Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 11: Stalled

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

The invasion of frigid, Arctic air, thanks to a polar vortex, put Evergreen Estates into a prevailing stupor with no end in sight. Conditions were simply too cold for doing much of anything. Building projects with repurposed pallet lumber, driveway repairs for aging pickup trucks, and lot maintenance were stalled in unison. Residents huddled inside of their boxcar dwellings, cursing the change in seasons. Marijuana and tobacco smoke wafted from compromised window seals. Empty cans and bottles littered the snowy yards, from bags of trash ejected when waste bins toppled. Frost crystals covered any surface that had been left exposed. The park office was temporarily abandoned. Mail deliveries were spotty. An Amazon van attempted to make rounds at the trailer village, and got sucked into ruts left by a lone plow on a Dodge Ram from the 1990s. But the contractor was otherwise a vagrant, and cared little for finishing his job on time. No one answered the phones, even at a 24-hour emergency number set up for inhabitants of the property. So, the commercial, cargo hauler was left behind, empty and forgotten.

 

Every other citizen in the sprawling junkyard seethed angrily over being stymied and stuck. But for me, the difference from any other day was minimal. I heard the furnace run a bit more than usual, and saw bright, blazing reflections of sunshine off mounds of winter white, outside of my entrance portico. Otherwise, there were no clues that the pace of life in my community had been halted by Mother Nature.

 

I reckoned that the meteorological pause was a welcome event.

 

Next door, I could hear Darby Stronelli squawking in her party barn. A shed that had been remodeled to serve as a bar and game spot. Fumes from a propane heater had driven her through the double doors, and outside into the blistering muck. She kicked and yelped, and fell on her skinny posterior. Her watery beverage spilled down the deck.

 

“I’M SO SICK OF THIS SHITTTT! SO SICK OF IT!”

 

The spectacle caused me to grin slightly, while opening my liquor cupboard.

 

“It’s only just the beginning of December, neighbor! There’ll be plenty more of this weather in the weeks and months to come!”

 

Getting drunk in my living room was far less appealing than being out on the crude, wooden bench where I normally sat. Yet it offered a measure of anonymity while becoming inebriated, at least. But blurred vision meant that I couldn’t continue to work at my office computer. Instead, I rummaged through a stand at the end of my couch for reading glasses, and then sat with my cell phone and a whiskey tumbler. Drunk texting and posting were never a good idea, as such sessions often resulted in bruised egos and hurt feelings. My normal ability to aggravate those up and down the street grew more intense, when filtered through a stream of strong drink.

 

It put me in mind of a T-shirt found during high school days, many years ago.

 

“Instant asshole – just add alcohol!”

 

On the corner, I saw that Linn Speck had managed to run his Japanese sedan into a snow drift. The tail section had become suspended on a crest of ice and hard-packed precipitation. His flabby jaws were jacking up and down, with hoots and howls echoing from the yard.

 

“HAKI! GET OUT HERE AND HELP ME! I CAN’T LEAVE OUR CAR WHERE THE THING IS SITTING, ITS BUTT END IS HALFWAY OUT IN THE STREET! HAKI! HAKI! HAKI!!!”

 

His spouse had put on a Pop Country video channel, and poured herself a glass of boxed wine. She seemed not to hear her husband’s pleas for assistance. Or perhaps, she simply did not care to brave the cold.

 

I snorted while peeking through the drapes in my bay window. Which were, in fact, old blankets hung on a slouching, curtain rod. As I beheld this woeful spectacle, the plow vehicle reappeared. Presumably after making rounds throughout our rural township. A frosty spew was flung off one side of its blade. This airborne mass buried Linn’s people mover, while he spat and stammered.

 

“HAKI! HAKI! HAKI! GET YOUR PRETTY RUMP OUT HERE AND HELP ME!!!”

 

I knew that our meeting with a representative from the Proletariat Property Co-op had been canceled. Yet no firm date was issued for a makeup day. With Dana Alvarez taking paid time off to cover her absence, there were no managers on-site.

I fell backward on the sofa, while returning to the central space in my mobile home. Inertia sent me crashing on a mound of decorative pillows. But then, my wireless device began to chirp with notifications.

 

Fellow lot-renters from our development were conversing about the takeover plan, in capital letters. The Evergreen Estates Facebook page had two-dozen new posts. Lots of four-letter words, and graphic memes, were included.

 

Finally, with a bit of effort, I was able to concentrate on composing my own response to the real-time ranting. My fingers were stiff, and uncooperative.

 

“Look, I get the frustration with this park. Believe me, after more than 20 years, I’ve had plenty of reasons to get out. But like the rest of you, I’m too broke for a big move. Now, this cooperative in New York sounds really different than any of the other owners we’ve had. Their way of doing business is unique, to say the least. It sounds like a damn credit union. They don’t pick up assets to squeeze out bottom-line profits, apparently. Their vibe is helping people get ahead. I know you’ve got to give that a hard look before accepting anything. Like your former hero, Ronald Reagan used to say, ‘trust but verify.’ It’s all good. I’m on board with that. But put your political prejudices aside, and listen. Whenever they visit us, that is...”

 

The blowback was immediate. I should have tossed my phone at the wall, and invested more leisure time in drinking and snoring. Aimes Hefti, the aspiring militia leader, was vocally unrestrained in calling me out as a heretic. He had never approved of my presence at Lot 13.

 

“LINK, SHUT YER EFFIN’ MOUTH, OLD FART! YER A GAWDAMN BOURBON-BRAINED IDIOT! THESE PEOPLE ARE STUDENT AGITATORS, I BET THEY LOVE DOPE, HIPPIES, KARL MARX, AND ANTIFA! I BET MOST OF THEM ARE TRANS-FREAKS OR DRAG QUEENS! WE DON’T WANT ‘EM HERE! NO FREAKIN’ WAY!”

 

I made one last attempt to strike a note of reason.

 

“Even if it means saving a few bucks, and being treated better?”

 

The combative commando sent a string of rude emojis, capped off with a middle finger.

 

“SCREW SAVING MONEY, I’M KEEPIN’ IT ALL, LINK! THEY WON’T GET ANOTHER RENT CHECK FROM THIS COWBOY. I’M DONE PAYIN’ THEIR DAMN BILLS!”

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 10: Freeze

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

I have never been one to attend park meetings of any kind, unless compelled by force, or the threat of eviction. So, when it was announced that we would be visited by someone from the Proletariat Property Co-op, my first reaction was indifference. A hard pass taken with no pangs of guilt. Our village of mobile homes had been sold, resold, and repossessed so many times that it didn’t seem to matter enough for serious concern. But neighbors along my crumbling boulevard were excited for a prospective opportunity to vent their anger directly. Especially to someone who worked for the new financial concern. This beehive mood of agitation quickly overwhelmed my general shyness and hermitic tendencies.

 

I decided to attend the confab when it happened, and watch this ill-advised spectacle for clues about our future.

 

But before I could commit myself to participating, Mother Nature intervened with an Arctic blast of early winter. As November gave way to December, white precipitation blanketed the junkyard landscape. Then, the outside air became bitter and rough in my lungs. I kept up a daily routine of drinking on my front porch, fortified with southern whiskies of differing kinds. But eventually, a nagging numbness in my fingers and toes made this habit hard to endure. My face was chapped, despite its shaggy, messy shroud of gray hair. I felt an increased stiffness in my arthritic joints. Fellow residents stopped waving as they passed, instead peering straight ahead, intently. With a desperation to see anything familiar through the icy haze.

 

Each breath burned more than the liquor. When I surrendered, a curse was on my lips.

 

I put a fireplace stream on the television, via YouTube. This live video display did nothing to warm my frozen limbs, but it touched a nerve in my brain. Somehow, hearing a gentle pop of wood logs in flame, and seeing their red-orange glow on the screen, gave me greater confidence in staying comfortable. With three rounds of Jack Daniel’s in my belly, I had almost forgotten that the prevailing weather pattern would keep me indoors for weeks to come.

 

Yet my moment of relaxation only lasted for a few minutes. Picking up my cell phone exploded that whisper of calm like a hand grenade.

 

In one of our Evergreen Estates Facebook groups, I saw that Linn Speck, the rotund agitator who lived nearby, had posted an angry missive about the delay in having a park conference. He included a photo of his porky digits, giving the middle finger.

 

“What is this??? The people from New York can’t come here because of a cold snap? Oh my, I might break out in tears! That’s ridiculous, I think! We’re all bundled up and surviving, isn’t it a lot worse in that eastern hell hole? They get plenty of bad snow-squalls and storms and whatever this time of year can bring! Boo hoo! They can’t drive to Ohio? I just don’t believe it, they are making excuses! It’s a cheap way out of answering for their dirty deeds! We deserve better, everybody! That’s why I say to hold your rent checks, don’t give them a penny! Let them choke on their late notices! Wad them up, and throw them back! Choke, choke, choke!”

 

Just knowing that he and his Karen spouse were huddled within a few hundred yards of my own longbox home brought on fits of revulsion. But with enough alcohol in my blood, it was a distant worry. One that I could pretend to ignore, summoning a measure of patience.

 

Inebriation fogged my vision until finally, my appetite was aroused. I found an open bag of Doritos, and began to feast while drinking. Then, there was a frantic pounding at my door. This rapid beat of gloved hands, pleading for entry, caused me to jump in my chair.

 

“It’s open, dammit! Don’t make me get up, I’m drowning in booze!”

 

Lionel Koppel nearly fell on the floor, as he stumbled inside. The youngster was a regular visitor in warmer months, full of tales about working at a retail supercenter. His angst over being a serf-for-hire was decidedly similar to what I had once experienced, as a willing member of polite society. Something I never wanted to revisit.

 

His woeful confessions made me glad to have escaped.

 

“Link, it’s brutal out there! But my dad wanted to know what we got in the mail. I walked all the way down to our postal barn, and the box was empty! I bet they didn’t even deliver from the township office, today!”

 

His rubber-soled boots trailed melting slush on the carpet. But I pretended not to notice.

 

“You’re shivering, neighbor! Rest your skinny bones in my recliner. That thing is too low for me to use, I can’t get up again without help, and there’s nobody else here!”

 

The tall, lanky kid grinned and snorted while peeling off his gloves and knit toboggan. It was colored a bright shade of blue, and carried the yellow spark logo used by Walmart.

 

“Hey, Ms. Alvarez canceled her community meeting. But you probably already know that, right? I wouldn’t go out on a day like this unless we were starving. Luckily, my dad is heating up some canned soup. I gotta get back there before too long, he hates eating alone!”

 

I belched loudly enough that my visitor cringed slightly.

 

“Really, I didn’t figure on seeing anybody. But I appreciate you checking in...”

 

Lionel had to wipe his glasses, which had fogged with condensation.

 

“Dad wants to know if you’re joining the rent strike. I think the only person on this street who’s paid so far is Granny Maylene. There’s gonna be an earthquake when the park runs out of money. They deserve a kick in the rear, or somewhere else!”

 

I hesitated before answering. It seemed improper to sway the impressionable lad with my contrarian opinion.

 

“Look, I have to admit that my bill got paid already. I don’t like it, don’t agree with it, but after more than 20 years of being on this lot, it is what it is...”

 

I could tell that my adolescent helper was disappointed. He huffed and shook his head, before hurriedly getting to his feet.

 

“I thought you’d be spoiling for a good fight! That’s what my dad said. But you kept your mouth shut and paid it on time? Geeeeeez!”

 

I savored a cool swallow of brew, and another shot of high-proof spirits. Then, looked straight into his narrowed eyes.

 

“I’m an old mule, do you understand? I figure that giving the park their tribute means being left alone. That’s my goal. Getting from sunrise to sunset without any of those irritating bastards giving me trouble. Maybe that ain’t setting the bar too high, but there you go, that’s my way of living. Be a good neighbor, and keep your distance. That’s the motto for me...

 

The gangly youngster looked confused. I realized that my candid outburst must have made him feel awkward. But it was too late for an apology. He left, sulking and silent.

 

I was too drunk to care. In only a moment, I had passed out on the sofa. It was time to sleep.

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 9: Dispute

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

I was normally drunk by noon, regardless of the season. But on Wednesday, I had a number of household chores waiting, when sitting at my desk in the home office. The space had originally been a master bedroom, one inhabited by the second of two wives, and myself. But after her departure with both daughters and their cats, I repurposed the vacant square as a storage locker. Packed, cardboard boxes towered to the ceiling, along one side of this chamber. It made for a messy venue in which to write and do research. Yet somehow, the visual cues were appropriate. My very existence, like the household I inhabited, was perpetually cluttered with unfinished business. Never quite up to par, or organized, as with other members of my bloodline.

 

Slogging through unread mail and documents I had received gave me a headache. I grew thirstier with each envelope torn open. Finally, an oversized, UPS shipment yielded a proposal for family holdings out of state. Regarding oil rights that were in a remote county of West Virginia. The offer smacked of exploitation. Everything had been prepared as if I were a simple, hillbilly rube. Ready to sign away rights and privileges for a pitiful reward. But my reaction was not the one they must have expected.

 

I wanted to pop the cork on a whiskey bottle. And instead, this distant company had interrupted my pleasure time with a solicitation that made me tax my brain cells, instead of drowning them in brown liquor!

 

The general attitude at Evergreen Estates had deteriorated, after a huge hike in lot rent. So, my own display of irritation did not get noticed, upon finally reaching the front porch. It was only about 30 degrees outside, cold enough to be bundled in layers of fabric and leather. But the sunshine had returned after long weeks of being absent. This caused me to be more jovial, as passers-by fretted over ruts of snow and ice, that ran up my street.

 

Ned Polanski, a retired laborer who had worked on Lake Erie for fifty years, drove by in a Geo Metro that was clapped-out and rusty. But still in service. He rolled down the driver’s window with a vigorous cranking of his left arm, and cursed as I sat with a tall can of brew.

 

“SEVENTY-FIVE BUCKS! CAN YA BELIEVE THAT SHIT? GEEEEEZ! WHAT WUZ THEY THINKIN’? IT’S A DAMN JOKE LIVIN’ HERE! WHATTA YA GONNA DO THOUGH, BEND OVER AND PAY IT, OR GET EVICTED! I GOT NOWHERE TA GO! YOUSE GOT NOWHERE TA GO!”

 

I nodded while sighing heavily. Then, raised my beer as a toast.

 

“Nowhere. You said it right. I got nowhere...”

 

I knew that his son had earned a diploma from John Carroll University, and moved to the west coast. That meant rarely seeing any grandchildren. The poor fellow was no better off in social terms. I liked it when he stopped by to share a drink, which wasn’t often.

 

“LINK, DON’T FREEZE YER ASS ON THAT BENCH, BUDDY! IT’S COOOOLD OUT HERE TODAY! THEM EMT GUYS ‘LL THINK YA LOOK LIKE A FAT POPSICLE! TAKE IT EASY, FRIEND!”

 

I had been described as a gruff, garden gnome, a homeless bum, a wandering fool, and a reincarnation of Grizzly Adams. But never a popsicle. I had to cheer silently for his clever interjection.

 

Nothing in the tone of his rant could have indicated that hundreds of miles away, the head of our new ownership group was expressing similar sentiments about the indefensible upcharge that had just occurred.

 

In Ithaca, New York, Nakano Volca liked to keep things informal and relaxed at his office within the Proletariat Property Co-op complex. He did not hold to a regular schedule, instead preferring to work according to his daily moods, and reserve of stamina. Because the building where he stayed was a multi-use facility, one that also housed a daycare center for children, counseling rooms, and a shelter for those transitioning from street life to a regular apartment, he could move from one spot to another freely. He enjoyed volunteer hours, when the stress of financial management became a bore.

 

Yet a call from one of the comrades in an outer office sent him unexpectedly into a fit of ire.

 

“Nakka? Hey, I just heard from our Cleveland subsidiary. There’s a near riot happening at the trailer park we acquired in Geauga County, Ohio. They got hit with almost a hundred dollars in new charges, per month. Apparently, Wells Fargo had it in the pipeline, before we signed paperwork to make the purchase!”

 

The asset supervisor was stunned. He spilled Chai tea over his homemade desk.

 

“THEY DID WHAT???”

 

Selden Pate had graduated from Cuyahoga Community College, just over a year ago. He had the appearance of a confirmed bachelor and nerd. With a gangly physique, thick, black spectacles, and garments from thrift stores in the area. But his mastery of answering phones and taking notes was commendable.

 

“From what I heard, people in that mobile-home village are raging. We tried to sell this takeover as a positive development for them, you know? A turnaround for those who have been getting pissed on for so many years. But this blew our cover. Now, we look like all the other money grubbers...”

 

Volca brought down his right fist, forcefully enough that a stack of compact discs toppled from his post.

 

“NO, NO, NO! THIS ISN’T WHAT I WANT! WE’RE SUPPOSED TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE FOR THESE RESIDENTS, NOT KEEP SCREWING THEM LIKE THE OTHER SCHEISTERS! YOU’VE GOT TO FIX THIS, MAN! FIX IT! FIX IT RIGHT! SETTLE THIS DISPUTE!”

 

His underling shrugged and rolled his eyes.

 

“It’s done now, Nakka. Maybe if you visit the property... I mean, when you visit the property... then we can put a better spin on our future plans?”

 

There was a long pause as the co-op steward leaned forward, on his elbows. He had never been to the Buckeye State. Never seen the heartland from ground level. Never interacted with people who drove pickup trucks to their jobs, and rode four-wheelers for fun. He had been raised in a cocoon of higher learning and institutional academia. The thought of moving beyond that safe realm, into the chaos of blue-collar entropy, made him tremble.

 

Fate had chosen him as an ambassador, however. It was his duty to go forth, and meet the population where they lived. To break bread with them, in their longbox dwellings. And to learn what they had in common, for the purpose of bettering their existence, and his own.

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 8: Visitation

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

On the first day of December, lot rent at Evergreen Estates increased by a sum of $75.00. Not a considerable amount when viewed from the lofty perch of a lawyer, banker, or elected official in Ohio. Yet enough for the blue-collar residents of my neighborhood to become rebellious. Unrest already percolating on the streets of this mobile-home park was increased, many times over. For the property manager, getting residents to pay what they owed in a timely manner had already been challenging. Though the yield of this rise was, in financial terms, glorious for our distant owners. But at ground level in the rural community, it amounted to a frontal assault.

 

With this new cost in place, mounds of dog feces began to show up around the office and maintenance garage. Along with scattered bags of trash and automotive junk. A rusted-out muffler system was leaning against the entrance door, when I arrived to give my tribute. I had to jostle it out of the way with one of my walking canes. It rattled noisily when hitting the concrete, and disintegrated into a pile of metallic debris.

 

Because I had been an inhabitant of the isolated wasteland for so long, my reaction to this hike in expenses was nullified. I had already been using credit cards to buy food each week, because my disability stipend only stretched so far. And, I did not qualify for many assistance programs that were available to those with families and different situations. I might have eliminated brown liquor from my daily routine, to help balance this disparity with more important needs. But the thought of trading a bad habits for a change to sobriety caused me to cringe. I figured that no longer savoring the drunken pleasure of Tennessee whiskey, every day, would tempt me to use my Ithaca Model 37 shotgun for a purpose it was never intended. Specifically, ending my torment with an explosive burst to the forehead.

 

After the short trek to our supervisor’s headquarters, I sat outside in the cold, on my front porch. Layered garments kept me warm enough to drink and grumble, alone. When others passed my driveway and access ramp, in their ratty vehicles, there was much head shaking visible through the frosted glass. Disbelief inspired cursing and exclamations of wonder. Yet I had long ago become known as a hermit with odd habits. So, no one was really surprised.

 

At some point after sunset, the dip in temperatures caused me to crawl inside, despite being wildly inebriated. I ended up on the sofa, nestled in an assortment of decorative pillows and beverage cans. Snoring loudly and dribbling saliva and alcohol into my beard.

 

Then, a rowdy gust of wind pressed against the plywood walls of my trailer. It buzzed through all of the window seals, and made my longbox hovel rock sideways on its improvised foundation. From the shadows, a familiar figure emerged. One that was feminine, and fierce. She hovered in the midst of cardboard boxes, stacked cases of beer, and scattered furnishings. Her eyes were like hot coals, glowing and fiery. She reached out with fingertips that were sharp and brilliant.

 

“GAWDAMM, LINK! YER JUST AS ORNERY AS I REMEMBER FROM YEARS ‘N YEARS AGO! I FIGURED BY NOW Y’ALL MIGHT’VE CHANGED A BIT. BUT NAW, ALL I SEE IS THE SAME DAMN BAG ‘O BONES, ALL DIRTY AND SWEATY AND BABBLING IN YER SLEEP! WHAT THE EFF, YA NEVER DID GET OUTTA THIS SHITHOLE, HUH?”

 

I was groggy and still loaded. My eyes wouldn’t focus properly. But I recognized her sultry howl.

 

“Ezzie? Esmeralda Jonovic? The militia queen? How did you manage to escape the pit of hell on a frigid night like this? Was Satan busy torturing souls, or something worse?”

 

She smiled with pointed fangs. Her lips were broad, and blood-red.

 

“HE’S AN ASSHOLE, I SWEAR! THAT BASTARD NEVER GOES ANYWHERE FER PLEASURE, IT’S WORK, WORK, WORK, ALL DAMN DAY LONG! I AM SOOOOOOO BORED BEING DOWN THERE WITH HIM! I’D GIVE MY LEFT TIT TA GET BACK HERE FOR A GOOD SWIG OF YER LIKKER AND A BONFIRE! IT WAS FUN LIVIN’ NEXT DOOR, I TELL YA! I ALWAYS APPRECIATED YER COMPANY, EVEN IF Y’ALL DID HAVE SOME FUNNY POLITICAL IDEAS, LIKE ‘LIVE & LET LIVE’ AND ALL THAT SILLY HORSESHIT! YA GOT SOME BIG BALLS, OLD SON, WHY NOT USE ‘EM FER GOOD?”

 

My cheeks were blistering red, from the heat of her presence. Yet I nodded in agreement.

 

“I keep to myself. That hasn’t changed...”

 

The dead militant shrieked with laughter. Then, turned more serious in her mood.

 

“I HEARD THERE’S A NEW REGIME IN CHARGE HERE, Y’ALL GOT SOME LIMP-WRISTED COMMIES CALLIN’ THE SHOTS! NOW THAT’S HARD TO FRIGGIN’ BELIEVE IN A PLACE LIKE THIS! IT JUST DON’T STAND TA REASON. THERE’S ENOUGH FIREPOWER IN THIS ‘HOOD TA SHOOT UP EVERY TOWN ALONG LAKE ERIE! THERE AIN’T NO REASON TA KISS ASS! SCREW BEIN’ POLITE, PUT UP OR SHUT UP! FIGHT THOSE DICKS! FIGHT FOR GOD AND COUNTRY! FIGHT THOSE CHINAMEN OR RUSSIANS OR WHATEVER THEY ARE!”

 

I coughed up phlegm and high-proof residue. My longish hair was matted and greasy.

 

“Ezzie, we don’t know that much about the group that bought our development. But I think their co-op started out as a classroom project. From what I’ve read so far, they want to level the field of play for everyone. That can’t be a bad thing, we’ve been getting robbed for years...”

 

My erstwhile neighbor cackled defiantly. She did not agree.

 

“NAW, NAW, NAW, THIS IS HOW IT ALL STARTS! PEOPLE KISS A LITTLE ASS TA GET FAVORED, AND THEN MORE, AND MORE, AND MORE! BLOOD HAS TA SPILL SOMETIME, IT MIGHT AS WELL BE NOW! STAND AND FIGHT, LINK, YA GOT THE BACKBONE! I KNOW IT! I STILL RECALL HOW HARD YA CAN BE WHEN THE TIME IS RIGHT! OH YEAH, I DO REMEMBER IT WELL!”

 

Her wailing subsided with a confident grin of lustful intentions. That vibe of virago superiority turned my stomach. A kiss was waiting, on the pouting crest of her mouth.

 

“Look, I was rather tipsy in those days, an easy mark for a bounty hunter of sorts...”

 

She had her hands clenched and ready to strike.

 

“Y’ALL ARE TIPSY EVERY DAMN DAY! THAT AIN’T NO EXCUSE! I COULD TAKE YER SLOPPY ASS AGAIN, RIGHT NOW, IF I WANTED! RIGHT FREAKIN’ NOW!”

 

I belched out a breath of stale brew.

 

“Ezzie, you don’t belong here anymore. People are tired of battle. They are ready for new ideas, new opportunities, and new hope...”

 

Suddenly, the phantasmic apparition quieted as if being scolded.

 

“DAMMIT! HE’S CALLIN’ ME FROM THAT DARK PIT OF DEATH! I THOUGHT HE WAS BUSY PLAYIN’ KING SHIT WITH HIS DEMONS! BUT NO! I GOTTA GO BACK NOW, AND BOY, Y’ALL KNOW I DON’T WANNA TO GO BACK! I DON’T EVER WANNA GO BACK!”

 

A plume of smoke and ash filled my living room. There was a cry of agony and regret. Then, my former companion across the side yard was gone. Her ghastly image had returned to the void.

 

My whiskey jug had run empty, at last. I took pleasure in knowing that it was time to sleep, and escape.

 

  

“Greedy”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

Greedy in the moment

Wanting more words to fill my page

Before surrendering to the hour

Before letting these images fade

 

A single, solitary man

Of course I am

 

Hungry for the conquest

Chasing visions, unseen

Notions conjured up from childhood

Clymer manuals, and MAD Magazines

 

A single, solitary man

Of course I am

 

Ready to be busy

That is the condition I prefer

Never willing to sit idle

With my headspace unstirred

 

A single, solitary man

Of course I am

 

Since the moment of conception

It must have been duly decided

That I would scribble with my quill

Until the last breath has subsided

 

A single, solitary man

Of course I am

 

Ask not what has been chosen

Instead, look onward to the ride

This journey is a metaphor

For swimming hard against the tide

 

A single, solitary man

Of course I am

 

Eager for the waking dawn

That is how each day begins

When I rise, cleansed and new

From my bed of mortal sins

 

A single, solitary man

Of course I am

 

Friends have most unexpectedly

Joined in the afterlife

Yet I tarry upon the high road

Toward that eternal night

 

A single, solitary man

Of course I am

 

Time is fleeting and fickle

I can’t count it carefully, like a clock

But when I hear the crowing

I will obey the feathered cock

 

A single, solitary man

Of course I am

 

Call me a confessor

It is of this truth I will speak

On the brink of heaven’s lure

With a rhyme before I sleep

 

A single, solitary man

Of course I am

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 7: Astonishment

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

 

With the weather changing drastically on Thanksgiving Day, and many residents of Evergreen Estates huddled inside of their manufactured homes, the holiday mood was severe. Instead of trading family stories over the dinner table, most people openly fretted about the takeover of their isolated community by the Proletariat Property Co-op. Fear of the unknown made them drift into wild speculation about their future. They worried that common themes of everyday living, which they had long taken for granted, would be erased in a new wave of progressive realignment. With individual ownership rights disappearing, altogether.

 

These demons were invisible, yet powerful. Social modification in all of its forms was something thought to be a distant force. Banished to lands where the population had different skin tones, facial features, and languages. But seeing the sweeping election victory of Zohran Mamdani, in New York City, had stripped away that veneer of safety. Now, with a new owner in control of their park, everything seemed likely to evolve.

 

And change of any kind was never welcomed at the rural village of mobile homes.

 

Because of my thirst for beverage alcohol, I was basically oblivious to these developments. I stayed drunk and delirious, by choice. That cocoon of negated perceptions kept me able to cope. I was more than simply an outlier at the isolated oasis, my residency challenged local habits and mores in every way. I presented as an alien. Wholly unfit to be among those who held sway in the blue-collar community. Gossip hounded my every move. Neighbors guessed that I had been relocated by some government protection program. Or perhaps I was on the run from persistent adversaries with killing skills honed in foreign nations. Maybe even sanctioned by a court order, after multiple divorces and bankruptcies.

 

The truth was far less glamorous, or interesting to behold, however. I was broken financially, hobbled with physical disabilities, and damned by a lack of social skills. But sharing that truth had proven to be a task I could not accomplish easily. So instead, I simply let those around me draw their own conclusions. Nothing mattered enough to make me pay attention, if my liquor cabinet stayed full.

 

While this emotional train-wreck was occurring, in northeastern Ohio, the process of adding another parcel of land to the PPC holdings was underway. At the cooperative’s offices in Ithaca, New York, accountants and agents were revising their list of acquisitions.

 

Nakano Volca had been a Cornell University student, only a matter of months before. But upon graduation, he was able to rise through the ranks with his new employer, quickly. A philosophical aversion to traditional banking institutions helped to fuel this rapid pace. He did not wear a suit and tie, or drink Starbucks coffees. He preferred T-shirts, jeans, and Birkenstock sandals. There was no gasoline motorcar in his driveway. His style was in keeping with the unpretentious approach of modern investors. Every gain for the group was returned to its point of origin. No one at the co-op lusted after attaining financial wealth only for themselves. Instead, participants had the well-being of every member as their goal. For this budding entrepreneur, that matched his own philosophy perfectly.

 

He was disgusted with billionaires who hoarded resources, while so many languished in poverty.

 

This progressive mindset served him well at the contrarian collective. But it also yielded befuddlement and confusion, when receiving word that their most recent buyout in Ohio, Evergreen Estates, was in an uproar about being purchased. As he sipped Chai tea, and sorted through the morning mail, a notification popped up on his iMac desktop.

 

“From: Deedra Kahlo, Lake Erie Credit Combine

Re: Thompson MHP

 

Hey Friend, in response to your query about the community of mobile homes we got from Wells Fargo Holdings, as a bankruptcy asset, we’re on the verge of an insurrection here. Residents discovered our roots as a student project, based on alternative ideals. That should’ve resonated well, because no one living on this property is rich. They all work with their hands and survive with their wits. But I have to say that Ohio is different. It isn’t like being in a metropolitan population center, or on the Cornell campus, or anywhere outside of the heartland. These people think differently. They behave differently. They trust in very little except for the Holy Bible, Donald Trump, and a good rifle or shotgun...”

 

Volca had to rub the grogginess out of his eyes. It was too early for this kind of report to hit his desk. Yet he persevered with reading through the entire message.

 

“There is a self-appointed militia goon on-site, with plenty of armed supporters. I will attach a news story about his group, it was formed by a woman who has become something of a folk hero in the county and beyond, after her suicide a few years ago. She has relatives that continued the work to oppose local authorities, and judges. So eventually, they attracted attention from the Cleveland FBI Field Office, and the press. At one point, National Guard troops were even stationed here as a peacekeeping force...”

 

The asset manager nearly spilled his hot beverage.

 

“WHAT THE HELL? THEIR GOVERNOR HAD TO CALL OUT THE GUARD?”

 

He scrolled through lines of text, until reaching an unexpected conclusion.

 

“There is talk of a lot-rent strike, circulating now. No one has paid their bill so far. We are three days past the due date, already. I just don’t get it! These poor bastards were being robbed by previous owners, and by the traditional banking community. Some of the trailers here originally sold for $5000.00, with enough interest tacked on that the total note was triple that amount! Can’t anyone see how badly they’ve been treated? Those traditional lenders should be in jail! And the maintenance schedule is nil. That piece of junkyard acreage is a mess! But they don’t trust us, because someone, at some time, uttered a nasty word that made them come completely unhinged. This is absolutely astonishing...”

 

The young, financial wizard sighed heavily, when reading a common descriptor that had caused inhabitants of the isolated park to lose their minds.

 

“Worries of being controlled by a group of socialists sent everyone over the edge...”

 

Volca quietly folded his hands, and leaned back in the office chair. He began to breathe rhythmically, as monks had taught him to do in a Buddhist temple secluded in the woods of a Finger Lakes township. Then, he mentally composed a reply to the electronic plea for assistance.

 

“Deedra, we created this situation, unintentionally. Now, we have to fix it. There is only one way to confront a problem, and that is by meeting it, head first! If it comes down to me, I’ll go to that trailer enclave, myself. It has to be done! One of us has to give those residents a rational explanation of who we really are!”

 

 

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 6: Strike

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

 

With the takeover of Evergreen Estates by Proletariat Property Co-op having been completed, I guessed that conditions at our park might actually change for the better. After living in the community for over 20 years, I could barely remember any serious efforts to maintain or improve the general landscape. Streets, common buildings, and shared spaces were all long past the point of being repaired, without significant investments. Too often, maintenance projects had to be undertaken by the residents themselves. Even when outside orders were issued by the Ohio EPA, or other government institutions in the district, their pleas for action were ignored. Because distant owners changed so frequently, it had never been easy to keep track of their identities. Leveling fines was nearly impossible. Moreover, because it had been such a nuisance, officials in the county preferred not to acknowledge that the property existed, at all.

 

I didn’t know or care much about the new company. But figured that their stewardship could not be significantly worse than what we had already endured.

 

Linn Speck took this changeover as a blow against prevailing social mores, however. His nerves were still raw from having failed to create an association of residents, with himself as the reigning authority. He tagged the new group as an Empire State menace. Steeped in leftist, counterculture ideas, with a decidedly activist attitude. His conclusions were strident and aggressive. They resonated well with those who lived in our village of mobile homes, despite having little basis in fact. Yet upon filing an official Petition in Action of Rent Escrow, he was quickly rebuffed. This caused him to sweat and swear, and swing his fists, before leaving the courthouse. He had been neutered in a public forum, something that left him feeling censured by the justice system. His flabby jowls were tight with emotion, when hearing the judicial decision read out loud. He refused to accept his defeat. His appearance before the bench was sloppy and slouched, but unrepentant.

 

Judge H. Nolan Bartanski was visibly offended by this show of defiance.

 

“Sir, it is a common practice to set up these accounts when disputes arise. I have personally endorsed several against past owners of your neighborhood. But in this instance, the transition to another holder of the deed has only just occurred. Your rationale for diverting rent income is flimsy, and unconvincing. To use the supposed political slant of a financial cooperative as justification for withholding money, in protest, is patently ridiculous. I cannot justify it as being wise or legal. Therefore, it is my ruling that this petition for redress is denied! We are adjourned!”

 

His gavel dropped like a sledgehammer on an anvil. Reporters and spectators began to leave almost immediately. I was far in the back, leaning against the wall and on my disability canes. A snort of amusement betrayed my opinion on the effort. I had guessed that the plan would fail.

 

“That’s a tough loss, dude. You did better, collecting beer cans for scrap money. Stay with what you know. It ain’t smart to get in over your head...”

 

I concluded the day with multiple rounds of Tennessee booze, on my front porch. It did not take long for the brown liquor to eclipse my stamina. I faded out while still sitting at the top of my access ramp. Sunset turned the air colder, and crisp. I shivered and snored until around midnight. Then, coughed myself awake.

 

In my living room, the couch was a more friendly spot to crash. I slept there until late, on Tuesday morning. The furnace seemed to run all night long.

 

I had expected my boisterous, portly opponent to seethe about his humiliation for days or weeks, afterward. With some half-baked notion of saving face being the yield. But when the next weekend arrived, there was another sheet of printed matter rolled up and stuck in the handle of my storm door. I had to find a pair of reading glasses before deciphering its rambling, lines of prose. Then, I gasped with comprehension.

 

His latest proposal was stunningly bold, and ill-considered. An obnoxious and reckless combination.

 

“CITIZENS OF EVERGREEN ESTATES – You all know how hard I have worked on your behalf, as a legal liaison and leader of this park. I thank you for your gratitude, and support. But now, we are facing a bigger threat than anything that ever happened to this property. It is a literal takeover by outsiders who don’t think or believe as we do, and will not hesitate to use the income generated here to buy more properties! That strategy has to be stopped, and we can make it happen. That is, if you join me in a rent strike. At the first of this month, don’t take your checks up to our manager’s office. Let her rot in that little hole by the maintenance garage! She will have to explain to the PPC why there are no funds for payment. And we will have the power to make real change happen. Right here, and right now!”

 

Linn must have envisioned himself as a reincarnation of ancient royals. Though our junkyard environment was a poor kingdom in which to rule. I reckoned that it would not take long for sheriff’s deputies to begin enforcing eviction notices, once the lot rent was overdue. Though I wondered how many of my fellow inhabitants would support his call of duty, in the end.

 

Once a copy of his leaflet appeared on the desk of Dana Alvarez, it seemed certain that there would be plenty of evidence for expelling him from the development. Strangely though, I experienced a hint of sadness when pondering that eventual result. His presence was irritating and provocative, to be sure, but it kept me energized. His rants gave me a reason to drink and dabble in creative arts, that were a forgotten part of my personal story. His spit-spewing histrionics kept me centered as a contrarian thinker. I needed that guidepost to remember the importance of dissent. His stink of obtuse insincerity reminded me of what I never wanted to become.

 

Without that ugly, philosophical stench in my nostrils, I might relax too much. And perhaps, give up my whiskey bottle.