TPV Chapter 16: Plunge

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

January at Evergreen Estates had already been difficult to survive. With a mass of Arctic air dominating the meteorological patterns in Ohio, winter took on an aggressive tone not seen in several years. This caused hardships in the village of mobile homes that included frozen pipes and drains, buried driveways, and impassible streets. Conditions at the park were never friendly, even on the best of days. But now, basic survival presented a daunting challenge. The pervasive madness of residents, fueled with alcohol, cigarettes, and poor dietary habits, was supercharged with a sense of desperation.

 

Spring seemed very far away, indeed.

 

For Townshend Carr Lincoln, who already existed in a dark pit of isolation and scorn, the change was less pronounced. He had only one companion at his prefab hovel, an adoptive, stray feline who had been abandoned to live under the boxcar dwellings. This multicolored, chubby, furry creature had become skilled at foraging for edible scraps in the trash barrels, and wandering rodents. So, she prospered while other members of her homeless tribe did not fare so well.

 

Her routine remained unchanged even after adopting the boxcar home as a place to eat and sleep. She continued to go in and out much like an unleashed dog. Her independence was something not to be challenged. Yet when inside, she sought a warm spot upon which to land, and the comfort of her keeper.

 

Lincoln bristled somewhat at this arrangement. He had been alone for so long that sharing his domicile with anyone, or anything else, seemed foreign. But his heart softened particularly as the temperatures plunged. He did not want to see the little beast suffer, with the thermometer outside crashing toward zero, and beyond.

 

As the weekend approached, he dug out for long enough to visit two stores that were on the perimeter of his rural encampment. The first sold smoked meats and also had a fully-stocked beer cave. The second carried household goods and bottled water. A necessity with the well on his property yielding a flow of rusty, malodorous liquid that was fit for nothing except flushing the commode. Once he had procured enough goods to survive the coming onslaught of snow, he huddled inside, with a faux fireplace streaming via YouTube.

 

Five or six brews put him in a calmer mood, and eased the ache of his limbs. Then, several rounds of bourbon numbed his head. Finally, the sunset approached. He had a meal of pork and kraut reheating in the Crock Pot. Something likely to be forgotten as he snacked on Doritos and beef jerky. With his consciousness swooning toward oblivion, he heard the cell phone nearby chirp with a notification. He reached out only when it had repeated three times over.

 

“You have a message request from Libby K. Raal, former staff reporter at the Cleveland Plain Dealer...”

 

His eyes were out of focus. When he clicked on the chat link to investigate, his device began to ring with a VoIP call sent through the app itself. The sound was unlike any ringtone ever produced by the wireless wafer. It made him sit up straight, and blink, repeatedly.

 

“What the hell is this? One of those gawdamm internet programs the kids use?”

 

He heard a young voice crackle from over the virtual connection.

 

“Link? This is Libby the journalist whom you met recently. Can we talk for a minute?”

 

The drunken iconoclast was befuddled by her presence on the line.

 

“WHAT THE FUCK? WHO? WHO DID I MEET?”

 

Ms. Raal was in her Lakewood studio, miles from Geauga County. She had been unable to sleep for several days. The disconnect between her and newspaper allies in once in the social circle, had aroused a sense of being useless and unworthy. She needed to revive her mission as a professional writer. But that accomplishment would not come without some sacrifice.

 

Her intention was to listen and learn, and perhaps, draft a manuscript that might rekindle the career she had enjoyed, before.

 

“Link, you were the only one in that community who gave me any time with an interview. The couple who live right on your corner boasted about MAGA doctrines, and not much else. It was standard stuff, uninteresting to either of my editors...”

 

The reclusive hermit nodded and laughed.

 

“Yeah, Linn is known for beating his chest and crowing about his orange hero. That’s gets him off, I guess. I’ve been here so long that honestly, I don’t pay attention. People keep their distance which I appreciate. Fuck ‘em!”

 

Libby cupped a tea mug in her hands, for extra warmth during the chilly evening.

 

“Friends and associates around the Cleveland area are mystified by your slant on things. Well, I should say, not yours personally, but the citizens at your development. That’s what I can’t measure. I can’t grasp it tangibly. How does a group of people become so ignorant, and uninformed? How do such individuals wallow in philosophical mud, like pigs? And come out thinking that they’ve been baptized by a new prophet?”

 

Lincoln felt the liquor burn his throat. He coughed and spit before speaking.

 

“Umm... that’s a question I can’t answer. Even after more than 22 years in this shithole. It’s a freaking point of view I’ve never shared. A total and inescapable delusion....”

 

The guild writer fiddled with her piercings. She was nervous enough to tap out a drumbeat with her pencil, while trying to explain the point of making contact.

 

“I drove all the way to your township, and didn’t even get a chance to scratch the surface. Nothing made any sense! My editors wanted a jazzy product, something that would sell papers. They wanted an expose to raise circulation numbers. Do you understand? This whole industry has been in a downward spiral. The next generation is already using TikTok and Bluesky, they don’t have any idea what a regular journal looks like. We’ve become relics in our own time. I need to peel back layers of the onion, and find out why some want to dump the Stars & Stripes, in favor of a Confederate battle flag! It is a kind of craziness I can’t comprehend. No one here by Lake Erie gets it, I don’t get it, and somebody needs to tell the story!”

 

Lincoln belched and spilled his can of Miller High Life. This made him curse and frighten the kitty who had been dozing by his feet.

 

“DAMMIT, DIDN’T YA HEAR WHAT I SAID, SITTING OUT ON THE PORCH? I’M NOT PART OF THIS BUNCH! I DON’T RUN WITH THE MILITIA GANG! I DON’T WAVE SNAKE FLAGS OR STICK CROSSES IN MY FLOWER GARDENS, OR GO UP THE HILL, TO CHURCH FUNCTIONS! I’M A MISS-AND-SOMETHING, OR THE OTHER! MISS-AND-WHATEVER!”

 

Ms. Raal smiled and gently sat her tea aside.

 

“Misanthrope? Is that the word you’re trying to use? Kudos for having such a good vocabulary!”

 

Her contact from the trailer oasis slammed his fist on the end table, and belched again.

 

“THAT’S IT! I’M A GAWDAMM MISANTHROPE!”

 

 

“Letter”

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

A letter from home

Written so long ago

A typewritten tome with mistakes corrected

And thoughts of relevant amusement, interjected

Names not spoken in years

A whisper of days that have disappeared

 

A letter from home

Written on a portable machine

With characters in ink depicting a memorable age

When the bloodline was surging across a stationery page

I trace each line with my fingertips

And watch the clock hands flip

 

A letter from home

First composed in the pale light

Filtered through curtains sewed by hand, and hung neatly

In a tribute to progenitors, who studied discretely

In a room off by itself

With a potbellied stove, and a bookshelf

 

A letter from home

Read out in a wistful voice

Echoes of the seasons that transpired while I grew

Olden days rendered as a latchkey turn to renew

I pause and wonder

My routine, suddenly put asunder

 

A letter from home

Pickled in a canning jar

An imaginary vessel of love and hope, directed

How strange to think that much later, I am still affected

A tear in the corner of my eye

A deep breath of azure sky

 

A letter from home

A walk down the orchard path

When my hands and feet had not yet found their breadth

When I cautiously considered every fledgling footstep

That seedling remains

Gifted forward to yonder days

 

A letter from home

Scrolled over a carriage roll

Tapped with purpose until a tidy tale is composed

Then shot through a vortex of time travel throes

Written when farm chores were done

Returning in a cycle of the sun

 

A letter from home

Faded a bit, yet still intact

A verbal rendition of a maternal embrace

A streak across the continuum, a kiss and old lace

Folded in an envelope sheath

Sealed up with a wax wreath

 

A letter from home

A treasure to behold

No less meaningful for having languished so long

Ripened and ready, emotionally strong

A voice from beyond the veil

Tipping the scales

 

A letter from home

Revisited when I am brave

Heart and mind open meekly, to receive the yield

Of those who went before me, to boldly clear the fields

Their handiwork is the flow

Of everything I’ve come to know

 

 

(Inspired by a letter that one of my cousins shared recently, from many years ago. Sent originally from Grandma Ice, at our family farm in Columbus.) 

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here - “Grandma’s Lullaby”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

A frequent emotion that reverberates through the Icehouse is one of regret over having ever joined in the rowdy continuum of social media networks. These platforms, at first, seemed to offer a thrilling opportunity to connect with others, and share my written work. Yet upon further inspection, the technology has evoked demons that would have been better left in a dark pit of condemnation. Half-baked opinions and specious logic are allowed to fly freely. People behave with a brave sort of carelessness that would likely never occur, face-to-face. They yelp and squawk, and beat their chests with animalistic pride. And cheer over calamities for their foes. With each side quickly retreating into safe corners, as their supporters are deployed like flanks of armed combatants. It is a contest of echo chambers, bleating at each other in screeching tones of dissent.

 

Almost every day, I try to summon the courage that would let me delete all my memberships, and be done with this habit grounded in wasting time.

 

Yet there is a useful side to the pursuit. Beyond being able to post my manuscripts for a global audience, I also find that family members and friends, who I rarely encounter, do keep in touch. It is convenient and bolsters a sense of being connected.

 

So, on a recent day at my desk in the home office, I attempted to find some sort of balance. A midpoint in between the need to hush negative vibes, while discovering a different avenue of self-expression.

 

The result was something not new at all, but instead, germinated in the fertile loam of childhood lessons. Gifts from my maternal grandma, who was a poet and true believer in her family, community, and creator.

 

What followed was a stream of lyrics that might have been rendered on her humble, front porch outside of Parkersburg, West Virginia. Perhaps while strumming an acoustic guitar...

 

‘American Dream’

 

Well, I’ve lived for years on God’s green earth

And it’s a place I’d like to stay

But wild broadsides

And warring tribes

Take all the joy away

I believe what I once heard from a man

Who became our president

That the cause of national unity

Is a gift, heaven sent

There’s one land of the free

Where all may break their bread

Not a patchwork kingdom of separate sides

Colored blue or red

It’s one for all if you believe

And damn you if you don’t!

Face it friends, we’re all sailing along

In the same ol’ boat

 

That’s the dream

The American dream

 

Now I grew up with my grandma’s tales

Of hard times

And Great Depression lore

She raised a family on Appalachian dirt

Running a general store

I knew that marm was old and wise

I took her words into my heart

And even now, her Bible scriptures

Light a candle in the dark

So when I hear that faith in goodness

Has now gone out of style

It makes me think of a game being run

By sharp-toothed wolves who smile

I know better, I heard it first

That’s when I took the oath

A vessel that receives all mankind

Does not need to boast

 

That’s the dream

The American dream

 

I can’t think that our founders

Would want such rank division

With closed eyes

And secret allies

Taking up opposite positions

It makes no sense to fuss and fight

With members of the brood

Over slugs and snails and petty details

That stir the public mood

I might have thought differently

But that woman called me home

To sit in her kitchen, patiently

And read her hillbilly poems

That schooling made me smart enough

To survive beyond the yard

Where people lurk in shadows

And discerning truth is hard

 

That’s the dream

The American dream

 

Sisyphus rolled his stone uphill

And guilt made it come back down

That pompous ass

Got a master class

In terms of world renown

His acts of dread were condemned

By the gods Greece

Though once he bragged of conquest

Now, he knows no peace

And his kin in the modern day

Somehow think the rules have changed

But I know better from my grandma’s grace

Not a whit has been rearranged

The judgment of a thousand years

Falls like a hard rain

Spin it how you want

It all comes out the same

 

That’s the dream

The American dream

 

I’ll close this thought with a prayer

Just like we had ‘round the table

Everybody helps

Beyond themselves

According to who is able

It’s a great commission given

From the hand of a loving host

In the name of the Blessed Virgin

Father, Son and Holy Ghost

If you tread on a different trail of stones

Don’t think that’ll make us part

Under the same blue sky

We share kindred hearts

It is written, those who call ‘Lord, Lord!’

May only intend to deceive

When the tricksters cue up for anointment

It’s a scolding they will receive

 

That’s the dream

The American dream

 

A con man is no prophet

He thinks only of himself

A prince of darkness

Dripping success

With a jealous hoarding of wealth

He might have fooled a few

Yes, it stands to reason here

But not everyone will be convinced

His sainthood is in arrears

Once upon a time there was a season

Given for everything

A harvest of the fields

And then a reckoning

That hour will come and when it does

I’ll be on the side of love

Kinship, comity, and the rest

In a golden glow from above

 

That’s the dream

The American dream

 

I often think of Grandma McCray when riddles of a perplexing nature fill my head. Her gentle insight into all things kept me focused on righteous living. But it also taught me to honor others as equals. Regardless of their social status, or upbringing. She did not care about money or possessions, or the adulation of those seeking fame for themselves. Often, relatives in our brood described her as a godly woman. Yet I thought quietly that her way of living reflected the text found in Genesis, 1:26. Specifically, that humanity had been made in the image of a creator.

 

“Then God said, ‘Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness, so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals, and over all the creatures that move along the ground.’” (NIV)

 

As a budding offshoot of the family bloodline, still naïve and searching for truth, I might have asked how to tell if a professed champion of goodness was genuine, or simply a fugazi in the flesh. And her answer might have been spoken in the plain language of a figure who held her homestead together with the durable affection of one who cared about her children, grandchildren, and generations beyond. More than any artificial representation of worth.

 

Or perhaps, sung in a Country Music lullaby.

 

Nothing To See Here – “Saturday Morning Connection”

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

Weekends at the Swindle Shack take on a unique character during winter months. My rural neighborhood, populated by residents who work with their hands and survive on a social fringe nearly invisible to those around us, becomes sleepy. Temperatures below freezing, and bouts of lake-effect snowfall, turn our streets into plowed ruts that are often difficult to navigate. The constant din of Pop Country tunes abates temporarily. Noises of pallet boards being screwed together, and diesel trucks laboring to tug loads of rubbish and poorhouse possessions, fades with the season. All these things contribute to a splendid isolation that makes it easier to sit at my desk and work on creative projects. Yet while in this lonely vortex, it becomes particularly easy to peer backward into the past, and reflect on what went before. During such moments, I find myself tipping toward a mood of introspection, and a greater awareness of how far I have traveled. Not only in geographical terms, but also as a voyager through the cultural cosmos.

 

Generally, that sort of pondering is a habit I avoid in favor of getting work done at the keyboard. But a recent episode of artful experimentation, streamed via a station in Acra, New York, brought harmony between thoughts of yesterday, and my current situation.

 

When I awakened just after sunrise, the thermometer registered 17 degrees, Fahrenheit. My adopted feline, a plump, patchy, abandoned stray who chose to enter the household by chance over the summer, dozed on the back of our sofa. Once I had begun to make coffee and loosen the arthritic stiffness in my joints, she purred and meowed and stationed herself by the front door. Because of the frosty climate, and swelling ground underneath my home, I had been unable to fully close this portal for about a week. It was simply shut far enough to put its outside edge against the frame. Yet being hinged at an angle, recessed into an inset cubicle of space that formed a small porch, no one passing by could detect this flaw.

 

My kitty companion had been in the wild for long enough that she eschewed using a litter box. Instead, throughout the day, her choice was to exit for periodic breaks in the yard. Something more akin to a dog than a furry example of her own species. She stood waiting as I hobbled over with a disability cane, and ignored my caveat about the numeric plunge that had occurred overnight. Once set free, she bunny-hopped on a mound of snow at the top of our steps, and disappeared.

 

Her ritual left me alone inside, with my caffeine reserve and a broadcast of morning news on television. I sat in silence while watching replayed videos of wildfires in California, some of which were perilously close to areas where members of my own family had lived, in past years. The scenes depicted in graphic detail were shocking to witness and chilling, emotionally.

 

As reporters declared with repetition, it was a hellscape, both apocalyptic and surreal.

 

From my remote region of Ohio, this environmental calamity seemed very far away, indeed. Removed by distance and also the strata of civilized communities that lay between golden neighborhoods on the Pacific Ocean, and more humble districts south of Lake Erie. But I felt a deep connection with those mourning this tragic collapse. The need for safety and security, for a home base upon which to build a dependable family structure, was universal. Something that any onlooker could view with a tender moment of prayer and sensitivity. To hear of politicking on social media platforms only turned my stomach. I reckoned it was a time to help those in need, and seek healing for all. Not to toss darts at a board, with the hope of a bullseye score.

 

Sadly, a dark underbelly of vengeance was exposed in this moment of need.

 

After an hour or more of mentally digesting live reports from the west coast, I felt drained. Yet bound by a citizen duty to be informed, and to offer positive vibrations for the human continuum with my own psychic energy. Then, the big-faced clock perched atop my entertainment center registered a time on Saturday morning marked in my head for several years.

 

It was now, nearly the moment when a chum from yonder days, a maker of musical deconstruction and performance art, would be working his magic spell via WGXC 90.7 FM. Something that I was able to peruse over the internet.

 

His ongoing project, titled Radio Wonderland, was a real-time remix of everyday radio signals into something more complex, and funky. A rhythmic dance of deployed sound-bits, interacting with each other and providing a canvas for audio brushstrokes, all moving with purpose.

 

I moved from the living room to a back office where my computer and file cabinets formed an arch over the workspace. A safe spot where I could listen and marvel at the talent of this contact made so long ago. Someone I first met while serving an apprenticeship at Channel 13, in Ithaca, a city located in the Finger Lakes Region. Though we had not seen each other since sometime in the early 1980’s, our connection remained active.

 

I sorted through mail left from my last excursion to town, while listening. A personal challenge came from trying to guess which particular word or phrase might inspire a creative burst. I would hang on these sounds, not so much for their lingual content, but as rendered notes and drumbeats, for composing a tonal timeline. In the spirit of weaving a garment, all of these dissected parts ultimately came together as a new creation. That was the yield of every show.

 

As a spectator, I would hear and attempt to predict what might transpire next.

 

Once this entertaining half-hour was complete, I realized that my morning had slipped forward, toward noon. There was a scratching at the front door. My catty companion had satisfied her feral desires, and was now ready for a meal from her bowl by the kitchen sinks, and a nap in our household recliner.

 

I felt strangely reconnected, with emotional energy flowing both east and west in an example of synchronicity. From my heart, to those struggling with the wrath of Mother Nature, in effect. And from my mind, to the nexus made by a kindred spirit, with his unique vision in recycled wavelengths, caught on a vintage, boom-box receiver.

 

Unsurprisingly, Miss Fur Face did not care too much about the relevance of my personal experience. She was simply glad to find a warm place in my lap. And then, a soft blanket in her favorite chair.

 

 

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 15: Standards

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

Libby Raal had been busy at her condominium in Lakewood throughout the morning. Yet despite having gone over notes that cluttered her desk, and folders of printed material in the file cabinet nearby, inspiration never yielded any finished product. She was suffering from an episode of writer’s block that first appeared after her encounter with residents of the Evergreen Estates trailer community. More specifically, following her meetings with editors at the Plain Dealer and Queer Conundrum newspapers. Their dissatisfaction with her literal account of canvassing the park stalled any creative zeal that she had for translating the story into a prose product.

 

She fiddled with a Japanese Bonsai tree on her bookshelf, and sipped Chai tea while listening to a k.d. lang collection via Spotify, over her cell phone. Then, the music stream was interrupted by a ringtone that indicated some professional contact was reaching out to her, from a database of Cleveland peers.

 

The tiny screen registered a number for Quantra Bolden, from her LGBT enclave along Lake Erie.

 

“Hey Libbers, how’ve you been girl? Pick up the line, I want to rehash our chat about your trip to MAGA country...”

 

Ms. Raal was flustered and unprepared. But answered immediately.

 

“YEAH! I’M HERE! WHAT’S UP, MAMA Q?”

 

The alternative editor shivered a bit, with temperatures in northeastern Ohio having plummeted during the recent week. Her hemp blouse offered little comfort with the wind outside making things even more frosty for everyone. She detested the frigid isolation of winter months.

 

“That piece you were doing about the poor saps in Geauga County... I wanted to give it a second look. Have you written it out, maybe? I’ve got some suggestions.”

 

The sidelined journalist tugged at her nose piercings.

 

“Nah, nothing so far, I’m afraid. You didn’t sound interested in what I found...”

 

Bolden huffed while playfully tapping a pen on her desk.

 

“It’s a matter of presentation, woman! You know big rags like the Pee Dee have their history to go on, it gives them a place in the market. Small fry like the QC don’t carry that kind of weight. We’ve got to make ourselves known with raw truth! Not too much at a time, we want to sell copies every week. But enough to keep readers hooked. That’s how we pay bills here. With volunteers and spare change. That gets it done!”

 

Libby was slightly confused.

 

“Okay, but what’s your point? Why call me again when I didn’t have anything sensational enough for your liking?”

 

The seasoned taskmaster shook her head, with a frantic swirl of gray locks spilling everywhere.

 

“Now, listen lady! I’m not going to push you to do anything wrong, that’s not a path I’d want to take. But if the details needed tweaked, you know, massaged just a bit, to get attention from the unwashed masses... I think that could be looked at as perfectly legitimate. You get me?”

 

The potential correspondent felt a chill run over her skin. Suddenly, the mug of tea had gone cold, and flat.

 

“Tweaked? Like how? You mean, adding to the report with made-up stuff? That’s the methodology of a supermarket tabloid! I won’t stoop that low, Ms. Q! I have standards to defend!”

 

Editor Bolden chortled and hummed to herself.

 

“Of course not, of course not! No cheat-sheet nonsense. I’m just proposing that how you spin the tale makes a huge difference. When you were accosted by the militia guy, for example, was it how you should’ve been treated? No! That gives evidence of more dirt, hiding under the surface. Wouldn’t you say he acted like a Klansman, for example? A gun nut?  A fascist? Or a seditionist, of the kind we saw on January 6^th, 2021? There must be more you can uncover...”

 

Raal gasped out loud. She was not sure how to respond.

 

“Well, someone might draw that kind of conclusion on their own. But I got no clear evidence of a nationalist vibe from him! Nothing at all! The police blotter from their township said that he’s been a hanger-on since the original leader of their goon brigade committed suicide. He’s a wannabe, a pretender. In street language, an ass kisser...”

 

Mama Q was amused by her reluctance to label the bad actor, publicly.

 

“If you put it in print, and say it straight out, that would be totally fair. Who knows what he’s got at home. Maybe a shrine to Hitler or Satan, or the battle swords of Confederate generals hanging on his wall. It might be anything! You don’t have to convict the dude, just squeeze a little hot sauce on your final dish. Jazz it up a bit, okay? Give it some spice!”

 

Her wordsmithing cohort was burning with disbelief.

 

“SPICE? HOT SAUCE? YOU’RE TALKING HALF-TRUTHS, OR NO TRUTH! I CAN’T DO THAT, MS. Q! WE SEE THINGS THE SAME WAY, AND I GET SICK THINKING ABOUT THEIR ORANGE-FACED HERO GOING BACK TO THE WHITE HOUSE! BUT NAILING PEOPLE AT THAT VILLAGE OF MOBILE HOMES WON’T MAKE ME SLING SHIT LIKE A GOSSIP HOUND! I’M PROUD OF MY CRAFT!”

 

The counterculture maven smiled and nodded. She did not want to alienate her prodigy while there was still a chance of reconciliation.

 

“Look girl, it’s something we all do, to move product. We’re social crusaders, yes. You and me are never on the fence, we get our hands in the mud every day! We work that mess until it serves our needs! People depend on us, homeless folks, outcasts, agitators, artists, students, all the fringe elements that don’t fit anywhere else. They need us to fight! Maybe I’m pulling up a corner of the rug, and you don’t want to look under there... I understand. It’s dark and dusty. I’m saying you need to hype your story, before it’ll be right for inclusion in the QC pages. That’s basically what the Pee Dee said before me, right? You got to close the deal with readers. Otherwise, they wander off and you are forgotten...”

 

Libby had turned a pale shade of white. The change made her tattoos pop with vibrant colors.

 

“I umm... don’t know what to say, Mama Q!”

 

Bolden took a deep breath, and dropped her pen on the desktop.

 

“Say nothing. Give this a good going over, and call me when you’ve got it figured out! Stay warm and safe, Libbers!”

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 14: Trout

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

When Townshend Lincoln first learned that there would be a fifth group for residents of his boxcar village, to connect and share news tidbits, the gossip made him physically ill. He knew that in practical terms, having yet another portal for comment and discussion wouldn’t make a huge difference in the lives of those who shared the plight of existing in their low-income development. But with the Speck brood having administrator control, it meant that there would be another open channel for the slant they held, on life in the junkyard oasis.

 

It did not take long to prove this theory, with indisputable certainty.

 

As the lonely drunk was swooning on his bench, in the late hours of a Thursday afternoon, he brought up the group’s introductory page on his cell phone. There in bold text was an invitation to join the multi-level-marketing scam being run as a way to raise funds for a revived park association. The blurb spoke in exaggerated tones, like literature for a timeshare company or Amway franchise. A new opportunity was being touted, one adding to the appeal of Trump Bibles and the gold, Never Surrender Hi-Top Sneakers already being vended.

 

He had to fumble in his pockets for a pair of reading glasses to decipher the message.

 

“Hello, everyone! Hello, hello! Come one, come all, this is an opportunity you don’t want to miss! Do you have leftover Christmas money burning a hole in your pocket? Are you looking for an opportunity to cash in on the recent reelection of America’s greatest president? Do you want to be part of a groundswell of entrepreneurial, business innovation, spurred by Elon Musk, Vivek Ramaswamy, and other big-thinking tycoons? This is the time to start selling and winning, in the marketplace! I present to you a must-have item that everyone will want on their kitchen countertops, office walls or desks, or in their garages... the Trumpy Trout!”

 

Lincoln felt his insides churning like an off-balance clothes washer in need of repair.

 

“A FUCKING TROUT? WHAT THE HELL IS THIS SHIT???”

 

His neighbor Linn continued with the promotional spew, under a photo of the animatronic, aquatic toy.

 

“Trumpy Trout sells online for $59.99, with a $9.99 fee for postage and handling. Such a bargain, and it can’t miss! But I have been able to personally grab a certain quantity of these, to sell directly around our township and county, and anywhere else you might be traveling! It’s a matter of how good you are at pushing products. Can you match the intensity of Donald J. Trump as a leader in the worlds of big business and politics? Here’s your chance! Show your love! Let the MAGA King know that you care! Contact me today for a slot in the Evergreen Estates ring of champions! My membership price and monthly dues are very reasonable, trust me! Don’t delay, you knuckleheads! Call today!”

 

The contrarian hermit belched and farted in unison, which caused his wooden bench to vibrate and creak in the frigid temperature of early January.

 

“GAWDAMM STUPID FATASS! I WOULDN’T GIVE FIVE BUCKS FOR ONE OF YER RUBBER-LIPPED, SWIMMY CRITTERS! WHY WOULD ANYBODY ELSE?”

 

He nearly threw the wireless device at a side wall next to the front door. But instead, reached for a bottle of Kentucky bourbon. The 100-proof distillation warmed his insides and took away a nagging chill that had lingered since he first went outside.

 

The phone landed in his pocket. Yet continued to show snippets from the sales post offered by his nemesis on the corner.

 

“The Trumpy Trout says all kinds of funny things, like ‘I’m building a new pond, and the bass will pay for it!’ Or ‘I am the hugely bigliest fish in the pond! All the fish love Trumpy! They just love me!’ It’ll be the best seller of this year, you can count on that! I only have a limited quantity, so book your seat on the freedom train! Cash in everybody, cash in while you can!”

 

Another retort from his digestive tract sent a mist of brew and liquor into the frosty air. He had almost managed to stand up, with help from his disability canes, when the plastic wafer in his sweatshirt began to ring. The caller ID registered a number for someone who lived on their back drive, a meandering trail that ran along the northern border, facing unused acreage and a stand of old-growth trees.

 

Garter Haines had purchased a ratty doublewide, after his property by the Ashtabula shore of Lake Erie had fallen into foreclosure. He was retired but continued to run a one-man towing and recycling company, picking up vehicles on the cheap with his slant-back wrecker.

 

“Hey Link, how’re you doing, buddy? I just saw that teaser from pot-bellied Linn about selling his wares. I’m pretty broke right now, but it sounds like one hell of a great deal! I want to take money out of my pension fund, that’ll cover a membership, I think...”

 

Lincoln grimaced as his gut tightened and growled.

 

“C’mon dude, yer smarter than that! Who’s gonna buy a fucking plastic fish to hang on their wall? Nobody outside of this horrible trash pit could be that asinine...”

 

Hanes sputtered and cursed over the note of dissension. He kicked at the floorboards of his diesel rig, scattering shards of the protective mat.

 

“I told you before, we’d all be eating steak when things got straightened out in Washington. Now it’s happening, by God! Don’t be a fool, get in on the ground floor! I’m hoarding every cent left over from my retirement. Linn is a smart guy! He knows how to make a buck! I like the cut of his jib! He’s got spunk, I appreciate a man who won’t take no for an answer!”

 

The cranky iconoclast burst into an unbridled fit of laughter.

 

“SMART? YA GOTTA BE KIDDING, HANEY! THAT PIECE OF DUNG ENDED UP LIVING HERE AFTER GOING TO COLLEGE AND WHATEVER ELSE! HOW SMART CAN HE BE? THAT SHANTY SHACK OF HIS IS FALLING APART!”

 

His truck-driving cohort wheezed and whistled over the cellular connection.

 

“Maybe about as smart as both of us, Link! We’re stuck here too, how about that? All of us are in the same damn boat!”

 

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 13: Sunny

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

After a long period of cold and snowy weather that began on New Year’s Day, Mother Nature at last offered a brief moment of respite, as January approached its midpoint. On a Tuesday afternoon, solar rays streamed through the clouds, despite an ambient temperature of 24 degrees. This meant that Townshend Lincoln could take refuge on his front porch, with rounds of Miller High Life and Evan Williams bourbon to fortify his spirit. Bundled up in layers of winter clothing, he sat outside after a short jaunt to the Dollar General store in Hambden, only a few miles up Pine Trail Road. Though his arthritic joints ached from exposure, he did not surrender to pain. Instead, he rejoiced in experiencing a temporary moment of liberation. One that revived his soul with a sense of joy that had been stifled over the preceding week.

 

Neighbors who passed his yard spun through the slush in vehicles of all sorts. Most were pickup trucks or SUV varieties. Though many were sedans long outdated, yet still running beyond their intended life span. At Evergreen Estates, necessity kept the clock from ticking forward as in other, better neighborhoods. Being isolated and impoverished had hardened residents, like those who once survived the Great Depression.

 

The drunken, reclusive hermit had also been strengthened by surviving in such an unfriendly environment. Every day of life bolstered his endurance. Enemies were dispatched quickly, with amusement. He was too numb for any kind of verbal or intellectual assault. And anyone who approached him physically risked being whacked across the teeth with one of his disability canes.

 

Death carried no stigma in this netherworld of alienation and indifference. A bullet to his skull would have been liberating, instead of woeful. But he had not been appointed to graduate from the mortal plane, just yet. Mirroring the season, he stayed withdrawn, inebriated, and content to be out of the social mainstream.

 

As he teetered on the brink of consciousness, his cell phone began to chirp with messenger notifications. It was a sound that always rattled his nerves. But upon checking the display screen, he dipped into a widening pool of regret. His hillbilly vibe returned, glowing with a quiet mood of nonconformity.

 

Neighbor Darby Stronelli, a gnarled, spiky-haired survivor who lived on his eastern flank, was excited with news about having formed a new online group for the park.

 

“HEY BUDDY, ARE YOU STILL AWAKE OVER THERE? I GOT TIRED OF ALL THE BICKERING AND SHIT ABOUT WHO CAN FOLLOW OUR FACEBOOK PAGES. SO, I STARTED A NEW ONE! HAH, HOW ABOUT THAT? ALL THE OTHER ONES ARE RUN BY PICKY-ASS PEOPLE. YOU KNOW, THEY DON’T LIKE THIS ONE OR DON’T LIKE THAT ONE. I’M FED UP WITH THAT CRAP! AND I AM! CHECK IT OUT, ANYBODY IN THIS PARK IS WELCOME!”

 

Lincoln felt sick at his stomach. He was already a member of at least four different online portals for news and comment about the junkyard community. With frozen fingertips, he tapped out a short reply.

 

“Yer kidding, right?”

 

His close-at-hand contact was irritated by this admission of disinterest, immediately.

 

“WHATTAYA MEAN, KIDDING? THERE’S BEEN MONTHS AND MONTHS OF FIGHTING OVER CHICKEN-SHIT RULES AND WHATEVER! I’M GONNA CLEAN THAT UP RIGHT NOW!”

 

The iconoclastic loner smiled while cradling his phone in a bare hand.

 

“Look, yer intention is great, I guess. But that’ll make five different meeting points for people who live in this crazy dump. Look it up if ya doubt my number...”

 

Darby must have been spewing Bud Light around the living room, while squawking. Being confined by persistent snowfall made her difficult to handle.

 

“SCREW THAT, THEY’RE ALL DELETED!”

 

Her contrarian neighbor shook his head in disagreement.

 

“Nah, they’re still listed in search results. One of the five sent me an automated ping about accepting administrator duties. I passed because some of the group members have died or moved away...”

 

His fellow resident sent a string of poop emojis, and angry, smiley faces.

 

“C’MON ASSHOLE! SUPPORT ME IN THIS, OKAY? IT’LL WORK FOR A CHANGE, I KNOW IT WILL! THIS TIME EVERYBODY CAN JOIN! HELL, I DON’T EVEN KNOW HALF OF THE CROWD HERE ANYMORE, THERE’S BEEN SO MANY MOVING TRUCKS SHOWING UP SINCE THE FALL. IT’S GETTING CROWDED AGAIN, REMEMBER HOW EMPTY WE WERE A YEAR OR TWO AGO?”

 

Lincoln took a double shot of Kentucky spirits, before composing his next retort.

 

“Alrighty, who ya got running that page? Is it just a solo flight? That would be acceptable...”

 

His frenemy across the empty lot next door had to pause and decide how she would spin the truth.

 

“IT’S ME IN CHARGE! WELL, ME’N A LADY ON THE CORNER...”

 

Her boozing associate belched alcohol droplets and foam. The noise rattled his storm door. Pizza grease lubricated his chapped lips.

 

“Hahahahaha! Yep, I figured on that! Ya got the Speck clan involved! All good, but they’re the reason we had so much strife in this ‘hood. Remember the postal mailings about me being a piece of dung? Remember all the insults online? Remember what happened when the wheels came off our plan to fix up this trash heap? Everything went straight to the dumpster! And it caught on fire!”

 

Darby sent a string of curses flying from her wireless device. Then, ditched the all-caps messaging.

 

“Yeah I remember, buddy. But that was months ago. Actually, a year or more, or two, or whatevs. Forget it. Quit hanging on to your bullshit. Things will be better once the weather changes. Lots of parties and bonfires, and cookouts. This park will be fun again, like it was when you still came around to drink with me! Hoo boy, those were good times! Drink all night and work all day! Forgive ’n forget!”

 

The tipsy malcontent leaned forward over his knees. He had started drinking too early.

 

“I’ll give ya credit for trying to change the game around here. But anger runs deep. I’ve already been hearing from dissenters who want nothing ta do with yer idea...”

 

The hot-tempered, butch femme tapped on an icon portraying the middle finger.

 

“SO, FUCK ‘EM THEN! FUCK ‘EM! FUCK ‘EM! WE DON’T NEED THOSE DICKS!”

 

Lincoln shrugged and huddled with a slight breeze tightening his facial muscles.

 

“Right, I get yer attitude. But those are the people ya do need. Otherwise, it’s just another division. Another cut of the pie. So, everything comes back around to where it was, we get another feud between the factions and ya join in on the fray...”

 

His long-time neighbor had gotten tired of debating the issue. She sent a green smiley, vomiting with disgust. Then another all-caps protest to conclude their conversation.

 

“KISS MY ASS, BUDDY! KISS MY SKINNY, LITTLE ASS! I HOPE YOU PASS OUT AND PISS YOUR PANTS! HAHAHAHAHA! TAKE IT EASY!”

 

At last, things were quiet once again, on the narrow strip of land designated as Lot 13. Thick, gray clouds in the sky overhead had managed to obscure their blessing of solar warmth. A stray feline yowled for entry, as the weary alcoholic struggled to his feet. She was patchy in hues of tabby stripes, draped over a white background of fur. He gestured amicably toward the abandoned cat with his liquor bottle.

 

“At least there’s one female who’s on my side in this hellscape! Thanks fer the support, honey!”