Trailer Park Vignettes – “Eviction”

  

c. 2026 Rod ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Dana Alvarez had been on hold for about 30 minutes, when someone finally picked up the line at Golden West Financial Holdings, in San Diego, California. She had burned through a dozen menthol cigarettes while waiting. So, her voice was a croak of froggy irritation.

 

“Ayyyyy, you gonna talk to me now? Madre Mia! I was ready to hang up!”

 

The company representative ignored her mood, and pretended that things at the distant office were running efficiently and smoothly. She had little time to worry over clients who were spread across the North American continent.

 

“I am Sloane Poridigo, may I help you, miss?”

 

The park manager in Thompson Township was miffed by this casual greeting. She had been kept on the phone for far too long, as an employee of the ownership group.

 

“Holla, lady! I’m calling from Ohio, you get me? Our property ref is MHP-8686. They call this place Evergreen Estates...”

 

Sloane rattled her gold and silver bracelets. Then, scrolled through entries on a computer monitor, at her desk.

 

“Yes, I see you now. We have more than three dozen developments in your state. What is the problem today?”

 

Dana fretted with a red bandana, which was too loose around her head.

 

“Ayyyyy, we got a guy here who won’t pay his lot rent. I’ve let him slide too long already, three months behind now. We need to do something!”

 

The GWFH official gasped audibly and squirmed in her roller chair.

 

“Three months? Good God! I would say that an eviction is in order. Have him thrown out immediately! Isn’t that obvious to you?”

 

The park supervisor lit another smoke while listening.

 

“See, the dude is a veteran, I think. He don’t talk too much with anybody here. As a matter of fact, people are kinda afraid to bother him. Comprende? They keep their distance. He has guns and knives in his trailer...”

 

Ms. Sloane nodded while cradling her landline receiver in one hand.

 

“Right, right, I understand, Miss Alvarez. Call your county sheriff. He can serve the papers. Get him out of there, today!”

 

Dana shuddered while thinking about what would result from a show of force.

 

“Ayyyyy, he gonna go nuts I think. I don’t usually deal with him, nobody else will, either. Okay?”

 

The California representative laughed cattily, and then hardened her tone.

 

“GET THIS BUM OFF YOUR PROPERTY! IF HE WON’T PAY, SEND HIM PACKING! THE COURTS, JUDGES, AND MEMBERS OF LAW ENFORCEMENT WON’T BE FRIGHGTENED TO DEAL WITH HIM! MAKE AN EXAMPLE, RIGHT NOW! SHOW ALL YOUR RESIDENTS THAT THIS INSTITUTION MEANS BUSINESS! NO ONE IS ABOVE THE LAW! EVERYBODY HAS TO PAY!”

 

There was a long pause before her contact in the Buckeye State answered. The young Latina felt uneasy about proceeding with an eviction.

 

“Okay, sure, I do it if you say so. But you remember this call, okay? You remember when things get crazy here...”

 

Their conversation ended abruptly. Neither party was satisfied with the discussion they had shared. Yet a decision to move forward with expelling the scofflaw resident seemed inevitable. No other choice would suffice.

 

Sheriff Tom T. Rath hesitated to deliver the paperwork, personally. He was busy sorting through postal mail, and attempting to drink his morning coffee, before it went cold. So instead, a junior deputy arrived, with a small contingent of men from their department. Despite knocking repeatedly, and attempting to look through the barred windows, no one responded. They left a formal notice taped to the front door. Then, departed in a mood of confusion and befuddlement.

 

Rath pounded his desk angrily, upon hearing that they had failed to serve the order, face-to-face.

 

“YOU JUST LEFT THAT TRAILER? WITH NO INTERACTION, NO OFFICIAL INTERVIEW, NO DOCUMENTATION?”

 

One of his skinny, inexperienced underlings pleaded for leniency, while trembling.

 

“Sir, the man at that park had messages written all over the outside of his mobile home. Long, rambling messages, about the court system and elected officials, and even us! The words covered every wall. I think they call that ‘hypergraphia’ but maybe the proper term is something else. I don’t know. My older brother is a psychology major in college. Anyway, it spooked us while trying to serve the notice.”

 

Their boss reddened with frustration.

 

“Alvarez will be calling me to handle this. I never enjoy passing out eviction notices, but especially when they involve someone who served in the military. I honor those people. I respect them. Maybe he needs counseling of some kind? Has anybody tried to offer help?”

 

The kid deputy had a manner much like Barney Fife, the fictional comic foil, on television.

 

“Residents at Evergreen Estates say they are afraid to go near that lot. He crawls around in his yard at night, with a rifle. As if being on patrol to protect the homestead! And he goes hunting in the woods behind their park. Never with anybody else, always alone...”

 

Sheriff Rath sighed, and threw his empty coffee cup in the trash.

 

“I think maybe you’re all making too much of this. The man might have some quirks after coming home from Iraq, or Afghanistan, or wherever, but that’s no sin. It’s not a crime. And it’s not unusual at all. Instead of bullying him, why don’t we ask if he can get some help with his back rent? And treatment for whatever he needs?”

 

His understudy shook with puzzlement at this suggestion. But replied with a caveat about the park owners.

 

“The manager on-site said that her employers in California just want him to be thrown out. He’s shaken up the other leaseholders and renters. They are afraid of a confrontation. The judge on this case made it clear that we have to get him out of his trailer, and the community confines!”

 

Their chieftain was unhappy about receiving such an arbitrary command. But he had no choice in the matter. Excuses were unacceptable.

 

“Alright, we’ll do the job if we must. Assemble an action team. I’ll lead it myself. But everyone will be protected with Kevlar vests. I don’t want casualties. Or any damned stories in the papers, or on evening newscasts!”

 

Their arrival at the remote, rural location evoked much tension and anxiety. With the skill of a professional brigade, they surrounded the longbox dwelling. Each member took a position where they could fire off defensive rounds, while staying safe from harm. Finally, their commander stood at the front entrance.

 

“Attention, resident! I have a legal order to deliver. Please comply and show yourself. I don’t want this to be difficult!”

 

Gunfire echoed from within the singlewide abode. Not directed at any target, but straight through the roof.

 

“I DON’T DEAL WITH ENEMY COMBATANTS! GO TA HELL, RAGHEAD! GO STRAIGHT TA HELL! OR Y’ALL R GONNA SEE ALLAH BEFORE YER READY!”

 

Rath breathed heavy and hard, before reaching for his sidearm. He stepped backward to attain a better view of the front porch. But before he could direct his deputies to instigate an assault on the home, someone stepped forward from a crowd of spectators that had gathered. He was shaggy, gray, and dressed in camouflage attire. He needed canes to walk, and had prosthetic limbs below both knees.

 

“Sheriff, let me talk to that brother. I fought in ‘Nam, there’s a kinship among soldiers. We don’t know each other, but I’ve heard about him from other folks in this place. He must be hurting inside, and feeling scared and alone. I used to think the whole country had abandoned me. The damn country, the president, everybody! But I never let go of my faith...”

 

As the crew of deputies retreated, their benefactor crept up to the doorway. He opened a faded manual, a book of prayers and services, published by the VVA. The Vietnam Veterans of America. Then, he began to whisper a prayer, with his right hand spread across the exterior wall.

 

“Blessed Lord Jesus, who knows the depths of loneliness and the dark hours of the absence of human sympathy and friendliness: help us to pass the weary hours of the night and the heavy hours of the day as you did, knowing of your father’s presence. Lift up our heart to full communion with you, strengthen us to do our duty, keep us constant to our trust, and let us know that however dark or desolate the hour, we are not alone, for you are with us, your rod and your staff to give us comfort. Amen.”

 

Then, the senior fellow closed his volume, and placed his head against the door.

 

“Stand down, soldier. You are at home now, and I am a kindred soul, your brother-in-arms. Whatever you need, whatever you want, whatever you wish, can be granted if you believe. I believe in peace. I believe in kinship. I believe in the goodness of a human heart. Put your weapons aside. Don’t suffer anymore. Pray with me friend, in the name of God, and be healed.”

 

He heard cautious footsteps, inside. Then, the lock mechanism clicked open. A gentle echo of sobbing ebbed from the trailer. And a new resonance filled his ears.

 

“Yes, that’s it, brother. That is what I need. I want to be healed...”

Nobody Reads This Page – “Calendar Crossed”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

“Most modern calendars mar the sweet simplicity of our lives by reminding us that each day that passes is the anniversary of some perfectly uninteresting event.” – Oscar Wilde

 

When pursuing career goals, earlier in my life, keeping track of days was undeniably important. Everything I did throughout the calendar year, literally every waking moment, was governed by some sort of schedule. I arrived on-time and eager, at venues around my home area, and the country. Feeling a motivational sense of purpose. I was, at least it seemed, a necessary component of many groups, relating to business, family, friendships, and such. It mattered that I was present. My value as a human entity could not be disputed. Every moment seemed to be doled out with that credo in mind. To be always on the go. Moving, watching, studying, and learning. As part of a continuing education and pursuit of serving others.

 

But one crisp, fall day in October of 2016, that benevolent paradigm was dashed forever.

 

My last work shift as a business manager arrived with little drama. I woke early, showered, had coffee and toast, watched a local news broadcast from Cleveland, and departed feeling a bit like a mechanical device with its inner-spring overwound. There were no warning bells or sirens audible as I drove a familiar route to reach my employer. No trumpets blaring from the skies. Nothing appeared to be amiss. It was indeed, a rather boring day to be alive.

 

I suspect that those who perish in an accident of some sort must have had a similar rush of emotion at the end. A chilling, terminal burst of recognition that overwhelmed all their senses, broke up their fragile bones, and blinded their vision. With no opportunity left for protest or debate over what occurred. That confrontation with mortality was in mind as I sat listening to owners of the firm where I labored.

 

“Thank you for your service here, we appreciate all that you have done, sir. With that being said, your position is now redundant. You will receive a small severance, paid over the next few weeks. Please leave the building immediately. And keep in mind that what we say about your exit will be determined by what you say. This separation can and should be on friendly terms. Otherwise, legal action may result to recover the generous compensation being offered here...”

 

My mouth went completely dry, something I had never experienced before. I shook hands with everyone in the office, expressed my gratitude for seven years of employment, and departed without engaging anyone else in conversation.

 

At home, my Black Lab was confused. He knew instinctively that something was wrong. I should not have returned so soon, after starting a regular work day. I sat in my favorite recliner, and drank a cold brew.

 

To quote a line from one of my poems, written during a turbulent time of personal woe, ‘That was how the story ended.’

 

I had originally believed that despite the onset of mobility issues, which involved the use of a cane to get around, my return to the ranks of laborers-for-hire would be swift. My management career had spanned decades. I carried a competent resume, full of documentation. On the list were five different retail chains, all of which had contributed to my skill set. I did not worry over finding another place to land. Despite being unprepared for this kick-to-the-curb, I felt sure that new opportunities would arrive, for expanding my own horizons.

 

That assumption was completely incorrect. Only with the passage of weeks and months did I realize that my unemployment was likely to be a permanent status.

 

There were many new realities to consider, as this era of solitude began. But most vexing of all, at first, was being disconnected from the calendar, and clock. After such an extended period of chasing intangible goals, I found myself rooted in circumstance. I was, literally, on an island of irrelevancy. Nothing mattered, from sunrise to sunset. I would sometimes rise in the wee hours, make coffee, and putter at my desk in the home office. Or walk my pooch, long after midnight. Sometimes, even sit outside on the front porch, with an adult refreshment, just to feel the cold, damp breeze of an early morning in its chronological infancy.

 

Living alone meant no one chided me for keeping to such an odd schedule.

 

With a progression of years, my infirmities multiplied. I grew more handicapped, and yet able to cope with strategies tested by a patient routine of trial-and-error experiments. When my beloved pet eventually reached his own limit of physical endurance, his death snapped the final bond I retained to any sort of responsibility. One day literally assumed the characteristics of another. I was in a cocoon of nebulous nothingness.

 

I stopped hanging a printed document for charting weeks and months on the kitchen wall. That venerable tradition had lost its meaning, in my household.

 

This development was a precursor to transcending time itself. Much like Doctor Who, I was now a traveler through dimensions of space and progression. Able to surpass the everyday discipline of regular folk, while soaring across the cosmos.

 

These things came to mind recently, when explaining to my niece that I had lost track of my days. She spoke about a holiday that was approaching, and I did not perceive it to be drawing near. Moreover, it did not register with importance, as before. We must celebrate? Honor an anniversary of sorts? Because it was deemed important with a reminder on the calendar? The idea had become, for me, quite preposterous.

 

A weekend had passed, but I thought it must be Saturday. Befuddlement caused me to shake my head. Who was right, and which of us was wrong?

 

The end result came as an epiphany. My life-path had been altered. She and I were now on opposite sides of the veil. Her own needs reflected marriage, motherhood, and family stewardship. All noble causes to be honored and cherished.

 

And I was, simply, an old man in a singlewide box. Creaky, cranky, and very much on my own.

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Fire” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Helga Heigel was horrified upon hearing the news that her grandfather had burned down his trailer at Evergreen Estates. But if speaking candidly, she might have admitted to a lingering befuddlement over his initial choice to live in the rural neighborhood. It was a property situated far from any population center, such as Cleveland, where amenities and services were plentiful. Moreover, the isolated development was stuck in a cycle of neglect and decline. It once had been a stepping stone for young couples to begin their lives together, while starting a family. And, a safe space for retirees to live out their golden years. But that era was now little more than a wistful memory. A succession of owners had squeezed every bit of value out of its existence. With little invested, except for minimal repairs that represented a Band-Aid fix for major issues. Now, the remote property was an eyesore for the county where it had been built. A nuisance to law enforcement, and an embarrassment to elected leaders across the region.

 

For several days, she could not locate her bloodline progenitor, anywhere. He didn’t call or send a message. This frightened her with thoughts that he might have somehow fallen into a dark mood of depression, and decided to end his life. But after about 10 days, she received a note in her postal mailbox, indicating that the senior fellow had identified her as an emergency contact with his new residential provider. A group-home environment dubbed Murray Manor, and run by the GMHA, or Geauga Metropolitan Housing Authority. The friendly site was located nearby in Chardon, capital of the local district.

 

Feeling somewhat miffed, she visited immediately. But upon seeing the retired engineer in his new, one-bedroom flat, she quickly became overwhelmed with a sense of relief.

 

“Opa, why would you ruin your trailer and disappear so suddenly? I was terribly worried! I haven’t been able to sleep or eat since it happened!”

 

Rolf was flushed with guilt at hearing this plea for an explanation. But still certain that his choice to torch the longbox dwelling had been wise and just.

 

“Enkelin, verzeih mir, bitte. Forgive me! I acted on impulse, you see. The rent hike by our owners made me furious. I did not think ahead. My phone was left inside, and I could not remember your number. Then, there was much to do. I had applied for this little apartment more than two years ago, and was on a waiting list. But they gave me an approval because of now being homeless. That is what I needed...”

 

Helga embraced him lovingly. Her eyes were full of tears.

 

“Ja, ja, I understand why you might want to move. But starting a fire was crazy! You might have been killed!”

 

The old, German immigrant nodded to accept this verdict. But then offered a bit of insight into his predicament.

 

“Kleines Mädchen, I was stuck in that pit of despair. You know, really, really stuck! By bills that I owed, and a lease I had signed, but also because of my possessions. Many treasures that accumulated over the course of a long history. I wanted to keep those trinkets, but they bogged me down. They were like an anchor. Holding me in place against my will. I could not break free! Day after day, I would greet the sunrise, and give thanks for my life. But also, feel frustrated. Like a prisoner! I have wanted to get out of that black hole for a long time! Yet with every minute, every hour, it seemed to swallow me deeper into the void. I have lost so many things along the way, my wife, friends, neighbors, my career... but it became apparent that I was about to lose myself! When they announced a second rise in our monthly rent, I realized it meant over $100.00 extra, in only the span of a single calendar’s length! What would come next? A third increase? Or a fourth?”

 

His granddaughter sniffled, and dabbed her face with a handkerchief.

 

“Opa, ich verstehe. I understand. But to start a fire, that was so drastic! A crazy solution to your problem! What will they do to you now?”

 

Herr Rolf shrugged and whistled. He did not appear to be concerned about any consequences.

 

“I do not care. What will they take from me? A few weeks or months of living? That is a small sacrifice to give. I am free! The fire made me free. It made me clean again! Literally, human again! No more narrow streets, crumbling to dust. No more outbuildings falling down. No more broken windows and cranky kids roaming around at all hours, in their pickup trucks. No more drunken parties and making drugs, and smoking marijuana. No more of the pipi that Americans call bier, the piss that they drink, like Bud Light! No more! No more!”

 

Helga gathered herself before asking more questions.

 

“So, won’t they take you to court, maybe? For the cost of clearing your lot and dumping the ashes? Are you not concerned?”

 

The European expatriate laughed as if she had been silly in her assessment.

 

“Nein! What can they get from me? I have nothing left. That trailer was my last possession. I don’t even have a car now. Only a small stipend from my retirement plan, it is not enough to battle over, in front of a judge. Let them harass me if they choose. The fire means I am no longer in bondage! No longer a member of the herd. No longer to be treated like a farm animal. I will not be livestock, for anyone!”

 

The young woman was strangely proud of her forebear. But also, wondered about his sanity.

 

“Opa, I live downtown. I like to see events at Playhouse Square. I like concerts. I like the Rock Hall. I like to watch baseball games, and see movies. I like the clubs by Lake Erie. You could have joined me there, it is a great place to live!”

 

Her grandfather lowered his gaze, until looking directly at the floor.

 

“Danke, aber, nein. I will stay here with the other folks who are also tired and gray! We have much in common, you see. We are all limping along, on old bones. This is our final chapter. But, if you really want a partner for going out to see the sights, then I am not far away. Come and get me! I will accompany you anywhere. Anywhere you wish!”          

“Here I Stand”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

Here I stand

Amid the wreckage and chaos of a life well lived

A dip into the conduct that saints must forgive

With regrets and remembrances, spat through a sieve

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

At the precipice of a graduation from this globe

Spinning incessantly over an axis, below

With a discharge dispensed in the consistency of snow

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Unable or unwilling to get out of the way

When gatekeeprs approach, to control yesterday

Guardrails intact guide whatever I say

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Embarrassed yet enabled by my fall from grace

A twist of the plot, with new deeds to embrace

A careless infraction to be noted in disgrace

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

How great is the burden I bear by myself

To be lonely and lost, but undeniably well

Fretting with purpose, like a quill at the inkwell

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Inglorious ingrate, that term is employed

To describe how I look to those deep in the void

A jostle of jesters, who jump wildly for joy

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Chilled to the core by indifference at work

Unrewarded by advantages, or princely, prime perks

More likely to end up on my knees in the dirt

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

A generation removed from traditions of yore

Unable to forget, what I once strived to ignore

A slap on the back and a vow to implore

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

A chill in the air from combatants who fight

At the whims of great thinkers who take heart and delight

In the spilling of blood and the cover of night

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Feckless and fearful, but too hard to halt

A gasp of surprise after opening the vault

Where no treasures remain but trace crystals of salt

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Nonsense and riddles, spun to evoke a smile

And the revealing of a plan to play all the while

A spectacle measured in meters and miles

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Fingers go fumbling, in search of an end

A word to the wise, whispered by a friend

A bow and a wish that they’ll come back again

Here I stand

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Fire”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Rolf Heigel had been at Evergreen Estates since losing his wife, a job at an engineering firm in Cleveland, and his best friend from Germany, all in the span of a single year. Like many young immigrants after World War II, he came to America full of hope and ambition. His goal was to build a better life for himself, far from the rubble of war and economic hardship in Europe. And at first, he had found a level of success never available in his native land. But as the years progressed, he became bitter about having the fruits of his labor confiscated by company owners and investors. Who only came to buy up troubled assets, before squeezing out quick profits, and then dumping what remained. Eventually, he grew to regret the decision he had made as a child. His adopted land remained foreign and confusing. Full of too many lazy, ignorant people who lacked focus, clarity, and motivation in their lives.

 

His last possession with any measurable value was the 1980, Schult trailer where he existed as a hermit and neighborhood outcast. There, he survived on a diet of tinned sardines, tea, and crackers. With an occasional addition of fresh vegetables from open-air markets, in the summer. His minimalist routine was a marvel to others along their street. Yet it let him avoid starvation, while leaving enough to pay bills, and occasionally, contribute to his meager savings account.

 

He might have been revived by the advent of spring, after a hard winter, if conditions had remained as they were for the mobile-home community. But a note in the door, delivered early on a on Monday morning, caused him to lose control. He threw a tantrum that could be heard several lots away, in both directions.

 

“ATTENTION RESIDENTS – Effective on the first of next month, regular rent will be increased by another $75.00. We realize this may create difficulties for some leaseholders and rent-to-own participants, but it is a necessary step to preserve our good standing as a financial entity. We have been forced to carry the burden of rising costs, for everything from fuel to utilities, to maintenance and insurance. Therefore, it is imperative that we secure this operation if it is to endure. We thank you for your patience...”

 

Herr Heigel cursed out loud in his native tongue.

 

“Ach du Lieber! Was ist das? Du kannst zum Teufel gehen! I am tired of being stuck in this horrible pit!”

 

His anger was shared by many in the park. But within the walls of his own, singlewide abode, it resonated more forcefully. He grabbed a polished walking stick, machined out of steel, and started to thrash furnishings and collected trinkets in his home. The result soon looked like a bombing site from when he had been a young boy, across the Atlantic Ocean.

 

“GEH ZUM TEUFEL! GEH ZUM TEFUEL! ICH WILL MEIN HAUS ZERSTÖREN! I WILL DESTROY MY OWN HOUSE, AND LEAVE THIS TORMENT FOREVER!!”

 

Once he had finished breaking up his chairs, microwave cabinet, and antique toys on the entertainment center, he took aim at a window behind his sofa. Glass scattered around his living room. Then, he had to catch his breath. His pulse had quickened to the point of a cardiac event.

 

“Mein hertz... ach, mein hertz...”

 

He slumped in a recliner that was threadbare and stained from years of use. A spot his grandchildren once preferred, when visiting. In an age now lost along with his place in the family. He felt powerless and frustrated. But then, remembered a can of gasoline in his storage shed. Something left from days when he was still able to mow his own lawn as an outside chore that offered relaxation along with a feeling of accomplishment.

 

“Wunderbar! Ich für das verbrennen habe, benzin! I have gasoline for the fire!”

 

With slight hesitation, he trudged down the front steps, across a walkway to his small outbuilding, and fiddled with the broken lock. Inside, he spied the red, plastic vessel next to a Sears shop vac that had not served any real purpose for several years. He lifted the fuel in one hand, while keeping balanced with the walking implement in his other. Then retreated to his doorway. He could feel that his face had reddened. His skin burned, hot and sweaty.

 

There was a surprising amount of petrol in the squarish jug. Enough to trace a path from his back closet, through the master bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen. He finished with a loop around the living area, and up to the narrow hallway by his furnace and water heater. The chemical stink soon filled his nostrils. But it gave him a sense of relief.

 

“VERDAMNT DIESER ORT! DAMN THIS PLACE! ICH HABE GENUG! ENOUGH! ENOUGH! ENOUGH!”

 

A terminal curl of the flammable liquid ended at his porch. He lit a crumpled, brown shopping bag. Then threw it back inside, through the open entrance. The reaction was immediate, and loud. A whoosh of combustion ignited everything with a rapid burst of finality.

 

The senior immigrant cheered in his original language, by offering a command used by the Deutsche military in olden days.

 

“FEUER FREI! FEUER FREI! FEUER FREI!”

 

Reaction from other residents was swift. Sirens sounded as emergency vehicles arrived. Township police and sheriff’s deputies took positions by the office and maintenance garage, to keep order. A woman who had moved to Ohio from Alabama prayed in her driveway. Many spectators took selfies and short videos with their cell phones. One enterprising kid streamed the event via Tik Tok, to gain attention for his own account.

 

Fireman Randle Tait stationed his crew all around the burning, pre-fab hut. He was tall and confident, and well-trained for such operations.

 

“Don’t worry old man, we’ll do our best to save your residence. Though I can’t promise much, as these longboxes catch fire so quickly! Once they start to burn, it’s anyone’s guess what will extinguish the flames!”

 

Herr Heigel smiled unexpectedly, and pulled his knit sweater tightly around both shoulders.

 

“Nein, do not worry about that shack! Let it turn to ashes, mein freund. Once that thing is gone I am free at last! I am finally, forever, freeeeeee!”

 

Nothing To See Here – “Bloodline Confession”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

“If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery – isolation. Isolation is the gift. All others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And you’ll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you’re going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.” – Charles Bukowski

 

My father passed away in April of 2018.

 

Which, oddly, I remember because of the specific date, which was 4-27. I thought it to be quite appropriate at the time because we had always been a family with great interest in motor vehicles of all sorts. And 427 was the displacement of a beefy, V-8 powerplant, built by Ford Motor Company and used in some versions of the legendary Shelby AC Cobra. A fact that fit family inclinations which prevailed in our bloodline, though he had actually owned a plethora of cars. Including some built by Chevrolet, Dodge, Renault, Peugeot, Simca, Saab, and Volkswagen, among other manufacturers.

 

In the months and years since his passing, I have often dreamed about postmortem conversations between us, and the yield of speaking with him from a more mature perspective. But in recent days, this occasional phenomenon produced a lingering memory that I will continue to ponder, for some time.

 

He was at his desk in the home shared with my mother, a two-story relic situated on a rural road that ran up the hillside, from Philippi, West Virginia. A Mountaineer outpost on the Tygart River. As was often the case, he had filled a Pyrex measuring cup with coffee, to avoid making trips from his study to the kitchen. I caught him after chatting in the living room, with other members of our brood. He typically liked to busy himself with books and magazines, or a shortwave radio which could receive broadcasts from around the world. While working on a church bulletin, or a project of some kind for one of his various blogs on the internet. This reluctance to be directly connected to the stream-of-consciousness mirrored the template set by my grandfather. Who also enjoyed having all of us in his orbit, while not necessarily interacting in real time.

 

My sleepy adventure smacked of fantasy, with mixed timelines in effect and a surreal amount of self-awareness, without disturbing this void of recollection. I stood in an open doorway to his home office, and puzzled over the healthy appearance and vitality that he projected. Even in a cloak of the slumbering netherworld I inhabited, some details seemed skewed beyond belief, however.

 

“Doesn’t the old fellow know that he is dead?”

 

As my father puttered away at his keyboard, I gestured for attention with a humble wave of my right hand.

 

“Dad, I want to confess something. This will sound ridiculous, perhaps, but I get your vibe. It was always something of a mystery to me, as a young kid, and teenager. Even when I left our household, and married. You were, by my own estimation, stooped and slow, and reluctant to do things that I knew were appealing. I heard stories about your adventures, growing up in Columbus, and marveled at the energy you must have had. It confused me greatly. I wondered how such a metamorphosis could transpire. But now, I don’t wonder any longer. As said before, I get it. I get you. I get your vibe...”

 

My sire was dressed in the typical garb of a retired citizen from the Midwest. A short-sleeve shirt, certainly acquired from the Sears & Roebuck catalog, with a striped pattern long out of style. And pens in the pocket. Worn with polyester trousers, patterned socks, and casual shoes. No element of his outfit matched any other in the ensemble. He was not visually coordinated.

 

“You get me? How is that, Rodney? What changed your mind after all these years?”

 

I coughed lightly and cleared my throat, before answering in a subdued and honest tone.

 

“Because, Dad, I am tired.”

 

My remark caused him to look up from his monitor, with a measure of amusement. An expression of surprise passed as he noted that I was using two disability canes to stay upright, like his own.

 

“Tired you are? How do you mean?”

 

I had to clear my throat for a second time. Crafting an explanation off-the-cuff was more challenging than I expected.

 

“I don’t intend to suggest being tired of life, or creative pursuits, or the magic of existing. All those components continue to amaze me. They are gifts. I cherish them equally. But my body, my physical form. My mortal coil. My tortoise shell. It is fatigued and spent. I struggle to get out of bed in the morning. I struggle to make coffee. Often, I eat a plain breakfast, to avoid standing at the counter for too long. One piece of white bread, used to make what I call a ‘foldover sandwich.’ With ham or bologna inside, and some sliced cheese. Maybe a dollop of horseradish sauce, to provide extra flavor. I never describe this to anyone else of course, because they would probably burst into a fit of laughter. It hurts to get back to my chair.”

 

He smiled with understanding. My description was quite familiar.

 

“Yes, that is very likely, son. But your habits seem reasonable.”

 

I sighed heavily, with the realization that he had been gone for an extended period. I wanted to ask questions, and seek his advice. I often missed hearing his voice. But instead of wisely using my opportunity, I simply slouched against the door frame, and shook my head.

 

“This is what it’s like, right? To get older, and watch family members and friends pass away. That parade seems to continue unabated. No matter what kind of grief and introspection it brings. One after another, after another. And all I can do in response is to feel tired. I am tired, Dad. Not depressed, or sorrowful, or even lonely as I work at my own desk. But thoroughly and completely tired. Nothing comes easily anymore...”

 

My progenitor nodded and took off his reading glasses. He looked directly into my eyes.

 

“I’m glad to hear that you are staying busy. That is the goal, Rodney. To stay busy, like I did, right until the end. When you are tired, it means you’ve done something worthwhile. Keep going. Go until you can’t go anymore.”

 

I awakened just after six o’clock in the morning. My joints were aching. My bladder called out for relief. And I felt somewhat dizzy, sitting on the edge of my mattress. A momentary pause allowed me to realign my thoughts.

 

I was nearing the age of 65. He had been 88 on his deathbed. Yet both of us lived similar lives, though at differing points in the continuum. If nothing else, I reckoned that synchronicity would keep us together. On opposite sides of the eternal veil, yet still undeniably connected.

 

I was pleased that we had been able to chat, in my dream. And to confess finally understanding what it meant to be tired.

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Fifteen)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

After Pyotr Sache had posted his updated content on the Southern Charms website, there was a lull in activity at the rural, trailer enclave. Then, a Facebook group set up for residents of the community exploded with comments about the outlandish video production. One in particular set the tone for an ongoing discussion about the anonymous instigator, and his possible identity, within the ranks of residents at Evergreen Estates.

 

“Is that dude the cocky, bald guy who lives on my street? WTF, he’s always picking on the poor lady from Russia. It looks like she got her revenge, in that clip, anyway. You go girl! When he’s done kissing your boots, he can kiss my ass!”

 

Oren Kronk had fit in well with the park population, in terms of his cultural preferences and political opinions, at least. But a quick fall from grace occurred, when many began to speculate that he must have initiated the scandal himself, through a work of AI mischief. Those who passed his boxcar home tooted their horns and chanted improvised jeers that sent him fleeing to a back room where he could shut the door and cover his ears. The cadence was like a Jerry Springer episode.

 

“KISS HER BOOT, DOG! KISS HER BOOT! KISS HER BOOT!”

 

For Townshend Lincoln, who had no involvement in the controversy, or online speculation about its creation, the shaming of his redneck neighbor was somewhat amusing. But he stayed in place on the front porch. Drinking and watching as other inhabitants paraded up and down their broken boulevard.

 

Finally, the brash bully appeared at their office by the maintenance garage. He pounded on the windowless door for attention, with a baseball bat, until Dana Alvarez called for him to enter.

 

“What, you can’t turn the knob like everybody else? Ayyyyyy! Don’t come here in a bad mood, I need to get things done. Not listen to bull mierda! Okay? What is your problem, caballero?”

 

Oren dragged his weapon on the floor. He had started to sweat, profusely.

 

“What’re y’all gonna do about this made-up foolishness on the damn computer? Somebody screwed with my picture, and put it on the internet! I’ll beat then senseless when I figure it out!”

 

Dana scratched her head, and lit a menthol cigarette.

 

“It ain’t you in the video, right? The thing is fake?”

 

Her tenant nodded angrily.

 

“THAT’S WHAT I SAID! SOMEBODY HERE IS MESSIN’ WITH ME! I’LL BUST ‘EM RIGHT IN THE FRIGGIN’ CHOPS!”

 

The ownership representative shrugged, and blew a stream of tobacco smoke in the air.

 

“Like, the woman is also not real, correcto? You don’t know nothing about her...”

 

The loudmouth troublemaker sputtered to give a coherent reply.

 

“Well no, dammit! I mean, some of the whores and dicks around here are blamin’ me, but they can’t prove a freakin’ thing! Screw ‘em! Screw ‘em all!”

 

Dana adjusted the red bandana tied around her hair.

 

“Right, okay, so what you want for me to do? You don’t know, I don’t know, that lady, she probably don’t know either. Somebody have their fun and you stand here complaining. I tell you this, pay your lot rent on time, and make no problem for me! Comprende? Let it go.”

 

Oren was unsatisfied with her admonition to deescalate the situation. On the way back to his own singlewide abode, he changed direction, and marched to the space where his Russian adversary was tending to her garden.

 

“HEY, FAT BITCH! ARE Y’ALL HAVIN’ A GOOD LAUGH ABOUT PEEOPLE SHITTIN’ ON ME? I HOPE YER DIGGIN’ IT! ‘CAUSE I’M ABOUT TO WRECK THIS EFFING SHACK. UNLESS YA GET OUTTA HERE, RIGHT NOW!”

 

Mockbina stripped off her earphones and frowned intently. She was covered in potting soil from the flower bed.

 

“You are cowboy, perhaps? I see you must talk beeg and put hands on hips. In my country we call this by word you cannot pronounce. It mean a weakling, with no backbone. I am not afraid, I think. Only do I laugh. Go home now, I must plant new seeds for my garden...”

 

Her unadmitted adversary narrowed his eyes, and lifted the baseball bat to his shoulder.

 

“HAVE A GOOD LAUGH, PRINCESS! WHEN I SWING THIS STICK, YER TEETH WILL BE FLYIN’ EVERYWHERE!”

 

From behind, the sound of a shotgun being readied to fire sounded, ominously. With a single, fluid motion, Oren spun on his heel. Then, dropped the bat and cowered, submissively. His reserve of righteous indignation had evaporated.

 

Lincoln carried the Ithaca Model 37 from his bedroom closet, in hand. He did not appear to be in an argumentative mood.

 

“Do ya remember our confrontation from a few weeks ago? I don’t waste any breath repeating myself, so here’s the one warning ya get. Step back from the brink, gambler! Leave this woman to tidy up her yard. And don’t come to this lot again. I’ve been in this junkyard fer damn near a quarter-century. Those are years I’ll never get back, it’s been like a prison sentence most of the time. But I’ve survived on my own. Just like this lady immigrant has survived. Just like Granny Maylene, Trina Trelane, Darby on the other side, and Garter Haines down the street have survived. Every one of us has found a way to make it work. Mine is staying on that bench over there, with a bottle of whiskey nearby. I can’t live in this dump and be sober! Just like I can’t listen to a jackass joker threaten this dame with bodily harm, when she’s done nothing to make his boxer shorts ride up! Yer a gawdamn fool, neighbor. A fool with lessons to learn about how ya ought to treat other people. Most importantly, a fool who has a lot to lose right now, when I pull this trigger! So spin the Roulette wheel, friend! I’m good one way or the other!”

 

Oren felt his knees go weak. There was a trickle of dampness in his blue jeans.

 

“You got balls, old man. I’ll give ya that. And they must be big tomatas!”

 

The drunken loner smiled with satisfaction. He was glad not to waste his ammunition on the rowdy provocateur.

 

“And you got none at all, brother. How about that?”

 

Mockbina returned to her chore without engaging in any conversation. Instead, she sang along with another track by Dolly Parton, via her cellphone app, while staying busy.

 

“Here come you, again

Just when I get together

You waltz in door

Like you do, before

My heart you wrap ‘round finger

Here come you, again

I make it work without you

You look at eyes that are mine

And tell lies so pretty

Then I wonder how I doubt

All you got to do is smile

And I have no defense

Leave it for a while

You mess up my mind

And here I go...”