c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(3-26)
For Townshend Carr Lincoln, one perplexing component of his life at Evergreen Estates was the continuous echo of who and what he had been before arriving at the rural, trailer oasis. Though that free-spirited individual had long ago passed into history, remnants lingered. Almost as if he carried multiple personalities within his battered skull, most of which were now dormant. In his current state, many simple tasks and pleasures were beyond reach. But he knew that at some point, they had been commonplace. For example, getting out of a chair without being boosted by arm strength, and calling upon the Lord for help. Perhaps walking up a short flight of steps, to his front porch. Even assisting an elderly neighbor across the street with menial chores, such as shoveling her driveway, or returning a garbage pail after it had been emptied.
Shortly after moving to the park, he had been in a hurry to exit his work vehicle, upon arriving home. For the purpose of opening a cold brew, to ease his mood of fatigue. But instead, he managed to carelessly lock the keys inside his truck. This left him stranded, late in the dark of night. He did not know anyone else at the isolated development. So, to avoid engaging in a fit of frustration, he opened a 12-pack of suds purchased in Geneva, near Lake Erie. Then proceeded to guzzle the contents, while pondering his plight. Eventually, he spied a small window which was over his kitchen sink. He guessed that using his own trash bin as a brace would allow him to climb through that portal, and leverage himself to the floor, inside.
A spare set of hardware for such emergencies was hanging by the front door.
With the foggy benefit of hindsight, he often considered that incredible feat in modern times. How could it have been possible? His joints were now overwhelmed with arthritis, and disability. Two canes were required, just to stand, and walk. Every stressful duty left him panting, and struggling to retain his balance. But some 24 years in the distance, before the decline of his body had begun, there was a time of hope. He had been ambitious and persistent. Upbeat about his talents and desires. Ready to face new challenges, as they came.
Living on the swampy soil of his boxcar village did not necessarily cause this fall from grace. Yet it intensified the collapse. Everything about the crumbling community validated his alienation. It hardened him with daily struggles. It drove him into seclusion, and a sense of revulsion at those who shared his exile. They were all crew members on a ghost ship, sailing uneasily on stormy seas. With the stain of their low social status weighing heavily. This madness might not have been so terrible to experience, if simply jettisoned in favor of embracing his current self. But the echoes persisted. Creaks and groans of yonder days, reflected across the cold, critical environment in which he sat. His rented slab of concrete seemed to ooze a stench of decay. It reflected other dwellings that had occupied the same space, before. With other inhabitants, bent under the burden of other calamities. Other bereavements. Other failures. Other causes to seek negation and anonymity.
The Russian immigrant across from his trailer did not know of these things, however. She passed no judgment on his stooped physique, or slow pace. She did not urge him to modify his gloomy outlook, or drinking habits. Her opinions were held silently. In a cocoon spun from the ravages of a foreign war, and her own widowhood.
This made Mockbina a perfect companion, for someone who did not seek the company of anyone.
With a weekend again drawing near, the weather had turned seasonally unpredictable. High winds howled through the downhill property. Pieces of vinyl skirting lay everywhere. Random debris pitched and rolled across yards and empty lots.
Lincoln had taken his spot on the wooden bench, outside, when the stocky femme appeared. He lifted his jug in an offer of friendship. And observed that the combative weather had been expected, upon reading his calendar.
“They say that March comes in like a lion, and goes out like a lamb. But I reckon that Mother Nature waits till the home opener for Cleveland’s baseball team gets done. Then she’ll give us a reprieve...”
The puzzled outsider shook her head, and smiled. She whispered something unintelligible, in her native tongue.
“You talk like this, of lion and also lamb. It gives me to laugh, I think. What is this? An American saying?”
The shaggy hermit shrugged in a confession of ignorance.
“No idea, ma’am. That must be an old saying I suppose. My grandma uttered it every year...”
Mockbina had to pull the knit cap tighter, over her head. Gusts of wind tugged at her logo jacket, from the cheese factory in Middlefield.
“My leetle shed is rocking on its foundation. I think maybe the walls come down on me! I get trapped in bed. How you live like this, Link? Always noise and problems. I think my tiny village at home was now, not so bad. You here have no peace! But at least I know you are close.”
Lincoln sputtered a mouthful of brown liquor.
“Close to what, I damn well don’t know! Falling on my face, probably...”
Skies overhead their location had turned dark. Then, a hard rain began to pelt the landscape. Instinctively, the weary boozer, opened his storm door.
“C’mon inside, lady! It’s too freaking wild out here to walk home. Sit with me fer a minute, until this gale blows past...”
The singlewide abode was dusty, crowded with moving boxes, and cramped for usable space. It reeked of spilled alcohol, mold, and neglect. Old blankets hung in the windows. Broken furniture had been patched and repurposed with bungee cords, duct tape, and glue. Everything carried the aura of a flea market, or thrift store.
The Russian dame covered her eyes, defensively. Everything was a mess.
“I not pay attention so much, before. Now I see things. You require a strong wife, I think. Perhaps she would leave you instead of living here? I see so much to do. Bad, bad, bad!”
Lincoln chortled and took a righteous swallow of bourbon.
“See that’s how I survive, ma’am. I don’t give a frig about any of that. As a matter of fact, I just don’t give a damn!”
%20Cover%208.jpeg)
