Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 18: Revelation

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

My telephone interaction with Nova Caine was completely unexpected. But as we talked candidly about life in the rural outpost of Evergreen Estates, I began to sense that she must be jotting down notes during the conversation, for later review. Possibly to give some kind of report to her fellow participants at the Proletariat Property Co-op.

 

Her query about the park and its quirks precipitated a single comment that expressed the amazement of everyone in New York with endless disbelief.

 

“I see many reports on the internet, regarding your location. There are lots of incidents with police officers, the county courts, and even National Guard troops. But, that’s not why I called. I want to understand the mindset of inhabitants at Evergreen Estates. What makes them tick? Why do they resist our plans? Why? Why? Why?”

 

I had to think for a moment. Using a measure of diplomacy to answer seemed proper. But I couldn’t phrase my reply gently. So instead, I simply blurted out the truth.

 

“People in this cluster of boxcar homes are damaged goods. They’ve been effed over by the outside world. Screwed in the name of justice, screwed in the name of righteousness, screwed by characters both good and bad. I’m a little bit surprised that they cling to any religious traditions, because those types exist on a different level of society. Here in my township, things are dirty. There are no clean hands. No saints, just lots and lots of sinners. Maybe that’s the attraction though, because it gives them hope of attaining something better. Some like to speak about ‘shit getting real’ when they post on internet media sites. Well, to be frank, shit is very, very real here in the pines. I’ve seen neighbors dragged out of their homes by sheriff’s deputies, and heard the cries of others who were hungry and desperate, and in a state of emotional collapse. I’ve seen these long huts burn to the ground, while those watching kept drinking beer and playing games like cornhole. I’ve seen home invasions and homicides. I’ve seen elected officials show up to offer a note of sanity, and retreat afterward, feeling the sting of failure. I’ve known many, many individuals who have been betrayed and hoodwinked, and conned, repeatedly. To the point that they now trust that same sort of huckster for salvation. They are like frightened animals. Fighting even those who want to provide a rescue from this deep pit of despair. It’s a case study on the habits of humanity, gone wrong. If I were smarter and more gifted, I could write a college dissertation on the trend. One of my cousins is a professor, he’s never been stuck in a rathole like this...”

 

Ms. Caine appeared to be out of breath. I could hear her choking back tears.

 

“MY GOD, HOW DO YOU MANAGE TO GET OUT OF BED IN THE MORNING? I THINK THAT I WOULD WANT TO KILL MYSELF!”

 

Her blunt confession caused me to laugh out loud. A reaction she did not expect.

 

“Look, I’ve heard that the human race is supremely adaptable. Able to cope with extreme cold, or heat, or famine, or drought. With wars and conflicts and the foibles of mankind. Well, this dump proves the point, scientifically. These residents are hard. They came here as soft clay, and were baked like bricks in a kiln. They’ve survived destitution, abandonment, humiliation, and torment. Nobody comes to a trailer park by choice. They come here because this is the end of a long and winding road. This is the drop-off point for lonely losers, orphans, widows and widowers, or foster kids kicked to the curb. They are divorced, broken, weary, lame, and exhausted. Out of options and ideas. You wonder why they won’t trust your good intentions? That’s the answer, right there. They don’t trust anyone or anything. It has all proven to be a bogus document. Composed of artful lies and trickery. You want trust? You want cooperation? Good luck with that...”

 

Nova wiped her eyes with a tissue. She could not bear to listen any longer.

 

“Mr. Lincoln, you have the reputation of an old drunk. But I think there’s a lot of wisdom in what you’ve said today! I appreciate getting to share your insight.”

 

I felt slightly embarrassed. Compliments were rare in my part of the world.

 

“I’ll guess that your partners figured on taking over this little wasteland, and turning it into a solid asset. The up-front price must have been cheap. I know that Wells Fargo has been trying to find a reputable owner for years. They must have hated carrying the property on their books. But this ground is too swampy for real houses, and we aren’t close to any population center. It’s a freaking miracle that anything got built on this spot. We’ve had terrible water quality, and power outages, for years. The rent keeps going up, and things stay open. But I don’t know how. To be honest, getting booted off the ship would be an act of mercy. Eviction would finally set me free...”

 

I could hear the financial aide shuffling paperwork on her desk. Then, she offered a conclusion voiced in dark tones of surrender.

 

“Sir, I thank you for taking the time to chat about this situation. You’ve been very helpful. Have a good day! I hope we get to meet in person, when the weather improves!”

 

Once she had ended our call, I realized that a powerful thirst had taken hold. I rummaged through the liquor cupboard, until finding a bottle of Old Grand-Dad whiskey, behind bags of pet treats and cleaning supplies. A forgotten bonus as I had run out of everything else, while waiting for a thaw to arrive. While beginning to imbibe, I scrolled through search results on my cellular device. It seemed reasonable to get some details about my new contact from the PPC. Yet when I searched professional websites such as LinkedIn, there were no results for anyone with her name. Facebook, X, Blue Sky, and other venues all failed to yield anything useful.

 

At the end of this roster, a link to TikTok post appeared. I was confused by the thumbnail image, which appeared to be an overweight woman with a towering, red beehive, and a sparkling gown in bright green. When I clicked on the text, a short video appeared. Music from a John Waters film accompanied a performance on a makeshift stage. There were howls and hoots of support, as the punchy dame twirled and high-stepped for her audience. Then, she took a bow before ripping off her wig, which was tossed into the crowd as a trophy.

 

I nearly spilled my bottle. Suddenly, I wanted to get completely obliterated on the Kentucky hooch.

 

“WHAT THE GAWDAMN HELL IS THAT? WHAT THE EFFING HELL IS THAT???”

 

 

“Trek”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

Fingers numb, and beginning to ache

My march from the easy chair, a plodding trek

Slow and stiff with the task

I never thought too much about reaching an age where footsteps were miracles

It seemed more likely I would be dead by now

And so, I faced the future without favor or dread

Running hot

Running forward

Running, running on fumes

Running barefoot on gravel, down the driveway’s edge

This ragged ride, taken without forethought

Aches in the morning, paying tribute

To my run on the route

Now I am past a half-century, and more

Still above the loam

Shaggy and crabby, and creaky

Stumbling on stones

Carrying the memory of places seen and accomplices surrendered

To time, the restless master

Ticking off lost lives, with the regularity of a metronome

A rhythmic guide, unwavering

A set of guardrails

A galvanized pail

In which to carry all the courage of a capricious child

I need that reserve, once in a while

Like a medicine flask

It bolsters my backbone

Keeps me erect and attentive

When I want to fade

Weak and wobbly

Wishing for warming

Crouched over a shadow cast in the snow

Where my fingerprints froze

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 17: Hibernation

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

Normally, when Ohio weather turns frosty, there are periods of respite in the offing. But with the month of December well underway, temperatures continued to hover below freezing. This condition had lasted since around Thanksgiving, and effectively turned the junkyard district of Evergreen Estates into a frozen wasteland. Though I wanted to sit outside on my front porch, with a jug of bourbon antifreeze, and layers of winter gear for protection, this habit surrendered to the trend. As the meteorological cycle worsened, I joined everyone else on my street. Though this surrender to the season made me salty.

 

The entire park was now in a state of willful hibernation.

 

Even during the best of times, there were disputes and domestic squabbles, at most every lot in the neighborhood. But with the population being shut into their confined, living spaces, tempers were flaring. Broken windows appeared here and there, and were quickly mended with duct tape. Smashed furniture was left out to collect a decorative garnish of white precipitation. A few trailers appeared to have been abandoned altogether, due to unpaid utility bills, busted pipes, or broken furnaces.

 

I wanted to taste the invigorating chill of fresh air. Yet knew that as my outdoor thermometer approached readings in single digits, it would not be wise. Still, this acquiescence to reason put me in a mood of inner conflict. I did not like the feeling of being obedient to anyone, or anything. Said plainly, this need to huddle in my living room pissed me off. But the creaking and cracking of prefabricated walls assured me that my choice was well founded.

 

While lubricating my arthritic joints with whiskey, I could hear a plow truck at work. It’s diesel motor surged and popped while pushing aside mounds of fallen snow. There was little traffic along my rustic boulevard. But the effort to keep access lanes open seemed admirable. Another positive change from the neglect of previous owners.

 

I had been in a chair at the end of my couch for long enough, that it was difficult to get up for another bottle of liquor. My creep across the carpet was slow and balky. But as I reached the door where more high-proof refreshments were stashed, my cell phone began to ring.

 

I cursed while counting the cycle.

 

“Dammit! I can’t move that fast! One... two... three... four...”

 

The voicemail program picked up before I could retrieve a jug of Kentucky swill from my cupboard. As I hobbled back to the device, there was a notification chirp. Someone had left a message in lieu of having an actual conversation.

 

“Mr. Lincoln? This is Nova Caine, I am an assistant to Nakano Volca at the Proletariat Property Co-op. If you are willing, I’d like to ask some questions about the Evergreen Estates development. Your on-site manager said that you have lived in the community for many years, longer than most other residents. Please call me back at this number, sir. Thank you, and have a great day!”

 

I flopped into the upright chair with a wheeze of breath forced from my lungs. The voice I heard was smooth, and yet had an odd timbre of a kettle drum. I could not quite guess the caller’s gender. Particularly because the name indicated was not one which sounded familiar. I would normally have deleted the recording, and ignored this plea for contact. But I was still relatively sober. My drinking ritual had only started at such an early hour. So, I tapped on the number for a re-dial. Then, punched in the extension that had been included.

 

There was a hoarse announcement indicating that I had reached the proper channel in their answering system. Then, a loud click stung my ear.

 

“This is Ms. Caine, how may I help you today?”

 

I paused before answering. The deep resonance of her tone left me puzzled.

 

“Yeah, hey, this is T. C. Lincoln from Ohio. You called earlier, and I couldn’t get to my phone in time. What’s the deal with asking questions? I don’t know shit about this trailer park...”

 

She laughed with a full-throated bark of amusement.

 

“Dana Alvarez has been very helpful to me, and I wanted to get some background information on your village of mobile homes. She said you’re at the top of her list for long-term leaseholders.”

 

I was slightly embarrassed to admit having been stuck on my lot for so long.

 

“To be honest, I came here because of a divorce. So, it wasn’t really by choice. I got kicked out of my home in Lake County, north of here. My wife somehow obtained a restraining order from a local judge. That started my downhill slide...”

 

Nova hummed to herself for a minute. Apparently, this confession was unexpected.

 

“I’ve noticed that many of the people in your neighborhood have colorful stories about becoming tenants. But few have been willing to give me straight answers regarding the living conditions. They are generally suspicious of any outsiders.”

 

I took a righteous swig of booze, to steady my nerves. Pondering my origin story as a member of the blue-collar tribe was never a pleasant experience. But I had strong opinions to share.

 

“I get it. When we’ve had to deal with owners, they were always playing the role of a bully. It’s normal to be spat upon here. We’ve gotten used to it over time...”

 

The PPC underling sighed and tapped on her computer keyboard.

 

“I see many reports on the internet, regarding your location. There are lots of incidents with police officers, the county courts, and even National Guard troops. But, that’s not why I called. I want to understand the mindset of inhabitants at Evergreen Estates. What makes them tick? Why do they resist our plans? What information would help me, and my supervisors, as we try to operate this property, efficiently and honorably?”

 

I knocked back a stiff shot of whiskey, and a dribble dripped into my gray beard.

 

“HONORABLY? YOU GIVE A DAMN ABOUT BEING HONORABLE AS OUR MASTERS?”

 

Ms. Caine took offense at this remark.

 

“Well, of course! Sir, we view the credit cooperative as a union. The members stand in solidarity with each other, and basic principles of fairness. That’s how we do business!”

 

I chortled at her naïve explanation.

 

“Look, the people here have been taking it high and hard, like a major league pitch in baseball, for years. They’ve all been effed more than a prostitute in Cleveland. Understand? Nobody ever gave a frig about fairness. The previous owners boned us whenever possible.  With water bills, raised lot rent, reduced services, and no maintenance. You know, whatever they could do...”

 

The company representative gasped at my assertion. She was overwhelmed by disbelief.

 

“THAT’S OUTRAGEOUS!”

 

I sensed that our candid chat would continue for much longer than expected. But being drunk insulated me from the stress of this interrogation.

 

Unwittingly, I had prepared myself to give a full testimony about the junkyard spot where I lived.

 

 

“Stuck”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

Down on my luck

Stuck and useless to myself

Like a superfluous manual still sitting on the bookshelf

For an appliance, long surrendered as scrap

Winter brings this mood

When I am snowed in and coming unglued

Fresh air, available nowhere

Temps in the teens

Frost on the window screen

Winds making the mercury dip

My only hope is a streaming, time-slip

Across decades when the clock hands spun out of control

And I sold my immortal soul

For a mess of porridge

Do not think that this choice came easily

It was taught to me, rightly

And I obeyed

Because to do otherwise would have been judged

Like a test score, undetectably fudged

With notes under the desk

I never quite got the vibe

Though in fact, I hid the habit inside

An ache that persisted

Though I rambled and resisted

Making believe that I wanted the yoke

That actor’s performance portrayed

For use as a cloak

Body and mind, broken to bits

Too soon relieved of wisdom and wits

The mirror mocked me unmercifully

When I would peer deep into that looking glass, for clues

Honest and sharp

The image of a hungry heart

Unfulfilled by my penitent petition

Years after the seed was planted

And the maker turned his attention to other children in my class

I fell off the map

Past crevices, folded

Disciplined and scolded

For going astray

And oddly, the deed that damned my drive

Made me feel more truly alive

Liberated, though castigated

Leaping, loping, indefensibly hoping

That this turn from the testament would bring a reward

A pencil rub, and a change of the box score

A miracle of sorts

That was where I landed after tripping on the curb

A foolish fop, mentally disturbed

Rearranged from shattered shards

Into something that could only be recognized through a play of the cards

Aces high

A swath of smoke splitting the sky

Tracing the outline of an emblem, long disused

And childish excuses

Spat forth from chapped lips

A rhyme written in crayon

On the pages of a coloring book

That, at last broke the ram-jam

Let the flow resume for this wayward walker, on the lam

Willful and worn

No longer true to form

Dizzy but daring

If beheld in the harsh light of midday, I might have turned pale

The essence of what I used to be, reduced in scale

For a spin of the gambling wheel

That bargain had much appeal

So, I met the challenge with a physical strike

A roundhouse kick to the exit door

Like Chuck Norris, metaphorically going to war

And now, I am stuck no more

“Circles”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

Circles, cycles

Turning in an endless loop

A step to the stoop

An arc of nature, circumscribed

With billions of us, along for the ride

Some sit and watch, while others pray

Doting on differences

Dunces, dipping and dabbling

When we’re all passengers, anyway

Don’t think me to be a brute

But, regardless of the route

While remaining somewhat aloof

Your timeline is mine as well

That’s the door-to-door product

That wise salesmen sell

When I observe in a candid confession

Eyes lifted to the heavens

That much time has been expended on plowing ruts

To divide spent chewing gum from cigarette butts

When the wind will arrange

Each according to its weight

I might sound a bit condescending

Yet not with an intention of such

Not with a careless caretaker’s touch

In that, you may trust

It is my wish to be heard and understood

A force for the good

Though stained as I am

A meandering, marked man

It might well be impossible to turn invisible

Despite a strong showing

A wild whisper from the all-knowing

I used to read words scribbled by candlelight

In a time when civilization paused with the coming of night

Seeking, searching

Hell bent on library learning

That was my cause

Cradling a clockwork mouse, in blackbird claws

While soaring above

It was a destiny handed down

Like the frock and makeup of a carnival clown

Something I took with gratitude

Never considering that, perhaps

It was not a task

I would have chosen, otherwise

They very notion of free will tingled my ears

And when I had grown to covet the passage of years

Then, I spoke out

Raising queries and doubts

Not keen on reaching the crest

Of a folklore fable, fashioned from a fishnet

I saw the railroad curve

A masterful work of the engineer’s art

Constructed with care

I silently stood there

In awe of the dare

Taken so boldly, even before I was born

Spinning around the sun

This yarn unfurled at a pace that might frighten even the skilled hands of a master

Cast into the cold realm of space

Into the ever-after

My ticket punched with a clasp of hands

Authorized to be in motion

Fortified by a medicinal potion

Dispensed at the platform where my entry was made

It burned in my belly

With the tang of a fine marmalade

A sweet citrus, a compliment to the taste

Of living life as a traveler

Circles charted in chalk

On the grandest boardwalk

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!”