Trailer Park Vignettes – “Stuck” (Part Nine)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had been forced to seek refuge at the abandoned property of his estranged companion, Janis Mays, by circumstances that were unforeseen. Yet this arbitrary relocation initially gave him a sense of being freed from prison. His exit at Evergreen Estates, and expulsion from the prevailing social climate of a retrograde evolutionary curve, brought hope for betterment. But as days and weeks passed while living in the Econoline van that was his only remaining form of shelter, he began to tire of this restrictive environment. So, despite his own disability, he decided to scout around the wooded acreage, and a dilapidated home that stood nearby.

 

The structure where his friend had been was in a sad state of disrepair. Clearly not suitable as a living space for anyone. He could see trash piled inside, through the broken windows. The air around its perimeter reeked of must and mold. Wild creatures and insects had entered the two-story house, with visible effects. Their invasion added to the decay within, and all but guaranteed that at some future point in its history, the venerable dwelling would simply be torn down, to make way for some newer, more sophisticated development.

 

But while hiking through the brush and bramble, he discovered that a storage shed once used as a temporary residence was still standing in the side yard. He remembered hiding out in the small barn during a temporary exodus from the park, when his female associate had still been at the distant site. Inside, there was a recliner, a beverage cooler, radio, and various items left from that previous stay. An electric line that ran to the power pole by Gore Road was still intact. And when he carelessly fiddled with a connection on the interior wall, a spark from the breaker box resulted.

 

His eyebrows raised with curiosity, when pondering that the circuit was still active.

 

“Who the hell would be paying her bill? She hasn’t lived here in more than a year! Did they just miss doing a disconnection? This shit makes no sense!”

 

That random discovery lifted his spirits immediately. He cleared away rubbish and debris from around the tiny shack, stationed the easy chair so that it would be usable for rest and sleeping, and then hooked up a lamp, a box fan, and the radio.

 

From Geneva, WKKY-FM offered a broadcast commemorating the late performer, Johnny paycheck. An Ohio native who had become a worldwide star, with a troubled pedigree that gave him credibility as a member of the outlaw movement in Country Music.

 

“I sit here on this stool, drink so much I blew my cool

And now they’re closing up the world I’m living in

So I guess it’s time to go, or at least they told me so

Yes I’m going home, it’s motel time again

Motel time again

Guess I’ll take myself to bed

I don’t even know what town I’m in

Yet I’ll find my way once more

To that number on the door

Then I’ll be home

Motel Time again...”

 

Lincoln reckoned that at least for the moment, his anonymous venue by Lake Erie would suffice as a sort of rented room. His own motel for the moment. With enough creature comforts to keep him safe, and out of sight, until better options were available.

 

The live wire would have allowed him to recharge his cellular device, the only link he had to anyone in the outside world. But he did not want to reach out for contact. So instead, he allowed the minimalist wafer to go silent. There was no longer any need to engage in conversation with his former neighbors. And members of his family had long ago decided to excommunicate him from their brood.

 

This period of splendid isolation continued for a matter of weeks. Yet as the fall season progressed into a dazzling show of red, orange, and brown hues, he noted commercial vehicles passing the isolated plot of land. At first, they simply drove by as if going somewhere else on an undeclared mission. Then, one of these large trucks pulled into the weedy driveway. A narrow path originally covered with gravel and chunks of waste asphalt.

 

The reclusive hermit stayed inside of his adopted shed, where he would not be visible. The Econoline van was parked behind a stand of old-growth pines, that were tall in stature, with broad branches. He nearly held his breath as two men disembarked from their work rig, and began surveying the property. Finally, they cataloged the empty homestead with digital photographs, and measurements. As if a project were being planned.

 

This activity soured Lincoln’s stomach. It made him realize that the safe haven he occupied might soon be overrun.

 

Once the anonymous duo had completed their assignment, and disappeared, he emerged from the storage barn. Being caught as a squatter on the wooded tract was something he did not want to explain. Especially because, with Janis having gone to live in a skilled-care facility, he suspected that she might no longer be a legal owner of the site.

 

After sunset, he repacked everything into his motorized transport. In the morning, while those along the rural boulevard were still slumbering, he would leave quietly. With no destination in mind, except possibly, the border of Pennsylvania. He wanted to become invisible, and vanish from his native realm. That magic trick represented a way to escape the wages of sin, without facing any consequences for his bad habits and contrarian behavior. He reckoned that it was the only remedy to his damnation. Though such a measure of grace was something he did not deserve.

 

The perpetual dispute with Linn Speck had been particularly exhausting. Because deep in his own psychological makeup, there remained a durable kernel of guilt. A belief, instilled by members of his bloodline, that he had wasted his talent. And rebuffed the gifts of a loving creator, which might have been used for a higher purpose.

 

Suicide would never have been a choice that he could embrace. He considered it to be a blasphemous rebuke of God and his cosmic kingdom. But to erase himself for all time, to negate his existence, identity, and history, seemed appealing. Even on a certain level, wonderful to contemplate.

 

For the displaced loner, a new chapter awaited, with the daybreak that was about to arrive. In the primal glimmer of a new day, T. C. Lincoln would breathe his last, and enter the vast realm of eternity as a footnote, soon to be forgotten.

 

“Hope, Surrendered”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

Hope surrendered, fate embraced

A turn toward the inevitable, a plea for grace

Each step I take is a plodding chore

A difficult dance from my bed to the door

These old bones are weary, yet still being used

And the options I face are not pleasant to view

Should I seek a revision, in a hospital ward?

If so, will that wish be endorsed or ignored?

The doctors I see are trained to detect

The problems I face with these woes in effect

But somehow the curse is clearly invisible

Because when I speak, that cry is inaudible

Silent to those who incline their ears

A difficult dilemma that bolsters my fear

I sit in a wheelchair, hoping to heal

And instead find myself plotting a deal

How many decisions, how many indeed!

A roster of remedies to appeal and agree

The solutions seem obvious, like using my crutch

I trust in the tribe with certificates and such

But insurers and monitors stand in between

An honor guard of interpreters, who govern the scene

I am but a patient, with a heartbeat to give

They will choose how I think, and debate how I live

Upright and in motion, or flat on my back

Careening through care centers, while staying on track

My birthdate and name, repeated for show

Dressed in the garb of a handicapped fellow

Stripes on the fabric, like a prisoner’s sheath

And all the while, I seek only relief

To be better enough, to get a ticket to ride

A pass through the portal, back to life on the outside

That fantastic voyage is one I will crave

While stuck in this room, a medical cave

Pale and poked like a melon at the market

Until I turn numb and begin to forget

The cause of this interlude, spent away from the crowd

Safe in a cubicle, though lingering in doubt

What did I neglect to be put in this place?

What habits must I shun, to get the chalkboard erased?

I look at the calendar, but it offers no clues

I can’t find my hat or my shirt, or my shoes

Dignity is a veneer that too quickly goes away

A glimmer soon gone during a hospital stay

Though my muscles react, with therapy involved

I find out too late that nothing was solved

Over and over, I explain my condition

And realize that my claims are a dated edition

Deaf is the aide who stands by my side

Going through the motions, preening with pride

Kind in their manner, but unable to hear

My tale of the tempest, over a diagnosis, unclear

Monitors intone their cadence of concern

An alarm on the rail, installed to be firm

With a tattletale squawking, if I change my position

And attendants come running, stern in their mission

The home that I left is a shelter, unoccupied

A living space abandoned, a privilege, denied

Of that place, I dream, while wishing to escape

Making my petition for a Superman cape

Too long have I hobbled, and now that good deed

Has brought me to this, it planted the seed

My endurance is laudable, yet still not enough

To prevent me from wrangling with this ride in the rough

So, I lie still and breathe, as machines do their work

And comply with the counselors, doctors, and clerks

Until an intervention is made to dispel

The hindrances plaguing my fight to be well

When that occurs, I will celebrate the flip

And roll off the floor with a song on my lips!

“The Answer”

  

c/ 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

I’d like to rise from a chair, without calling upon God

Or perhaps give my youth a wink and a nod

Yet before this mirror, stands a sorry sod

The answer is no

I’d like to think that science would duly impart

The kind of healing, to fix body parts

And replace what I had, right from the start

But the answer is no

 

In a room to be carefully examined and healed

On a mobile perch, rolled in on slim wheels

A game with the medical Roulette Wheel

But the answer is no

The doctor was pleasant, all business in fact

But the options he offered were not white or black

I could have easily had a heart attack

Yes, the answer is no

 

Barely able to move, or walk down the hall

No longer a candidate for summer baseball

Just a sidelined senior citizen, at risk for a fall

But the answer is no

I still have some time to live and endure

A span less appealing, with a destiny, unsure

In this temple of knowledge, there is no cure

The answer is no

 

I went home to sulk by myself with a drink

And use that leisure time to rest up and think

But all it did was bring me close to the brink

The answer is no

Guidelines and guardrails determine the course

Insurance adjusters keep their wishes enforced

And meanwhile I sit alone on my porch

The answer is no

 

Ugly, unwashed, and bound to be bold

I ponder the costs, unhappy and old

While indifference leaves me out in the cold

The answer is no

Genetics determined that I would arrive

At a point past halfway, on a downhill slide

At a place of disability, delayed and denied

But the answer is no

 

I no longer recognize the look of myself

And cannot maintain a proper level of health

All this seems to do is spend down my wealth

The answer is no

Flatly rejected and rightly rebuked

By masters of mercy in clinical suits

Somehow, I expected a different reading of clues

The answer is no

 

Struggling along from one room to the next

Too slow to recall the proper context

For the reasons I became a reclusive wreck

The answer is no

A separation from habits that kept me aligned

A parting of ways, in body and mind

A final surrender at the finish line

The answer is no

 

Charts for the hospital, and also for me

A chance to document my insufficiency

With the click of a tumbler for each spin of the key

The answer is no

With my prescription, I may stand once again

A story in the scribble from a physician’s pen

A cryptic assessment, or a cluck from a hen

The answer is no

 

A plea to the heavens, for grace from the Lord

Of bettered mobility, to be my reward

Yet here I am stuck with what copays afford

The answer is no

A number on a schedule, a name to repeat

Otherwise, with no coverage, to be dumped in the street

All for the purpose of a deadline to meet

The answer is no

 

If I do not wake from this dream of demise

I hope to be free of this sad enterprise

Privileged to sleep, after a closing of eyes

The answer is no

I won’t raise a ruckus over what has transpired

I would rather disappear in a flicker of fire

A communication conducted through a telephone wire

The answer is no

 

Born as a babe. to grow tall and strong

A joy to be heard in verses of song

But not grand enough to be kept here for long

The answer is no

My value as an entity is less than I thought

A sum signified by the coverage I bought

With years of hard labor, equal to naught

The answer is no

 

God bless the infirm, the weak and the sick

The ranks that I join at the point of a pin prick

This change happened slowly, yet incredibly quick

The answer is no

An x-ray inspection on a photographic spree

A check deep inside of one hip, and my knees

And that consultation is a fling of organic debris

The answer is no

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Stuck” (Part Eight)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

Linn Speck had been abandoned by his wife during previous bouts of martial conflict. Yet this time, it seemed that perhaps their marriage was finally at an end. The tone of his romantic partner had turned particularly sharp and judgmental, something he could not remember happening before. And on this occasion, she did not indicate going to stay with members of her family. Instead, whatever plans she had in mind were more mysterious and difficult to fathom. She had been loving and cheerful for so long, that the thought of a permanent separation never entered his mind. But now, he had a sense of dread when anticipating her next move.

 

Still, he could not think that any woman would willingly abandon a partnership with someone like himself. He was in every way, at least in his own mind, an example of American manhood that a single female might seek out as a trophy. Though his physique had matured from its primal form, with rolls of skin hanging under his jowls, and a balding dome atop his skull, he felt fine and fit for his age. Able to meet any challenge when it arrived.

 

This mood of confidence and superiority began to blur, as he sat at the kitchen table, while a 30-pack of Milwaukee’s Best Premium chilled in his refrigerator. With each fresh round of brew, he lagged farther behind the chronological curve. Feeling more mellow and subdued, despite the perplexing situation into which he had fallen. His eyesight went out of focus. He slumped in the chair, with both arms dangling at his sides.

 

Then, he began to snore loudly.

 

While unconscious, he breathed the scent of a sulfur plume, which filled the room with smoke. From the center of that pungent void, a ghostly apparition emerged, boasting freakish eyes, long nails that glowed with tips of fire, and a hot presence of feminine rage. Esmeralda Jonovic, the dead militia queen who had once lived at Evergreen Estates, spoke with a shrill shriek of displeasure that rattled the windows. Normally, she had only visited her former neighbor, the reclusive drunk who had been expelled from their trailer village. But now, her rise had a purpose renewed by the secretive strike at Lot 13.

 

“YA FAT PIECE OF SHIT! ARE Y’ALL JUST GONNA SIT HERE AND GET MESSED UP ON THAT CHEAP PISS, INSTEAD OF GOIN’ TO THE SHERIFF, AND ADMITTIN’ YER GUILT?”

 

Linn was lost in the dark realm of purgatory. But able to plead his case even from the crest of oblivion.

 

“Guilt? Who the heck are you, and what does that mean?”

The surging phantasm hovered over his slumbering figure, and cackled.

 

“LINK, THAT GUY UP THE STREET! HE WAS A FRIEND OF MINE Y’ALL MIGHT SAY, YEARS AGO. BUT YA RAN HIS ASS OUTTA HERE BY SETTIN’ FIRE TO HIS GAWDAMN SHACK! AND THEN PISSED ON THE ASHES! WHAT KIND OF NO-BALLS WIMP DOES SOMETHIN’ LIKE THAT?”

 

Her target shook and slobbered while still unable to react directly.

 

“Fire? I don’t know what you mean, lady! If you were a friend of that old drunk, then you know what a dirty, ugly waste of humanity he was. An eyesore to behold. I’ll bet he hadn’t taken a bath in months or years!”

 

Jonovic spread her claws angrily, mimicking a feral cat.

 

“THAT DUDE WAS DIFFERENT, I’LL ADMIT IT. BUT BY GAWD, HE HAD SOME STONES! WHICH IS MORE THAN I CAN SAY FER YER SORRY ASS! Y’ALL HAVE BEEN SNEAKIN’ AROUND THIS PARK FER YEARS, TRYIN’ TO STIR UP A MESS. ALWAYS LETTIN’ FOLKS LIKE MY LIEUTENANT, AIMES HEFTI, TAKE THE HEAT. NEVER BUCKIN’ UP AND SHOWIN’ SOME BACKBONE. THAT’S A EUNUCH WAY TO GO ABOUT LIFE! Y’ALL CAN TALK A LOT OF CRAP, BUT CAN’T BACK IT UP!”

 

Linn floundered on the kitchen table, in attempt to wake himself. But his eyes remain closed.

 

“I don’t deserve that kind of talk, whoever you are! I’ve been a good husband and father, and member of the church up on our township square! That ought to count for a lot, especially in a dump like this! People of my reputation matter! We keep things on the straight and narrow! We are the reason that this nation can be great again!”

 

The lifeless militia leader threw back her head, and let out a steamy guffaw of defiance.

 

“YER A SLIMY DEVIL, MR. SPECK! BUT DID YA REALLY THINK THAT ANYBODY HERE EVER TOOK YA SERIOUSLY? YER SWEETHEART JUST PUT THAT RUMOR TO REST! SHE GOT FED UP WITH YER BULLSHIT, JUST LIKE T. C. LINCOLN DID! HOW ABOUT THAT!”

 

The failed association king sputtered and salivated in his sleep.

 

“Don’t ever compare my spouse with that ornery rascal! Getting rid of him was like taking out the trash! It needed to be done! And I am glad it was done!”

 

The undead, extremist advocate squealed with delight. Her face glowed in a shade of bright red.

 

“IS THAT A DAMN CONFESSION, FAT BOY? IT SOUNDED LIKE ONE TO ME!”

 

Her victim shook fearfully, while struggling to regain consciousness.

 

“Not at all! Not at all! I am not admitting anything, to you or anyone else!”

 

Jonovic drew nearer to the mortal instigator, until her acrid breath stung his flesh.

 

“WHEN YER ON THE OTHER SIDE, Y’ALL CAN SEE THINGS AND HEAR THINGS, GAWDAMNIT! I KNOW YA SCREWED OVER MY FRIEND. I KNOW YA SET FIRE TO HIS SINGLEWIDE. I KNOW YA LIED ABOUT IT, AND COVERED SHIT UP. I KNOW YER TOO MUCH OF A COWARD TO OWN UP TO THAT FRIGGIN’ MISTAKE! BUT TRUST ME, THERE’LL BE A RECKONIN’ SOMEDAY! DON’T DOUBT IT, ASSHOLE! DON’T EVER DOUBT IT! YER FATE IS ALREADY SEALED!”

 

Linn had turned sweaty in the moment. He fell out of his chair, and landed on the linoleum floor with a painful thud. This violent impact freed him from the mysterious spell, at last. His kitchen cleared quickly, with only a faint trace of sulfur left in the air. It took a minute to gather his thoughts, and stand upright once again. His face tingled with fiery reside from the fantastic appearance he had witnessed. Yet he could not be certain that anything he saw was literally real.

 

One can of the budget brew remained in his fridge. He opened it in hurry, and let the foamy contents stream down his chin. This was his first day of living alone at the rural community. But he hoped that despite being a suspect for fellow residents, the sheriff’s deputies, and otherworldly spirits, it would not be his last.

 

 

“Matter Muse”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

It’s a puzzling question never easy to ask

A challenging query, a dumb, daunting task

A quiz that may leave us too short on facts

Does it matter?

When I look at the moon, shining pale at night

And remember old friends who used to delight

In the coming of that orb, glowing iridescent white

Does it Matter?

 

As I ponder the pretense of a day to reflect

On bygone misdeeds that today, we reject

And realize that the same is now what we project

Does it matter?

Old bones grow weary, while new ones may dance

Impulsively willing to give peace a chance

But it still represents a moment of happenstance

Yet, does it matter?

 

I sometimes believe that the truth is made firm

Carved into stone like the curl of a worm

Despite those who call it an infection of germs

Does it matter?

The shape of a kiss may look pleasing to taste

But too often that touch is given to waste

A gift thrown aside in a fit of rude haste

But, does it matter?

 

The same repetition I hear every day

A chanting petition when seekers will pray

A plea to be heard by those who hold sway

Does it matter?

Inside of a chapel, with tablets of gold

Or lost in a field, left out in the cold

A backwards benediction, too often retold

But does it matter?

 

Wherever the marker, whatever the clue

The footprints are shaped by the stomp of a shoe

A sign that the traveler was like me or you

Does it matter?

I write as the spin of a top sends me round

Stumbling and falling, upon sacred ground

With thoughts that will easily echo and abound

Yet does it matter?

 

In the pit of my belly, a groan will subside

While pausing to poke at emotions inside

A barrier constructed to repel the tide

Does it matter?

When I fall short of the bar, set up to measure

That failing will keep me from finding the treasure

Which ought to be better than a minute of pleasure

Does it Matter?

 

A flicker of light may show us direction

And offer a path to discover protection

Or perhaps a detour into darkest deception

Does it matter?

A squint to see clearly, through narrowed eyes

Might reveal the luster of a prudent, first prize

But more often than not, it’s a reason to rise

Does it matter?

 

Late in the hour, a chime signals change

With the click of a mechanism, counting loose change

A card-game hustle, with the dots rearranged

Does it matter?

A sly sleight-of-hand fools the sharpest observer

Who clutches at a buoy and a spare life preserver

While tossed on the waves with a manifest fervor

Does it matter?

 

Snails move too slowly to influence the herd

While hearing the squawk of a restless jaybird

And spectators number, too few by a third

Does it matter?

This churning of choices may cause much despair

A crack in the frame of a plush, easy chair

Like a chew of pink gum, getting stuck in the hair

Does it matter?

 

Importance is a myth, when the scholars rebuke

What passes for knowledge, what passes for truth

On the road from Damascus, a solitary sleuth

Does it matter?

Gaze in the mirror, and see what awaits

A reverse of the image, a contradiction of traits

In an age that revives a warring of states

Yet does it matter?

 

Limbs go arthritic, and strands turn to silver

A kick of the heels that puts me off-kilter

And a pressed-paper cone, to serve as a filter

Does it matter?

A nonsense suggestion, said crisp with a smile

A paradox persuasion, a ruse all the while

With no literal meaning, but to send out exiles

Tell me, does it matter?

 

Good night, my farewell address to the few

Stuck in your ears with a bonding of glue

A last breath of sunset, before the falling of dew

Does it matter?

Somewhere I know that the dead walk again

Those who I loved and those who were friends

And even those pikers who did not make amends

Does it matter?

“Trophies”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

Well, I’ve heard a lot of talk about, chasing the American dream

But at the end of that assembly line, things just aren’t what they seem

Cause after giving all I had, my wallet was thin, not thick

I got to feeling like a mule, being beaten with a stick

Now, you might have a preference for, one side or the other

But I am going to tell you straight – we’re all sisters and brothers

This land is best when the people rule, and not when takers win

I won’t be one to celebrate getting hit right on the chin

Whatever you believe, is a thing of choice not chance

And I won’t try to change your mind, with a sloppy song and dance

But remember that from coast to coast, we all have lives to live

The contribution that you make is a patriot’s gift to give

 

I love that sound of the Liberty Bell, when freedom comes to call

But I couldn’t give a damn about, trophies on the wall

 

Now Elon Musk is in the news, for all his wealth and fame

And a thousand other celebrities, who play and act the same

But those I call my heroes, are workers on the line

Regular folks with families, who are always top-of-mind

I couldn’t give a damn about, awards-shows on TV

And never have I thought too much of gossips spilling tea

My grandma was a country saint, so far as I’m concerned

She taught me more than anyone, and I was glad to learn

Now that I am standing tall, I’ll think of her and pray

Everything that I became, was because of yesterday

Farmers fed the nation and soldiers fought the wars

And here at home, peace of mind was had from shore to shore

 

I love that sound of the Liberty Bell, when freedom comes to call

But I couldn’t give a damn about, trophies on the wall

 

Trophies have a gleam, that’ll catch the watchful eye

They indicate some kind of worth that motivates, by and by

But once the tarnish of long years, settles on the brass

You realize that a different fate, has now come along to pass

The trick is one that leaders use, to keep the troops in check

The promise of a better day, with their scheming in effect

But once a vote is taken, the same old run is made

They disappear in a fog of fools, like a squeeze of lemonade

When that plot twist for the pawns, becomes rightly exposed

They’ll all find that their bloom, has fallen off the rose

That’s when streets get busy, with laborers on the march

And the sanctity of a sacred home, is truly taken to heart

 

I love that sound of the Liberty Bell, when freedom comes to call

But I couldn’t give a damn about, trophies on the wall

 

Call me an old-fashioned rube, call me what you will

But good hearts have a glow, that evil men can’t kill

Double-talk and backroom deals don’t carry much appeal

Only for the love of God will I close my eyes and kneel

No man who adorns with gold, the people’s house as his

Can hope to cheat the masses with a plan, secretly hid

We’ll see them all for who they are, and not what they pretend

There will soon be a day of reckoning, at the bitter end

Power is a drink that makes the dry throat sing aloud

With a song of citizen sacrifice, to charm the restless crowd

But eventually that magic spell, will lose its metallic sheen

And those who waste our birthright will be swept out, quick and clean

 

I love that sound of the Liberty Bell, when freedom comes to call

But I couldn’t give a damn about, trophies on the wall  

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Stuck” (Part Seven)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

Linn Speck awakened in his bedroom at Evergreen Estates, expecting to rise with a sense of victory boosting his mood for the day. He had vanquished his intellectual enemy up the street with an anonymous act of arson, that could not be traced back to any specific perpetrator. And that desperate strike had finally managed to rid the rural trailer park of its most colorful and contrarian character. He felt invigorated by sunshine that beamed through his windows. With the old drunk eliminated from their citizen ranks, he hoped to revive his push to organize an association of residents, that would help to oversee operation of the isolated property. That cause remained paramount among his priorities. He lusted after the allure of leadership. And believed that by taking charge in the village of manufactured homes, he would inherit his own manifest destiny. But upon throwing pillows and blankets aside, while sitting at the edge of his mattress, a chill in the sleeping quarters became apparent.

Haki, his wife of a dozen years, was nowhere to be found.

 

Still groggy and in need of caffeine, he stomped through the vintage singlewide, scattering anything in his path. The household cat went running for cover. Dust particles blew into the air, before settling in his wake.

 

“HONEY! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU, MAKING BREAKFAST, MAYBE? ANSWER ME! ANSWER ME! WHERE THE HECK DID YOU GO?”

 

The boxcar dwelling was silent and empty. He stood alone in the kitchen for several minutes, before realizing that his submissive spouse had secretly made a clandestine escape, overnight. A check of the closet, and their dresser, revealed that much of her wardrobe had disappeared.

 

He fell onto the sofa with a hefty thud that shook the floor. Then, spotted a handwritten note, carelessly scribbled on the back of a junk-mail envelope.

 

“I don’t know how to put this any other way, so here it is, in plain English. I’ve had enough! You were never a prize to begin with, but we used to have something between us, some spark of romance. That made living here something I could accept. But now, all you do is grouse about this community, and the people who live on our streets. You act like a king who lost his crown! But let me tell you, mister – nobody thinks of you in that way around here. Definitely not me! You’re a bitter, balding loudmouth with an axe to grind. Nothing more or less than that! I’m sick of hearing you complain. Maybe when you’ve got nothing but these walls for company, you will realize how much it meant to have a loving partner sharing your life! I want things to be the way they were, but after so many fights and disappointments, I know that’ll never happen. So here’s my plan. I am going to file for divorce, and go live somewhere far away from this little spot on the map. I hope you will be happier with nothing but your own reflection in the mirror every morning. Good riddance to you, hubby! Have a nice life on your own!”

 

The portly antagonist broke out in a sweat. He was dizzy and disoriented, with a surge of blood pressure swelling his face.

 

From the front door, a sharp knocking began to resound. He had barely managed to get up from his plush furnishing, before a shrill, feminine voice called from outside.

 

“Ayyyyyy, gordo loco! Open up already! I’ve got some questions to ask about the fire that happened at Lot 13!”

 

Linn staggered across the room, feeling deflated. He twisted the doorknob angrily, and was immediately confronted by Dana Alvarez, their manager and ownership representative.

 

“This is outrageous! I haven’t even had my coffee yet! What kind of nonsense are you talking about? A fire? I don’t know anything about a damned fire!”

 

The paid supervisor had her shiny, black mane pulled back under a red bandana.

 

“Estupido! Do you think I am dumb or what? Everybody in the park knows how much you hated that shaggy dude on his porch. He had been here a long time. Now the sheriff is calling, and he wants to snoop around with his deputies. That shit gets me nervous, okay? I don’t like the policia, they screw around, and make a mess of things. This dump is already a mess, I don’t need more of that, you know?”

 

The failed association head shrugged and rolled his eyes.

 

“I understand you want peace and quiet. I get it! But what does that have to do with me? I am a Christian man, married with a family, and am a good example to others. There’s no reason that you should be standing here, squawking about that dirty bum who lost his shack! He never belonged here anyway! He wasn’t one of us! He never wanted to join in anything that we did!”

Dana huffed and rocked on her heels.

 

“Look, this is a warning, okay? You don’t wanna talk to me, that’s fine. But I tell you there’s gonna be other people at your door, real soon. Sheriff Rath will be knocking. He’s heard a lot of rumors, there’s a bunch of mierda going around about the fire. You understand? A lot of scuttlebutt shit. Not only did that trailer burn down, but then somebody pissed all over the memorial flowers. That’s some crazy stuff right there. Dios mio!”

 

The overweight provocateur groaned audibly, before gesturing toward their street. He lied skillfully, with the tone of a politician at work.

 

“I’ve got nothing for you, Ms. Alvarez! I don’t know anything, I’m not guilty of anything, and I won’t say anything! That’s as far as it goes! That bastard from our county will get the same reply! A big ball of nothing from me! Nothing, nothing, nothing!”

 

The park overseer lowered her gaze, and nodded.

 

“Okay pendejo, you keep going with that attitude. I don’t care about this one way or another. All I know is that shaggy dude paid his rent on time every month. Now I need another tenant to move in, you get it? It ain’t so easy to find people, with the costs going up constantly, and a big water bill on top of that! Ayyyyyy! It gives me a headache!”

 

When she was finally gone, the flabby instigator returned to his couch. He did not feel guilty for having expelled T. C. Lincoln from their remote oasis. But guessed that in the coming days, his existence was about to become more complicated and unpredictable.

 

He had always been respected among the residents of Evergreen Estates. Looked upon as a seeker of truth, and a steadfast believer in God. But now, he wondered if that period of benevolence might have officially come to an end.