Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 16: Revolution

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

Trina Trelane was giddy after the virtual conference between those at the Proletariat Property Co-op, and residents of Evergreen Estates. Her enthusiasm for philosophical changes in the park was obvious. But this tilt toward progressive strategies did not sit well with many of her neighbors. In particular, Aimes Hefti and Linn Speck were outspoken about their opposition to anything connected with socialist dogma. They quickly organized a mob of protesters, tasked with venting anger at those who might openly express positive sentiments about the takeover by outsiders from New York.

 

Days and weeks passed without any action on the streets. Then, yard signs began to appear, as a few stragglers accepted the PPC refinancing deal, out of necessity. Their loan payments were lowered immediately. Moreover, any threat of eviction due to hard times, disappeared. Missed payments were to be handled through a multi-step process, with no judgment or threats. Local courts, and the county sheriff, would not be involved again.

 

Manager Dana Alvarez had technically become an employee of the distant firm, due to its purchase of the development from Wells Fargo. So, despite misgivings about how these new ideas would work, she stayed quiet. This lightened her burden as the on-site supervisor, considerably. Still, worries about a collapse of the union, under its own weight, persisted.

 

I didn’t pay much attention to this shift, preferring to stay drunk and detached as always. But eventually, consequences were precipitated that even I could not avoid. With a growing number of fellow inhabitants transitioning to the new plan for buying trailers, my crumbling boulevard sprouted red placards here and there, that contrasted with the winter white. This public endorsement of the student cooperative eventually triggered a vocal militia response.

 

As I sat with a jug of Old Crow bourbon, the ire of contrarian voices filled my ears.

 

“MAKE AMERICA, AND THIS PARK, GREAT AGAIN! IN GOD WE TRUST! AND DONALD J. TRUMP! GOD AND TRUMP! GOD AND TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”

 

At first, the chanting was simply a nuisance for those who had connected with our out-of-state owners. Yet I knew that soon enough, this sentiment would drive supporters to cross lines, and take direct action. From my vantage point on the porch, fortified with booze and insulated by layers of seasonal apparel, I reckoned on remaining uninvolved. But the drumbeat of militant activists was irritating to hear. I wanted to embrace the frosty silence of an old year, drawing to its close. Drama of any sort was unwelcome.

 

By the afternoon, I had turned numb from cold temperatures, and gulps of whiskey. But upon going inside to raid my liquor cabinet and refrigerator, I found myself being accosted by a trio of familiar figures from the corner.

 

Linn and his portly wife, Haki, were in my driveway, along with a member of the township trustees, that I did not recognize. They shivered a bit from the breezy conditions, yet maintained a righteous tone of religious zeal. My stomach tightened as they climbed up the access ramp.

 

“MR. LINCOLN! DO YOU SEE WHAT’S HAPPENING TO OUR COMMJUNITY? WE SHOULD BE CELEBRATING THE NEARNESS OF CHRISTMAS RIGHT NOW! NOT GETTING TANGLED UP IN THE BARBED WIRE OF SIN AND SALACIOUSNESS! DON’T YOU AGREE? COME TO CHURCH WITH US, THERE’S GOING TO BE A RALLY TODAY! WE WANT TO EXPEL THE INFIDELS! JOIN US! JOIN US NOW! YOU CAN’T JUST SIT THERE AND DO NOTHING!”

 

My nose tingled with a sting of distilled spirits.

 

“It’s Sunday? No shit, I completely lost track of my days. Give me a pass, that seems to happen, more and more...”

 

Speck shook his flabby jowls and groaned audibly. He did not appear to be comfortable.

 

“YOU FORGOT THE LORD’S DAY? THAT’S A HORRIBLE THING TO ADMIT, LINK! YOU NEED REDEMPTION, AND FORGIVENESS! COME UP TO THE CHURCH, AND LET PASTOR FORESTER GIVE YOU COMMUNION! THEN WE CAN GET DOWN TO ORGANIZING A PUSH FOR WELLS FARGO TO RESCIND THEIR SALE! WE WANT THESE HIPPIE WEIRDOS TO HIT THE ROAD!”

 

I snorted and grinned at his plea.

 

“No hate on that thought, neighbor, but I don’t figure they’d welcome me in those pews. I’m not a pretty sight to behold. I haven’t showered in a week or more. Or shaved in years. And actually, I don’t give a damn! Sitting here with my jug is the kind of communion I’ve got in mind...”

 

Haki gasped and pulled a festive, Yuletide scarf over her face. Her ruddy cheeks glowed, like Rudolph’s nose.

 

“You can’t mean that, friend! Bite your tongue!

 

Her husband had begun to break buttons on his jacket. His overfed belly protruded in defiance of the frosty climate.

 

“YOU DIDN’T SIGN UP WITH THE NEW OWNERS, I KNOW YOU DIDN’T. TELL ME YOU DIDN’T, LINK! TELL ME!”

 

I nodded sheepishly. It was irritating to confirm his wish.

 

“I didn’t. My pre-fab hut was paid off years ago. And I take my rent check to the office drop-box, every month. There’s no need to update anything...”

 

Mrs. Speck brightened at my declaration. She cheered and smiled.

 

“GOOD MAN! GOOD MAN YOU ARE!”

 

Her affirmation made me bow my head, and wheeze.

 

“C’mon now, your hubby normally tells people what a piece of dog waste I am. A dirty, shaggy alcoholic, and a pain in the ass. A bad example for kids and their parents...”

 

Linn could not hide his embarrassment. My words rang true in every sense.

 

“NO, NO, NO, YOU’VE GOT ME WRONG, NEIGHBOR! ALL OF THAT IS WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE! IF YOU STAND WITH US, WE’LL STAND WITH YOU! WE’RE ALL GOD’S CHILDREN!”

 

I pointed with one of my disability canes. His lie was completely unconvincing.

 

“I hear what you say about me, and don’t give a frig, okay? Though it’d mean more if you had the balls to put it straight out, when we’re face-to-face. That’s beside the point though. Do whatever you want. Just remember that your rights are my rights, too. The sword of justice cuts both ways. That’s what our forefathers had in mind. I can live in peace with people I don’t like, or respect. Because I stay in my gawdamn lane! How about you? Is that a trick you can perform?”

 

The former association head choked on his spit. His train of thought had run off its tracks.

 

Haki surrendered without arguing. She had goosebumps showing through her flannel tights. A cue for her exit had arrived.

 

“Well then, Merry Christmas, Link! Merry Christmas to you!”

 

 

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 15: Attack

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

I have always been skilled at making bad first impressions. For whatever reason, my personality seems to clash with most people. Particularly those who have an arrogant, self-important view of their own existence. Said in street language, I know how to piss off almost everyone. It is something I do not celebrate, by any means. Yet it is a habit that I have never been able to unlearn.

 

After our initial conference with Nakano Volca of the Proletariat Property Co-op, many of my neighbors who had attended were busy pondering the potential benefits, or consequences, of being acquired by the New York credit alliance. But for one at least, the leftover reaction was more severe. I had managed to publicly humiliate a figure known across our rural development as an heir to the dead extremist hero, Esmeralda Jonovic. This legacy of inglorious conduct had been diminished over time, by attention from local law enforcement. And because of the media exposure we had received, in Cleveland and throughout the mainstream press. But my verbal defiance, in front of so many witnesses, caused him to feel like a eunuch.

 

His manhood had been taken without a single act of aggression.

 

Unlike Linn Speck, who had often been knocked down a peg, by other residents, Aimes Hefti was not used to this diminished status. A raging fire burned in his gut. He wanted a measure of revenge, that would erase his mood of failure. As days and weeks passed, this lust for conquest grew more intense. Finally, he could not endure another moment of denial. So, despite freezing temperatures and piles of precipitation along the route, he embarked on a clandestine trek from his own doublewide home, to the lot where his tormentor awaited.

 

If I had known he was coming, I might have at least been mentally prepared for this assault. But of course, my senses were obliterated. I had chugged an entire fifth of bourbon whiskey, before passing out on the sofa. The interior entrance stood unlocked, and open, with a fog of condensation clinging to the glass panes of my storm door. This meant that the furnace ran almost constantly as I slept. The temperature outside had dropped to around 12 degrees.

 

Since I was very, very drunk, it did not really matter.

 

Aimes had bundled himself in a trench coat, modeled after fashions that were popular in the 1930s. And leather gloves, thick and long. His footsteps were nearly silent, except for an occasional crunch of crystal ice. He was stealthy in rounding the curve of our back street, and then turning toward the short avenue connecting that lane to the others at our park. With huffs of cold air chilling his lungs, he marched through the dark shadows. There was little traffic in motion. Pale lights glowed from windows here and there, but otherwise, the village of mobile homes seemed to be sleepy and indifferent.

 

I had been snoring for about an hour, when he reached the top of my access ramp. A brief moment of surprise passed, as he realized that entering my trailer would be an easy feat to accomplish. He pressed on the latch gently, and peered into my living room with disbelief. There were moving boxes stacked everywhere. I had received a truckload of household goods from my sister’s storage space, in an unannounced delivery. This made the usable footage in my home very limited. I had plugged in beer signs on both ends of the chamber, for some visual illumination. But otherwise, it sat as a testament to neglect. All of the shelves and cabinets were dusty. Cobwebs draped the corners. A heap of sweatshirts and jackets covered the chair by my refrigerator.

 

When he was satisfied that I had been oblivious to his presence for long enough, the invader brought his fist down on the arm of my couch. The wood underneath its cloth liner shattered.

 

“WAKE UP, DICKHEAD! Y’ALL ARE GONNA GET AN ASS WHIPPIN’ TONIGHT! I FIGURE IT’LL BE MORE SATISFYIN’ THAN A BULLET IN YER SKULL! WHAT D’YA THINK ABOUT THAT? LET’S DO THIS! LET’S GET AFTER IT!”

 

I couldn’t focus my eyes. But a belch and groan signified that I was awake. Then, I passed wind with the musical force of a bugle blast.

 

“Ezzie, go back to hell, woman! I’m trying to get some sleep...”

 

The angry commando grabbed at my throat. He took offense at being mistaken for the late militia leader.

 

“YOU DUMB PIECE OF SHIT! DO I FREAKIN’ LOOK LIKE MS. JONOVIC? SHE’S IN HER GRAVE, LINK! BUT I’M STANDIN’ RIGHT HERE! GET OFF YER OLD ASS AND LOOK AT ME! I WANNA SEE THE FEAR IN THOSE EYES! BY GOD, I’M GONNA KICK THE SNOT OUT OF YER CARCASS, AND LEAVE WHAT’S LEFT OUT IN THE YARD! Y’ALL WILL BE BUZZARD FEED, I RECKON THEY’RE HUNGRY THIS TIME OF YEAR!”

 

Had I been sober, his threat might have resonated more effectively. Yet I couldn’t feel anything except the burn of whiskey in my stomach.

 

“Neighbor, you never have anything good to say, when coming around here. I have to admit that you’re a stone bummer. You act like someone who needs a to get a good lay, and smoke a fat doobie. Understand? But I suppose neither one is on your duty list for the evening...”

 

Hefti unholstered his pistol. His eyes were bloodshot and narrow.

 

“ALRIGHT, SMARTASS! Y’ALL WANT TA PLAY GAMES? I KIN GET INTO THAT. LET’S DO IT UP RIGHT! SCREW THE SMALLTALK, HAVE A LOAD OF THIS!”

 

He fired off a round that barely missed my head. It left a hole in the thin, pre-fab wall. But more concerning was my bladder. Now that I had found the strength to sit upright, my loins were bulging.

 

“Dude, I got to pee. Hold that thought, okay?”

 

The militant interloper flushed crimson red, with astonishment.

 

“Y’ALL GOTTA PEE? IS THIS A FUCKIN’ JOKE?”

 

As I wobbled to my feet, with both canes, the flow impulsively loosed itself. A dribble of urine soaked the left leg of my athletic trousers. A warm sensation trickled all the way to my toes. Only a state of inebriation kept embarrassment from taking hold.

 

“Now you did it! Damn, neighbor, your sense of timing is impeccable! Thanks for distracting me from the call of nature!”

 

Aimes recoiled as if he had opened the door of an occupied outhouse. His sidearm slipped back into its sheath. He had lost his desire for a physical confrontation. As I struggled to stay vertical, he turned to leave, abruptly.

 

“Y’ALL ARE A GAWDAMN BOOZER, LINK! A SAD SACK OF DOG SHIT! I’M OUTTA HERE!”

 

 

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 14: Conference

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

When I arrived at the maintenance garage for our long-distance hookup with the Proletariat Property Co-op, a boisterous crowd had already gathered. Attendance for the event was surprisingly strong. Many neighbors who owned their trailer homes were present. Moderating the session was Trina Trelane, who lived next door. I had grown accustomed to her rants about social injustices of all sorts, and capitalist greed. She often had gaming parties throughout the summer, and left her windows open to vent the stench of marijuana smoke. So, I was always an incidental participant, despite having no membership in her circle of friends. But today, her manner was different from that norm. She carried herself with a surprising measure of dignity, despite being dressed in pajamas and a Maruchan Ramen hoodie.

 

“Can all of you see the computer monitor? I did my best to arrange everything so this spot in the park’s repair bay will work for what we want to do...”

 

Dana Alvarez sat in the front row of chairs. She was impatient about the confab, wishing that it could get started, without a long wait. Her glistening, black hair was tied up in a red bandana.

 

“Ayyyyyyy, it looks good to me! We gotta link up the facetime or Google Meet, or whatever it is, though. Did you call those people in the Finger Lakes?”

 

Trina nodded and gestured to the group.

 

“Our Zoom call is about to begin. Now remember, the guy we’re going to see is chairman of the ownership group. He’s not like the usual banker types, though. I appreciate his style. Don’t expect a dude in a suit and tie...”

 

When Nakano Volca appeared on the large, flatscreen display, his casual demeanor surprised everyone in the room. He had not bothered to dress formally for the virtual visit. Neck tattoos were visible above his shirt collar. He had multiple piercings on both ears.

 

“Hey, I’m glad this connection is working. So then, here we go, everybody! Let me introduce myself. I’m the lead manager for PPC, the new deed-holder for your property. People here at our offices in Ithaca, New York, call me Nakka. I joined this credit cooperative while studying at Cornell University. Its roots were with kids enrolled back in the late 60s. One of those was my mother, Gemma. She’s now an adviser, and a member of the governance council.”

 

The residents who were watching quickly became restless. They had no interest in polite chatter. Finally, Linn Speck raised his small, stubby fingers, to be recognized. His voice was a grating whine of indifference.

 

“I have a question sir, or whatever you identify as in public. When do we get the truth about your plans for Evergreen Estates? Is this going to be some kind of hippie commune?”

 

The financial steward laughed with a nervous twitch of his slender cheeks.

 

“That’s funny, man, but no, we don’t have anything fun like that in mind. Let me get right to the point here, the PPC is basically a credit pool. Our original idea was to let everyone put their resources together, for the benefit of all the members. You know, some had money to invest, but others were just struggling along on a blue-collar paycheck. It’s all good, there is no prejudice in our ranks. See, the mission here is to make things equal for each participant. Maybe you started off with empty pockets, but we share assets and also liabilities. That’s how it works. If you’re down on bucks, you can invest time instead. That makes it right for all. Now, nobody in your community has to join up, it’s completely voluntary. We don’t like a lot of rules and regulations. That’s not our trip. If you stand pat, then all we ask is that you pay your lot rent, just like with the other owners. No change is needed. But, if you want to upgrade, then ask about being a full member of the co-op. That gives you security. We don’t believe in evicting people from their living spaces when hard times come around. We give them options, instead...”

 

I was astounded by this declaration. It made me stroke my shaggy beard, and exclaim out loud.

 

“Oh wow, no evictions? You’re kidding, right? All of the bastards we’ve had in charge here get off on kicking people and their families to the curb!”

 

Volca shrugged and folded his hands. Then learned closer to the webcam.

 

“That’s the old way, bruh. It’s not our way. We want to help individuals who get behind on their rent. Not make them homeless. Our society has suffered enough growing pains, already. See, the bankers like to hoard their cash and screw anyone who falls into poverty. That’s how their circus-show keeps running, by using fear and intimidation to put people on their knees. Maybe you even think it’s a safe bet for us? Or for you? But I’m here to say, that con-job won’t last. Look around, there are millions of citizens hurting, right now. They want a place to sleep at night, with their families. They want dignity. They want hope. Do you think those other owners ever cared about your well-being? Nah, trust me, it was all a ruse to empty your wallets. But that’s done now. We want to wipe the slate clean, and start over!”

 

Aimes Hefti had been sitting on a wooden crate, in the back row. His head was shaved, and he wore the tactical gear of a professional soldier. Throughout the meeting, he had been feverishly fretting over the explanation of details being offered. And, patting his sidearm in its holster. Eventually, his mood turned dark and violent. He stood up suddenly, and pointed his pistol at the glowing, monitor screen.

 

“EFF THIS HORSESHIT! I’VE LISTENED TO ENOUGH OF YER DRIVEL! Y’ALL ARE HUCKSTERS AND LIARS! THIS IS ALL A FREAKIN’ HOAX! A HUUUGE, HUUUGE HOAX! SIGN THIS DUMP BACK OVER TA WELLS FARGO, AND GET THE HELL OUTTA HERE!”

 

I had reached my limit of patience. With the wannabe commando, and our dubious predicament. It took some effort to get up from my seat. But then, I gestured with one of my disability canes.

 

“Enough of this nonsense, I’m overdue for a drink on my porch. Have a good day everybody...”

 

Aimes swung his handgun in my direction. His eyes were blazing with anger and resentment.

 

“Stay put, Link! Or I’m gonna bust a cap in yer old ass! Sit down and shut up!”

 

On the computer display, I saw an expression of disbelief overtake our guest. But did not retreat from my spot. Instead, a hard-edge sharpened my tone of speaking.

 

“DO IT, DICKHEAD! PULL THE TRIGGER! BELIEVE ME, IT’D BE A RELIEF TO FINALLY GET OUT OF THIS RAT’S NEST, ONE WAY OR ANOTHER! QUIT YOUR TRASH TALKING, AND SHOOT!”

 

The self-appointed militia chief seemed to shrink in his combat boots. His hand trembled before lowering the firearm.

 

“Link, yer one crazy son-of-a-bitch! Go ahead, hobble on home and enjoy yer liquor. I’m gettin’ bored anyway! This silliness sounds like a gawdamn multi-level marketing scam, ta me! Screw this crap!”

“Bridge Bouquet”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

I lust after the confidence

Of Hunter Stockton Thompson

My hero, HST

Or perhaps Charles Bukowski

GG Allin on a death ride

Eldon Hoke with a Klingon warrior’s cry

These rebel voices spoke to me

Even though I was raised quite differently

A stone’s toss from the edge of forever

Yet implored to stay distant from the allure of never-never

This was the lesson I learned

And then flushed with a tug on the swivel

The cool, metallic handle

That fell easily into my grasp

I wadded up the ceremonial road map

Foolish and fearless

Too young for the grave, too old to be saved

Swinging a hammer at my toes

My father must have had acid reflux in his gut

He would grasp that generous fold, above his belt

And hold it for long enough

To pray for deliverance

From the pit of hell

Not for himself

But for me

At every turn I doubled back

Took a step off the ledge, into lingering black

Like the cartoon coyote

Falling, falling

Deep into the canyon, below

I was too witless and shiftless to know

The judgment that God would bestow

Hungry and freezing under a New York bridge

I was but a lonely, teenaged kid

Living out a Ramones lyric

Willfully, skillfully

Wobbling on my boot heels

I heard the advice of greater minds and rejected it

Sold the birthright of a prince

Unaware that I had ejected it

Then returned in rags

My feet swaddled in supermarket shopping bags

My head bare, but shaggy

Moth holes in my flannel sheath

Which was concealed, underneath

A motorcycle skin

A relic handed down from the sacred him

That gifted me with his genetic code

I might have offered a sign of reverence

If there had been enough time

Yet the passage of our bloodline

Came too swiftly for me to comprehend

With a soul on the mend

Lungs puffed full with promise

Shouting boldly at the rising moon

An orb that glowed with a season, seen too soon

Pockmarked and dusty

That distant point of reference made me consider

That from anywhere it would appear the same

And I, who carried the family name

Like a dumpster-diving, bridge bouquet

Had squandered this view

From behind a ledge of concrete blocks

Trembling as the night grew empty

A persistent growling in my belly

Giving testimony to the misdeeds that were mine

A sentence so serious, at the time

But now, only a whisper of inspiration

For a rhyming cadence of verse, composed

A guilty pleasure, rightly exposed

To the listening ear

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 13: Advocate

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

In my time at Evergreen Estates, I had seen hundreds of residents come and go for various reasons. Generally, they entered the park due to poverty and hardship, with these same factors eventually causing a hasty exit to avoid the county sheriff, eviction notices, and unpaid bills. Amazingly however, there were a few die-hard inhabitants who actually stayed on the premises for long periods of time. These tough individuals seemed to leave only when health issues sent them to skilled-care facilities, or death came to claim their souls as trophies, for his lair in the afterworld. Across the side yard from my trailer, on its western flank, I had seen nine families at least, over a period of 23 years. Each group manifested characteristics that were common, but with differing inflections. Only Esmeralda Jonovic, who I had nicknamed Miss January, stood out on this roster. Her leadership for a budding militia on the property inspired others to assume the mantle of militarism, after she was gone.

 

That dark stain had never been erased, even after foreclosures, land sales, FBI investigations, police actions, and attention from local and national media outlets.

 

But Trina Trelane, affectionately called Miss Poindexter by many in the neighborhood, due to her thick and oversized, black spectacles, bucked this trend of damnation. Once ensconced at the pre-fab dwelling beside my own, she seemed to flourish. Like a flower growing in between broken slabs of concrete. She was short and stout, with a buzzed-off, red brush of hair, that always appeared to be in need of attention. Her eyes were huge, being magnified by a strong optical prescription. And her sense of fashion was predicated on T-shirts with Star Wars characters, or Pokemon themes.

 

I could not help thinking that she looked and sounded a bit like Velma Dinkley, from the Scooby Doo cartoons.

 

When frosty days stymied our takeover by the Proletariat Property Co-op, most people in the community were gladdened. They had little interest in being connected with the former student organization, and its legacy of socialist aspirations. Yet my contact at the next lot was excited for getting an opportunity to network with like-minded individuals from New York. She had long been a contrarian voice among conservative disciples. Her rants about corporate excesses, homelessness, equity for racial minorities, trans rights, and LGBT recognition, often sparked lively debate on Facebook groups dedicated to park business.

 

This leftward leaning put her squarely in opposition to almost everyone else at our rural development. She was thought to be the only proud progressive, anywhere in the junkyard oasis.

 

After a visit by representatives from the PPC was canceled due to inclement weather, she confronted our company manager, Dana Alvarez, at her office by the maintenance garage. Their chatter could be heard all across the main concourse.

 

I sat on my porch, with a bottle of Tennessee whiskey in hand. Both women were unwittingly, my entertainment for the moment. I beheld their verbal contest through a haze of inebriation.

 

Trina pounded furiously on the side door, and began to howl before entering. She made no attempt to be diplomatic or polite.

 

“Jinkies! You’re just going to let us hang in the wind, Ms. A? that can’t be the right thing to do. People want some information about the new owners. I think if they understood the benefits, some of them might change their minds...”

 

Dana stubbed out a menthol cigarette, and shuffled paperwork on her desk. She was irritated by having a complaint lodged so early in the morning.

 

“Ayyyyy, you really gonna get up in my grille, chica? I don’t control those caballeros. I don’t even know them, okay? So far, I still got a job here, that’s all good. I collect the rent checks and hand out leases. You want more than that? Go live somewhere else! Vaya con Dios!”

 

Miss Poindexter huffed and frowned. The lingering smoke made her cough.

 

“Look, I think these new shareholders have great ideas. We could finally be treated like human beings, for a change! Putting together a credit union for this development makes a lot of sense! Let me be an advocate! I’ll do my best to make it work! You’ve got to admit that we have all been getting screwed here!”

 

The professional supervisor was offended. Her lips curled, reflexively.

 

“Madre mia! You gonna bring them out here, through all this snow? It’s a mess outside, I could barely get here today. I wouldn’t wanna drive so many miles, especially in this shitty weather!”

 

Trina tweaked her stubby nose and snorted. Her knit gloves were damp and cold.

 

“I know a little something about computers, how about if we set up a live conference? That guy who’s in charge could chat with us, face-to-face. Over an internet link, you know? You’ve got the hardware right here, I could connect everything in about a half hour...”

 

Alvarez lit another coffin nail. She was intrigued by the idea of avoiding a formal visit.

 

“You could do that? Ayyyyy, it might calm these black cuervos down a little. They won’t quit chirping about the takeover. I wanna put duct tape on their beaks!”

 

Her interloper giggled and nodded at this admission.

 

“We’d see them, and they could see us, it’s easy to do. Send out notices to all the residents, and I’ll make it happen. I’ve already contacted the PPC head of operations, he sounds like a kewl dude. Not a dumbass like most of the redneck people here...”

 

The park caretaker cringed at hearing this unflattering description. But it resonated with truth.

 

“It ain’t been fun trying to get these idiotas to behave. I’d be glad for anything to settle them down. Maybe I might learn something too, I don’t understand this change any more than they do! All I know is they paid Wells Fargo a lotta dinero!”

 

Their bargain was sealed with a friendly embrace. A quiet calm stilled the air, at last.

 

By the time this impromptu conference had finished, I was loaded. Literally swimming in a tide of booze. And it had only reached the hour of eleven o’clock, in the morning. My face had flushed red, and burned with a sting of liquor abuse. I staggered toward my kitchen, seeking a wash of cold beer to ease the pounding pulse that swelled my head.

 

In the near future, there would be a revolution of sorts at Evergreen Estates. But for the moment, things were unchanged. The pace of life would continue, unabated, despite meteorological mayhem, and citizen unrest.

 

And I would keep drinking, until oblivion finally overwhelmed my consciousness for the day.

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 12: Money

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

For most residents of Evergreen Estates, the pursuit of a lottery reward, or some financial payday on that level, has always been paramount. Yet to have such an elusive goal in mind is more than simply a chase after pipe dreams. It represents worshiping a false god, promoted for the purpose of holding teeming masses of impoverished people in thrall. The notion that wealth may come from luck, or perhaps, through discipline and investment, is one rooted in the originalist idea that as Americans, all citizens are born equal to each other. The truth, however, remains more severe and damning. Effort may yield results, on certain occasions. But the corrupting forces of our modern social and political order have never been stronger. Moreover, all of those who inhabit the land are not on the same level, intellectually, in terms of experience, or their drive to achieve good things. The most common avenue toward personal enrichment is one founded on taking advantage of weaker individuals to gain control, and harvest benefits.

 

Hustlers win in a trailer-park environment. And losers continue to lose.

 

As an outsider, I had always possessed clear vision in this context. From the first day at Lot 13, I saw my neighbors for what they were, with inner eyesight gifted from my forebears. Many were rubes of a sad sort. Herded like cattle. Exploited for pocket change, and small favors. Used, abused, and spat out on the concrete. By others who played the street game skillfully. They robbed unsuspecting malcontents in the name of friendship. Or gambled on naïve notions like goodwill and cooperation. A proffered beer or cigarette here, a trickster’s sleight-of-hand, there, until the population had been won over. Back-slapping, hand-shaking, fists pumping in the air. The camaraderie of a sports match, recycled and revised. Tribalism on its most basic level. A huckster’s deal of the cards. Lady Luck, with her gown concealing a liar’s creed. Swelling the fullness of a hard heart, under her gilded breast.

 

I might have chosen to run after this kind of prize myself, if not for a sober outlook born of persistent drunkenness. It came like an epiphany one day, as I sat on my porch, in the wintery cold. Swilling Kentucky bourbon that had been languishing at the back of my liquor cabinet. I realized, while pondering the allure of oil rights left from a long-departed member of the family, that having a sack of gold would mean next to nothing in terms of my earthly crawl.

 

To be rich was the temptation of many. But for me, it only represented a tease of fate. Age and disability were now in command. My body had begun the inevitable process of disintegrating. Fatigue made my limbs feel heavy. And added weight upon my shoulders. To count diamonds or silver coins in this state would be a mockery of life itself. A waste of precious time, in its fleeting essence. That risk of squandering what moments I had left was one not to be taken lightly. So, I focused not on the idea of hoarding assets, but instead, celebrating the journey.

 

Would I yearn, like so many, to be Elon Musk? Jeff Bezos? Warren Buffet? Steve Ballmer? Larry Ellison? Hell no... I was much more comfortable in my own skin. Even if that organic sheath had been battered and bruised by years of bad decisions, lost sleep, junk food, and whiskey.

 

While pondering such truisms, my cell phone rang loudly. I had secreted it in my hoodie pocket, while pouring a glass of brown spirits. The number indicated was for an office in West Virginia, one operated by a firm involved in drilling for sources of energy production. When I answered, the voice in my ear was lilting and buttery. A greeting resounded, given with the hopeful resonance of a company representative trolling for participants.

 

“Mr. Lincoln? This is Kate DiPeniti with Abagail Energy Holdings. How are you today, sir?’

 

I was buzzed enough to answer in literal terms.

 

“I am, umm, drunk ma’am. How are you?”

 

The cold-call solicitor gasped at my confession. Then, she began to giggle.

 

“Well, good for you! It’s great to have a day off. I’m sure you’ve earned it!”

 

I cleared my throat and growled out an honest explanation of the previous remark.

 

“See, I have had every day off since October 20^th of 2016. That was the end of my professional career, if you choose to identify it as such. I had my ass kicked out the front door by a gang of young owners, acting on their father’s behalf. Or, maybe not, I wasn’t sure if he actually knew of their plan. It didn’t matter anyway. I got shoved to the parking lot, all the same...”

 

Miss Kate was astounded by this retelling of my unemployment story.

 

“Oh my! You were discharged without a hint of what would happen?”

 

I took a deep breath, and then a chug of Evan Williams, Bottled-in-Bond.

 

“Nah, I could sense that chess pieces were being moved around. A new group had taken over, and I picked up on clues that they left. All the locks got changed, my keys were mostly useless. Then they were having meetings, where I wasn’t asked to attend. No surprise, I guess. I was the senior member of management. Too salty and combative for their liking, I think...”

 

DiPeniti shrugged off my tale of expulsion, with a brightening of her mood.

 

“Well anyway, I’ve got bigger and better things to talk about, Mr. Lincoln! It has come to our attention that you are in possession of property rights in a rural county of our state. Do you understand what that could mean? We are talking about a lot of money, lots and lots of profit for us and dividends for you! Doesn’t that sound exciting?”

 

It was 28 degrees on my wooden bench. I had dressed in layers of seasonal apparel, a Harley-Davidson beanie, and insulated gloves. The fresh, chilly air invigorated my lungs. Yet it also caused my arthritic joints to stiffen. The tradeoff of sensations was very familiar.

 

“Money... yeah okay. I’m an old man as you might have guessed... I need more warm summer days, more cool nights by the campfire, more songs to sing with the few friends that I still have, more poems to write, and more whiskey! But money? You can stick that in a Mason jar or coffee can, and leave it for somebody who gives a shit... I don’t need money. I need more time...”

 

The asset manager was baffled by this admission. Her voice squeaked with futility.

 

“Come now, Mr. Lincoln! Everybody needs money! Everyone does! It might not buy you happiness, but it certainly keeps the world turning ‘round and ‘round! Don’t you agree? I’d like to talk about making a deal that will benefit you and my partners, for years to come!”

 

I wanted to curse, but thought better of this inclination. Instead, I closed my eyes and leaned forward until vertigo made me dizzy.

 

“If I don’t end this conversation, there’ll be some rude language in the offing. So, have a good day, ma’am. Read your list again, maybe there’s someone on it who’ll be interested. As for me, I don’t give a damn. Screw getting rewarded! I live in a gawdamm boxcar hovel, full of books, guitars, newspapers, empty bottles of booze, antique typewriters, and broken furniture! There’s your answer. I don’t need anything else!”

 

“Chair”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

Dozing in my desk chair

A moment to reflect and escape

While still partly awake

Body on the brink

Those beyond the veil, will respond

With a nod and a wink

And I need nothing more than to be suspended

Above the office floor

In this wheeled perch

Lost before a glowing monitor screen

On an internet search

Did someone notice, when I took a detour?

I went running out the kitchen door

A refugee from the family

A seeker, solitary and sane

Called by my stage name

It must have surprised more than a few

When I kicked off a muddy residue

From my engineer boots

In the middle of a banquet held to honor those

Who kept close to the king in his death throes

An act, both loyal and lazy

They labeled me as wild and crazy

Which I took as a compliment

Roses and wine

A pocket watch, ticking away time

Such gifts have no meaning when the dreamscape is thick

No charts for the traveler

No markings on the yardstick

Merely a vapor of the vanquished, wafting from the pit

Where a vintage motorcycle sits

Stilled and stalled

A rocking, roadrunner held in thrall

That was the vision as I tilted backward

At an angle that tempted my body to tumble

Oddly capricious, yet undeniably humble

In awe of the void

A chaser of childlike napping

It is the compliment to an audience, clapping

When I have finished reciting my work

Hands folded, head bowed

Applause! applause!

Let it last, long and loud

Though I must admit to not paying attention

The sound seems too foreign for an honorable mention

This adulation leaves me cold

Fingers curled against my palms

Breathing breaths of antiseptic wipes, and an arthritic balm

From the other room

Leftover scents in the cabinet

They remind me of cares now surrendered

Debt dutifully tendered

To a self that disappeared in the dark of night

I gave up the good fight

Preferring to catch a seat on the train

As my interests waned

In anything other than a moment of rest

It came as no surprise

To be put to the test

Teased and teetering

Ancient scrolls, effectively metering

My pace from the cradle to a burial plot

Leather soles leave their imprint

Tracing that journey like the ink of a fountain pen

Not that it will matter, to anyone, when

The race is run

As a holy man exclaimed, “It is done! It is done!”

A twist of the camera lens, to conclude

Behold, the blessed interlude

Let me now close my eyes

And sweetly recline