Trailer Park Vignettes – “Another Day”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had only been awake for a few hours, when his typical jones for an alcoholic beverage kicked in, with righteous fervor. He had been in a favorite recliner, scrolling through entries on a store app, via his cellular device. Patiently searching for pickled bologna, or red-hot frankfurters. This pursuit was one that revealed the high cost of such prepared delights, when being bought through third-party vendors. Late in the previous year, he had noted certain varieties of these treats, along with pickled eggs, available at a grocery depot nearer to Lake Erie. But the winter season had made him a hermit.

 

After years of struggling, he finally surrendered the desire to go anywhere beyond the comfort of his small, secluded front porch.

 

With a jug of Kentucky bourbon in hand, he hobbled through the kitchen, living room, and out to the wooden bench by his access ramp. Temperatures were already near 70 degrees, despite a possibility of snow in the forecast, on Easter. His first swig of strong liquor cleared away residual flavors of coffee, fried SPAM, and eggs. Then, as numbness spread across his shaggy face, he began to sink into a mood of pleasant detachment.

 

He was always best able to cope with living at Evergreen Estates, a community of mobile homes built on swampland filled in with construction waste, by staying perpetually drunk.

 

In about a half-hour, furious barking sounded on both sides of his singlewide trailer. To the west, from a tiny, yet aggressive ankle-biter, with a violent personality and a poor disposition. To the east, this growling was magnified with the addition of a Lab mix, and her adopted, Cattle Dog sibling. A visiting German Shepherd, out in the street, kept all of these participants eager to vocalize their canine sentiments.

 

Lincoln had a box fan in his side window. While undersized for the task of moving air around, it rattled and buzzed loudly enough to help eliminate the din of being outside, and exposed.

 

In another 30 minutes, neighbors who were a few lots away began to debate their marital status, in the driveway. A location not suited to private discourse. There was much wailing and screeching from the wife, and a silent scowl from her spouse. With persistent hoots of protest from others who were near enough to be offended, without actually becoming involved. Soon, garden implements, pet toys, and lawn furniture were flying around the lot. The husband eventually stomped to safety in his pickup truck, cranked its ignition, and sped away.

 

By then, it was long past the hour of noon. A clatter of digging machines could be heard from up their street, by the woods. Leaks in the park system for delivering water were maddeningly common. With frequent outages in service interrupting showers, doing loads of laundry, and other household chores. Each low-budget repair represented a desperate attempt to save money while operating the rural property. But if tallied on a balance sheet, they likely cost more than simply modernizing the structural components, which had first been put in place during the 1950s.

 

Around one o’clock, Lincoln noted that a warm glow of inebriation had shrouded him in blissful anonymity. He could not hear, see, or think with any measure of clarity. This condition also liberated his joints from a prevailing stiffness brought on by arthritis and long-term abuse during his professional career.

 

He had reached the peak of his life force for the day. A glorious moment when cares and woes disappeared into a suffocating haze of brown booze.

 

Up the hillside from their crude development, harsh blasts of gunfire echoed repeatedly. One-two-three-four-five, and so forth. While continuing to drink, the reclusive loner counted off more than a dozen rounds being discharged. Far too many for a hunting excursion. Shouts of redneck glee were audible. Then, a siren wail. Either from an emergency vehicle, or perhaps, sheriff’s deputies pursuing miscreants in action.

 

Finally, the senior bum had reached a point of chemical oblivion. He swooned on the bench. Dizzy from drunkenness, and groggy enough to see sparkles of light where none existed in literal terms. Then, a click-clack of high heels filled his ears. From the landing by his flower bed, at the edge of their rustic boulevard, a young woman approached. Attired in the style of a dance-hall reveler. Someone he did not recognize as a resident from the same part of their neighborhood.

 

An interlude of wonder and confusion passed between them, before the colorful lass threw back her curled, blonde head of hair, and began to laugh out loud.

 

“What the heck? Y’all ain’t my grandpaw! Well horse poop, I done picked the wrong damn trailer. Sorry feller, I apologize fer interruptin’ yer nap!”

 

Lincoln shook his head and belched rudely.

 

“Grandpa? No, I think you’re definitely off-track there, miss. None of my family members live out here. Which is best in the long run, I figure. It’s better to stay aloof and undetectable. Off-the-radar, so to speak...”

 

The youthful female cocked her head to one side. She needed to regain a proper sense of direction. Chewing her lip, she expressed obvious doubts over her visit.

 

“Ain’t this Lot 113? He said it would be easy to find, but that was a doggone lie! I can’t figure out this park fer shit! This is a screwed-up little hole-in-the-wall!”

 

The gray-bearded contrarian smiled and gestured toward the rear of their property.

 

“This is Lot 13, ma’am. Lot 113 will be way in the back, that’s a whole different section of the community. Like another world, really. You’ve got to roll past my street, curve around by the dump, and head west again...”

 

An expression of amazement glowed from the woman’s eyes. She pivoted on her spiked boots, while waving with painted nails.

 

“I get it now, gawdamn! He’s been beggin’ me ta come out fer more ‘n a year! Somethin’ about bein’ diagnosed with a heart condition. Ya know, people get old and tired, and cranky. Nobody else can stand him anymore. My sisters think he’s pain in the ass! But, I always sort of liked his bawdy sense of humor. He would embarrass my mom in public. She tried to make him go ta church, but his mouth was too wild. As a kid, I thought it was cool that he knew how ta cuss!”

 

Lincoln pointed once again, before savoring a generous swallow of refreshment.

 

“To repeat myself, it’s in the back. You’ll find it now, a white trailer with a plywood barn and a skinny sidewalk in between. I used to know someone who lived next door. A friend from the days when I could still tolerate other human beings...”

 

There was a cackle of disinterest as the flashy femme disappeared.

 

A quarter-hour elapsed, with more drinking and belching, as the solitary figure pondered this perfumed princess in her absence. A gentle trace of her essence remained in his nostrils. He had nearly fallen asleep when she returned, unexpectedly. This time however, her approach came at a pace stalled by apprehension and regret. She had begun to cry.

 

“Lot 113, that’s what the old fool said! His Jeep Cherokee was still parked out in front. Someone a few spaces away told me that a freakin’ ambulance came fer him, last week. They had a team of medics wheel him out on a gurney! But the old dude didn’t make it ta the hospital. I messed around too damn long. It’s all my fault! Ain’t that a bite in the ass? Now I feel like a total bitch!”

 

Lincoln could not summon proper words of condolence for his uninvited guest. So instead, he uncorked another jug of southern whiskey. The pop of that seal was sharp and intimidating.

 

“Why don’t you sit here for a minute or two? Just to collect your thoughts, if nothing else...”

 

The booted dancer crouched on her heels. She lit a cigarette, and replied with a whisper.

 

“New Grandpaw, I’d appreciate hearin’ some stories if ya might wanna share with me. And while yer at it, how about a drink of that hooch?”

Mermaid & Walrus Revisited – “Music - Lyrics or Melody?”

  

c. 2025 Cheryl Keller, Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

Note to Readers: Cheryl Keller is a local writer who sometimes offers content for this site. We have known each other since the middle 1980s.

 

Her Take:

 

Music, that universal language and expression of emotion; that communication style that has incredible healing, motivation building, and stress relieving powers. It has been an integral part of this mermaid’s life since I can remember. I am amazed at how so many memories, and poignant times throughout my life music has been there to help ease the heartache, quiet the sadness, celebrate the wins, and add joy.

 

I grew up in a household that always had music on and always had music as part of any family gathering we hosted. I was introduced to many different genres of music throughout my childhood and even today, I can say that there is not much music out there that I do not like. I have fond memories of riding in my father’s truck as a child and listening to The Grass Roots or The Guess Who on 8-track tapes, and watching parties wind down at our house when everyone knew it was time to go home when Dad brought out the Bob Dylan and Jim Croce LPs. Or watching Soul Train and American Bandstand and later, MTV on television; hearing the great sounds of Motown music, disco, pop, and rock fill the living room. All wonderful and meaningful in their own right, and all playing a part in making me who I am today. Every song I hear and sing along with takes me back to a time in my life where music played such an important role connecting me to memories that I think I would otherwise forget.

 

That early childhood exposure led to a deep love of music that followed me through my teens growing and evolving each year. It led to over 4 years of symphonic band and marching band through my high school years. I remember myself and my bandmates being so excited when our marching band was given the sheet music to “Owner of a Lonely Heart” by the group Yes to play at our halftime football games one year. We rocked that out on the field and felt so cool.

My bedroom walls were plastered with posters and my all-important jean jacket adorned with buttons of my favorite artists like The Romantics, Rick Springfield, AC/DC, and Prince. When going to concerts was finally allowed, I almost could not contain my excitement at the thought that I was actually going to see those artists I loved so much, and hear their music live. My first being Neil Diamond, I will never forget was at Blossom Music Center, and that started another passion for live music that I have today. I have been fortunate enough to see some greats such as Aerosmith, Rod Stewart, Bob Seger, Pat Benatar, John Mellencamp, and Def Leppard to name a few. Not to mention the many nights of dancing at the then popular clubs like the Cosmopolitan or the Akron Agora. The wonderful feelings of anticipation waiting to go out with my best friend and the joy of just getting lost in great music for a few hours. If only there was a way to bottle those feelings!

 

Even as I grow older, I find myself always listening to and searching for new music while always listening to my tried-and-true 70s and 80s that I grew up on. Alternatives like Death Cab for Cutie, The Lumineers, Mumford & Sons, and Nicotine Dolls grab my musical ear as well as some popular country artists like Luke Combs, Keith Urban and Chris Stapleton. It is truly a daunting task for me whenever I am asked to say who my favorite musician/artist or band is, or when I need to put together a song list for a party with family or friends. Trying to capture every song that has ever touched me in some way is almost impossible. Every time I think of an artist, another pops up in my head and I start careening down memory lane with song titles, lines and verses swimming around my brain; all the while watching the list grow bigger and bigger because I just can’t bring myself to call it complete.

 

I could continue down my musical memory lane, it has been fun, but I’d like to get to the actual point of this article. As a writer, I will say that I believe, unfortunately, lyrics often take a backseat to a great melody. At times they are overshadowed by catchy rhythms and beats.

Many times I have listened to songs with people who love it for the music, but miss some of the best written words of some incredibly talented and creative writers. Lyrics that I resonate with, that make me feel so much of what they must have been going through or thinking during that time of their life when they put pen to paper. Words that draw out every possible emotion a human can feel; words that, for me, are so well crafted that they outshine the best music notes played.

 

I have a few that are hanging up as pieces of art in my home that I love; one being the lyrics to the song Everlong by the Foo Fighters with the great line “breathe out, so I can breathe you in…” and another by John Prine that makes me smile, “In spite of ourselves, we’ll end up a’sittin’ on a rainbow…against all odds honey, we’re the big door prize…”. Each time I look at them it makes me think of a person who means the world to me, or takes me back to a time in my life when things were good. I can say truthfully that music is something that has been a constant throughout my life - like a friend that I’ve known since kindergarten who never moved away and has remained a part of my life to this day. It has always been a source of comfort for me through difficult times as well as a release for me when I just need to let it out and “scream from the top of my lungs, ‘What’s going on?’” Thank you 4 Non Blondes.

 

So, I ask you, lyrics or melody? Which one is the front man and which one is the backup for you?

 

His Take:

 

My answer to the quiz above seems to have penned itself. Though certainly, some talented performers have proven able to speak effectively without the benefit of many words. Miles Davis comes to mind, John Coltrane, Sun Ra, Duane Eddy, Chet Atkins, or James ‘Blood Ulmer.’ But, allow me to explain...

 

In the late 1990s, I managed to score a telephone interview with Associate Editor David Aldridge, of Easyriders Magazine in Agoura Hills, California. The intention of his publication was to add a staffer from the heartland, for features on biker events. Some of my published work had gotten his attention, and he wanted to find out more about my personal background. At first, his queries were somewhat predictable. I described owning a Harley-Davidson, growing up as the son of a former mechanic, and learning the craft of creative writing through the support of mentors inside my family, and beyond. With newspaper and magazine features offering an opportunity for hands-on learning. But then, he hit me with a perceptive broadside that indicated the depth of his intuition and insight.

 

“Rod, have you ever been a musician?”

 

The question had me gasping for air. I couldn’t guess why he would want to take our long-distance chat in such an unexpected direction. But when I replied in the affirmative, I could hear acknowledgement resonate in his voice.

 

“I get that in your stories. A sense of cadence and rhythm, almost like you were writing a song. There is a natural flow to your manuscripts. A perfect component for keeping readers attentive and interested...”

 

I did not quite know how to accept this compliment, but expressed my appreciation for his assessment.

 

In the Ice household, like that of my friend the Mermaid, music was always a constant companion. My father had an extensive collection of vinyl records, that spanned genres from Classical to early Rock pioneers. He was an enthusiast for Folk, Country & Western, Blues, and Jazz, with even some Gospel compositions and traditional chants on the roster. While often plucking out ballads from memory, on an acoustic guitar. My mother came from a bloodline where singing both in church and at home, was a regular habit. Her voice often filled our kitchen, while preparing meals. When visiting with her sisters, familial sing-alongs were common. Moreover, some of the brood actively performed in live settings. One cousin was a minor star in Michigan, delivering the sort of gritty, blue-collar tunes one might expect from George Jones or Merle Haggard.          

 

Being a witness to this direct involvement in playing music had a strong effect on my own routine. I started writing songs at an early age, with a ukulele bought from the Sears catalog. I was not shy about attempts to emulate my heroes. In school, I participated in marching band, concert band, orchestra, and also assembled a group of friends to sing Doo Wop memories, a cappella, at football games. The height of our non-instrumental adventure was being featured on WKPA radio, a local station in Pennsylvania. Sadly, no recording of that achievement remains for posterity.

 

When possible, I attended concerts of all sorts. By Punk, New Wave, and modern artists, such as Elvis Costello, Joe Jackson, and Richard Hell with his Voidoids. The Police. The Cars. The B-52s. The Records. Bram Tchaikovsky. The Sex Pistols. The Pretenders, on their first domestic tour. Los Straitjackets. Southern Culture on the Skids. The Whiskey Daredevils. Rhinobucket. Additionally, I saw legacy performers such as Chuck Berry, B.B. King, Albert King, Wilson Pickett, James Brown, Dr. John Rebennack, and the uniquely talented Warren Zevon. The Fabulous Thunderbirds. The Rolling Stones. Buddy Guy. Even Grover Washington, Jr.

 

With my friend Paul Race from Corning, New York, I explored the concept of improvisation from a musical and lyrical standpoint. My cohort had been in many bands from his area, and knew a great deal about electric axes and their bottom-end, bass companions. I counted over 100 instruments in his collection, that were diverse and interesting for various reasons. His ability to score deals on vintage items was legendary in that region. And his patient tutelage allowed me to study and develop my own chops as a songwriter.

 

Eventually, I amassed a tape archive of 500 demo tracks. Something that gave me a lasting sense of accomplishment.

 

My focus was always on the lyric aspect, however. Therefore, masters of the pursuit like Bob Dylan, John Prine, Harry Chapin, and Patti Smith were favorite sources of inspiration. John Cooper Clarke, generally unknown on this side of the Atlantic, blended his poetry with musical experiments that also broadened my scope as a seeker of pure art. But perhaps most invigorating of all was the career output of Lou Reed. A fellow who once confessed to wishing that he could ‘Write the great American novel.’ His storytelling remained intact until the very end, through a divisive release captured with members of Metallica. A strange document that is hard to hear, but very provocative.

 

Still, the simple brilliance of his track ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll’ shines for all eternity. A signature tune which first appeared as a recording with the Velvet Underground.

 

“Jenny said, when she was just five years old

You know there’s nothin’ happening at all

Every time she put on the radio

There was nothin’ goin’ down at all

Not at all

One fine mornin’ she put on a New York station

And she couldn’t believe what she heard at all

She started dancin’ to that fine-fine music

Ooohh, her life was saved by rock ‘n’ roll

Hey baby, rock ‘n’ roll

Despite all the amputations

You could dance to a rock ‘n’ roll station

And it was all right

It was all right...”

 

In years of retirement and disability, this tilt toward the writing aspect of music has paid dividends for myself. But a personal interest in communicating ideas and reflections, in a metered, melodic context, remains strong. I am glad for the gift bestowed by my progenitors.

 

And, for our Silvertone hi-fi, where I first began to listen as a curious, young lad.

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “War Drums”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

Evergreen Estates was not a neighborhood populated by trendy, stylish residents like some of the more affluent communities along Lake Erie. It was a trailer enclave known for gritty, blue-collar folk, with few resources, and little formal education. Yet an ability to innovate and adapt in an environment shaped by hardship and sacrifice. But as reports of conflict in the Middle East echoed from television sets and radios, around the rural development, a sense of patriotic fervor took hold. Yard signs soon dotted the streets, with crude slogans that used four-letter words. Flags of all kinds flew at nearly every home. Either the venerable Stars & Stripes, or other ensigns such as the Gadsden standard, Gonzalez, Pine Tree, or repurposed Confederate adaptations. There was a sense that should any enemy invade the perimeter of this crumbling property, they would immediately be thrashed in a righteous fit of American rage.

 

But at the lot occupied by Darden Polanski, none of these signature emblems were present. Most inhabitants of the distant oasis assumed that he was among the oldest of their number. A fact not confirmed by numerical evidence, but supported through the retelling of tales about serving in Vietnam. A habit for which he was well known.

 

With the summer holidays drawing nearer, and weather patterns at last beginning to turn more hospitable, the ritualistic parade of off-road motorcycles, four-wheelers, and big-tired Jeep varieties had begun. A clatter of mechanical motion could be heard, from sunrise to sunset. With an inevitable tilt toward consuming budget brews that were light on flavor, yet easy to afford. Or cheap liquor, CBD gummies, and other contraband substances.

 

By the evening, sobriety anywhere in the park was rare.

 

The seasoned veteran enjoyed resting on his homemade deck. A platform literally constructed from discarded pallets, acquired at a warehouse where one of his grandsons was employed. The raised, flat space had redwood rails along its sides, and a tarp hanging overhead. To provide shade during hot days, and keep rain at bay when storms passed through the area.

 

He had been outside for only a few minutes, with a pitcher of sun tea, when a lifted, three-quarter ton Chevrolet pickup truck blew diesel exhaust across his driveway. At the wheel, a young buck with many tattoos and a shaved head honked the horn frantically. His amusement took on an edge of agitation, while leaning out of the driver’s window.

 

A sticker in the back window boasted with confidence about manhood and independence.

 

“I’m from the Heartland, I don’t dial 911!”

 

With a grin that exposed gapped teeth, he shouted for attention.

 

“OLD MAN! ALL YA DO IS SIT THERE, DAY AFTER DAY! GAWDAMN! WE’RE HAVIN’ A PIG ROAST UP BY THE MAINTENANCE GARAGE! IT’S GONNA BE A GOOD TIME, C’MON OVER! WE’LL BE HAVIN’ SOME TARGET PRACTICE WITH RAGHEAD DUMMIES HANGIN’ BY A ROPE! HAW HAW HAW! BRING ONE OF YER RIFLES, IT’LL BE A HOOT! WE’RE GONNA BUST THOSE FREAKS RIGHT IN THE CHOPS! I SAY, ‘KILL ‘EM ALL!’”

 

Darden felt his gut begin to churn. He had no interest in playing games with the junior kid. Instead of offering a verbal reply, he simply nodded and raised his glass.

 

Pastor Cabe Forester from the Church of Our Lord Jesus in Heaven, on their township square, spoke at the beginning of the community gathering. He offered a prayer as the crowd lowered their heads, in unison.

 

“Father, we are in a time of great challenges. But you have gifted us with leaders in Washington who are wise and just, and willing to pursue your holy cause. We ask that you bless and protect them. Give them wisdom as they go forward. And keep them strong in Christian faith! Amen!”

 

Gunfire rocked the concourse, by their park office. Country music blared loudly from speakers in the garage. Hog meat and potato salad filled paper plates that waited for hungry revelers. But the old vet kept his distance. He preferred the solitude of his hillbilly singlewide. And the taste of tea spiked with a lemon wedge, and a splash of Kentucky bourbon.

 

Later that night, the youthful rebel reappeared with his red, jacked-up rig. He had managed to pilfer drinks from coolers brought to the roast by other residents. Despite being underage and out of work.

 

“WHAT’S UP GRAMPS? YA STILL SITTIN’ ON YER ASS OVER THERE? I FIGURE YER NOT INTO HAVIN’ FUN. BUT WHAT’S WORSE IS I DON’T SEE NO FLAGS ON YER PORCH. NO SIGNS IN YER YARD. YA DON’T COME TA COOKOUTS, OR CHURCH FUNCTIONS. WHAT THE FRIG, MAN? I THINK YA GOT A STICK UP YER ASS!”

 

Darden was dressed in camouflage attire, faded from years of being worn. His beard carried many strands of gray and white. He was shaggy and callused, and stooped over with disability canes. When he stood up, prosthetic limbs came into view, below his knees. A permanent reminder of having answered the call of his nation, in the 1960s.

 

In his hand was a tattered copy of the VVA Ritual Book. A manual of prayers and services published for those like himself, who had served and survived, to honor the memories of their fellow warriors.

 

“Son, do you know anything about combat? About fighting a real war? About losing your brothers and sisters in arms, one by one, to enemy fire? About burying the best and brightest of your generation? About the sorrow and sadness of realizing that you might never get home again?”

 

The undisciplined yob snorted and spun the wheels of his rig, sending a cloud of smoke and debris into the air. He was unimpressed and disinterested.

 

“AWW, SHUT UP GRANDDAD! YER BEIN’ A DAMN WHINER! I’D BE GLAD TA GO OVERSEAS AND KICK SOME ASS! BELIEVE ME, SHIT WOULD GET REAL, MIGHTY FAST!”

 

The wizened veteran opened his volume, and found a passage written to commemorate fallen heroes, at a funeral.

 

“In the rising of the sun and in its going down, we remember them.

In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter, we remember them.

In the opening of buds and in the rebirth of spring, we remember them.

In the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of the summer, we remember them.

In the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn, we remember them.

In the beginning of the year and when it ends, we remember them.

When we are weary and in need of strength, we remember them.

When we are lost and sick at heart, we remember them.

When we have joys and special celebrations we yearn to share, we remember them.

When we see our nation’s young marching behind our flag, or hear ‘taps’ played, we remember them.

So long as we live, they too shall live, for they are part of us. And when we answer the final roll, we know that they will fulfill their duty, and greet us with the words of compassion and friendship, peace and love: ‘Welcome home!’”

 

Inexplicably, this memorial moment struck a resonant chord. Silence stilled the stifling bellow of black exhaust. Without another word of protest, the rebellious kid hung his head, shifted the truck into gear, and drove away.

 

Darden closed his book, and folded both hands.

 

“Amen.”

“Empty Wallet Bargain”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

Note to Readers: These lyrics came to mind today, for a rollicking, Rolling Stones sort of Rock anthem. With a twanging guitar and lots of barrelhouse piano in full force.

 

I was lost by the lake, in downtown Cleveland

In a place where old men should never go

It had been too long since I had that feeling

Of a concrete king, in a leather tuxedo

My last ride till dawn, was sure to deliver

A thrill like I could not remember for years

I ran out of gas, by the Cuyahoga River

With a sputter of silence, and grinding gears

Now I saw a young maiden, strutting on heels

Too far removed from the stadium lights

She said, “Hire me quick, for whatever appeals!”

It was the best thing I heard that night

With a fifty-dollar bill crumpled in my hand

I stood and stared as she twirled like a princess

“Call your shot, big hillbilly man!”

What sealed the deal was her caress

She took every cent that I had left

I should have tanked-up, and headed for home

Now I’m walking my way back to loneliness

With a brand-new rattle, for these ragged old bones

 

An empty wallet bargain, one made like a boozer

I sold my soul to remember that vibe

The fancy feeling of a lover, not a loser

In my cowboy boots, got nothing to ride

 

A younger self, street-stranded on a corner

Might have laughed at her seedy, sales pitch

But I fell easily for this public performer

A hunting prize for a professional bitch

She had an offer, I hadn’t heard in years

One designed to get my eyes crossed, and more

When the play finished, I had a wallet in arrears

And a gnawed-up sensation like an apple core

I surely knew better than to take such a risk

With a daring damsel wearing fishnets and spandex

But foolish pride made me flex my wrist

And pull out a bankroll of government checks

A better design would have funded my good time

Put me back in the saddle, for a kick

But the momentary impulse of a sinner and sweet wine

Brought out temptation, with rouge and lipstick

When it was over, I had to pinch my nose

Though that rush was one I surely missed

I gave up the ghost for a stomp in the shadows

A squeeze of my jewels and a lively kiss

 

An empty wallet bargain, one made like a boozer

I sold my soul to remember that vibe

The fancy feeling of a lover, not a loser

In my cowboy boots, got nothing to ride

 

Back at the ranch, in a far-eastern county

I never admitted what had transpired

It took a friend with a wrecker and a bounty

To get my bike rolling, on a fresh set of tires

The mood I was in, lasted long enough to please

I had to figure it was worth the distress

The calling card was a swivel to her knees

And clingy, cat claws, ripping through her dress

It seemed assured, we wouldn’t meet again

A chance encounter, when we eloped

A change of pace, for a pay-date friend

A temporary tease, a tug at the rope

But on cold nights when I’m in my neighborhood

That story might still come to mind

And cause a smile to spread for the good

Reflecting on that revival of old times

I won’t gasp with guilt, just a bashful boy

A jumping jones, with mad respect

I won a blue ribbon from that streetwalking decoy

And hiked on home, with a tight-hanging turkey neck

 

An empty wallet bargain, one made like a boozer

I sold my soul to remember that vibe

The fancy feeling of a lover, not a loser

In my cowboy boots, got nothing to ride

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Eviction”

  

c. 2026 Rod ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Dana Alvarez had been on hold for about 30 minutes, when someone finally picked up the line at Golden West Financial Holdings, in San Diego, California. She had burned through a dozen menthol cigarettes while waiting. So, her voice was a croak of froggy irritation.

 

“Ayyyyy, you gonna talk to me now? Madre Mia! I was ready to hang up!”

 

The company representative ignored her mood, and pretended that things at the distant office were running efficiently and smoothly. She had little time to worry over clients who were spread across the North American continent.

 

“I am Sloane Poridigo, may I help you, miss?”

 

The park manager in Thompson Township was miffed by this casual greeting. She had been kept on the phone for far too long, as an employee of the ownership group.

 

“Holla, lady! I’m calling from Ohio, you get me? Our property ref is MHP-8686. They call this place Evergreen Estates...”

 

Sloane rattled her gold and silver bracelets. Then, scrolled through entries on a computer monitor, at her desk.

 

“Yes, I see you now. We have more than three dozen developments in your state. What is the problem today?”

 

Dana fretted with a red bandana, which was too loose around her head.

 

“Ayyyyy, we got a guy here who won’t pay his lot rent. I’ve let him slide too long already, three months behind now. We need to do something!”

 

The GWFH official gasped audibly and squirmed in her roller chair.

 

“Three months? Good God! I would say that an eviction is in order. Have him thrown out immediately! Isn’t that obvious to you?”

 

The park supervisor lit another smoke while listening.

 

“See, the dude is a veteran, I think. He don’t talk too much with anybody here. As a matter of fact, people are kinda afraid to bother him. Comprende? They keep their distance. He has guns and knives in his trailer...”

 

Ms. Sloane nodded while cradling her landline receiver in one hand.

 

“Right, right, I understand, Miss Alvarez. Call your county sheriff. He can serve the papers. Get him out of there, today!”

 

Dana shuddered while thinking about what would result from a show of force.

 

“Ayyyyy, he gonna go nuts I think. I don’t usually deal with him, nobody else will, either. Okay?”

 

The California representative laughed cattily, and then hardened her tone.

 

“GET THIS BUM OFF YOUR PROPERTY! IF HE WON’T PAY, SEND HIM PACKING! THE COURTS, JUDGES, AND MEMBERS OF LAW ENFORCEMENT WON’T BE FRIGHGTENED TO DEAL WITH HIM! MAKE AN EXAMPLE, RIGHT NOW! SHOW ALL YOUR RESIDENTS THAT THIS INSTITUTION MEANS BUSINESS! NO ONE IS ABOVE THE LAW! EVERYBODY HAS TO PAY!”

 

There was a long pause before her contact in the Buckeye State answered. The young Latina felt uneasy about proceeding with an eviction.

 

“Okay, sure, I do it if you say so. But you remember this call, okay? You remember when things get crazy here...”

 

Their conversation ended abruptly. Neither party was satisfied with the discussion they had shared. Yet a decision to move forward with expelling the scofflaw resident seemed inevitable. No other choice would suffice.

 

Sheriff Tom T. Rath hesitated to deliver the paperwork, personally. He was busy sorting through postal mail, and attempting to drink his morning coffee, before it went cold. So instead, a junior deputy arrived, with a small contingent of men from their department. Despite knocking repeatedly, and attempting to look through the barred windows, no one responded. They left a formal notice taped to the front door. Then, departed in a mood of confusion and befuddlement.

 

Rath pounded his desk angrily, upon hearing that they had failed to serve the order, face-to-face.

 

“YOU JUST LEFT THAT TRAILER? WITH NO INTERACTION, NO OFFICIAL INTERVIEW, NO DOCUMENTATION?”

 

One of his skinny, inexperienced underlings pleaded for leniency, while trembling.

 

“Sir, the man at that park had messages written all over the outside of his mobile home. Long, rambling messages, about the court system and elected officials, and even us! The words covered every wall. I think they call that ‘hypergraphia’ but maybe the proper term is something else. I don’t know. My older brother is a psychology major in college. Anyway, it spooked us while trying to serve the notice.”

 

Their boss reddened with frustration.

 

“Alvarez will be calling me to handle this. I never enjoy passing out eviction notices, but especially when they involve someone who served in the military. I honor those people. I respect them. Maybe he needs counseling of some kind? Has anybody tried to offer help?”

 

The kid deputy had a manner much like Barney Fife, the fictional comic foil, on television.

 

“Residents at Evergreen Estates say they are afraid to go near that lot. He crawls around in his yard at night, with a rifle. As if being on patrol to protect the homestead! And he goes hunting in the woods behind their park. Never with anybody else, always alone...”

 

Sheriff Rath sighed, and threw his empty coffee cup in the trash.

 

“I think maybe you’re all making too much of this. The man might have some quirks after coming home from Iraq, or Afghanistan, or wherever, but that’s no sin. It’s not a crime. And it’s not unusual at all. Instead of bullying him, why don’t we ask if he can get some help with his back rent? And treatment for whatever he needs?”

 

His understudy shook with puzzlement at this suggestion. But replied with a caveat about the park owners.

 

“The manager on-site said that her employers in California just want him to be thrown out. He’s shaken up the other leaseholders and renters. They are afraid of a confrontation. The judge on this case made it clear that we have to get him out of his trailer, and the community confines!”

 

Their chieftain was unhappy about receiving such an arbitrary command. But he had no choice in the matter. Excuses were unacceptable.

 

“Alright, we’ll do the job if we must. Assemble an action team. I’ll lead it myself. But everyone will be protected with Kevlar vests. I don’t want casualties. Or any damned stories in the papers, or on evening newscasts!”

 

Their arrival at the remote, rural location evoked much tension and anxiety. With the skill of a professional brigade, they surrounded the longbox dwelling. Each member took a position where they could fire off defensive rounds, while staying safe from harm. Finally, their commander stood at the front entrance.

 

“Attention, resident! I have a legal order to deliver. Please comply and show yourself. I don’t want this to be difficult!”

 

Gunfire echoed from within the singlewide abode. Not directed at any target, but straight through the roof.

 

“I DON’T DEAL WITH ENEMY COMBATANTS! GO TA HELL, RAGHEAD! GO STRAIGHT TA HELL! OR Y’ALL R GONNA SEE ALLAH BEFORE YER READY!”

 

Rath breathed heavy and hard, before reaching for his sidearm. He stepped backward to attain a better view of the front porch. But before he could direct his deputies to instigate an assault on the home, someone stepped forward from a crowd of spectators that had gathered. He was shaggy, gray, and dressed in camouflage attire. He needed canes to walk, and had prosthetic limbs below both knees.

 

“Sheriff, let me talk to that brother. I fought in ‘Nam, there’s a kinship among soldiers. We don’t know each other, but I’ve heard about him from other folks in this place. He must be hurting inside, and feeling scared and alone. I used to think the whole country had abandoned me. The damn country, the president, everybody! But I never let go of my faith...”

 

As the crew of deputies retreated, their benefactor crept up to the doorway. He opened a faded manual, a book of prayers and services, published by the VVA. The Vietnam Veterans of America. Then, he began to whisper a prayer, with his right hand spread across the exterior wall.

 

“Blessed Lord Jesus, who knows the depths of loneliness and the dark hours of the absence of human sympathy and friendliness: help us to pass the weary hours of the night and the heavy hours of the day as you did, knowing of your father’s presence. Lift up our heart to full communion with you, strengthen us to do our duty, keep us constant to our trust, and let us know that however dark or desolate the hour, we are not alone, for you are with us, your rod and your staff to give us comfort. Amen.”

 

Then, the senior fellow closed his volume, and placed his head against the door.

 

“Stand down, soldier. You are at home now, and I am a kindred soul, your brother-in-arms. Whatever you need, whatever you want, whatever you wish, can be granted if you believe. I believe in peace. I believe in kinship. I believe in the goodness of a human heart. Put your weapons aside. Don’t suffer anymore. Pray with me friend, in the name of God, and be healed.”

 

He heard cautious footsteps, inside. Then, the lock mechanism clicked open. A gentle echo of sobbing ebbed from the trailer. And a new resonance filled his ears.

 

“Yes, that’s it, brother. That is what I need. I want to be healed...”