Trailer Park Takeover, Postscript

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

“No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out on the other side. Or you don’t.” – Stephen King

 

In all the years I have lived at Evergreen Estates, little has ever changed about my trailer community. It is a place oddly situated in the rural hinterland. Evenly distant from population centers in the eastern Ohio counties of Geauga, Lake, and Ashtabula. I cannot guess what originally prompted a landowner to construct such an inhospitable cluster of mobile homes on muddy soil that has never seemed to stabilize. Structures shift with the seasons, streets pit and crack, while poles tilt and sway. All in a seemingly physical rejection by nature, of its very existence. The neighborhood is not pretty or pleasant, to behold. It is not convenient as a living space. No one has ever cheered about having membership within this herd. And yet, for many of us, it was the last stop on a journey. If not for being on one of these rented, concrete slabs, I myself might be back under a bridge overpass, in central New York. Shivering in the cold, and cursing an empty stomach and sore bones.

 

Our boxcar oasis can be described with many adjectives that are rude and unflattering. But the most important of these tells the tale. It is, for better or worse, a home base from which to operate. As we do our best to get through the day. With hope that tomorrow might shine more favorably, as a new sunrise glistens from the east.

 

Most of my fellow residents continue to do battle with their fates. But for me, that challenge has long since passed. I no longer aspire to be clean, respectable, or beloved. I do not crave attention or accolades. I desire no rewards for my meager accomplishments. Instead, every afternoon spent drinking away cares and concerns is a joy that I cherish. To be drunk and left alone is more than enough. I relish my solitude. As I do each breath of life, taken as a gift.

 

When I first arrived on this site, my skills as a creative writer were languishing. I had no edge to my abilities. No cause to excel. While laboring as a business steward, for money, I sought the energy of heroes such as John McCahill, Hunter S. Thompson, Lou Reed, John Cooper Clarke, Mike Royko, and Charles Bukowski. I envied their passion and naked honesty. Their lack of inhibitions. Their fiery wit. Yet after almost a quarter-century here on the hallowed ground of this township, I have inherited a soul reshaped by circumstance. The hard lessons learned at this spot have electrified my consciousness. Even perhaps, elevated it, and intensified the need to be heard. I never thought of myself as someone who could speak forcefully and with meaning, to others. But now, stumbling along with my disability canes, back arched with the weight of sorrows, and head down as I face prevailing wind gusts, I am whole. A new image, rendered in charcoal and whiskey, blood, and dirt. This is my golden age. I have never been better, in terms of the mind, if not in the condition of my body.

 

When I speak of such things out loud, those who share this pre-fab grid often stare blankly as if I had just blurted out some phrase in Arabic. Or maybe, in an alien dialect as yet unheard by human ears. Their eyes grow wide. Their lungs are stilled, holding breath tightly inside, until I might confess having played some kind of joke, for fun. But my observations are not given for amusement. They are a zealous offering of praise, for receiving an epiphany. This damnation, to exile in the pines, has provided a new beginning. One I could never have expected, when entering the park as someone headed for divorce and career chaos.

 

It has been so long that I can barely remember my origin point. Yesterday is now faded in memory. What remains is the essence from which I sprang, as a sentient, biological seed. Heart and mind, thumping away with the cadence of being. That spark of existence is still mine to hold. Therefore, I will not surrender it willingly. Though at times, I massage it gently, with liquor and brew for medication.

 

I have watched singlewide trailers here burn to the ground. I have seen homicides and evictions, and extractions of offenders by the sheriff and his deputies. I have witnessed symbols of extremist groups, and firearms, being brandished with impunity. I have been pelted with stones, and marked as an outlier and misanthrope. I have fallen down, and fallen again. Broken bones and furniture, electronic devices, and felt broken inside. I have perched so close to raging bonfires, in a stupor of alcohol, that holes burned in my clothes. I have stayed up all night baring my sins to unsuspecting witnesses, and then gone back to work without sleeping. I have mourned the loss of cousins and parents, siblings, and dear friends. I have punched holes in the drywall. Broken windows. Lobbed empty bottles like projectiles, at moldy, unoccupied huts along the avenue. I have sobbed in the dark of night, with dreams of lost associations returning to mock me as I slept. All these things, failing to kill my spirit, have strengthened it instead. They put steel in my spine. They hardened the tortoise shell on my back. They gave me clear vision and fine concentration.

 

Though some might feel injured after surviving such experiences, I have a different reaction. One of penance, and gratitude. I have been blessed. In Biblical terms, born again.

 

I am Townshend Carr Lincoln. A descendant of our 16^th American president. Fallen from grace, yet rescued and revived, by the same. This is my testimony. Hear it, and believe. Do with it what you will.

 

So help me, God.

 

 

 

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 30: Amnesty

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

In the colorful history of Evergreen Estates, every negotiating tactic had been tried at one time or another. Every measure of corrective discipline, employed. Every strategy for finding a resolution. Every educational opportunity, taken. Every teachable moment. Every chance for changing course. Every epiphany delivered, for the purpose of inspiration. And yet, nothing ever muted the siren call of futility. The shabby oasis remained rooted in hardship and self-reliance. It was not a place to raise awareness, or improve social standing. On the crumbling streets of this trailer combine, time itself had ceased to tick forward. There was no flow of mainstream consciousness, as in the outside world. Instead, one agonizing day was very much like those before. And any that would follow. That destiny had been chiseled in stone by the first inhabitants who came east from our county capital, seeking affordability and isolation. They did not know what would befall them on this former swampland property. A spot fortified with construction waste, rubbish, and landfill materials. But soon, a new tradition had begun. One of hopelessness and willful ignorance. A literal descent into dark pits of ruin, from which few human exiles would ever return.

 

So, it came as a something of a shock when the Proletariat Property Co-op issued their verdict on the stalemate at our park. This communique stung bankers and lenders throughout the area. And inspired disbelief with judges and elected officials. Yet it reflected the aim of those student volunteers and hippie veterans, to respect basic humanity over making a buck. Copies of their letter were jammed in every door-handle around the community. After finding my reading glasses, I sat with a tumbler of bourbon, and scanned the text, feeling great interest and curiosity.

 

“TO ALL RESIDENTS – Those of us in your new ownership group have given much thought to the situation at this mobile-home development. We understand that some leaseholders were upset with the $75.00 per month rent increase, originally set in motion by Wells Fargo Financial. It has never been our intention to cheat of defraud our patrons in any way. While we must exercise good judgment in expenditures on maintenance and operations, it is our desire to offer value to those who choose to live here. Therefore, we are announcing a two-phase plan to address these concerns. First, there will be a period of amnesty for all residents. Anyone who comes forward to resume paying lot fees may do so with no amount in arrears. No late charges will be applied. Everything will start over. Second, we will forego the extra charges that were implemented until one year from now. The savings for those of you who decide to remain will be enormous. Anyone with cash or credit issues is invited to apply for membership in our union of partners. We will do our best to help families weather the storms of inflation and economic chaos. If possible, we would like to avoid evicting anyone, for any reason. We ask you to cooperate with us, as we move forward to make this park better and more secure for the future...”

 

Down the street, I could see that militia commander Aimes Hefti was at the brown, pre-fab hovel of Linn & Haki Speck. He had a copy of the PPC literature in his gloved paw.

 

“HORSESHIT! THIS IS NOTHING BUT GAWDAMNED HORSESHIT! YOU’D HAVE TO BE A FREAKIN’ FOOL FER THIS, WHY TAKE THE BAIT? EFF THOSE BASTARDS! LET’EM CHOKE ON THEIR UNPAID BILLS! THEY CAN SHOVE IT RIGHT UP THEIR PANSY ASSES!”

 

Linn was red-faced and sweating, due to an unexpected thaw in temperatures. But oddly upbeat about the offer.

 

“Things are so expensive everywhere. My wife was searching for an apartment online, and the prices are crazy! We couldn’t really afford a move right now, you know? This deal sounds, well... pretty darn decent to me!”

 

Commandante Hefti spat out his chaw of tobacco, and began to curse.

 

“ARE Y’ALL NOTHIN’ BUT A DUMBASS LOSER? A CHUMP MIGHT GO FER THIS, BUT NOT ANYBODY WITH A DAMN SPINE! WE GOTTA STAND UP TO THESE IDIOTS! THEY NEED TO GET THE FRIG OUT OF OHIO! THIS AIN’T A PLACE FER PURPLE-HAIRED, PIERCED AND TATTOOED FREAKS! THOSE ANTIFA CLOWNS AND DRAG QUEENS BELONG SOMEWHERE OTHER THAN IN GOD’S COUNTRY! THIS STRIKE IS WHAT’LL MAKE IT HAPPEN! SHOW SOME BALLS, SOLDIER! GROW A PAIR!”

 

A commotion had arisen nearby, around the maintenance garage. There was a line of citizens at the office door of Dana Alvarez, our manager. Checks were piled in a stack on her desk.

 

“Ayyyyyy, it’ll take me all afternoon to process these rent payments. That’s a whole lotta dinero sitting there, boy! Dios mio! What a job!”

 

Aimes felt his supreme authority slipping away. He unholstered his sidearm, then ran down to the corner, firing warning shots in the air.

 

“NOBODY GIVE ‘EM A GAWDAMN CENT! SCREW THOSE JAGOFFS! WE GOTTA SEND A MESSAGE, NOT KISS ASS! HAVE Y’ALL FORGOTTEN WHO RUNS THIS PLACE? IT’S US, PEOPLE! WE GOT THE POWER! WE GOT THE NERVE! WE GOT THE GUTS AND GUNS! WE GOT OUR RIGHTS!”

 

I was still on my wooden bench, with a jug of Kentucky spirits. The burn in my throat offered hope. Soon, I would be very drunk, and insulated from the reality of living in a dirt-poor cluster of modified shipping containers. That alone kept me focused on surviving the day.

 

“Give it up, commando. Nobody is listening now. You’re a eunuch, buddy. A bellicose, loudmouth with nothing left in your boxer shorts...”

 

My opponent by the park office could not hear this crude observation, of course. As I watched from a safe distance, he foamed at the mouth, stomped his combat boots, and howled angrily.

 

“LET’S GET ON THE MARCH, TROOPERS! TELL THAT COMPANY BITCH Y’ALL AIN’T GONNA GIVE HER NOTHIN’ FER THE MONTH! NOT A DAMN THING! TAKE BACK YER CHECKS! RIP ‘EM UP! RIP ‘EM UP RIGHT NOW, RIGHT IN FRONT OF HER FACE!”

 

Though the liquor had already taxed my brain cells, I did some calculating on the porch. Cutting the increase would cost about $900.00 per home, for a whole year. Multiplied by at least 100 residents who refused to pay, that added up to a considerable sum. I wondered how the owners would cover that disparity in their ledgers. Still, it was a gesture that seemed to resonate with the rank-and-file.

 

Conditions in the atmosphere were fluctuating, once again. Strong winds were sounding, with loose skirting and debris blowing across the boulevard. I knew that a forecast for more freezing rain and snow had been issued. Yet somehow, I was warm inside.

 

With this latest crisis behind us, the continuum at Evergreen Estates would go on, without an interruption. It was our life sentence, to be served in full. Humbled and hobbled by fate, we were the inheritors of an inglorious legacy. One written in mud and booze. And the ashes of summer bonfires, long since extinguished.

 

I raised my drink skyward, and offered an alcoholic toast of sorts.

 

“Here we go, Lord. Another damn year at Evergreen Estates!”

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 29: Paralysis

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

Evergreen Estates has always been a community where the priorities of its isolated population do not necessarily follow a ranking set by logic. Things that are considered important may follow trends set around improvised bonfires, and in church pews, rather than on the ground. Therefore, to understand how residents at the park think and act, one must consider this modus operandi from a perspective framed differently than in other places.

 

I pondered this disparity while watching my neighbors react to events such as the election of New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani, and the capture of President Nicholás Maduro, in Venezuela. Neither of these stories mattered more on the streets of my mobile-home community, than the fact that lot rent had not been paid by a majority of leaseholders in the development. Yet there seemed to be no appetite for addressing this glaring mistake. Without any income flowing into the ownership coffers, it was impossible to think that their hold on our property could survive. No one manifested any concern over this situation, however. Instead, they continued to rant about vague social issues, political tribalism, and the combative relationship of those with different sports loyalties. From my front porch, it appeared to be a train wreck in progress.

 

Yet a more accurate term might have come to mind, if I had imbibed more whiskey to steel my cerebral synapses. Specifically, paralysis.

 

Manager Dana Alvarez was a fiery Latina with her focus on maintaining employment as our company representative. She knew well that it would be impossible to get paid if there was no profit from operating the residential business. Sheriff Tom T. Rath had made his career as a member of law enforcement, and could not veer away from the discipline that entailed. But he knew the junkyard village was always a tinder box. Ready to burst into flame at any moment, with the slightest provocation. He had no interest in setting the park ablaze with a mass eviction. Nakano Volca, a graduate of Cornell University in the Finger Lakes Region, wanted to preserve the ideological integrity of his progressive group. That meant solving issues through diplomacy and cooperation, not the brute force of bankers, judges, and police officers.

 

The upshot of all this was clear. No one wanted to make a first move, for fear of causing everything to collapse.

 

With the New Year fully present, I kept drinking and watching from my wooden bench. Happenings on the streets of our rustic village were dramatic enough to witness. But if I had been at the Proletariat Property Co-op headquarters, a situation even more dire would have been unfolding. One that threatened the viability of their firm, and its stated mission.

 

After financial officers in charge had taken a seat around an iMac computer, first on their roster of responsibilities was reading through e-mail messages collected over the weekend. As they scanned the list of communications received, one immediately stuck out as being most important of all. It was a brief, desperate plea, sent by one of their partners in the heartland.

 

“From: Deedra Kahlo, Lake Erie Credit Combine

Re: Thompson MHP

 

In case you haven’t heard this from other sources... we’ve got an insurrection happening here in Ohio. Those living at Evergreen Estates are staging a rent strike, not an escrow creation as the courts denied their petition. But instead, a full-blown uprising! Only three members of the community have paid as usual. It is a standoff, because the local sheriff is hesitant to enforce eviction orders. So, what can we do? Our manager at the development wants action. Backchannel contact with the township trustees tell us they fear a collapse of the local infrastructure. A quiet confab with the governor revealed that he wants no part of a National Guard assignment to quell potential rioting. I know you don’t favor interdiction, legally, but something has to be done. This is quickly spinning out of control...”

 

Volca sipped his Chai tea while thinking. Then, he turned to other partners around their conference table.

 

“Look everyone, it would be easy to drop a hammer here. Our position vis-à-vis the law is clear. We could just boot all those who haven’t paid, and recruit new residents. The housing market is tough right now. Deedra went on to say that small apartments in Chardon, a few miles away, are over $1000.00 per month. That whole county is prime real estate. They are close enough to Cleveland for working in the metropolitan area, but distant from the urban congestion. So, we could just toe the fascist line, and whack anyone who won’t conform. But you know that isn’t our goal. We want brothers and sisters joining the family, in solidarity. Not victims becoming bitter because we used a heavy hand!”

 

Selden Pate, the lone member of their team who had been raised on Buckeye soil, wheezed and tapped his phone stylus on the tabletop. His pale complexion became even more ghostly when hearing the opinions of his boss.

 

“Nakka, I get your groove here, nobody wants to be a money-grubber like the Orange Man and his minions. But if we don’t get any cooperation on this, then how do we pay our own bills? We’re backed into a corner, dude!”

 

Heads nodded around the room. It seemed that every member of the staff agreed.

 

Nova Caine, who had toned down her drag appearance for the meeting, was particularly expressive in echoing the sentiments of their superior.

 

“I get it, honey! I get it completely! Now, you’d have to expect those hillbilly hicks to put up a fight over the rent increase and bad maintenance, but it’s just for show. They’re trying to look tough for their butch friends who don’t have to live in mobile homes! Understand? I know what they really want. I see them sneaking in the door when we perform at places like the Cove, a little club up at Geneva-on-the-Lake. Hee hee, they love us! We are faaaaaabulous!”

 

Nakano cleared his throat with embarrassment.

 

“Well then, you think that busting them would be a bad move? If that’s right, which I think it is, the=n how do we solve this problem? How do we cover our expenses?”

 

His underling shook her head, and giggled loudly. A gesture that almost toppled the platinum-blonde wig from it’s perch on her scalp.

 

“Give ‘em some sugar, baby! Give those dunces something sweet, before you sit them in the corner! That always worked with me when I was in school! Ooh ooh ooh!”

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 28: Invasion

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

Sundays during the winter at Evergreen Estates are often unpredictable. Two factions govern sports fans at the rural development, those who cling to loyalty for Cleveland franchises, despite their persistent woes, and others who have moved to more successful teams, from Pittsburgh or elsewhere. This means that the usual amount of drinking and celebrating may increase many times over, depending on final scores that result. Whiskey and brew flow freely, no matter what the outcome. An aroma of marijuana smoke, or common tobacco cigarettes, hangs in the air. But at Lot 13, the slab of concrete upon which my trailer home is situated, I am somewhat immune to this habit. Years of losing, controversy, and front-office chaos on Lake Erie have turned me numb. I still watch or listen, as a learned response. Yet generally aim to be drunk in the afternoon, and safe from emotional scars that might follow.

 

The outside porch is my refuge. There I can sit in the cold, duly bundled up and blitzed on distilled spirits of various kinds.

 

With the regular NFL season ending, I took heart in escaping this period of conflict, as an anonymous spectator. But a dramatic detour came when our CIA and Armed Forces staged an assault on the South American nation of Venezuela. Dictator  Nicholás Maduro was captured and flown north, to face justice in the United States. Suddenly, residents who would normally be debating the virtues of their football preferences, switched to a strident display of political partisanship, instead.

 

From next door, Miss Poindexter yelped at her computer, by the side window that faced my wooden bench. A small group of visitors surrounded her roller chair. She screeched and shrieked while pounding at the keyboard with chubby, clenched fists.

 

“NO KINGS! NO KINGS! TRUMP IS FIGHTING FOR OIL, AND WE’D RATHER BE WATCHING ‘STRANGER THINGS!’ THE ORANGE MAN IS CRUEL, HE WON’T FOLLOW CONSITUTIONAL RULES! LET HIM BURN IN HELL, THAT BIGOT IN FACE PAINT CLAIMS HE IS WHAT HE AIN’T! NO CHRISTIAN HERO, JUST A PUSSY-GRABBING SCHMOE!”

 

I had to chuckle quietly at her one-woman protest, among ebullient comrades. I suspected that she must have been doing a livestream for student friends in the city.

 

With only a couple of liquor rounds imbibed, I was still sober enough to be fully aware of her demonstration. But then, a racket from the street diverted my attention. Aimes Hefti had begun to lead a cavalcade of park inhabitants around the neighborhood. They waved Confederate banners, Gadsden flags, and leftover signage from the 2024 campaign.

 

“GOD AND TRUMP! GOD AND TRUMP! DUMP THE CHUMP IN VENE-ZEE, IT’S ALL ABOUT TRUMP, DON’T YOU SEE? MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN, CAPTURE CRIMINALS WHO AREN’T OUR FRIENDS! USA! USA! USA! USA!”

 

The noise generated between these camps soon gave me a headache. I started drinking double-shots to compensate. My senses had nearly been obliterated, when a notification chirp sounded from my cellular device.

 

Darby Stronelli was puzzled by the story about our military action. She wanted some clarification while playing on her game system in the party barn.

 

“HEY BUDDY, WHERE THE HECK IS VENEZUELA, ANYWAY? I NEVER HEARD OF IT BEFORE! IS THAT DOWN BY FLORIDA?”

 

I had to sigh at her ignorance, though it was not unexpected. I pulled off my right glove, and texted a response through the Messenger app.

 

“It’s at the top of South America...”

 

She paused for a moment, then offered a garbled reply that made me sure she was completely lost. I figured she had already flushed her system with many bottles of watery, Anheuser-Busch beer.

 

“South America? That’s like, on the Florida Georgia Line, you know, like the Country Music band. Right?”

 

I snorted brown droplets out of my nose. The burn tingled wildly.

 

“South America is a different continent. Google it if you really want to know...”

 

My reluctance to provide help must have irritated her mood. I could hear the sound of glass breaking in her trash bin, after an empty was tossed out, rudely.

 

“YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH! C’MON, LINK, I DON’T GIVE A FRIG ABOUT IT, JUST THOUGHT YOU WOULD KNOW! AND I DID! YOU’RE INTO ALL THAT SHIT! ALL I KNOW IS IT LOOKS LIKE THE STEELERS ARE GOIN’ TO ANOTHER SUPER BOWL! GAWDAMN, HOW MANY WILL THAT BE, TEN OR TWELVE, OR MORE? MAYBE FOURTEEN?”

 

I had reached the point of feeling tipsy. Which brought me a blessed sense of relief.

 

“Sure, whatever you say, Darb. It’s all good...”

 

Aimes and his park brigade were literally marching in the snow. I had to salute their enthusiasm, if nothing else. Though it caused a stone to settle in the pit of my stomach. Meanwhile, Trina Trelane, my contact across the side yard, continued her banshee howling. I guessed that her thick, black-rimmed specs had fogged, because she flailed at her computer without any sense of purpose. I could see this unhinged roleplaying through the duct-taped panes of her window.

 

She and her cloister of Cleveland chicas chanted at the monitor screen.

 

“TRUMP IS A MENACE! TRUMP IS A FOOL! I HATE THAT ASSHOLE, HE’S A FREAKING TOOL!”

 

I had completely lost track of the Browns-Bengals match on my phone. Ultimately, neither club was set for postseason action. So, the outcome didn’t matter much. Except for a sack record set by Myles Garrett. They were jockeying for a position in the next league draft, and scrambling to exit gracefully.

 

My eyes became heavy as this metaphorical ‘Battle of Ohio’ ended.

 

Once the crisp, yellow sun had dipped below Miss Poindexter’s singlewide trailer, I felt chilled to the bone. The solar glow had kept me comfortable throughout the afternoon. Yet that gentle embrace of Mother Nature was no longer in effect.

 

Stumbling with my disability canes, I shuffled inside, to the living room. My sofa was covered with decorative pillows, empty Miller Lite cases, and plastic water jugs. But everything scattered as I fell into place. Face-down, drunk, and already snoring.

 

Outside of our isolated community, the day’s events would carry importance into tomorrow, and beyond. Yet here at home, amid the clutter of discarded pallets, yard furnishings, abandoned cars, and broken cinder blocks, nothing resonated with consequence. We were invisible to those in the mainstream. An unimportant anomaly in the greater cosmos. Pale and pitiful, and stained with a dirty essence of futility.

 

I had finally scored a jackpot of my own. Fully boozed-out, and sleeping. That alone, was enough.

“Question Time”

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

Was it a sin to have fled the path of righteousness

For a fleeting moment of excess?

A gamble taken too lightly

For a tryst played out, over-nightly

In the shadow of a collapsing house of cards

Tossing under the covers, breathing hard

That query comes, when the moon is nigh

And conscious thoughts have been denied

Toe-tapping the boundary of a personal hell

I ought to be more certain, of myself

That stumble damned years of progress with a single step

And now I tip over, at the crest

Groggy, foggy, failing to focus

A reliance on foolhardy hocus-pocus

That mistake cost more than I could ever earn

It set ablaze timbers that continue to burn

Hot and glowing red

As I twist up the sheets, in bed

Were I to seek forgiveness, would it expire

Like a deadline set by the funeral pyre?

I will never be the wiser

Saving up moments of guilt as a mourning miser

Deep and dark, in a daze

Riffing on the revival of a purple haze

This bell rings to signify

That I am not yet ready to fall and die

No, I must linger still

Pouting over a surrender of better will

Head bowed and hands clenched

Holding the rosary and a monkey wrench

Garb of gray

Nothing left to say

It seems almost amusing when considered from afar

That the sum of existence, distilled into a canning jar

Sits waiting to be sipped

Like an errant wing, caught and clipped

To conform

With rules of verse, pleasant and warm

I used to think of myself as good and just

But my ex-wife gave that balloon a bust

“Once, you fit that kind description

But now that is merely a compromised position!”

Given up and over

Plucking the greenery of a four-leaf clover

Until its stem is bare

And the sojourn is said to lead, nowhere

Back to the empty room, with shame

“Repeat the curse, repeat your name!”

I knew she was correct as a matter of course

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

High-stepping over my heart

Stained in full, having backslid, in part

I had to check twice to be sure of what appeared

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

My choices were few

A plate of crow, or Mulligan Stew

Stiff and heavy on the floorboards

A pedal-push, untoward

Causing my pulse to surge in a supercharged sprint

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

Hail the old year, completed

And a new one, merrily greeted

While I sit and sulk

Over the consequence of being a hapless hulk

Alone now, and forevermore

A quiz-show reference that contestants deplore

With a response sorted and sealed

After a spin of the prize wheel

The grandfather clock has been stilled

My fingers, numb and chilled

At the end of this day

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 27: Oath

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“ZOHRAN! ZOHRAN! ZOHRAN! ZOHRAN!”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“I’M GETTING STONE-ASSED DRUNK!”

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 26: Reaction

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

I laughed out loud at this burst of ridiculous speculation.

 

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

 

Aimes snorted and placed his sidearm back in its holster.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

My adversaries were visibly stunned. Whispers and grumbling commenced.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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