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 20th 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!”
