Trailer Park Vignettes - “Scammer Salvation”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Forghan Maine had lived at Evergreen Estates for longer than any other resident in the park, except for the respected matron and widow, Maylene Jefka. As someone gifted with good genes and habits, he had outlived most of his own family. Including both parents, who immigrated from Canada. Along with a brother, sister, two nieces, a nephew, and his only child. It put him in the odd position of still representing his bloodline, while approaching the age of 90. Yet he was, by any measure, exhausted from this long journey. He did not enjoy witnessing the sunrise any longer. Or going to church on the hilltop, in his rural township. He had become a hermit in nearly every way. Getting groceries delivered, conferencing with doctors via his cellular phone, and leaving the household only if it became absolutely necessary. When those occasions arrived, he generally traveled in an ambulance, with an EMT crew. Something that brought him embarrassment and evoked a sense of regret.

 

Prostate issues kept him perpetually needing to relieve his bladder. So, he rarely traveled far from the community of mobile homes. He needed a rollator or walker just to get out of bed. His personal hygiene was difficult to maintain. His eyesight had failed, years before, which caused him to lose driving privileges. In modern times, he had a cranky disposition, which was opposite to the cheerful self of yonder days. He feared being a burden on those few, distant members of the family who had survived, so his social interactions were few. He made little attempt to keep any friends. There were no residents on his street even close to being so chronologically senior in age.

 

This situation made him wish to pass quietly, in his favorite recliner. Perhaps while watching reruns of television programs from the 50s or 60s, when he had been happier and more successful. Or, while listening to music on his Sears & Roebuck, Silvertone hi-fi. He had quite a collection of vintage vinyl, still on shelves around the living room. They kept the interior of his singlewide hovel smelling musty. Like an old bookstore. But this aroma gave him comfort. It was familiar, and reminded him of collecting records with his late wife.

 

The state of his health had been compromised by many issues. And yet, he persisted in living. A result of dietary discipline, exercise, and a genetic predisposition to longevity. This tilt seemed to mock him now, as an ironic twist on dying slowly. He wished to be done with the experience, of living, and set free from woes and cares. To be soaring toward the horizon and eternity, with an embrace of God awaiting. But it would not happen. Every morning had become a curse. Every waking moment reminded him of his own frailty. His isolation. His ineptitude. His numerous disabilities. Sometimes, he would ponder a line from Dark Shadows, which in his memory had been delivered by the actor Jonathan Frid, as Barnabas Collins, a vampire lost in his own damnation.

 

“To die, to be really dead. That would be wonderful...”

 

But on a Monday morning, peering through thick spectacles at the rectangular screen of his wireless device, he happened to discover a listing on an auction site. He had adapted to changing technologies more quickly than his contemporaries. A blessing that kept him scrolling through news stories and arcane reports with much curiosity. Someone had posted about a pistol made of composite materials, that could be purchased in a quasi-legal fashion, surreptitiously. A product of 3D printing. Useful for self-defense, and undetectable by most methods of scanning and surveillance. The item had been intended to bolster home arsenals and provide an extra layer of security, when desired. Yet for him, this tool of mayhem offered a different wrinkle on possessing a personal weapon.

 

Placed against his temple, after being loaded with ammunition, it could finally end the torment he suffered, throughout every day.

 

“The Titan Terminator 1500: Your guarantee of safe passage in any and every situation. Easy to procure, easy to handle. Inexpensive, innocuous, and deadly efficient. A firearm for the 21^st Century. Light, accurate, and durable. Guaranteed satisfaction. A method for skirting local laws while staying alive.”

 

At first, the design appeared to be rather clumsy and unappealing. It did not quite look like any hand-held armament he had ever seen. The gun was blocky, square, and had rough edges from the way it had been produced. It looked like a college project, perhaps from a science class. But as weeks and months passed, he began to lust after the weapon. His trousers were routinely soaked with urine, even using adult undergarments for aid. He hobbled around his trailer aimlessly, with the jerky, painful motions of a hospice patient. A condition that sapped his humanity. He no longer felt like a genuine person. Instead, he existed only to be pitied, and ignored. Neighbors stayed away. Those passing his yard often averted their gaze, with disgust or sadness. He rarely looked in the mirror. What was reflected often brought him to tears. He had outlived his reason for life, itself. No cause to continue remained.

 

He wanted to pull the plastic trigger, and escape, peacefully.

Buying the TT 1500 proved to be frighteningly uncomplicated. A faux address and company name covered his tracks. He sent the money via a PayPal account, originally set up by his son. When the package arrived, it was left by a FedEx driver on his front porch. It took days to summon enough courage to open the brown box. Then, on an evening when he had experienced a coughing fit, and stumbled into the kitchen counter so forcefully that it bruised his ribs, he finally relented.

 

The gun looked ugly, yet fit neatly in his hand. He flipped it from left to right, carefully considering its heft and shape. The grip had sharp grooves and tingled his palm. He breathed heavily while sitting in the recliner. No note explaining his desperate act had been written, a detail he carelessly overlooked. This caused him to wonder about delaying his exit, at least for long enough to provide some details about what he hoped to achieve. But with a hint of gloom lingering, he guessed that it did not really matter. No one would care too much. His body would have to decay and stink, even to be noticed. By then, his soul would be at the point of some final judgment.

 

Good or bad, his fate was about to be decided.

 

After a short prayer, he lifted the pistol to his skull. Tears dribbled down his face. His chest heaved with sobbing. He whispered an apologetic greeting to his late wife and son, along with other relatives who had passed. The barrel of his composite weapon was cold and unforgiving. He pressed it hard, against his skin. And then tugged on the release.

 

“NOW, NOW, NOW! DO IT NOW! DO IT NOW! GOD HELP ME, I’VE HAD ENOUGH!”

 

There was no reaction from the mechanism. Nothing happened. Upon opening his eyes, he had expected to see God himself, sitting on a golden throne of grace. Or possibly, Satan with his flaming staff of death. Either way, it would end his sojourn. But that decisive moment did not come. Instead, he simply beheld stacked boxes from different storage units. Along with snack crumbs around his chair, dust on the shelves and entertainment center, and trash scattered around the room.

 

This failure left him trembling, and blubbering like a child. He was still alive! The weapon hadn’t misfired, it offered no response at all from his pull on the trigger. He had been cheated. Scammed. Robbed of his retirement funds. Sent back from the brink, to face yet another day in the isolated, Ohio residence park.

 

Hoodwinked, in a good way.

 

He mopped his face with a towel from the stove handle. But before returning to the recliner, there was a knock at the door. From across the street, a young woman had appeared, someone he barely knew. Plain, pretty, and tall. She had moved to the ramshackle village from deep in southern territory. Her cooking reminded him of church dinners, during his childhood. Occasionally, she gifted him with homemade potato salad, baked country ham, or biscuits and sausage gravy. But over the winter, they had been separated by the weather, and her own martial responsibilities.

 

“Hey old feller, y’all ain’t been outside since Christmas! I saw a guy from up the street brought ya cookies his wife made. And I’m sorry not ta have gotten over myself. But today, I wuz makin’ vegetable soup, and figured maybe y’all could use a warm up. Truth is, I been havin’ a hard time lately. My family is in Alabama, I don’t get ta see anybody. My husband works every day of the week, and he’s not much fun after that, all tired and sore. I’ve got the blues, and depression is a bitch! But ya remind me of folks down there. I need ta sit and chew the fat fer a spell. Will ya be my gramps, even fer one day? Say yes and I’ll bring some cornbread too, its fresh outta the oven. It’d mean a lot ta share yer company, right now. I need somebody...”

 

Maine could barely speak. He sniffled and wiped away tears, while attempting to hide the instrument of harm under his decorative towel. Embarrassment flushed his cheeks. He was jittery and ill at ease. But relieved not to be alone.

 

“Yes, yes of course, ma’am! To tell it straight, I need somebody too. You picked a good time to visit! Make yourself at home!”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Mockbina Petrovich had the classic figure of a rural laborer, owing to her Russian heritage. She was stout and curvaceous, and pretty in a plain sense. But in northeastern Ohio, people around her isolated neighborhood did not identify this distant origin, immediately. At first, because she had taken a position in Middlefield, making cheese, they assumed that she must be Amish. Or someone who had left the discipline of a similar community, to live with Yankee folk. But whenever someone engaged her in polite conversation, then, a revelation occurred. She sounded very foreign. And still beamed with excitement over the wealth of choices available to average people who lived in America.

 

Among relatives in the Cleveland area, this positive attitude was welcomed and echoed. But when at her lot within the crumbling confines of Evergreen Estates, it made her irritatingly upbeat. Cheerful to a point of obvious ignorance. Someone who seemed oblivious to the plight of leaseholders and rent-to-own inhabitants, who crawled through each month on meager, hourly wages or retirement checks.

 

That disconnect kept her from making friends easily, at first.

 

But with T.C. Lincoln, the drunken hermit across from her own trailer, this enduring mood of happiness did not matter. Despite the dark overtones of his combative personality, he accepted her outlook with no questions. Being generally withdrawn and solitary in his habits meant that on the rare occasions when he attempted to socialize with anyone, he avoided passing judgment.

 

Soon, the immigrant widow found herself spending days off with the contrarian figure, on his inset porch. She would pepper him with queries about everyday life, in their rustic setting. Once enough bourbon whiskey had been dispensed, he became a willing adviser and friend. Relaxed enough by being inebriated that he could speak freely and without inhibitions.

 

She was still naïve about living in her new homeland, and curious.

 

“Everyone here drives the pickup! Yes? I see them on a road to work, in this park, but not so much when I visit cousins at St. Theodosius church. They have the big tires. I hear them getting noisy. They are wery loud. Why the pickups here?”

 

Lincoln grinned in between swigs of his brown liquor.

 

“It’s part of the culture, ma’am. In my day, trucks were work vehicles. If ya drove one, it was to haul stuff, or get things done on the farm. Now though, it is a little bit different. People drive ‘em who never load up freight, never play in the mud, and never use ‘em for anything but hauling kids or getting groceries. It feels good to have one though, they are more sturdy than the crappy little shitboxes they make nowadays! Maybe it’s a throwback to yesteryear. Like the little, fake-ass shutters around windows on our prefab homes. Ya know nobody has actually had shutters on their frigging windows in years!”

 

Mockbina sipped plain lemonade from her glass. The slang terminology was confusing, yet caused her to smile.

 

“This is how you say, ‘Crappy little boxes?’ That is what we had to drive in my country. The big trucks are for army, for soldiers. Like my husband. I miss him so much.”

 

The shaggy alcoholic bowed his head with regret.

 

“I’m sorry, miss. No need to dredge up bad memories...”

 

The Russian femme shook her head as if to dispel those bittersweet recollections.

 

“Anyway, this are my country now. I am American, like you. Maybe I too will buy a pickup!”

 

Lincoln snorted a blast of distilled spirits through his nostrils.

 

“I used to drive ‘em myself, did that fer 35 years or more. And I had a van before those rigs, it could hold a ton of shit. I lived out of it once, when first landing here at this park. It wasn’t bad as a camper. Just not too comfortable stretched out on the floor with no mattress...”

 

Mockbina rolled her eyes with wonder.

 

“You came here when? I figure you are born here!”

 

The dirty drunk laughed out loud, so forcefully that it rattled the glass of his storm door.

 

“It damn well feels that way! But naw, I lived all over the place as a younger dude. Getting divorced sidelined my career. I took all the blame, and kept the bills. Call it a learning experience, an expensive one at that. It ruined my reputation. And I almost ended up in the hoosegow. Fer what I don’t know...”

 

His new associate was puzzled and silent. Then, she blurted out a note of exasperation.

 

“Hoose-a-gow? What is that, it sounds like some kind of animal, I think. Do you like going to the zoo? I hear from people at the cheese factory that Cleveland have a zoo...”

 

Lincoln nearly fell off of his wooden bench.

 

“Ma’am, it’s a sloppy term fer jail. I apologize, ya gotta get used to us hillbillies out here...”

 

Again, the immigrant woman appeared to be in a daze.

 

“Heel-beely? What is that? I am not used to this country yet. I must learn to be real American, I think. You will help me, yes?”

 

The tipsy alcoholic belched with a spray of beer foam dribbling down his gray beard.

 

“I can’t guarantee being too much help, miss. But sure, I’ll do my best. It’d be smart to keep in mind that people here are gonna give ya the side-eye, at least until they get used to yer personality. They are suspicious of strangers, and damn well mistrustful of anybody who don’t fit the pattern. I got a snoot full of that around 24 years ago. Believe it or not, I was Mr. Clean back then, I had the corporate look fer my job. White shirts and neckties every day. I played the game so as to get my salary paid. But all that fell apart pretty fast when my wife evicted me from the house in Lake County. I ended up here in this rat’s nest. Broke and busted, pissed-off at the world, and deep in debt. Ony one thing made me feel better about it, getting drunk every day. But, now I got two things, instead. Getting blitzed on booze, and... taking shit with you, neighbor!”

 

Without hesitation, the foreign female stood up, embraced her adoptive companion, and kissed him gently on the forehead. This caused gasps and groans as the old man teetered on his bench. He was not prepared for this random display of kindness. It made the pulse thump in his chest. Yet for the first time in many years, he felt warm inside, where it mattered.

Then, Mockbina scolded him with playful outrage.

 

“You smell like a barn! It remembers me of home, I used to help with chores when being wery little. Now, you help me, okay? And maybe some day, I help you, too!”

Nothing To See Here – “House Call”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

It was a rainy afternoon in the home office. I had finished assembling the final manuscript for my most recent project, which was a volume about biker culture, and spirituality. A storyline that blended two important sources of inspiration from my own childhood.

 

“Fishtail Redman – Gasoline Dreams and the Word of God”

 

But after finishing this project, I lapsed into a normal period of creative ennui. With no specific goal in the aftermath, my temporary joy of accomplishment faded quickly. So, I sat at the desk, pecking away at keys with no purpose in mind. Scrolling through news reports, culling ideas, hoping for some sort of epiphany to appear, in an act of divine mercy. It was in a sense, a familiar visitation of ‘writer’s hangover.’ The price paid for having poured myself into a task which now, left me feeling spent, empty and dry.

 

But as I puttered away at doing nothing useful, an odor of sulfur filled the room. There was a flash of electric blue, as if something had shorted out in the household breaker-box. Then, a sneering, nasty voice with the timbre of rattling chains filled my ears.

 

“RRRRRRRRODNEY! RRRRRRRRODNEY! DO YOU HEAR ME, MORTAL MAN? BOW DOWN AND ACCEPT THE HONOR OF BEING IN MY PRESENCE!”

 

It was still early enough in the day that I had not touched a drop of beverage alcohol. Moreover, my senses were awake and sharpened by a pot of coffee, poured fresh from my BUNN brewer. So, I knew that any wild episode of imaginary delusion was unlikely.

 

I coughed once, cleared my throat, and responded in a hoarse tone of reluctance.

 

“In your presence? Umm... the presence of whom?”

 

Smoke and ashes billowed from the doorway. My uninvited guest did not find amusement in this confession of ignorance.

 

“IDIOT! CAN YOU NOT SEE WHO I AM? BEHOLD, THE FIERY GLOW OF ABBADON! I AM THE LORD OF HELL, LUCIFER SATAN! WORSHIP ME AS ONE OF THE DAMNED!”

 

I shrugged slightly, which only seemed to intensify his displeasure.

 

“Umm... well then, okay! Hello sir. I didn’t know you made house calls. Greetings to northeastern Ohio!”

 

The apparition of Beelzebub reddened with blazing heat of an unrighteous fury. Yet eased his vehemence while pondering my blasé mood.

 

“You have been busy at the keyboard, eh? I was told that you had composed some sort of religious tome. A strange subject for someone who has, in real terms, served me well as a sinner and backslider for many years!”

 

His assessment was not kind, or generous. But it sounded deadly accurate.

 

“Yes... that’s right. If you came here to remind me of my failings, be assured that I haven’t forgotten. There you have it, plain and simple. I admit my guilt. That is the end of this story. Will there be anything else?”

 

The demon king hardened his gaze. He had both fists clenched so tightly, that long fingernails pierced the callused skin on his paws.

 

“IMBECILE! MOST HUMANS TREMBLE WHEN I SPEAK OF THEIR JUDGMENT! DO YOU NOT REALIZE THAT A SENTENCE OF ETERNITY IN HELL AWAITS? IT IS YOUR INHERITANCE AS A FOOL! THE PRIZE YOU WILL WIN FOR MAKING SO MANY MISTAKES DURING THIS EARTHLY WALK!”

 

I had no defense to offer. He was right.

 

“Yes... I know.”

 

Again, my calm manner threw him off balance. He nearly began to whisper.

 

“You know of your own, stained soul. And yet write about Jesus and God in your book?”

 

My face tingled from the heat of his raw manifestation. I rubbed my cheeks, reflexively.

 

“I’ve had a meandering path as a wordsmith. Without any discipline with regard to subject matter, or interests. It is what I do, embarking regularly on a sort of real-time adventure. Whatever comes to mind ends up on the page. Music, poetry, political satire, the culture of my rural neighborhood, and even... the church.”

 

The master of hell stood his ground, defiantly. He did not embrace my explanation as literal truth.

 

“Come now, your words are preposterous! The church? You want to speak of the church, when I haven’t seen you go to a service in many years?”

 

He had hit another bullseye. I nodded in deference to his declaration.

 

“I have my reasons. Maybe they aren’t valid, in the long run. That is up for debate. But being raised by a pastor affected me deeply. I can’t just ignore that part of my heritage. It comes out sometimes, as with this latest novel. I had wanted to pen something in the vein of my old motorcycle tales, from the 1980s. You know, revisit the mayhem and rough humor of two-wheeled outlaws, and their way of living...”

 

Satan grinned with sharp fangs and a curl of his leathery lips.

 

“Yessss, I recall those literary experiments of yours. Lots of booze, oil, axle grease, loose women, marijuana, bare-knuckled fights, and jail! A wealth of dirty pleasures!”

 

I nodded for a second time. He seemed to be very familiar with my personal history.

 

“See, I have ended up alone, disabled, penniless, and struggling to find a reason for greeting each day with optimism. But it’s there, in my heart and mind. In the scriptures, if you like. Maybe not quite as the apostles intended, or prophets, or scholars, but it is an enduring component of my timeline. One steeped in Christ, Rock & Roll, Harley-Davidson, and the hills of Appalachia. That is my redemption. By chance, or by faith, I keep coming home again. If that appears to be an impossibility, look deeper. Dig with your claws. Find what you seek...”

 

He was aghast at this naked admission of culpability. I saw his glow diminish in the room.

 

“NO, NO, NO! DON’T TELL ME THAT BEING UNCLEAN BRINGS YOU SALVATION! THAT IS RIDICULOUS! POPPYCOCK, I SAY! NONSENSE BEING BABBLED! I WON’T HEAR OF IT!”

 

I spun around in my office chair, to face him directly.

 

“Not existing in an unclean state... no, it is my awareness of being stained that makes redemption possible. Do you understand? Humbling myself before that reality. Embracing it. Owning it. And, sometimes, even praying about it...”

 

I rummaged through stacks of material on my desk, until finding a tattered, KJV Bible from when I was in grade school. Still bound with a zipper to keep lesson materials inside. Upon opening the holy document, I read a familiar passage that often began my mornings at home.

 

Psalm 118: 22-24, “The stone which the builders refused is become the head stone of the corner. This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes. This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.”

 

A thunderous rush of energy shook the walls, as he wailed angrily. I nearly toppled from my chair. My head felt dizzy. An odd sensation while still being completely sober.

 

“MORTAL MEN DISGUST ME WITH THEIR INSOLENCE! YOU DISGUST ME, RODNEY! DAMN YOU, AND ALL YOUR BOOKS! DAMN YOU TO HELL!”

 

My visitor had vanished, in a plume of gray smoke. Our interaction was ended, at last.

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part One)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Mockbina Petrovich had been widowed in her native land, as a result of their invasion of Ukraine. A costly, military escapade that left many in her bloodline without husbands, fathers, uncles, and brothers, as they were pressed into service by the Kremlin. But her greatest challenge did not come from trying to exist on a small pension, amid the poverty of her rural village. It appeared after she was able to flee with the aid of relatives who lived many thousands of miles away, in the United States. She landed outside of Cleveland, Ohio, along the shore of Lake Erie. And was summarily hustled to a residential community east of that metropolitan center. A place removed from more densely populated areas, and the social order that prevailed.

 

Evergreen Estates, a run-down cluster of mobile homes in Geauga County, became her new home. Compared to the minimal standard of living she had known before, it was lavish with benefits and liberties. Yet despite attempts to assimilate into the fabric of this trailer oasis, she remained distinctively foreign. An outsider. One who did not belong, on any level. Her poor command of the English language made it difficult to communicate, though she had acquired slang terms from her neighbors that proved to be useful. But she was determined, with help from her adoptive family, who shared this inglorious patch of dirt, to fit in eventually.

 

Her first contact came as she saw an old fellow slouched on his front porch, next door. He looked something like Ded Moroz, Grandfather Frost, the Santa Claus of her own traditions. But with shaggy overtones, tattered clothes, and a strong odor of sweat and liquor ebbing from his pores.

 

Summoning a bit of courage, and crossing herself as she remembered her grandmother doing for holy protection and safety, she called out across the greenspace in between their singlewide dwellings.

 

“You live here with me? In this place, you live, I mean? I am hoping to be your friend...”

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln shook his head and spilled bourbon down the front of his Harley-Davidson T-shirt. He felt dizzy and confused, as if the voice ringing in his ears might actually be a drunken illusion. A chaser of cold brew helped to clear his head.

 

“What the hell? Live with me? Damn lady, nobody lives with me. I damn near can’t live with myself! It’s hard to look in the gawdamn mirror! But, I reckon this is as good as it gets. After a few chugs of whiskey, I don’t mind myself too much!”

 

The Russian immigrant giggled slightly, before shrugging as a sign of apology.

 

“I don’t speak so good, okay? You live here with me, in this park, I mean. We are both renting lots, I think. I got mine because cousins help, yes? They go to church with people who knew how to help...”

 

The alcoholic loner grinned sympathetically. He decided that the person across his side yard must indeed be very real.

 

“Church? What, around here? Not that one up on the hill, I’d suppose?’

 

Mockbina nodded at this declaration. Her ruddy complexion deepened with shades of red.

 

“St. Theodosius, it is, how do you say, ‘on the west side.’ I think it is like a different country from here. You agree? I ride a long time with my cousins to come here. They talk and talk and talk...”

 

Lincoln took another swig of Evan Williams Bottled-in-Bond. He strained to understand the choppy conversation they were sharing.

 

“Cousins? What, ya had cousins in America? Damn, that must mean yer family gets around!”

 

His new contact reacted with a smile and gesture of friendship.

 

“Yes, yes, we get around. I have many cousins here, many aunts and uncles. They help me to get a job, maybe. Okay? I work at the cheese house in Middlefield now...”

 

The boozing hermit had to rub his eyes. They were having difficulty maintaining focus.

 

“So, yer gonna make cheese? Damn, I’d have figured on ya making vodka, instead! I hate that potato swill though, so it’s just as well. Can’t take that moose piss!”

 

Mockbina narrowed her eyes, and blinked. She exhaled loudly before continuing.

 

“How you say, ‘moose piss?’ This is what they call wodka in America? Yes?”

 

Her neighbor on the porch spat beer foam and coughed.

 

“Naw, it’s just a joke, ma’am. Just a little wordplay on my part. I do shit like that when I drink. Don’t let it ruffle yer feathers.”

 

The stocky, stout lass was puzzled by this confession. Yet she maintained a cheerful attitude.

 

“Feathers? I have not feathers. I have nothing left in Russia, you know? There are so much killing. I dig graves for my husband, for my uncles, for my brother. War comes and it won’t go away...”

 

Lincoln folded his hands, as if saying a prayer.

 

“I get it, that was Vietnam fer us, or Iraq and Afghanistan. Too damn much war, not enough peace. I’m with ya on that, lady! With ya one-hundred percent!”

 

Mockbina brightened while thinking of the future.

 

“So, now I start here. I start again. I make a home here. You like neighbors? Yes? I be a good one, I think. I be a good neighbor. I make cheese, I save money, maybe I get an American car. In my country, cars fall apart. They cost many rubles. But they are junk...”

 

Her inebriated associate grinned again.

 

“Yeah, we get that too, it seems like nowadays, everything is made in Korea or China, or wherever. But screw it, I hardly go anywhere, anyway. I sit here and get loaded. That’s my entertainment fer the day, getting sloshed!”

 

The Russian femme tilted her head to one side.

 

“How you say, ‘sloshed?’ What is this?”

 

Lincoln held out a shot glass. He spilled a dribble of bourbon into the clear vessel.

 

“This is what the eff I mean! Take a snort of this mash, honey! It’ll tickle yer innards!”

 

When Mockbina approached, to accept this proffered libation, she could detect a pungent aroma of distilled spirits. The drink burned in her throat. She was cross-eyed for a moment. Then, with a squawk of surprise in her native tongue, she shouted approval.

 

“HOW YOU SAY, ‘THIS IS HILLBILLY HOOCH!’ I HEAR THAT FROM MY COUSINS! GOOD WORK, GRANDPA FROST! DA, IT IS GOOD! I LIKE! I LIKE!”

Geneva Go-Round: “Shopping Sidelined”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

One of my earliest memories as a child on the move is of helping my father shop for groceries. Something I did from the time when I had become old enough to carry things in the store, and from our car into the household. My mother did not drive, and I was the oldest of our brood, so from an early age, it became my responsibility to provide assistance. Soon, this activity seemed quite natural, as part of our family adventures. Particularly because I had stories of my maternal grandparents, who owned and operated a general store in the rural south, for validation.

 

These trips to get consumables educated me about the industry. They also helped me learn how to socialize with adults, and organize tasks. Years later, when our station wagon was out of commission, I actually walked to a nearby food-depot, bought what we needed, and carried the bags home, on foot. It was a familiar chore by then, something that I did not try to shirk. I earned the trust of my parents, and supported our needs. Having that duty gave me a lasting sense of importance.

 

When I ended up in the retail industry, this tilt toward shopkeeping as a profession appeared to be sensible. I had already engaged in years of study and acclamation. So, making an adjustment to that discipline wasn’t really necessary. I already had it ingrained into my own psychology. For 33 years, I worked as a clerk and manager with five different chains. Fisher’s Big Wheel, Bi-Rite Supermarkets, Rini-Rego Stop ‘n’ Shop, Giant Eagle, and CVS Drugstores.

 

Disability sidelined this career earlier than I had expected, however. That brought my employment odyssey to an abrupt end during the latter part of 2016. Yet I still felt connected with the industry in a variety of ways. Most directly, as a customer and patron, still making regular visits to fill my cart. At emporiums located in Ashtabula, Geneva, Madison, Painesville, Chardon, and Rock Creek, in addition to Hambden and Trumbull Townships. I continued to submit ideas for consideration, with companies where I had labored in the past. And, wrote about my shopping habits in a variety of creative projects.

 

While maintaining an active link with these far-flung outposts, I noted that some neighbors in my isolated community were availing themselves of delivery services being offered. An option with which I was barely familiar. It felt undeniably odd to think of someone who was able-bodied getting food items sent to their home address, simply for the convenience aspect. But over a course of months and years, I realized that more and more people on my street were participating in such programs. I would sit and watch from the vantage point of my front porch, with a cold beverage, and marvel at this lazy habit.

 

It was something that I never wanted to embrace, willingly.

 

Still, the intensity of recent winter weather urged me to reassess my bias against purveying goods through a phone app, and a remote driver. I had already set up an online account with a major chain, to make purchases that would otherwise be impossible in my area. Therefore, when the need to order certain, staple items posed a problem, I was able to have them shipped. By the US Postal Service, or other companies such as FedEx or UPS. A no-cost tier, for quantities that amounted to $35.00 or more, made it an attractive alternative. Without thinking specifically about this paradigm shift, I had begun to slide down a slippery slope. One that would deposit me at the foothills of modernity. With an easier journey as my benefit.

 

My niece, who is a wife, mother, insurance counselor, and caretaker for her son, father, and my brother, suggested that at the very least, I should have large items brought to my home. Because those big and heavy goods were most challenging to get up my access ramp, and into the kitchen. That simple logic hit the target, as I had been struggling to shop anywhere. In particular, when snow and ice made my driveway difficult to navigate. On one blustery day in December, I slipped and ended up hanging over the railing, next to my small SUV. Only a miracle kept me off the ground. I was out of breath, and trembling in the cold. And, determined to make a change.

 

That incident evoked memories of other close brushes with personal injury. Risky incidents that I did not want to revisit, for any reason.

 

My first attempt to create a virtual order, through the magic of a cellular portal, ended badly. I impulsively picked a Sunday before forecasters had warned of a looming storm, ahead. My total was $162.00. I reckoned on it filling the cupboards and fridge, at least for a few days. But apparently, at the store, they were short on employees for all three shifts. In addition to the general boss being sidelined by a dreadful family crisis. With the crew at a minimum, and in-person customers frantic to get stocked-up, the process I needed to use had been shut down, temporarily. This meant I got text messages about a delay for several hours. With a final excuse delivered at 8:30 that night. The sender suggested that I come for the groceries on my own. Which of course, was what I had intended to avoid by paying for their service.

 

I canceled the entire order in disgust. Fortunately, bad weather abated for long enough that I was able to get what I needed to survive the frosty episode we expected.

 

Yet after several more deliveries of dry goods, through regular shipping providers, I decided to try again. This time, I picked a mid-week day when the flow of floor traffic, I thought, would be less intense. That calculation somehow worked in my favor. I received up-to-the-minute texts about what was coming, and when it would be delivered. This real-time communication let me guide the aide to my yard, and the inset porch where I was waiting. I had bundled up to be comfortable outside, in the cold. My view of the rustic boulevard was perfect.

 

The driver exuded gratitude for my help, and was very courteous. He even sat large items inside the front door, in my living room. A level of assistance that I truly appreciated, as someone who normally gets around with the use of two canes. I had bought enough snacks, drinks, and meals to fortify myself for a week or more. And done so without the usual aches and pains associated with getting in and out of my AWD vehicle, repeatedly.

 

Admittedly, this satisfying accomplishment filled me with a sense of confusion, in the aftermath. I now had everything needed to sustain myself, but hadn’t gone anywhere. Hadn’t engaged in any polite conversation, or chattered about the wellness of friends and foes. I hadn’t gotten any news reports about the business. Or even seen the sights of a community outside of my own. My cupboards were full, but I remained emotionally empty. Still, it was trade-off I was inclined to make again, in the near future.

 

I did not want to disappear from the market continuum, completely. Because, for such a long time, it had been a focal point of my life.

“Nothing”

  

c.2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-28)

 

Saw my ex-wife by chance

While shopping with an electric cart

I did not recognize the sight

Though her voice gave me quite a start

Her build was slight, not stout

She wanted to find out

How I had been

And I felt nothing

 

We had a dozen years of history

And married for eight

A complicated crack-up, romance and wreckage

The end did not turn out to be so great

And when we finally parted

That personality soon departed

Replaced with no clues

And I felt nothing

 

Our courtship had been intense

A quick affair and escape

Broken homes and hearts behind

We walked boldly through the garden gate

But those fantasies failed to satisfy

I soon began to realize

A trick had been played

And I felt nothing

 

That teacher of a Sunday class

Morphed into a Wiccan crone

I heard her confess a change of heart

Late at night on my cellular phone

The name she wore was there

But what identity did she wear?

A transfer of the soul

And I felt nothing

 

I recalled the days when seeing her stride

Filled me with the urge to touch

But now there was a wrinkle, wrong

I could not feel that cardiac rush

A flatline pulse kept me dead

Not a tick of lust in the heart or head

Her memory had faded

And I felt nothing

 

Perhaps the lack of love I know

Is better for a guide to grasp

Decoupled from the princess bride

No longer there to caress or clasp

She came and left at a rapid speed

Left me hobbled on my knees

But wiser in the end

And I felt nothing

 

When she left the shopkeeper’s lair

I had to wonder about our meet

It seemed impossibly odd to think

That we had once taken vows, complete

In a church with lace and frills

A sanctuary up on the hill

Her wedding ring soon pawned

And I felt nothing

 

A dozen years and more have passed

Long enough to give me pause

A black cat purred where she used to lie

I got the sharp edge of her claws

I felt foolish, a sense of loss

Stammering stupidly at the cost

Of a whirlwind chase

Yes, I felt nothing

“Apathy”

 

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

Taking stock of this ‘n that

A loudmouth lump in a red, ball cap

Words fly like motocross

From duck lips dripping with BBQ sauce

Something told me this day would come

Drowning deep, in a sea gone numb

I heard it in a radio skit

Purported to be an amusing bit

Upstairs, downstairs, gone astray

A mood of unrest getting in the way

Marching minions, cloned and clean

Ghostly goblins from an AI dream

Ring toss master, a king of chance

Suspenders holding up his pants

Pointing out the easy mark

Standing in lines at the amusement park

Apparently, I could not hear

My laughter held in silent arrears

Nothing caused my face to grin

Tossed like trash in a flaming bin

Author! Author! Was the cry

An eternal quest to reason why

But when the sunset came around

There was nothing to see but the tent come down

Circus jacks and joiners aplenty

Leaping between tall poles for money

Their skills were honed in a school of knocks

A rhythmic ride upon the rocks

If I had the courage now

To say more than the law allows

I would trade this mud and drool

For a confection, both sweet and cool

But my place is on the fringe

With a voice much like a rusty hinge

Unheard and wholly unbelieved

Not the sort of gift to be gladly received

A castoff stone, bouncing free

A baton across my shins and knees

Running for the cover of care

Pretending to be unaware

Ignorance is the bliss of defeat

Standing in the midst of bare concrete

Hard and dry, a spot surrendered

With a cause, rightly remembered

Protest kids, their whistles blow

Teasing up the virgin snow

Cameras point at a witness in rags

Living with cardboard, and shopping bags

While the shadow of a temple’s stand

Rises to greet a horizon, grand

Shell games arouse a charge of tricks

While the poor must fight with rocks and sticks

A sad illusion turned on itself

A lonely walk past a library bookshelf

Someday they’ll write of this escapade

And all that prospered, in their parade

Of justice carried by the courts

Like a victor’s spoils, won in sports

If I still have the breath to speak

I’ll nod my head and tap my feet

A gray-haired traveler in a hospital bed

Not quite quick, and not quite dead

Yes, the tale they tell is true

I saw it all while on a cruise

From shore to shore, a continental leap

With the nation gone too fast, asleep

The clang of keys from a duty belt

A jailhouse jolt, directly felt

The door slides shut, and good is served

Apathy got what it deserved