’t know shit about this trailer park...”

 

She laughed with a full-throated bark of amusement.

 

“Dana Alvarez has been very helpful to me, and I wanted to get some background information on your village of mobile homes. She said you’re at the top of her list for long-term leaseholders.”

 

I was slightly embarrassed to admit having been stuck on my lot for so long.

 

“To be honest, I came here because of a divorce. So, it wasn’t really by choice. I got kicked out of my home in Lake County, north of here. My wife somehow obtained a restraining order from a local judge. That started my downhill slide...”

 

Nova hummed to herself for a minute. Apparently, this confession was unexpected.

 

“I’ve noticed that many of the people in your neighborhood have colorful stories about becoming tenants. But few have been willing to give me straight answers regarding the living conditions. They are generally suspicious of any outsiders.”

 

I took a righteous swig of booze, to steady my nerves. Pondering my origin story as a member of the blue-collar tribe was never a pleasant experience. But I had strong opinions to share.

 

“I get it. When we’ve had to deal with owners, they were always playing the role of a bully. It’s normal to be spat upon here. We’ve gotten used to it over time...”

 

The PPC underling sighed and tapped on her computer keyboard.

 

“I see many reports on the internet, regarding your location. There are lots of incidents with police officers, the county courts, and even National Guard troops. But, that’s not why I called. I want to understand the mindset of inhabitants at Evergreen Estates. What makes them tick? Why do they resist our plans? What information would help me, and my supervisors, as we try to operate this property, efficiently and honorably?”

 

I knocked back a stiff shot of whiskey, and a dribble dripped into my gray beard.

 

“HONORABLY? YOU GIVE A DAMN ABOUT BEING HONORABLE AS OUR MASTERS?”

 

Ms. Caine took offense at this remark.

 

“Well, of course! Sir, we view the credit cooperative as a union. The members stand in solidarity with each other, and basic principles of fairness. That’s how we do business!”

 

I chortled at her naïve explanation.

 

“Look, the people here have been taking it high and hard, like a major league pitch in baseball, for years. They’ve all been effed more than a prostitute in Cleveland. Understand? Nobody ever gave a frig about fairness. The previous owners boned us whenever possible.  With water bills, raised lot rent, reduced services, and no maintenance. You know, whatever they could do...”

 

The company representative gasped at my assertion. She was overwhelmed by disbelief.

 

“THAT’S OUTRAGEOUS!”

 

I sensed that our candid chat would continue for much longer than expected. But being drunk insulated me from the stress of this interrogation.

 

Unwittingly, I had prepared myself to give a full testimony about the junkyard spot where I lived.

 

 

“Stuck”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

Down on my luck

Stuck and useless to myself

Like a superfluous manual still sitting on the bookshelf

For an appliance, long surrendered as scrap

Winter brings this mood

When I am snowed in and coming unglued

Fresh air, available nowhere

Temps in the teens

Frost on the window screen

Winds making the mercury dip

My only hope is a streaming, time-slip

Across decades when the clock hands spun out of control

And I sold my immortal soul

For a mess of porridge

Do not think that this choice came easily

It was taught to me, rightly

And I obeyed

Because to do otherwise would have been judged

Like a test score, undetectably fudged

With notes under the desk

I never quite got the vibe

Though in fact, I hid the habit inside

An ache that persisted

Though I rambled and resisted

Making believe that I wanted the yoke

That actor’s performance portrayed

For use as a cloak

Body and mind, broken to bits

Too soon relieved of wisdom and wits

The mirror mocked me unmercifully

When I would peer deep into that looking glass, for clues

Honest and sharp

The image of a hungry heart

Unfulfilled by my penitent petition

Years after the seed was planted

And the maker turned his attention to other children in my class

I fell off the map

Past crevices, folded

Disciplined and scolded

For going astray

And oddly, the deed that damned my drive

Made me feel more truly alive

Liberated, though castigated

Leaping, loping, indefensibly hoping

That this turn from the testament would bring a reward

A pencil rub, and a change of the box score

A miracle of sorts

That was where I landed after tripping on the curb

A foolish fop, mentally disturbed

Rearranged from shattered shards

Into something that could only be recognized through a play of the cards

Aces high

A swath of smoke splitting the sky

Tracing the outline of an emblem, long disused

And childish excuses

Spat forth from chapped lips

A rhyme written in crayon

On the pages of a coloring book

That, at last broke the ram-jam

Let the flow resume for this wayward walker, on the lam

Willful and worn

No longer true to form

Dizzy but daring

If beheld in the harsh light of midday, I might have turned pale

The essence of what I used to be, reduced in scale

For a spin of the gambling wheel

That bargain had much appeal

So, I met the challenge with a physical strike

A roundhouse kick to the exit door

Like Chuck Norris, metaphorically going to war

And now, I am stuck no more