“Overnight Verse”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

Deep in the dark of night

Scattering my bedding, in search of a place to be still

Drifting in and out a world beyond the veil

Visions beyond the pale

I forget sometimes, on which side this episode began

Wandering, wondering

Still ignorant to the guise

Which protects me from being identified

I pause at intervals chosen by chance

In front of a luminous, digital display

A key to the unconscious pathway

That is open when I sleep

A voyage, fantastic

Unreal, unlived

Yet convincing in its lies

For a moment at least, I believe

I accept what the mind perceives

Conversing with those I have not seen

Loving hearts

Lyrically smooth, with a verse turned on its head

Gentle enough, but cold instead

This touch brings a chill

And then I am awake once more

Sat on the crushed edge of my mattress

Peering at the green squares

Silently ticking off time, while I am unaware

Close at hand, but distant enough to be disconnected

Invisible wires frayed and broken

A prayer for healing left unspoken

Until the dawn

Until that beaming burst of brightness

Offers its blessing

And a new day begins

Winds of change

Scattering the dustbins

Along a street marked with rueful events

A lost, lonely sense

Comes to fill my pores

I might have imagined more

If given the opportunity to wake in the midst of this lesson

But I have not yet expired the session

Not yet reached the edge

Dozing and drooling

Yarn spooling

Into a knitted fabric on which I recline

This destination is mine

But one set as a target without any pretense of pride

I am simply along for the ride

Eyes closed

A cough of mucous in my throat

Cleared like the crystal panes I imagine

Glowing and colorful

In the chapel arch

They call across the divide

As I linger in a netherworld

Neither here nor there, in fact

A wayward walk, off the track

Falling through levels of being, distilled

To the circumference of a medicinal pill

One I will take at the morn

Water glass in my grasp

With other prescriptions to clasp

Steadied on the countertop

The blind voyage had to be stopped

Now the waves are still

A sunrise, supreme

Replaces the shadows, and comfort of moonbeams

A new day is alive

As the old one will die

This is how the story ends, with a blank space

And a nod to grace

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Eight)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Townshend Lincoln slept restlessly as the wind gusts continued to howl overnight. The entire trailer rocked and shook on its concrete slab. There were noises of debris and outdoor furniture flying around in the yard. Gaps in the window seals whistled and buzzed. This cacophony infused his dreams with images of mayhem and chaos. And from the midst of that meteorological sideshow, he heard the voice of his neighbor, echoing with purpose. Her frank comment on his living space had been accurate, if harsh.

 

“I not pay attention so much, before. Now I see things. You require a strong wife, I think. Perhaps she would leave you instead of living here? I see so much to do. Bad, bad, bad!”

 

That descriptive term grew louder in his head, until finally, he shouted so violently that it ended his slumber. For a moment, he was disoriented, and had to sit on the edge of his bed.

 

“WIFE? SHE ACTUALLY SAID, WIFE?”

 

He was groggy until managing to stand, find a disability cane, and traipse through the short, narrow hallway to his living room. There, he sat at the end of his couch, in a chair bought from a thrift store near their county capital. Sunrise was still an hour away. But he had exhausted the possibility of sleep by thrashing around on his mattress. A check of his cellular phone confirmed that gusts reached 85 mph while he slept. But surprisingly, also testified that the power hadn’t been interrupted for their rural location. A small miracle considering the utility outages of previous years.

 

Across the lane from his singlewide box, Mockbina had also been unconsciously affected by the bluster of Mother Nature, while attempting to rest her body. She was swept through an eerie vision of her husband, and his fellow soldiers, battling in Ukraine. A war they never desired. That endless conflict had robbed her of inner peace and security. With the eventual result that she fled to a new world, around the globe from her native land. She still struggled to make friends, while learning another language. But something about her new contact with the shaggy hair and threadbare attire felt enduring. He caused her to gasp sometimes, and even avert her eyes in an act of self-preservation. Yet for her, without words to describe the emotional bond, he held a sort of crude appeal. His attitude was rooted in contrarian independence. An ability to exist without being coddled or praised, or helped along the way. This mirrored her own tilt toward survival. She did not want to be indebted to anyone. Except, perhaps, for a loving creator to whom she prayed at the St. Theodosius church.

 

Through an expansive, bay window, at the front of her trailer, she saw that the old bum had moved to his wooden bench with a metal, campfire pot of coffee. And a white, ribbed mug that stood tall enough to hold a generous round of black java. Her interest reverberated as he loafed through a breakfast of plain biscuits, dipped in the hot beverage. To see the senior hermit on his favorite perch, sober for the moment and silent in reflection, was uncommon. But she guessed that perhaps, it was an activity more frequent than first expected. Something she missed while hurrying off to her job site in Middlefield.

 

With a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, she crept across the street. Then, joined her friend on his porch without being invited.

 

“I not have a good night much. There is too many noises, I think. It spin my head around. I worry that the trailer will break in half! Or maybe be under a tree, wery soon. You understand?”

 

Lincoln nodded, while offering to share his invigorating drink. Something that brightened the early morning.

 

“Yeah, same over here. I figured my guest chairs and trash bin would end up at another lot. But somehow, they stayed close. I left lights burning in the bathroom, and kitchen. And it never got dark inside. I can’t figure how that was possible, but damn, I’ll take it! Good deal!”

 

The Russian female smiled and cradled her steaming mug in both hands, for warmth.

 

“Yes, as you say, a good deal it is!”

 

The reclusive loner slouched on his seat.

 

“Do ya notice how quiet it gets after a storm? All that damn racket, and then nothing. It’s weird really, people like to caterwaul about their problems. But when this kind of shit goes down, they get all humble. Not bitching so much about life then, just showing gratitude. I’m here, you’re here, that’s good enough for the moment. Neither of us got blowed away...”

 

Mockbina shivered from the cold.

 

“I am too beeg for that, maybe. You also are not tiny, I think. We stand our ground? As you say, a good deal.”

 

The habitual drunk patted his belly.

 

“Gawdamn right, I’m stout enough fer a strong wind! No worries over being a kite. I’m more like a freaking boat anchor. It keeps my ass where its planted!”

 

His foreign contact covered her mouth to keep from laughing. She rolled her eyes with amusement.

 

“You are what some at work say, is goof. A goof! But I like goofing, maybe. I must like the American goof wery much.”

 

Lincoln snorted after a swig of grounds. Having social contact without the benefit of alcohol made him slightly uncomfortable. Yet he was glad for her company. It had been a long time since he could tolerate the presence of another human being, with such ease.

 

“Ma’am, as my brother used to say, ‘Call me whatever ya want, just don’t call me late fer dinner.’ I reckon that goes fer me as well...”

 

Mockbina grabbed her neighbor by his shoulders. Unintentionally, he had just provided a burst of inspiration.

 

“Yes, that is a good deal, I think. Deen-er. You like? I make some deen-er for us both, when it is spring, maybe. We have a picnic in the grass. You share stories with me? I also share with you, stories. We have good time. I promise.”

 

The graying boozer felt his face turning red. He hadn’t enjoyed a meal with anyone in years. Scattered crumbs around his favorite chair in the living room testified to the careless and solitary nature of dining under primitive conditions. Something he did out of necessity.

 

“Yeah sure, I reckon that’d be okay. But remember now, yer reputation won’t be bettered by being seen at this lot. I’m in a kind of sinkhole over here. Nobody comes this way unless they intend to collect on a debt or lay down the law. Otherwise, I’m invisible. For which I am glad as hell!”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Seven)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

For Townshend Carr Lincoln, one perplexing component of his life at Evergreen Estates was the continuous echo of who and what he had been before arriving at the rural, trailer oasis. Though that free-spirited individual had long ago passed into history, remnants lingered. Almost as if he carried multiple personalities within his battered skull, most of which were now dormant. In his current state, many simple tasks and pleasures were beyond reach. But he knew that at some point, they had been commonplace. For example, getting out of a chair without being boosted by arm strength, and calling upon the Lord for help. Perhaps walking up a short flight of steps, to his front porch. Even assisting an elderly neighbor across the street with menial chores, such as shoveling her driveway, or returning a garbage pail after it had been emptied.

 

Shortly after moving to the park, he had been in a hurry to exit his work vehicle, upon arriving home. For the purpose of opening a cold brew, to ease his mood of fatigue. But instead, he managed to carelessly lock the keys inside his truck. This left him stranded, late in the dark of night. He did not know anyone else at the isolated development. So, to avoid engaging in a fit of frustration, he opened a 12-pack of suds purchased in Geneva, near Lake Erie. Then proceeded to guzzle the contents, while pondering his plight. Eventually, he spied a small window which was over his kitchen sink. He guessed that using his own trash bin as a brace would allow him to climb through that portal, and leverage himself to the floor, inside.

 

A spare set of hardware for such emergencies was hanging by the front door.

 

With the foggy benefit of hindsight, he often considered that incredible feat in modern times. How could it have been possible? His joints were now overwhelmed with arthritis, and disability. Two canes were required, just to stand, and walk. Every stressful duty left him panting, and struggling to retain his balance. But some 24 years in the distance, before the decline of his body had begun, there was a time of hope. He had been ambitious and persistent. Upbeat about his talents and desires. Ready to face new challenges, as they came.

 

Living on the swampy soil of his boxcar village did not necessarily cause this fall from grace. Yet it intensified the collapse. Everything about the crumbling community validated his alienation. It hardened him with daily struggles. It drove him into seclusion, and a sense of revulsion at those who shared his exile. They were all crew members on a ghost ship, sailing uneasily on stormy seas. With the stain of their low social status weighing heavily. This madness might not have been so terrible to experience, if simply jettisoned in favor of embracing his current self. But the echoes persisted. Creaks and groans of yonder days, reflected across the cold, critical environment in which he sat. His rented slab of concrete seemed to ooze a stench of decay. It reflected other dwellings that had occupied the same space, before. With other inhabitants, bent under the burden of other calamities. Other bereavements. Other failures. Other causes to seek negation and anonymity.

 

The Russian immigrant across from his trailer did not know of these things, however. She passed no judgment on his stooped physique, or slow pace. She did not urge him to modify his gloomy outlook, or drinking habits. Her opinions were held silently. In a cocoon spun from the ravages of a foreign war, and her own widowhood.

 

This made Mockbina a perfect companion, for someone who did not seek the company of anyone.

 

With a weekend again drawing near, the weather had turned seasonally unpredictable. High winds howled through the downhill property. Pieces of vinyl skirting lay everywhere. Random debris pitched and rolled across yards and empty lots.

 

Lincoln had taken his spot on the wooden bench, outside, when the stocky femme appeared. He lifted his jug in an offer of friendship. And observed that the combative weather had been expected, upon reading his calendar.

 

“They say that March comes in like a lion, and goes out like a lamb. But I reckon that Mother Nature waits till the home opener for Cleveland’s baseball team gets done. Then she’ll give us a reprieve...”

 

The puzzled outsider shook her head, and smiled. She whispered something unintelligible, in her native tongue.

 

“You talk like this, of lion and also lamb. It gives me to laugh, I think. What is this? An American saying?”

 

The shaggy hermit shrugged in a confession of ignorance.

 

“No idea, ma’am. That must be an old saying I suppose. My grandma uttered it every year...”

 

Mockbina had to pull the knit cap tighter, over her head. Gusts of wind tugged at her logo jacket, from the cheese factory in Middlefield.

 

“My leetle shed is rocking on its foundation. I think maybe the walls come down on me! I get trapped in bed. How you live like this, Link? Always noise and problems. I think my tiny village at home was now, not so bad. You here have no peace! But at least I know you are close.”

 

Lincoln sputtered a mouthful of brown liquor.

 

“Close to what, I damn well don’t know! Falling on my face, probably...”

 

Skies overhead their location had turned dark. Then, a hard rain began to pelt the landscape. Instinctively, the weary boozer, opened his storm door.

 

“C’mon inside, lady! It’s too freaking wild out here to walk home. Sit with me fer a minute, until this gale blows past...”

 

The singlewide abode was dusty, crowded with moving boxes, and cramped for usable space. It reeked of spilled alcohol, mold, and neglect. Old blankets hung in the windows. Broken furniture had been patched and repurposed with bungee cords, duct tape, and glue. Everything carried the aura of a flea market, or thrift store.

 

The Russian dame covered her eyes, defensively. Everything was a mess.

 

“I not pay attention so much, before. Now I see things. You require a strong wife, I think. Perhaps she would leave you instead of living here? I see so much to do. Bad, bad, bad!”

 

Lincoln chortled and took a righteous swallow of bourbon.

 

“See that’s how I survive, ma’am. I don’t give a frig about any of that. As a matter of fact, I just don’t give a damn!”

“Drones & Drums”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

The eastern world is on fire

Real-time updates through an invisible wire

Sending drones and throwing stones

A day of dread for dredging up old bones

The drums of war tempt those in charge

With defense contractors, living large

An easy task to convince the crowd

Till bombs emerge from beyond the clouds

In a distant land, dig those graves

A challenge for, this home of the brave

A tisket, a tasket, mayhem in the breadbasket

Ready mourners around the casket

This sacrifice, they say is nigh

Judgment comes from stormy skies

What was proclaimed to be a win

Revolves on its axis, an eternal spin

Piles of dirt and corpse debris

A tribute to this land of the free

Craters like a gaping maw

Pundits preach a linguistic buzzsaw

I might have guessed that the time would tick

Until Mother Earth became woefully sick

Her round reserve of nature, lost

A stain removed, but at such a cost

A king confined to his gilded chair

A nation naïve, and unaware

With strikers soaring on robot wings

Flocks of folly, with no ropes or strings

Coming this way, coming that

A golden dividend, on a welcome mat

Pinned and held for long enough

To prove the worth of sterner stuff

Fiddle while the empire burns

In perpetuity, the world will turn

A globe that gleams with crimson red

A skeletal figure in an unmade bed

Broken homes and promises, galore

A bonanza for the weapons store

Feeble fires of protest may linger

But those cowering cranks get the middle finger

Loudly expressing patriot glee

An anthem written of victory

Whatever price is tallied on the tab

Will be written off at the next party confab

A duel, a dance, a squared circle, defined

Loyalty rules the heart and mind

Do not question, what saints obey

Let the losers have their say

In the end, every compass calls

The direction where an arrow will fall

No doubt can thrive when the fate is sealed

A silent twist on a vocal appeal

Count the fallen, repeat their names

A roster of heroes, given up for war games

Mighty is the retort I hear

Gnashing teeth and grinding gears

A march of forces, moving slow

A confrontation of warrior foes

Blood and treasure expelled like dust

Cannon fodder, ruin and rust

A collapsing crest, no longer supreme

A nightmare ending to a vivid dream

A sword once brandished with fierce intent

Now a mere footnote of history, spent

The blue turns gray, as rain amends

What once transpired between feuding friends

No news is good, this I believe

Only the penitent will receive

A touch of grace from the creator of all

As for the others, chips will fall

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Six)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Townshend Lincoln had never been particularly popular with other residents at Evergreen Estates. But while this status might have embarrassed or worried most inhabitants of the trailer community, it gave him a sense of validation. He did not seek to be beloved by anyone. Certainly not those who swelled the isolated park with their numbers. Along his crumbling avenue, there were rusted-out vehicles, piles of lumber, broken windows, sagging rooflines, and longbox homes being heated with tree stumps or construction debris. He had little in common with any of those struggling exiles, except for a condition of poverty and hopelessness. That alone made him fit the neighborhood paradigm. He was lost in a social vacuum of downward mobility. Deeper in debt and darkness, with each passing day.

 

Yet when the afternoon arrived, and his stash of beverage alcohol was tapped, suddenly, that woeful slide halted. He felt invigorated by drunkenness. Revived, resurrected, and reborn. Only with the arrival of some wandering fool, or well-meaning missionary, did any sense of the outside world appear. Otherwise, he remained blissfully disconnected, and content.

 

After opening a fresh jug of Kentucky bourbon, as it rained gently over the outside edge of his inset porch, he felt a flush of redness in his cheeks. Then, footsteps sounded from the bottom of his access ramp. They were light, and quick. As if someone were about to visit, but as a result of duty, not free choice.

 

Park manager Dana Alvarez had her black hair pulled back with a red bandana. She wore running attire, as if in the midst of a jog around the perimeter of their property.

 

“Heyy! Buenos Dias, Viejo! How are you, old man? I don’t get around to inspect lots too much, the maintenance guy does that for me. But I heard about some trouble here, yesterday. So, I want to ask what went down, okay? Now, don’t get twisted about it! Just tell me why you whacked somebody’s truck, maybe the rumor was a lie even. I don’t know! This place is always kinda crazy, I don’t believe too much with no proof.”

 

Lincoln had emptied his whiskey tumbler, before she came to call. He sat the glass on a railing by his wooden bench, and leaned forward over both knees.

 

“Look, if there was gossip going around about me, I don’t really give a shit. Nobody showed up from the sheriff’s department, so I figured it was a settled score. I handled it...”

 

The property supervisor shook her head, and groaned out loud.

 

“Link, you always got a cabeza dura, bruh! A hard head! Which is not big deal with me, you pay your rent on time, every month. Your check is always the first in my drop-box. And you don’t mess with people. That is why I have to ask, because I get no complaints till now. What happened, compadre? Dios Mio, you put a hole in some dude’s windshield? With your fist? Show me your hand, is it broken?”

 

The boozing hermit grinned slightly. Then nodded for affirmation.

 

“C’mon, simmer down. I did it with one of my canes. The square handle is like an icebreaker! Oren Kronk was too damn belligerent with a lady across the street. She likes to sing in her yard. I didn’t appreciate his attitude...”

 

 Dana narrowed her eyes.

 

“He was mad about that? What the heck?”

 

Lincoln nodded again. He wanted to resume swigging his liquor, instead of answering pointless queries.

 

“She don’t get her words right sometimes. She messes ‘em up. The woman is Russian, her native tongue is a damn mystery to me. I don’t know how they can read with all those backwards letters, and such. Anyhow, that pissed off the cowboy. I’m a little bit surprised that he’s no fan of Dolly Parton. I thought everybody liked her music...”

 

The ownership steward crossed her arms and huffed.

 

“He gets snippy with me too. Pendejo! He can beso my culo grande! Two times!”

 

Lincoln lifted his bourbon jug, as a salute.

 

“He got a pass at first, I wanted to let it slide. My bones were already aching. But that mouth wouldn’t quit. He seemed to think I was too crippled for combat. I don’t have a lot of patience when shit gets stirred up...”

 

Dana tilted her head to one side.

 

“Nobody from the policia pounded on your door? No sheriff either? No sirens screaming? Nobody kicking your wall?”

 

The lonely resident shrugged and took a sip of brown liquor. He had grown tired of the inquisition.

 

“Nah, not at all. Nothing. I figured he might have a burr under his saddle, and call for reinforcements. But those people know me pretty well. I’ve stayed on good terms with the law since moving to this rat hole. You know, I’ve lived here a long time. I’ve seen a lot of stupid shit. Unless there was a good reason to move off my spot, I would’ve stayed put. The gendarmes know I can’t walk too good. I can’t do much of anything, these days...”

 

Their park master closed her eyes, while smiling broadly. She could not hide her satisfaction over hearing of the redneck instigator being humbled.

 

“Honest, old man, I’m kinda surprised you had bolas that big! You are still a bull, I guess! Viva Link! Viva Link!”

 

He snorted, and scratched his gray beard. In truth, he felt more like a broken mule. But accepted her compliment gratefully.

 

“Yeahhh, I’m slow as hell ma’am, but not dead just yet. I can still rock when it’s time fer a fight. That woman across the street ain’t a nuisance to me. She don’t bother anybody. I don’t give a frig if she works in her flower garden, and sings along with her tunes...”

Dana sighed and patted the shaggy alcoholic on his shoulder.

 

“No worries. If I get a call, I’ll tell them I don’t know nothing. But stay clear of Mr. Kronk, okay? You can’t pay your lot rent from jail!”

 

The contrarian drunk raised his eyebrows, with defiance. His tone of voice elevated to a roar.

 

“YOU TELL THAT COWPOKE TO KEEP AWAY FROM THE CHEESE LADY AND HER DAMNED FLOWER BED! AND BY GOD, STAY THE EFF AWAY FROM ME!”

Nobody Reads This Page – “Benefits Received”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

“No sympathy for the devil; keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride... and if it occasionally gets a little heavier than what you had in mind, well... maybe chalk it up to forced consciousness expansion: Tune in, freak out, get beaten.”

 

Over the course of my life, I have developed certain theories about human existence. Conclusions of a sort gathered from an extended, informal study of this mortal condition. Made generally without applying strict rules of observation, and archiving data. Instead, this pursuit has happened while simply being present in the moment. Eyes open, heart beating, and mind yearning to gain knowledge.

 

What I have seen, first-hand, is what I know.

 

Relating the yield of this adventure might be challenging if it were delivered in a public setting, with real-time scrutiny, and analysis. Yet for this writer, my work is presented here, in a forum generally ignored by all. As stated in the masthead, ‘Nobody Reads This Page.’ Therefore, I speak freely and without inhibitions. No mood of introspection causes me to be shy, and reluctant. I do not hesitate when admitting an odd truism, which now, seems to be a bedrock foundation upon which my personality rests:

 

That moments of quiet agony, when I stumbled, failed, and suffered were painful for me, but good for my art. A conundrum that rules everything I have done, and will do, until the end of days is nigh.

 

I never pondered this epiphany much as a younger fellow. When the desire to write and be read was very strong. I wished to follow in the footsteps of my genetic and intellectual sire, someone who was a published author, scholar, and theologian. His example drove me to seek achievement. I wanted to make him proud, in the sense that I had inherited some measure of his wordsmithing artistry, and command of general understanding. But my manuscripts were always flaccid, and mushy. They had no snap of a genuine substance. No boldness, no edge. I could turn a phrase, occasionally. Perhaps even wittily muse over subjects of various sorts. Yet these experiments lacked the sharp precipice of a rocky cliff. From which ideas might dangle and dare to fly, or fall.

 

I craved that urgency. An insistent force of need to inspire the creative process. Despite this lacking, I had two fictional stories published in a California, cult gazette known as Biker Lifestyle Magazine. That reward gave me the courage to continue. But I needed to grow beyond the status of a seedling, into something more complete.

 

After attempting to live on my own in the Finger Lakes Region of New York, where I miserably proved to be too weak for the challenges of adulthood, a return home to Ohio offered salvation. It was then that I received a most important nugget of wisdom, from my mentor. With obvious empathy, and some frustration, he watched as I hammered out lines of text with an old, manual, Royal typewriter, sat on our coffee table in the living room. That space was where I slept as well, because there were no more beds available in the household, when I arrived on foot.

 

He delivered a sage admonition that literally upset my inner balance, in a good way:

 

“Write from your own experiences. You know them better than anything else.”

 

At first, this piece of wisdom appeared to be somewhat insignificant. Perhaps even obvious, to the point of philosophical irrelevance. But as I began the task of creating a third document for the outlaw publication which had embraced my product, the true value of this advice hit home. Still reeling emotionally from an exit-in-rags, after leaving the Empire State, I infused some of my own rugged memories into the storyline. What resulted was a flash of authenticity. A spark of genuine enlightenment. The cherished gift that my benefactor had predicted.

 

I called my motorcycling tale, ‘Once More A Drifter.’

 

Many years later, after career loss, divorces, bankruptcy, and family exile, I realized that by extension, the guidance I received in yonder days now included another stanza. Not only was there genuine worth in drawing upon personal events, for inspiration, but a strange twist on this truth had also come into effect. The revelation that while my errors in judgment might have precipitated woeful results, they bolstered the art which I considered to be of paramount importance.

 

Hard times equaled better work in my home office.

 

I was stunned by this fact, at first. Because, as most people do by choice, I had sought the comfort of success. I wanted to gain accolades and awards for myself. Rightful recognition. Fame in a sense of being known. Renown among my peers. Or at least, those whom I perceived to be peers, in the craft of writing. But only by crawling through the mud, through hardships and depravation, through loneliness and obscurity, had I gotten anything right. To be denied was my call to cation. It kept me focused and forceful. Able to concentrate on goals that mattered. Without that motivation, my mind would become lazy. My skills would diminish.

 

The crazed, creative essence to which I had been distilled would be no more.

 

When I confessed this belief to Yarrow Rogan, a close friend from my previous life, he was puzzled and perplexed. Even over our wireless connection, via a cellular phone, I could sense his reluctance to accept what I had declared. His voice groaned out a petition for reassessment.

 

“C’mon dude, you’re saying that effing things up gave ya a better life? What the hell, that makes no sense! I never got anything out of making a mess. All it did was kick me in the ass! I think maybe you’ve had too much to drink!”

 

I was sober, not only so far as being free from alcohol, but also in terms of thinking clearly.

 

“No, listen, this is an incredible shift for me. I used to want a better life. More friends, a higher income, a pleasant living space, all the trappings of success. A collection of records and books, and guitars. But here I sit, with many of those trophies in my case, and they mean nothing. What shaped my outlook wasn’t stockpiling assets, but feeling the gnawing cold of a night on the concrete. The harsh tongue of a critic, pointing out my own inability to stay smart. The hungry pangs in my belly, after going days and weeks without a solid meal. Those were my teachers. From them, I learned how to be better, to do better, and thrive...”

 

My excitement did not resonate so well during our brief conversation. Yet after the chat ended, I realized that Hunter S. Thompson had long ago provided a similar wrinkle on this subject, before anyone else.

 

“Buy the ticket, take the ride.”

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Five)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

After the overnight rescue via his neighbor Mockbina, Townshend Lincoln was embarrassed to the point of withdrawal. He felt exposed by the incident. Though a genuine concern for his own health was not a factor. If the end arrived while he lay in a drunken stupor, alone, that would be a just termination of his existence. He did not fret over the thought, or fear it coming. Yet the idea of being outed as someone teetering on the brink of personal destruction was humiliating. It pierced the protective bubble of his privacy. And left him on public display with his new companion, and the entire community.

 

For the Russian immigrant, however, what resulted from this unexpected happening was completely opposite. She felt empathy for her friend across the street, of a sort never experienced since her childhood. Life in her native land had been rough and challenging. She had no time for self-pity or worrying. Strength and faith carried her through each day. A toughness developed from surviving hardships. Now, with this odd revelation, she had begun to understand the cranky, contrarian nature of her cohort. They both had found ways to thrive amid difficult conditions. And grown more able to cope, from that accomplishment.

 

As another, warmer weekend arrived, she once again began to work in her tiny garden, a rectangular box of flowers that fronted the trailer where she lived. A cellular device in her pocket streamed free music from a tier on Spotify. An app suggested by someone at the cheese factory in Middlefield. She sang along joyfully with Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton as best she could, rendering an interpretation in broken English.

 

“Islands in a stream

That what we are, I think

No one between

We cannot be wrong

Islands in stream

Sail with me now

To world, another one

We rely on each other

We rely from one to another

We rely...”

 

Her labor yielded a better mood than working at the business venue in Amish country. But not everyone appreciated her hack of the classic tune. With local residents rolling by, Oren Kronk appeared in his jacked-up, Silverado pickup. An oversized Gadsden flag streamed from a post mounted in its bed. He had been in a fight with his girlfriend, earlier in the afternoon, and huffed along in a foul mood. Upon seeing the foreign femme puttering with her decorative, floral assets, he stopped in front of the gravel driveway. Then, rolled down his window and began to curse.

 

“HEY COMMIE BITCH, YER A GAWDAMN DISGRACE! I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE FRIG BROUGHT THAT FAT ASS TO AMERICA, BUT YA SHOULD’VE TAKEN SOME LESSONS IN ENGLISH BEFORE COMIN’ HERE! Y’ALL ARE WORSE THAN THE ILLEGALS FLOODIN’ OUR BORDER! AT LEAST THEY RUN ‘N HIDE WHEN A REAL PATRIOT SHOWS UP! I SEE YA WIGGLIN’ YER BIG BUTT LIKE YA JUST DON’T GIVE A DAMN! AND IT PISSES ME OFF, LADY! IT DAMN WELL PISSES ME OFF!”

 

Mockbina stripped away her earphones, and turned around. She felt her pulse rising, but avoided instigating a direct confrontation.

 

“I like to seeng, okay? I do it when I work, as a little girl. I do it now also, in this park...”

 

Oren put one boot on the brake pedal of his rig, and hit the accelerator, simultaneously. A stream of crushed aggregate began to scatter, in a violent shower of rocks.

 

“SHUT YER EFFIN’ MOUTH, PLUMPER WHORE! OR I’LL DAMN WELL SHUT IT FER YA! THIS IS MY COUNTRY, NOT YERS! WHEN Y’ALL ARE ON AMERICAN DIRT, SHOW SOME GAWDAMN RESPECT! YA HEAR ME? IT’S ALL ABOUT RESPECT NOW! SHOW SOME RESPECT!”

 

The immigrant woman was puzzled by his anger. And, unimpressed by the vocal attempt to project an air of superiority. His bravado was not convincing.

 

“You no like my seenging? Okay, not listen then. Is okay, I seeng for me not you...”

 

The irritated redneck nearly leaped from his truck, like an athlete in the NFL. Both fists were clenched. He had run out of patience.

 

“THAT’S IT, THAT’S EFFIN’ IT! YER GONNA GET A GAWDAMN ASSWHIPPIN’ LIKE Y’ALL PROBABLY AIN’T HAD SINCE LIVIN’ IN THAT SOVIET HELL WITH VLAD AND THE BOYS! HERE I COME, HERE I FREAKIN’ COME!”

 

As he stumbled up the primitive driveway, a sound of someone loudly clearing their throat echoed from behind. When he looked sideways, the old drunk from Lot 13 was standing by his 4x4 mule.

 

Lincoln had downed a half-jug of Kentucky bourbon. His face glowed with obvious inebriation, hot and red.

 

“Kronk, I’ll say this one time. Back off before I whack the windshield of yer clown-carrier. Back off and go home...”

 

The insurgent agitator spun on his bootheel. His eyes went wide with disbelief.

 

“HAW HAW HAW, C’MON DUDE, YER A CRIPPLED BOOZER! Y’ALL CAN’T EVEN STAND UP WITHOUT THOSE TWO CANES FER PROPS! WHAT’RE YA GONNA DO, PISS YERSELF AND FALL DOWN? I AIN’T SCARED OF AN OLD BASTARD WHO CAN’T SEE STRAIGHT! YER EVEN MORE OF A DISGRACE THAN THIS POT-BELLIED SOW!”

 

The alcoholic hermit flipped his left cane in the air, and caught it by the bottom end. Then swung the square handle forcefully. It crashed through the glass façade with a noisy clattering of structural failure.

 

“One time, I said. One time! I’m not going to repeat myself. The next swing will be at yer hard-assed head. Stand down, and go home! Leave the Russian lady alone!”

 

Oren stomped his boots until the heels went flat. A gaping hole had been left in his windshield.

 

“YA DUMB MOTHEREFFER! THAT’LL COST A LOT OF COIN TA FIX! AND YER GONNA COVER THE PRICE, BUTTHEAD! THAT WAS ONE BIG FREAKIN’ MISTAKE!”

 

Lincoln raised his cane as if holding a ceremonial sword. His eyes had turned bloodshot and fierce.

 

“What did I say, Kronk? I ain’t going to repeat myself. Hike on out of here, or the next swing will give you a powerful headache...”

 

The plastic cowpoke fumed and fussed while dragging his boots through the gravel. But relented, at last. The episode of verbal horseplay had attracted attention from neighbors all along their street. He did not want to be viewed as a loser, with so many spectators watching.

 

“SEE YA IN HELL, OLD MAN! I’LL SEE YER SHAGGY ASS IN HELL!”

 

Mockbina kissed her savior gently, and hugged him around the belly. Then, returned to her gardening, and the music stream. She wanted to be done before a thunderstorm reached their part of northeastern Ohio.

 

“Islands in a stream

That what we are, I think

No one between

We cannot be wrong

Islands in stream

Sail with me now

To world, another one

We rely on each other

We rely from one to another

We rely...”