“Question Time”

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

Was it a sin to have fled the path of righteousness

For a fleeting moment of excess?

A gamble taken too lightly

For a tryst played out, over-nightly

In the shadow of a collapsing house of cards

Tossing under the covers, breathing hard

That query comes, when the moon is nigh

And conscious thoughts have been denied

Toe-tapping the boundary of a personal hell

I ought to be more certain, of myself

That stumble damned years of progress with a single step

And now I tip over, at the crest

Groggy, foggy, failing to focus

A reliance on foolhardy hocus-pocus

That mistake cost more than I could ever earn

It set ablaze timbers that continue to burn

Hot and glowing red

As I twist up the sheets, in bed

Were I to seek forgiveness, would it expire

Like a deadline set by the funeral pyre?

I will never be the wiser

Saving up moments of guilt as a mourning miser

Deep and dark, in a daze

Riffing on the revival of a purple haze

This bell rings to signify

That I am not yet ready to fall and die

No, I must linger still

Pouting over a surrender of better will

Head bowed and hands clenched

Holding the rosary and a monkey wrench

Garb of gray

Nothing left to say

It seems almost amusing when considered from afar

That the sum of existence, distilled into a canning jar

Sits waiting to be sipped

Like an errant wing, caught and clipped

To conform

With rules of verse, pleasant and warm

I used to think of myself as good and just

But my ex-wife gave that balloon a bust

“Once, you fit that kind description

But now that is merely a compromised position!”

Given up and over

Plucking the greenery of a four-leaf clover

Until its stem is bare

And the sojourn is said to lead, nowhere

Back to the empty room, with shame

“Repeat the curse, repeat your name!”

I knew she was correct as a matter of course

With the circling clop of a merry-go-round horse

High-stepping over my heart

Stained in full, having backslid, in part

I had to check twice to be sure of what appeared

Was it a Jerry Springer episode, or a lost work of Shakespeare?

My choices were few

A plate of crow, or Mulligan Stew

Stiff and heavy on the floorboards

A pedal-push, untoward

Causing my pulse to surge in a supercharged sprint

Toward a headline in smeared ink, and blocks of spent newsprint

Hail the old year, completed

And a new one, merrily greeted

While I sit and sulk

Over the consequence of being a hapless hulk

Alone now, and forevermore

A quiz-show reference that contestants deplore

With a response sorted and sealed

After a spin of the prize wheel

The grandfather clock has been stilled

My fingers, numb and chilled

At the end of this day

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 27: Oath

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

Living next door to Miss Poindexter at Evergreen Estates was ironic, because we had little in common. Yet it also seemed to be appropriate in a sense, because though wholly dissimilar as individuals, both of us were outliers within the trailer community. Both of us had been targeted for holding views that did not conform with the prevailing paradigm. And both of us had come to the park largely by accident. My neighbor, after taking over her late grandmother’s home, during a period of financial woe. And myself, after a combative divorce and career collapse that left me with nowhere else to seek refuge.

 

Trina was a mashup of opinions all founded on the bedrock of fringe culture. She liked to fly a Palestinian banner in the front window of her pre-fab dwelling. But was an advocate for LGBT rights, something considered to be satanic in such parts of the world. Her musical tastes were for groups unfamiliar to anyone in the mainstream. An affront to fellow inhabitants of the development who all worshiped Pop Country performers. She had never held a job in the time we were situated, side-by-side. Instead, gaming, friendship scams, and online research kept her lifestyle funded. I rarely saw her outside at any point. But when we did interact, she always treated me with courtesy and respect. That alone was enough to make me endorse her presence. Otherwise, I had long been tagged as a bum and boozer by everyone else in our human grid.

 

With the arrival of New Year’s Eve, I noted that she must have invited friends from Cleveland to celebrate the event locally. A gaggle of Toyotas, Hondas, and other battery vehicles surrounded her home. Yet when midnight arrived, instead of the popping of champagne corks and festive tunes, I heard a chant echo from her side of the snow-covered yard.

 

“ZOHRAN! ZOHRAN! ZOHRAN! ZOHRAN!”

 

A live video stream on her computer offered coverage of the elected mayor of New York City, being sworn in, just after midnight. I could hear roars of approval from the crowd that attended. And, from dignitaries such as Senator Bernie Sanders, and Attorney General Letitia James. Their cheers blended with shouts of joy and zeal expressed in the narrow living space, that sat nearby. This ebullience buzzed through my walls, and could be heard even when I covered my ears.

 

Since there was no escape from the student party, I decided to grab a whiskey bottle, and sit outside for a brief interlude, despite the frosty temperatures.

 

At the far corner of our rustic boulevard, I could see that Aimes Hefti was standing alone, by the maintenance garage. He carried an AR-15 rifle, and also, a pistol hanging from his duty belt. On cue, with the passing of one year to the next, he began to fire at the starlit sky overhead.

 

All along our rural avenue, I heard another mantra being offered to mark the occasion.

 

“GOD AND TRUMP! GOD AND TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”

 

This contrast between opposing camps struck me as oddly funny. An unexpected wrinkle on living at the isolated cluster of manufactured huts. Though I shivered in the cold, generous swigs of bourbon soon made me numb to the unfriendly environment. I actually began to sweat, while sitting on my wooden bench. My belly gurgled from the abuse, to the point that I wished for a sack of treats from Taco Bell. Though I knew my refrigerator was empty, I reckoned there were at least cans of ravioli in the kitchen cupboards. A shelf-stable feast that would suffice when I had gotten completely blitzed.

 

Before I could finish dulling my senses, a truck caravan rolled past the driveway, spreading diesel fumes and kicking up frozen debris. The whine of turbochargers made me cringe. One of the jacked-up rigs had a horn that played the melody of Dixie, a reference to redneck culture that was popular in our junkyard oasis. As I watched with disbelief, the parade circled our perimeter, and ran through the empty field behind my longbox, which had once been a playground. Then, every pickup turned in unison, with their tailgates facing backward. As I struggled to get up with both canes, a shower of winter white pummeled the residence of my neighbor.

 

There were hoots and jeers offered, to seal this defiant demonstration. Finally, as guests ran outside to check on their fleet of tiny, thrifty cars, more of the paved surface was churned up as an exclamation point. Middle fingers and baseball bats were raised. Four-letter words flew freely. Additionally, the recitation I had heard before, began again.

 

“GOD AND TRUMP! GOD AND TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”

 

Trina Trelane had run outside so quickly that she was still dressed in a Pokemon T-shirt, and pajama pants with a Maruchan Ramen pattern. Her thick, black spectacles fogged in the chilly air. Her fuzzy slippers slid in the muck.

 

“You hillbilly assholes are a nuisance! Why don’t you go pick on someone else? We’re minding our own business over here! Can’t you guys do the same?”

 

Linn Speck was at the tail-end of their group, with his high-mileage, Japanese sedan. He waved his fist through the open window. His ruddy jowls quivered in the freezing gusts of Mother Nature’s wrath.

 

“Quit complaining, Poindexter! You should have known better than to bring a bunch of freaks out here to our township!”

 

Aimes parked in front of the crowded trailer, and lodged his own complaint.

 

“YA GAWDAMN, CREW-CUT BITCH! IT’S NO WONDER THOSE JAGOFFS FROM THE PPC FIGURED ON BUYING OUR PARK! Y’ALL PROBABLY HELPED ‘EM SET UP THE AGREEMENT! YER A TRAITOR AND A POTHEAD! YA WANNA SEE SOME HILLBILLY SHIT GO DOWN? I CAN MAKE THAT HAPPEN. I CAN DAMN SURE MAKE THAT HAPPEN!”

 

I had no particular affinity for the woman on my western flank, or her political and social leanings. And certainly not for the pierced and tattooed cohorts she had imported from the shore of Lake Erie. But her statement of fact was correct. They had been doing nothing out of line, in their private venue.

 

I raised one of my walking sticks, and gestured toward the street.

 

“It’s the New Year now, so we’re all having a good time. You and me and everyone. Don’t frig things up by getting righteous with these ladies. Let them have their fun. You do your thing, somewhere else. I’m doing mine, right here...”

 

Linn stopped at the end of my drive. He seemed puzzled and confused.

 

“You’re doing yours? What the heck is that, Link?”

 

I threw back my head, and bellowed into the night.

 

“I’M GETTING STONE-ASSED DRUNK!”

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 26: Reaction

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

The home visit by Sheriff Tom T. Rath had been a complete surprise. Something that I could never have predicted, and did not understand. My only guess as to why he chose to seek me out for candid opinions was that around 40 years earlier, we had encountered each other through a mutual contact. For a time, some of us would hang out for coffee, cigarettes, and conversation, at a local spot that stayed open late. In those days, none of us had chosen a life path to follow, so our interests were impulsive and often, impractical. I liked to collect vintage guitars, particularly those of an oddball sort. My friend Geoff had an interest in firearms, and hunting. Tom was preoccupied with traveling, playing college baseball, being a fireman, or perhaps, enlisting for military service. Yet somehow, he never settled on any of those options. Eventually though, he was recruited to be a deputy for the county. That choice, made by chance, ended up stilling his wanderlust. While on duty, he became known for making connections with regular folk, or going above and beyond to help those in need. As a result, he soon rose to a position of prominence that both his supporters and opponents felt was well-deserved.

 

I could not be sure that he recalled our past connection on any level. But it at least seemed possible that despite my own fall from respectability, our lost friendship might have inspired a measure of trust that had lingered into the present day.

 

But while seeing Rath in person was a surprise, the reaction from neighbors at Evergreen Estates felt completely predictable. Something I expected, and even dreaded, in the days that followed. The sight of an official vehicle in front of my trailer must have been obvious to everyone on the street. I rarely had company of any sort, and did not welcome social contact. It was likely that gossip ran wild, from lot to lot, after the encounter.

 

Before the weekend had passed, a rowdy group assembled at the corner home of Linn & Haki Speck. There were already unanswered questions about the Proletariat Property Co-op, and how being owned by a firm in New York would affect our regular routine. But with the sheriff having been sighted at one end of my driveway, new suspicions had been aroused. I was quickly branded as an instigator, and possibly, a traitor to the cause.

 

When enough anger had built up over our uncertain future, and dubious loyalties, the gang decided to mount a frontal assault on my longbox residence. It came as I was popping the cork on a jug of Kentucky bourbon, after starting the crock-pot for an evening meal. Despite frosty temperatures in the teens, they marched up our slippery boulevard, brandished firearms, and began to pound on my exterior walls.

 

Aimes Hefti was the first to state his case. He had the growling tone of a wounded animal.

 

“C’MON LINK, OPEN UP, YA OLD PIECE OF SHIT! WE WANNA TALK WITH YER ASS! GET MOVING AND UNLOCK THIS EFFING DOOR!”

 

I could hear icicles dropping from the frozen gutter above my access ramp. Rubber boots stomped hard, in the snow.

 

“It’s open, dammit! Twist the knob already! Things freeze up here in the winter. I don’t want to get stuck inside, the last time that happened, I had to hike out the back entrance and slog through a mess in the yard...”

 

Linn was more diplomatic than his militia counterpart. He knocked politely before entering.

 

“Umm... we want to know about you and Sheriff Rath, getting together. What’s the deal, Link? Are you fishing for some kind of bargain with these people from New York? Maybe a cut on the lot rent? Or paying no rent at all? Is that what it took to get you on their side?”

 

I laughed out loud at this burst of ridiculous speculation.

 

“Look, you’ve got it completely wrong, gentlemen...”

 

Aimes snorted and placed his sidearm back in its holster.

 

“YER A GAWDAMN MENACE, OLD FART! I ALWAYS HAD Y’ALL PEGGED AS A JUDAS TYPE OF DUDE! STAB US RIGHT IN THE BACK, WILL YA? THAT’S A LOWLIFE TRICK TO PULL!”

 

I would have preferred to meet the small mob of invaders after more rounds of high-proof liquor. My head was still clear and sober. Yet that condition of clarity helped me to choose my words more carefully.

 

“I’ll say it again, you’ve got this figured wrong. Rath came by for some insight on the mood in this park. We’ve known each other for a long time, actually...”

 

Linn pinched his flabby jowls, which had turned numb in the sub-zero weather.

 

“Link, we all know you’ve never tried to fit in with us. You don’t think right, or act right. But I did guess that at the least, you’d keep your head down while things got sorted out. That was a stupid move, bringing the sheriff right here, under our noses!”

 

Hefti was not so restrained. The militant commander threw his right elbow into my chest. I slammed against a narrow dividing wall, by the couch. This caused me to exhale violently. But he did not apologize for being so abrupt.

 

“FRIG THIS SHIT! WE ALL KNOW WHERE YA STAND, ASSHOLE! JUST BE WARNED THAT IF YA DO ANY MORE CUDDLIN’ UP TO THE SHERIFF, THERE’LL BE A LOAD OF BUCKSHOT IN YER PANTS! WE’RE DONE PLAYIN’ GAMES!”

 

I was out of breath, but managed to croak a response that he did not anticipate.

 

“Here’s my confession, men. Rath asked what I thought about this park being sold to the student union from Cornell University. I gave it to him straight. They need to admit defeat, and hand this development back to Wells Fargo. Those kids have no connection with people here in Ohio. Good or bad, that’s the honest truth...”

 

My adversaries were visibly stunned. Whispers and grumbling commenced.

 

Speck wiped perspiration from his brow. Suddenly, his attitude had changed.

 

“You really said that to Tom Rath? Really?”

 

The comandante was not convinced. He drew his pistol, once again.

 

“Y’ALL ARE ONE DUMB MOTHER-EFFER! THAT’S A WEAK STORY FER SOMEONE WHO CAN TALK BULLSHIT OUTTA BOTH SIDES OF YER MOUTH! I DON’T ACCEPT YER EXPLANATION! I DON’T BELIEVE A FREAKIN’ WORD YA JUST SAID!”

 

My ribs were sore. But I did not relent. I balanced on my disability canes, and glared at the group.

 

“Wait for the other shoe to drop. You’ll find out that the sheriff has no appetite for evicting the whole population here. No matter what our park manager is hoping to achieve. Even if the courts side with her, it ain’t a real possibility. I know Tom well enough to be certain of that...”

 

Silence took hold at last. My uninvited guests turned on their heels, and filed out the door. I could hear an argument brewing, outside. But for now, the confrontation had ended.

“Last Day”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

The last day of this year has arrived

And with it, a repentance, new goals revived

Bearing witness to a journey, completed

On the field of play, rightly ceded

To the victor go spoils and accolades

While hopeful hearts swell, and glow with faith

There is no tearful grief to bear

There’ll soon be a reset with the sunrise, somewhere

Somewhere...

 

A billion years of cosmic change

Have not dimmed the sheen of fates, rearranged

There remains a turn, wisely taken

A roll of the dice, once they are shaken

Held in hand, for a momentary pause

Before being loosed upon the world from those clutching claws

Let them rattle, fall and slip

Their dotted sides predicting a trip

Predicting a trip...

 

Into the next round of calendar pages

Another binder of blocks, printed for the ages

Will be hung smartly on the homestead wall

By sounders and seekers who take stock of it all

Though the round-robin spin propels this ride

There is no injustice in swimming with the tide

The creator put this orb in place

And now our part is to watch and wait

Watch and wait...

 

On this day, we drink and dance

Celebrating our delivery from circumstance

A final review of what occurred

Sung to a melody with the written word

Sparkling wine and treats galore

All procured with purpose, from the corner store

They’ll keep us tickled and teased tonight

Until we go to bed, long after midnight

After midnight...

 

Some choose to reflect on friends farewelled

While others stand before the wishing well

But as for me, I’ll remain the same

Nothing lost, and nothing gained

I could easily put a pen to the ledger

And jot down entries from the edge of forever

But that task is one I’ve decided to shirk

It is not my assignment, to accept this work

To accept this work...

 

Among the stars that crest dark skies

Are faces of friends who have hollowed, inside

Their memories are sharp on a night, cold and crisp

When we bid our adieu, at the rim of this cliff

But once the New Year is rung into life

There’ll be a joyful swing to the coming of daylight

No ending may rise, without a beginning

It is written that a new earth will be gifted and giving

Gifted and giving...

 

Don’t think me a fool, for accepting this tale

Just because I was taught by those wiser, yet frail

Their gray heads carry a kind of revelation

That serves well as a chart for thought and speculation

A rube might consider himself to be smart

An untalented painter, a master of art

But my take as a whole is founded on time

What the heavens reveal, will be infinitely fine

Infinitely fine...

 

With the turning of a rock at this point in our space

We thrive on breaths, begotten by grace

It is our prize, if we see it as such

This flickering flame, this ebullient rush

It is customary to mark our changing of guards

With fireworks and champagne, and a reading of cards

But most important, among every decree

Is a moment of silence, in honor of eternity

In honor of eternity...

 

Last day of the year, an echo begun

When this segment of chronology was yearning and young

We’ve glanced at our wrists, to see the display

Of hands pointing out, what led us astray

Yet now, at this final flip of the hour to zero

We will behold the birth of another tomorrow

Swaddled in frost and garnished with white

A whisper of wonder, by candlelight

By candlelight...

 

Auld Lang Syne, we lift up this prayer

To ghosts of goners who vanished into nowhere

In memories they linger, cherished and kept

An essence of meaning that we may protect

Each peal of thunder represents a cheer

Like the exit of a number from the name of a year

Out with the old, this is the prescription

In with the new, we welcome juxtaposition

Welcome...

 

Never again will this 12-month ellipse

Live in entirety, it has been erased and eclipsed

We surrender the knowledge that made us feel safe

And move forward to confront a revision of the race

Running with the stamina of wolves on the hunt

Fleeing the pursuit of wild waves along the lakefront

Our cause is just, in it we believe

A full restoration, is what we’ll receive

What we’ll receive...

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 25: Minefield

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

Even on a good day at Evergreen Estates, there were always causes for concern. The very nature of those living within its borders was defined by existing under conditions that most citizens of the outside world would find to be primitive, at best. Additionally, over a chaotic progression from one ownership group to the next, certain habits had been maintained. There was always a bullying attitude from supervisors. And from contractors linked to the rural property, such as the metering service that tracked water usage to generate extra income. Whether at home or away, residents were never treated with the measure of respect that was common elsewhere. They were presumed to be naïve, unsophisticated, boorish, crude, and dumb. Cheating them, in the eyes of those who inhabited better levels of the social order, seemed proper. Perhaps, even deserved. This prevailing paradigm had hardened the mindset of leaseholders, over many years. Therefore, they were not only suspicious of strangers, but also lacking in trust for institutions normally thought to be stable and secure. Only one advocate dependably held sway within the park. The 45^th and 47^th President of our United States.

 

I had lived at Lot 13 for so long that none of this felt odd or unusual. My senses had been dulled over the past 20 years and more, as a spectator to this sad parade. So, while staying somewhat isolated from others in my development, I had still been stained by association. Marked forever as someone who had fallen from the gracious realm of greater humanity. Though I did not think or behave as neighbors did, or yearn to be one of them, my identity was now erased. I could not hope to find absolution, again. Damnation of an everlasting sort was my inheritance. Goodness and light, and the tingle of joy upon waking each morning, had all vanished from my slab of rented concrete.

 

I was persistently drunk, and forever drowning in a vast sea of excrement. Anything else was a fantasy that I could no longer imagine. Yet this perspective was relatively calm when compared to the outlook held by members of our local militia. Their seething rage was perpetually set on a boil, despite being isolated and relatively anonymous. Firearms and regimentation gave them a momentary taste of being powerful, within the community perimeter. But this surge never lasted for long. It was not unlike gambling at a grand casino. The house, as it has been said, always wins. And my compatriots in the pines were losers of a lamentable sort. Yielding their money, relationships, freedom, and dignity, on demand. While serving as the butt of jokes for wealthy and privileged individuals, who never had to endure living in a longbox home.

 

The Proletariat Property Co-op carried intentions that were arguably noble, and just. Yet by entering the bubble of our trailer village, they had provided something else. Specifically, a target, for those who needed to vent their anger. These unfamiliar invaders were freakish and fallible. Unwisely wedded to a mode of thinking that was unwelcome in places such as the heartland. Their tilt toward the fringe did not resonate on our cracked and crumbling streets. Their embrace of a new order challenged the old one, still very much in effect.

 

I thought about these things, while huddled in my living room. A cramped space full of moving boxes, useless furnishings, and collected items that no longer held any sentimental value. The outside temperature had turned inhospitable, once again. Strong winds made this meteorological shift even harder to survive. I sat with the interior door standing ajar, and watched as icy crystals obscured the outside panes of glass, on its twin.

 

Plodding footsteps thudded in the snow, atop my access ramp. Then, a knock on the exterior wall made me jump in my seat.

 

“MR. LINCOLN? THIS IS THE SHERIFF! MAY I COME INSIDE, SIR?”

 

I was flustered and clumsy. Both arms of the vintage, waiting-room chair creaked as I tried to stand. Then, I surrendered and fell back into my spot.

 

“Yeah, it’s all good. I never lock up at night anymore. Especially in the winter, that door swells and gets jammed...”

 

Tom T. Rath was a big fellow. Gregarious and gifted with a generous girth. He kept his appearance neat and professional. Except for a wiry mustache that seemed to harken backward to earlier generations. After removing his Stetson, he bowed slightly, and held it by the brim.

 

“Old man, there’s a storm brewing here. And I don’t mean the lake-effect precip we’re getting, right now. I’ve been receiving calls from your on-site manager almost every day. She’s up in arms about an illegal rent strike. Her solution is what you might imagine, namely, me and my deputies running the instigators out of this park. That alone would be a tall order, because her number of violations is over 100 at the present. But when I contacted the owners at their offices in New York, I heard them sing a different tune. Nobody there wants a mass eviction. It’s a standoff like I’ve never seen before. But more than that, I’ve been hearing rumors about a different kind of takeover. One that would involve breaking-and-entering at the office, kidnapping, and a little revolution right here in this township. This development is at the point of being turned into a minefield! What I want to learn is, how much do you know about it, and what would you advise me to do in response?”

 

I sat my bourbon tumbler aside. His candid query was completely unexpected.

 

“You want to hear my opinion, sheriff?”

 

Rath nodded and fiddled with his uniform accessory.

 

“Link, we’ve both been in this area for a long time. You more than me, but each of us knows how things roll around here, this is a special kind of neighborhood. I’ve always done my best to handle events on this patch of dirt with care. But what is about to happen turns my stomach. There’ll be a dogfight between residents and my men, and the crew running this place. Meanwhile, we’ll have the press snooping with cameras and microphones. I don’t need that nonsense, you don’t need it, and the owners don’t need it! So, what can I do?”

 

I had to take a deep breath before answering. Then, my face turned pale.

 

“You want the truth, sheriff? The hard-core, God’s honest truth?”

 

He bowed more dramatically, and nodded again.

 

“Yes I do. Give it to me straight!”

 

I rubbed my eyes and then closed them in a gesture of contemplation.

 

“Call Wells Fargo. They effed up selling this place to a bunch of university kids. I’ll bet none of them have ever been to a district like Geauga County. They need a reality check. And more than that, they need to sign this dump back over to the bankers, and then get the hell out of Ohio! Out, out, out!”

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 24: Publicity

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

At Evergreen Estates, I had always been an outcast. Which, in a community populated by those who were unable or unwilling to live according to the mores of regular society, was a noteworthy achievement. I had no place to exist in comfort, even among those shunned and banished from everywhere else. It meant that I regularly went days or weeks without directly encountering another human being. Though in truth, granting that charitable designation to anyone in my rural neighborhood was something that most outsiders would never do as a matter of course.

 

We were not considered to be human by any mainstream mode of thinking.

 

Reading daily issues of the Cleveland Plain Dealer kept me connected, in a sense. But as I perused this journal for reports about crime and construction projects, and sports scores, a bold headline caught my attention. One that was obviously intended to attract interest from those still attached to the vintage habit of digesting print material from a newspaper. It made me sit up straight, at the kitchen table. And adjust my reading glasses for a more perfect view.

 

“NEW YORK ENTREPRENEURS SAY THAT THE TAG OF SOCIALISM HAS HURT THEIR CAUSE – THEY HAVE NOT BEEN WELCOMED BY THE GENTLE POPULATION OF GEAUGA COUNTY.”

 

My coffee had begun to cool while thumbing through pages of material. Yet now, my head had cleared. I crouched over the article, and frowned slightly. Its author was someone I did not recognize. But immediately, quotes included in her piece resonated with authenticity.

 

“Thompson Township – Pastor Cabriel Forester of a respected, local institution called ‘Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven’ says that he and his flock have long prayed for help, on behalf of underprivileged residents at a trailer park down the hill from his parish. Yet now, when assistance has arrived, he finds that many among his followers refuse to accept the terms involved. They fear being corrupted by outsiders who do not share their Christian faith, or conservative values. This has meant that a chance to join in an alternative credit union, and have their properties protected, seems not so much like a blessing, but instead, a temptation to embrace the ruinous rot of a 1960s revolution, still in existence...”

 

The byline was for a staff member named Kelli Ann Psenka. I could not recall seeing any of her work in the paper, before. But knew that the entire industry was in flux. Corporate supervision for such publications was changing rapidly, just as in the realm of mobile-home villages. I reckoned that the woman might actually be at a desk in Chicago, or Indianapolis, Buffalo, or Pittsburgh. Still, her slant on the story held my interest. So, I continued to scan the feature for enlightenment.

 

“The Proletariat Property Co-op is a firm founded in 1969 by students at Cornell University. Their stated mission is to empower owners of manufactured homes, on rented lots, to achieve goals that were once thought to be virtually impossible for people at a lower income level. They are a cooperative with unique guidelines, not the sort found anywhere else among bankers or other lending institutions...”

 

I had to rub my eyes. The caffeine intake had failed to erase leftover fatigue that still dogged my consciousness. I yawned slightly while tracing down through the column of text with my index finger. The tone used to depict our new owners seemed oddly charitable. Yet I guessed that at least some of those in charge at the paper must have sympathized with the PPC founders.

 

“Pastor Forester says that when the origin of those instigating this takeover was discussed with his congregation, many were outraged that the group originally responsible had been active in pursuing social reforms during the era of our involvement in Vietnam. Praise for Karl Marx and Friederich Engels was common among those enrolled at universities across America, at the time. This populist outlook was translated into a plan where all shareholders in the student co-op were and are considered equal. Those who lack financial wealth or other assets are able to contribute their labor hours to the collaboration. This gives everyone a stake in their success. It also means that instead of legal actions and evictions, those facing hardship are offered solutions that preserve their homes and their rights. It is a novel idea that has never caught on with a majority in the industry. But now that Mayor Zohran Mamdani has been elected in New York City, and other progressive officeholders are coming to the fore, one can rightly observe that there may be more interest in looking at this resident-friendly business plan, going forward...”

 

I knew that there had to be some sort of a contrarian viewpoint, included for perspective and a sense of balance. In the last paragraph, I found that note of dissent.

 

“Local citizens are not happy about the new owners, however. A rent strike at the trailer development in Thompson has stalled the implementation of new procedures, while things are sorted out on-site. Manager Dana Alvarez indicated that only three people, out of over 170 individuals and families, have paid their monthly bill. This has raised eyebrows at Wells Fargo, where much joy had been expressed over getting Evergreen Estates off their books. There is some concern that Governor Mark Moerlein may have to take action, to prevent chaos at the park. But for at least one, long-term inhabitant, there is no cause for alarm. Widow Maylene Jefka, who has lived in the area for over 70 years, says it does not affect her outlook on being in the community. ‘All of my friends are here! My children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren! Why would I go anywhere else?”

 

I could hear some sort of a disturbance outside, after finishing the article. Upon going to the front porch, with some difficulty, I saw that Aimes Hefti and a small mob of militia members had gathered around the longbox dwelling of my esteemed neighbor. One of the rowdy bunch had painted graffiti on her empty driveway. A crude rendition of the hammer & sickle logo used by sympathizers for neo-communist organizations, worldwide.

 

My stance was wobbly even with both canes on the ground. But I raised one of my implements in a show of force. The occasions when I was vocal on my street were rare. I never liked to attract attention to myself. Yet now, I had to stand and be heard.

 

“HEY COMMANDO! GRANNY MAY IS OFF LIMITS, YOU DUMB SON-OF-A-BITCH! NOBODY MESSES WITH HER! YOU WANT SHERIFF RATH OUT HERE, CHEWING ON YOUR ASS? THAT’LL DO IT! TAKE YOUR GANG OF HILLBILLY THUGS AND GO HOME! DON’T MAKE ME DIALL 911, I’M NOT IN A MOOD FOR YOUR BULLSHIT! GET THE EFF OUT OF HERE, PRONTO!”

“Fishtail”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

Trying to remember

Trying diligently, to recall

A character from my own antiquity

A cartoonish chuffer

Drawn from nothing at all

A magazine creation

Written for California consumption

For bikers on the west coast, who I hoped would receive

My imaginary protagonist, gratefully

I called him Fishtail Redman

A fellow of generous stature and girth

A burly bomber, like no other

Known to spit and curse

Indigenous in the blood

A vagabond, dipped in motor oil, and mud

Riding a greasy motorcycle, built from castoff, garage spares

Barbed wire and bare bolts, everywhere

And he of a humble birth

Cherished its meager worth

A kickstart, upstart

Whom I fashioned from the ether

A potent, literary vapor

Leftover, after reading tales penned by seasoned sots

Who imagined themselves to be what they were not

Hemingway, reincarnated

The pages of my youth, populated

By such wild prose

Naked and blunt, and rendered like pork fat from a roasted pig

Dripping into the fire

Each word charred with authenticity and purpose

As it met the nubile flesh of my brain

I was too young to bear witness

A low-riding loser, of few miles and fewer inhibitions

Daring to imagine

Traveling lonely, two-lane routes between one city and the next

A phantom in the flesh

I chalked up this image on the side of a barn

Drunk on Wild Irish Rose

Bought with dollar bills found along the sidewalk in Collegetown

A chance inheritance

A gift gotten from an unknown god

The cloudy, clairvoyant essence of that chemical fruit

Seeped into the crevices

Where my creation was lacking fullness

It gave me the talent

I did not possess

Stumbling sideways, down the hill from Cornell

A stain on the concrete, where I fell

I lay exposed and numb

Bruised and bleeding

Yet no longer needing

To study the existence of a misanthropic bum

This is what I had become

For only a moment, in the mind, of course

Long enough to scribble the outline

To wire up my leather-clad Frankenstein

And set him off on an adventure

Shaggy, gray sideburns

Wafting in the wind

No family, no friends, no fear of sin

Nicotine flecks and bug bits in his teeth

Coughing up broken relationships

And jailhouse trips

With a severity delivered, first-hand

This was my primal experiment in portraying a man

Unlike myself in every way

I sat at the typewriter for several weeks

Stubbing my fingers on the manual keys

Tore through an ink ribbon spooled

From a mismatched donor in the stationery section

Of a local store stocked with writing tools

Holding my breath in between lines

Sentences spaced evenly wide

On the carriage spline

My manuscript corrected with a ballpoint quill

Notes in the margin

Until every blank space was filled

Ink-white and tape

A crude form of cut-and-paste

My parchment reeked of Camel cigarettes and black coffee

The envelope bulged when complete

I found an address listing in classified ads

Thousands of miles into the postal doo-dads

For a magazine publisher with whom I had no connection

Except as a newsstand hitchhiker

A teenaged piker

Plunking down my coins for the latest issue

With nothing better to do

Than to stay up late, swooning on the rotgut fermentation of an inglorious vintner

And the mashup of seedy journalists and amateur writers

Cruising toward the destination of a headache

And perhaps

An epiphany in red juice

My instigator, in engineer boots

No-fail Fishtail

Appealing by the virtue of his tattoos and scars

Pierced and pockmarked

Gnarled fingers clutching wrenches of various kinds

Chapped skin and a sentence of hard time

Fed on redeye gravy and grits

My manufactured monster, raised from the repair-shop tar pits

Unalive, yet a real reflection in the looking glass

I reckoned he would charm the hardest heart of an editor

Into giving me a pass

I waited by the mailbox every day

Watching and wondering

Until this gambit had been played

My rejection letter arrived on a Tuesday in the fall

I took a deep breath

And put my fist through the drywall