Trailer Park Vignettes: “Coastal Connection” (Part Seven)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

Amanda Breen had grown up with a mother who took to air travel naturally. As a family trio with her older brother, they flew all around the continental United States, and across the ocean to Europe. So, the thought of hopping on a mechanized bird, with Ohio as her intended destination, was not something that caused any anxiety. Though she had never visited the heartland in person, it presented an opportunity to broaden her horizons, and perhaps, to discover the true origin of a genetic bloodline that had heretofore been shrouded in mystery.

 

But after arriving in Cleveland, and renting a vehicle to transport her to the nearby realm of Geauga County, this mood of confidence began to wane just a bit. With each mile traversed, she found herself moving away not only in terms of geographical distance, but also, from the metropolitan confines of an urban environment. To the more primitive and underdeveloped land of an isolated community populated with crude, manufactured homes. The paradigm shift in terms of social order was considerable. Soon, she saw nothing but untended fields, loafing tractors and pickup trucks, along with four-wheelers piloted by reckless inhabitants who seemed to be visibly inebriated, or stoned.

 

Evergreen Estates reminded her of a foreign village located in some distant, third-world country. It boasted a random variety of structures that had obviously been built by hand, with pallet boards and construction debris. Everything reeked of wood rot, mold, tobacco smoke, and stale alcohol. Few of the homes had actual curtains in their windows. Instead, blankets and bedsheets served to guarantee a measure of modesty for those inside. Everything looked to have been in place for decades before the present day. The access road and streets were crumbling, literally full of potholes deep enough to flatten tires and break suspension components. Yards here and there were weedy and overgrown. Trees had invaded spaces not already occupied by storage barns or concrete walkways.

 

She circled the neighborhood in her hired, economy car, attempting to sort out the system of lot numbers in use. This chore took longer than expected, because of the undisciplined order in which prefab houses had been arranged.

 

Finally, the California native parked in front of a narrow driveway that looked familiar from views she had curated via Google maps. There was a ratty, older SUV in the yard. And a long ramp up the side of a plain, singlewide dwelling. A window facing the planked slope was cracked, and broken. There were muddy stains all up and down this amateurish boardwalk. With rails on each side that had weathered in the hot sun, and warped accordingly.

 

There at the pinnacle, on his familiar bench, sat a graying, shaggy recluse cradling a whiskey jug in his callused hands. He did not react when she skipped lightly up the incline. Only when she stood before him did he look up from his oversized bottle, and cough. Then, he scratched his rowdy thatch of facial hair, and smiled. The woman he beheld had the look of her mother, blonde and tall and beautiful in a sense. Yet stricken with deep, indigenous eyes, and a prominent nose that projected inner strength. Two characteristics that matched his own physical profile.

 

“Well I’ll be damned... you’re actually here!”

 

Amanda could barely pull any air into her lungs. She had turned pale, and was trembling visibly.

 

“I’m at a loss for words right now, so I’ll just say hello. Hello, Dad! Hellooooo!”

 

She fell into his arms and began to sob loudly. A dozen minutes or more passed before either of them could speak again.

 

After this wordless exchange of emotion, Lincoln gestured toward a Walmart, shower chair that sat in a corner by his trash bin.

 

“That’s where guests make themselves at home. Pull it over here by me, and sit if you want...”

 

The young woman was still breathless, and woozy.

 

“I wanted to bring my son along, but it wasn’t workable right now. Mom is watching him back on the coast. You’d be proud of that kid, I am very sure!”

 

The aging hermit sipped liquor while thinking to himself.

 

“How is your momma? I haven’t seen her since I we had that apartment on West Spencer Street, in Ithaca. We ended up abandoning it when she left with your brother. The landlord must have been pissed off, but that kind of thing happened everywhere, especially in college towns...”

 

The wandering female brushed strands of hair out of her eyes, before answering.

 

“She’s not who you remember. A grandma now, all leathery and gaunt, but still energetic. She’s a throwback to the hippie scene. We’re alike in some characteristics, but much different in others! She even calls me a prude, sometimes!”

 

Lincoln chortled and continued to imbibe his refreshment.

 

“I can’t hate on any of that. You can see where I’ve ended up, not exactly what I was aiming to be in life. No glory, that’s for damn sure! Not many friends, or fringe benefits from living on the down-low...”

 

Amanda shook her head in disagreement.

 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself! I can tell that you never quite surrendered that artistic vibe. Mom didn’t either. That’s what keeps you old souls going. It’s a different way of looking at the world, a viewpoint that we need more of, I think!”

 

Her prospective progenitor looked across the lot at other homes along his rustic boulevard.

 

“Out here in the hinterland, things like art don’t matter too much. These folks make do with what they can build, fix up, or cobble together. They work with their hands and survive by their wits. I won’t say that we necessarily see eye-to-eye, but it has definitely taught me some things about how to survive. Maybe it’s a connection to my Appalachian forebears as well, I don’t know. I never wanted to be like them, or live like them, but here I am. Hunkered down in the dirt, and crawling along...”

 

His guest reached out with both hands, and offered a loving embrace of affection.

 

“I can feel your aura right here, in my own heart. It’s a glow that resonates with meaning. All the things that my mother said, about your summer together in New York are still there. All of the love, all of the passion, all of the creativity. I know it would never be said out loud, to me or anyone, but she’s missed you all these years. Despite doing her best to forget. And despite trying to shield me from the true story of my birth! I am glad to have finally figured out that riddle!”

 

Lincoln felt oddly fatigued, and weary. As if he had completed a challenging trek through an emotional wilderness. One that left him totally spent, yet satisfied.

 

“I reckon this is a new beginning. And right now, anything new seems out of place to me. But you’re here to prod me off my spot, like a frog ready to jump into creek water. So here I go, let’s do this thing, Miss Breen! Let’s do it!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Coastal Connection” (Part Six)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

Townshend Lincoln had only been drinking outside for long enough to have consumed one shot of Kentucky bourbon, and a tall container of cold brew. But when his cellular device chirped for attention, he immediately felt fatigued. This hour of the afternoon was one which he cherished for its restful anonymity. So, being interrupted for any reason, while willfully dulling his senses, presented an unwelcome turn of events. Yet when he tapped on the Messenger icon, and began to read, sobriety returned with immediate force. The image of an unfamiliar, blonde woman popped up on his screen.

 

“Hello, Mr. T. C. Lincoln. I am out here on the Pacific coast, my mom is Jess Decosta, and well, I think that I may be your daughter!”

 

Bogus accounts were always prolific on social media sites, even for someone who was reluctant to participate like himself. So, he did not pay much attention before deleting the random text. But then, with the whiskey jug raised to his lips, the name that had been included began to reverberate from his memories.

 

Decosta... Jess Decosta... Ithaca, New York... Santa Barbara, California... Quakertown, Pennsylvania...

 

Surging forward on his wooden bench, the shaggy hermit spit a mouthful of liquor over himself.

 

“GAWDAMN! JESSICA LYNN DECOSTA! WHO THE HELL PLUCKED THAT NAME OUT OF MY HEAD? IT CAN’T BE A DAMN COINCIDENCE!”

 

He tried to retrieve the minimalist message, but those words were gone.

 

Curses echoed as he stomped on the floorboards of his porch. The reference was one long lost to antiquity, to the time when he had first returned to his native soil in Ohio. After a leap he had termed to be ‘an exodus in rags’ at the time, his crash into the retrograde scene of Lake Erie brought relief and torment in equal measures. Having a traditional home-setting restored sanity and brought focus back to his existence. But the emotional cost was considerable. He could not shed the remnants of artistry and creative zeal that lingered, from his summer of abandon. Like ghosts speaking from afar, they taunted him during nights spent sleeping restlessly on the sofa in his family living room. He would scatter the pillows and blankets, cry out for escape, and drift through visions of what had gone before. Ultimately, his parents were perplexed and confused. They mourned his moodiness and detachment, while attempting to rebuild the connection of kinship that had once existed.

 

In the post-modern portion of his life, Lincoln had no interest in revisiting such forgotten events.

 

Yet now, with the deleted communique stuck in his head, he was back at the beginning. Back to the point of being a teenaged refugee, in tattered clothes, freezing and hungry on the streets in New York. Lost in every way, alienated from himself and the one he loved so desperately. A wreck of human indignities, staggering, stammering, stooped under the weight of consequences. Unable to handle his guilt, and the corresponding weakness that doubled him over at night. He had talent, and energy, along with the ability to translate these gifts into a patchwork document of written materials. But they fell far short of being valued enough to sustain him as a scribe and performer. He was, by both friends and foes, looked upon as an oddity in their realm. Someone born in the heartland, and destined to be a factory laborer or professional rig-driver, not a vocal advocate for sound and vision, being channeled into useful prose and imagery.

 

This messy conflict stirred inside of him, even after returning home as a vagabond loser.

 

Being drunk and oblivious throughout the day brought some needed comfort to his soul. He cherished the coming of oblivion that preceded every evening spent dozing on his seat, outside. It was an elixir that eased years of regret and emptiness swollen up in his belly. A medicinal concoction that allowed him to thrive on nothingness.

 

He stared blankly at the glass panes of his storm door, directly across from the bench. The reflected visage was of a scruffy, aging beast, who had been whittled down to his essence by judgment and exile. A prisoner on the run, perpetually chased by demons and darkness. A phantom, much like Barnabas Collins of Dark Shadows lore, who was condemned to never behold the glory of daylight and love, again.

 

Lincoln cradled his phone in one hand, and swore angrily at its vacant display.

 

“WHY DID I GET RID OF THAT MESSAGE SO DAMN QUICK? WHY? WHY? WHY?”

 

The glass reserve of brown juice emptied rapidly, as he pondered his plight. Then, as he had reached the point of surrendering consciousness, a notification chirp sounded once again.

 

“Mr. Lincoln, my name is Amanda. We don’t know each other, of course, but I can feel something between us. My mother was a gypsy in her younger days, a protégé of Janis Joplin and Stevie Nicks, at least in artistic terms. She’s still a wild grandma, a hippie relic with beads and bracelets and dresses made of hemp. A crazy chica, to use words I hear from her friends here in Cali! I can tell how much you must have loved her, from mom’s stories about New York. I could feel the vibe of that affection in a letter you wrote, which she found here in a book about Edie Sedgewick. But the reason I’m being a pest... and forgive me for that... is because I had a son earlier this year. And his appearance doesn’t match anything in our bloodline. Just like part of how I look also seems out of place. There’s a missing chapter to the story somewhere, and I want to read it, and understand how all of this began. You’re the missing link in all of this... Townie Link, as my mother calls you. I need to know whether you really did spark me into life with her, over 40 years ago. I want to know. I have to know!”

 

Lincoln shuddered while imbibing the last of his Kentucky bourbon. The righteous swig caused his throat to burn, and both eyes to water. Then, he sat back with sweat and drool dribbling into his beard.

 

“DAMMIT, I’M NOT READY FOR THIS! BUT HERE WE GO, I’LL NEED A BARREL OF WHISKEY TO SURVIVE!”

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Coastal Connection” (Part Five)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

Amanda Breen had always been a strongheaded and independent woman. A characteristic that manifested itself early in her childhood, while moving from one home to another in a search for stability. Once she had made up her mind about a particular subject, it was impossible to alter that perception of right and wrong. She stayed active as an advocate for causes of social justice, homeless individuals, and those marginalized by the greater society. Yet while this predisposition to buck trends and pursue visionary ideals matched the inclinations of her progenitor, it also sparked conflict between the pair.

 

Jessica had advised her daughter to proceed carefully, when searching for the lost soul that might have been her genetic sire. But that slow pace of action did not fit the raging emotions that swelled in her young bosom. The perky entrepreneur did not seek to delay her quest for information, under any circumstances. What she wanted was an opposite reality. To hunt down this mysterious figure, make contact, and establish some sort of relationship that would uplift both of them as participants in a grand story of rekindled, family ties.

 

Unsurprisingly, her investigation opened a veritable Pandora’s box of personal details that did not always align neatly with each other.

 

She discovered various documents that provided little useful insight, while still intensifying her curiosity. First, an accident report from the middle 1980s, with a head-on collision between his Chevrolet Chevette, and a pickup truck, at an intersection outside of town. That factoid at least confirmed that his current residence had been on a street in Chardon. Then, a record of being interrogated at gunpoint by police, while he was working overnight. With no charges filed as a result. A license application for marriage, several loan arrangements, a home purchase in nearby Painesville, and a divorce. Followed by another set of wedding vows, more bank financing, and a second split with his spouse. The addresses he had used were numerous. But nothing in this paper trail indicated where he had landed, in the end.

 

In a fit of desperation, she searched a telephone database with thousands of meaningless entries. Unpaid bills, disconnected services, upgrades and realignment of providers that took place, and other forms of miscellany. In the midst of that morass, there were entries for a recurring issue with bogus 911 calls being generated by a system malfunction. Apparently as a result of junction boxes being stationed in the swampy soil behind a trailer and its oversized propane tank.

 

Amanda felt her eyes grow wide as the name she had been chasing appeared in the first entry.

 

“Townshend Lincoln, Lot 13, Evergreen Estates. The subject reports that he has no landline phone connected at his rural residence. The outdated connection is used only for internet access at this moment. Yet sheriff’s deputies confirm multiple incidents of the emergency number being contacted. On each occasion, there was no voice response, just a hang-up when the call was answered, initially. These unintended incidents have been reported to Windmere Technologies. A conversion to fiber optics is expected to correct the problem...”

 

She was stunned by the casual nature of this log entry. When she Googled the park of manufactured dwellings, it came up as a small development situated on Pine Trail Road. Located a short distance south of Lake Erie. A place with some history in Ohio folklore, frequently mentioned in newspaper headlines and other media reports. The development had changed owners on so many occasions that it was difficult to track fiscal transactions regarding those in charge. There were outstanding violations still in effect, with the EPA, county commissioners, and township trustees. Lawsuits had multiplied over the course of decades. But no summary judgments ever seemed to have been issued.

 

And there was no evidence that her target ever left this isolated homestead in the pines.

 

With patience, she discovered a website for the holding company that controlled day-to-day operations. And brought up a photograph of the park entrance, on her computer monitor. There, in a ragged script spelled out in painted letters, was the motto for their tiny neighborhood.

 

“Evergreen Estates – A good place to get started, or retire!”

 

Now, the logjam had been broken.

 

Frantically, she tapped at her keyboard. A credit notice appeared, with a certification that the original purchase of one, singlewide abode had been satisfied. With the state title duly stamped by a registrar. An unemployment claim, followed by disability forms being submitted. Then, a Medicare enrollment. Everything led back to that same spot in the Buckeye hinterland. He must have surrendered to the fatigue of arthritic joints and a broken heart. With the comfort of beverage alcohol taking over.

 

Her mother remembered a rebellious, teenaged reprobate in New York. One gifted with too much creativity, and too little self-control. Yet now, she had stumbled upon a different sort of personality. One hardened by failure, alienation, and stalled mobility. A man of many years, stooped by a debilitated physique and a spent capacity to see good in the sunrise of a new day.

 

Amanda trembled slightly, when considering that this anonymous figure might well be someone unlike the summer boyfriend of her elder kin, and also, far removed from the bright, ebullient artist that he had been, before. Someone who might not desire a reconnection with his former self, or the budding romance that did not last beyond a coming of winter months. A ghostly form shaped by hardship and depravation. A human husk, emptied by fate and circumstance.

 

On a listing of registered voters, she found that he had declared himself to be Libertarian. Which seemed to match her mother’s memories of someone who refused to think or act, along traditional lines. A trolling of social connections revealed that he had created a plain, nearly friendless account on one of the popular sites. With patience, she scrolled through entries that identified active profiles connected to the Messenger application. That revelation offered a method for reaching out, that could be used directly from her home office.

 

Taking a deep breath, the California native sent a query to her supposed, genetic link. One expressed with the gentle tone of a lonely life in search of her own origin.

 

“Hello, Mr. T. C. Lincoln. I am out here on the Pacific coast, my mom is Jess Decosta, and well, I think that I may be your daughter!”

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Coastal Connection” (Part Four)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

In yonder days, it was much easier for a person to simply disappear into the void. But the information age had upset that paradigm, completely. With satellites circling the globe, internet connectivity, and wi-fi access becoming commonplace even in war zones and remote areas of the world, it was no longer so easy to vanish. Even for someone who eschewed friendships and social media participation, some kind of evidence trail could be found to exist. Only with a persistent rejection of modernity in all its forms could someone appear to have exited civilization, altogether.

 

But with no photographs, or personal contacts for reference, and only a handful of her mother’s memories, Amanda Breen struggled to discover what had happened to her target in northeastern Ohio. For weeks and months, she searched until futility eclipsed her efforts. Looking here and there on databases that existed in state registries of all kinds. Voter records, driver’s licenses, property transactions, and such. Nothing provided the information she was seeking. Finally, her patience had been exhausted.

 

She decided to walk a private trail along the coastline, where friends and associates used to enjoy leisure hours after working at her bakery. With the breeze whipping her blonde mane, she sat on the ground, pulled both knees up to her chin, and began to weep.

 

“I KNOW YOU’RE OUT THERE, DAD! DAMMIT, WHY WON’T YOU POP YOUR HEAD UP AND LET ME SEE? I NEED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED AFTER MOM GOT ON THAT PLANE, COMING BACK HERE TO CALI!”

 

The essence of ocean air filled her nostrils. She had ruined her makeup, and looked messy in the moment. But it did not matter, as she sat alone, on the crest of a long ridge. Then, a whisper of familiar tones caused her to jump, and turn around suddenly.

 

Mater Jessica stood over her, with a yellowed envelope folded in one hand.

 

“This was pressed in the middle of a book I bought many years ago, in New York State. I had thought all of his letters were gone. I threw them away just before my wedding to your... to my husband. Whatever you want to call him! I had forgotten about saving this note, it was his last, I think. You’ll understand if you read it!”

 

Amanda opened the letter carefully, and sniffled at its aroma of must and decay.

 

“Hey Jess, I got fired from the warehouse in Cleveland. Then my car broke down at the post office here. My dad helped me put in a new set of points. It only has one, studded snow tire in back. No heat so I have to scrape the windshield from inside, while driving. It’s kinda crazy. Anyway, I got picked up on a remodel crew in town, they are refurbishing the department store here. It’s close to where my parents live, and really interesting, because I work with old men and women who can barely read and write. They are different from people we knew in the Finger Lakes. Earthy and very unpretentious. They like to drink and smoke and play pool. I feel like this place is going to swallow me whole, you know? The art scene I took for granted doesn’t exist here. Maybe in Cleveland, but my Beetle is too clapped-out to drive that far, anymore. I’m really busted at the moment. At least I can walk to this store. Anyway, I managed to sneak a six-pack of beer while out with friends the other day. Nobody in my family is into alcohol, so I have to behave at home. I’m still on the couch here, but if I save enough, perhaps I can get an apartment somewhere. I just wanted to say it one last time, I still love you and miss you. You’re my yardstick, every woman I see gets judged by what you gave me. I’ll never forget our summer together. That’s a promise. Take care of yourself, and your son...”

 

After reading the last line of text, she drooped like a wilted flower.

 

“He sounds defeated! I think going home to Ohio must have broken him, inside.”

 

Her progenitor nodded in agreement.

 

“I concur. But there was nothing I could do at the time. We were so far away from each other, in every sense. He needed to grow up, and I didn’t have time to wait for that. I was too busy preparing myself for you to be born. And your older brother had become a handful! Everything I did meant facing challenges. But I’ve always been a tough ol’ gal, honey! That’s the spirit you inherited.”

 

Amanda clutched the letter gently. Then, noted a postmark near the upper right corner.

 

“This says it came from a town with a funny name. How do you say that? Shar – dun? Where the hell is that, I’ve never heard of it before! I thought he landed in Cleveland.”

 

Jessica nodded again, this time to certify her remembrance.

 

“It’s in that area somewhere. Chardon is the seat of Geauga County, he said. Named for Peter Chardon Brooks, from Massachusetts. That kid was something of a history nerd. He said the name of that district came from an indigenous word that meant raccoon.”

 

Her daughter brightened a bit, and began to laugh and rock where she sat.

 

“Raccoon? That’s hilarious! I look like one of those animals, with my makeup all smeared!”

 

The elder Breen stroked her daughter’s scalp, lovingly, while pondering.

 

“His return address is there, written by hand. That would be long out of date by now, over four decades ago. But it could give you a clue about where he must have gone. Maybe he moved away, or died, or ended up in jail? I have no idea. His parents must be deceased. You can figure it out. Just remember that if you actually find him now, he’ll be much different than the teenager I knew and loved. He might not be so appealing to you. Maybe not even friendly, or likeable, or cooperative. He might react differently to being found than you expect. He might not want to have a daughter and a grandson pop up out of nowhere!”

 

Amanda had initiated a chance game of Roulette with her curiosity. Yet she could not quit before knowing the results precipitated by that lively spin of the wheel.

 

 

“Useful Noise”

  

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

A banging on cinder blocks

A round-faced, grandfather clock

A drumstick solo echo

Going out the window

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

 

Barre chord progressions

Repeated with transgressions

A sewer-pipe, plucking son

A dizzy dope, ducking the gun

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

 

I heard it in a heartbeat

A wrinkled, rice-paper sheet

Artfully replete

With Ska and Bluebeat

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

 

A visual aid

A train wreck replayed

Rudely betrayed

By a coat-check escapade

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

 

Old men with nothing to hear

That is what I’ve met with fear

But a teenager stays clear

Tasting what the tongue can hear

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

 

Give it a flip

Give it a slip

A bold, brawny high-kick

A run in a rain slick

A strike of the match stick

A cure for the homesick

A candle with a spent wick

A needling with a pin-prick

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

 

Get up!

Get up!

Grab the golden cup!

The testimony resonates

For those who dare to confiscate

A prize left for the meek

A stone’s throw, across the creek

A lover’s peck upon the cheek

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

 

A foot stomping on cement

A heel-popping malcontent

A twist of fate, heaven-sent

A lonely leap to the firmament

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

 

A spit into the ocean, blue

A hobo dance in worn-out shoes

A dash across the avenue

In a rainstorm, long overdue

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Coastal Connection” (Part Three)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

Amanda Breen never had lazy days, as a mother with a young son, a small business selling bakery goods, and an appetite for the lively social scene in her native, California district. But upon hearing her mother confess that a man once shared their apartment in central New York State, while stirring a summer romance that had been doomed from its inception, her pace slowed reactively. She found herself dogging through the days. Distracted and obsessed about the true cause of her conception. For a lifetime, her identity had seemed certain. A fact never questioned or disputed. Yet now, she researched online sites for clues about this mysterious figure from her mater’s past. Someone she had never seen in old photographs, or read about in diary entries. A veritable specter, lingering in the shadows.

 

Finally, her emotions erupted with the bubbling fury of a teakettle on the boil.

 

“Mom, what the hell happened to Townie Link after you came back to Cali? You left out that part of the story!”

 

Jessica sat with a glass of wine, in her library nook. She had been reading about Edie Sedgewick, and her association with the pop icon, Andy Warhol.

 

“C’mon honey, does it really matter? That’s all ancient history now, a bad memory better left in the lore of yesterday. I should never have mentioned it...”

 

Her offspring huffed with irritation at this dodge maneuver.

 

“You just left and never saw him again? Did he know you were pregnant?”

 

The former hippie disciple shook her head and whispered.

 

“I didn’t know until after returning to Santa Barbara. Your grandparents were shocked and wanted me to go back. I got letters almost every day from that kid, he was homeless for a few weeks, freezing on the streets of Ithaca, living in his VW Beetle, and then went to stay with relatives in Ohio. That broke his spirit, I think. Things were very different from the chaos of our wild fling at the hillside flophouse...”

 

Amanda bristled at this bout of honesty.

 

“Letters? Did you save them? How many were there before he disappeared?”

 

Jessica shielded her eyes as if being interrogated under a bright light.

 

“Dozens and dozens. He was really in love, though I doubt the poor guy could literally understand what that entailed. He was still a teenager, after all! Not someone with any idea of what it meant to take responsibility for being alive. He was careless and crazy, and casual about everything...”

 

The young femme pressed her progenitor in the issue, without mercy.

 

“AND YOU WERE HAPPY TO BE A COUGAR ON THE PROWL, FOR SOME DRINKS AND FUN IN THE BEDROOM?”

 

Her mother reacted with a predictable measure of embarrassment.

 

“We didn’t use that word in those days. I can’t quantify it, but he had something that clicked with me. We were both artistic. I liked to paint and design, while he was a musician and songwriter. Our fling was satisfying, at least for a brief interlude. But I had my own child to raise, and he didn’t seem to get the parenting thing. We were living on whatever money could be scraped together, from welfare or food stamps, and odd jobs. That kind of lifestyle couldn’t last. I would have lost everything!”

 

Amanda crossed her arms and stood tall on a pair of stiletto heels.

 

“So, you didn’t answer his letters? You didn’t talk to him on the phone?”

 

The senior female sighed heavily, while reflecting on her memories.

 

“We did speak on a couple of occasions. He had gotten a warehouse position, in Cleveland. His intention was to save enough for a drive out here in his ratty Volkswagen, which I thought sounded risky. I guessed that it would barely get to the border with Indiana. But he was determined to reconnect. I admitted to being knocked-up, but claimed to have had an abortion. That turned him cold, I think. I could tell that his zest for living had faded. His parents were very conservative people, and had him sleeping on the couch in their living room. I can imagine that they were horrified by the whole situation...”

 

Her daughter turned pale at this candid confession. It added another dimension to the story.

 

“Admit it, you knew in your heart that he was my dad. You knew it all along, but let both of us live with a lie! How does that make you feel now, Grandma Breen?”

 

Jessica stroked her long, gray curls while trembling. She had reached the edge of an emotional cascade into silence and despair.

 

“I thought it was the right thing to do, we were too far apart in age and experience. Not to mention, in our locations on the continent! I mean, Ohio is a whole world away from California! It’s like he was puttering along on a back road, and I’m here riding in the fast lane of a super highway! How could anyone make that work?”

 

Amanda did not relent in her quest for information. She wanted to know every detail about the man that might have sired her own existence.

 

“But it did work, for that summer at least. Am I correct? You must have loved him on some level. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have read his letters or answered his calls!”

 

Her mater stammered vocally, almost to the point of sobbing.

 

“Yes, yes, yes, yes! I did feel something for that kid. He was capricious and impractical, but made me feel free. I could see the light in his eyes when I showed him a painting. Or a set of jewelry I had made. He got the importance of shapes and colors. Something most people miss completely. I appreciated that, we were on the same psychic wavelength...”

 

There was a pause as both women caught their breath. Then the younger of this pair sat on a chair in the corner, with her head down, and eyes closed.

 

“You dumped my real father, like taking out the trash. Just say it out loud! He was good enough to be a lover, but not good enough to be a husband or a life partner. Not good enough to ever see that face of his own genetic spawn, in person!”

 

Jessica surrendered to the teeming wave of memories, at last. Her tears spilled and splashed uncontrollably. She sniffled noisily, while holding a tissue to her nose.

 

“YES, YES, YES I DID! I DID IT TO SURVIVE! I DID IT BECAUSE THERE WAS NO OTHER CHOICE! AT THE TIME, I HAD NO OTHER CHOICE! I COULDN’T JUST GIVE UP ON EVERYTHING!”

 

Amanda stiffened, and stared straight ahead. A plan was taking shape inside her skull.

 

“Mom, tell me, what was his legal name? Townie Link doesn’t sound right, that’s more like a made-up moniker for the clubs. What did it say on his birth certificate? What was he called as a newborn infant? What was his actual name???”

 

The answer dribbled out like a final burst of precipitation after a storm had passed.

 

“TOWNSHEND CARR LINCOLN! SUPPOSEDLY, A DESCENDANT OF OUR 16^TH PRESIDENT!”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Coastal Connection” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

Jessica Decosta Breen had lived her early life on the precipice of sanity. More as an episode of performance art than a journey to fulfillment and adulthood. She traveled frequently, had many romantic partners, and friends from every corner of the world. Yet upon having her first child at the age of 27, a son who was energetic and curious about everything, her focus shifted out of necessity. She was no longer simply a gypsy adventurer and vagabond. Now, she had become something more demanding and consequential, by far.

 

She was, due to an accident of happenstance, a mother.

 

Her move to accept that role did not come immediately. While changing diapers and feeding baby formula, she continued to drink copious amounts of vodka or vinted concoctions. And smoke marijuana or hashish whenever it became available. She painted portraits for extra money, and designed jewelry for friends. Waiting on tables at local restaurants when this stream of income proved to be unreliable. Underneath the rebellious flair of a creative femme, however, was something more sturdy. She had learned to be self-reliant at an early age. Therefore, she always kept mentally attuned to every situation, thinking ahead of the game like a chess-master at the board.

 

But her encounter with Townie Link, a teenaged drunk and music addict, happened idiopathically. They met through a mutual friend with whom she stayed, while on a vacation trip back to her former home in New York State.

 

Lincoln was wide-eyed, skinny, reckless, and full of confidence that outstripped his abilities. Yet authentically talented in a sense. His Appalachian background did not mesh well with an existence among performers, poets, and malcontents in the shadow of Cornell University. So, despite prancing around on stages in the area, with a motorcycle jacket and boots, he never felt completely comfortable. That tension kept him teetering like someone affected by vertigo. But it also gave him a personality that could at times be charming to behold.

 

Jessica took him into a side bedroom, during a party where she was celebrating. Perhaps as much out of curiosity as anything else. She wondered how he would respond to an older, experienced woman who had already seen both coasts of the continent, and the old world of Europe.

 

The spark between them was genuine. Each one complimented the other. Almost instantly, they became a couple, living in conditions of squalor and profligate behavior. Clubbing, sitting in at recording sessions, and keeping late hours that defied normalcy and parenting.

 

Link reckoned they were minor stars in the Rock & Roll constellation, mirror images of Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen. It was a role he eagerly adopted, while manufacturing a timeline for himself out of whole cloth. He claimed to have grown up on the hard streets of Pittsburgh. Before coming to his new home, for an apprenticeship in television broadcasting. An escapade that irritated police officers, judges, and elected officials in their city. But yielded very little actual notoriety, along with dropping out before earning a formal degree.

 

His adoptive girlfriend was entertained for a moment, while the lure of loud guitar riffs, wine, whiskey, and cocaine held sway. But then, they were stuck in a hillside house with four apartments. A structure poorly maintained and sparsely furnished. They were broke and ruled by a chaotic ethos. Neither of them could settle on a stable routine of any kind. Meanwhile, the needy howl of a developing infant continued to resonate. He was perpetually hungry and cranky, and craving attention.

 

Finally, Jessica realized that the partnership she had initiated was out of step with her altered responsibilities as a parent. She had to prioritize her young seedling above all else. Or surrender to the reality that her authority as a custodial mater would be stripped away in legal terms. Yet in her former home, among the creative outcasts and visionaries, that would never occur.

 

She told a series of convincing lies, while stashing funds in her dresser drawer. Then, as she and her male companion were drinking and smoking away an evening in the fall, she announced her true intentions with a confession of inconvenient truth.

 

“Townie, I have a plane ticket to fly back to California, with my son. We leave next Monday morning, my soul-sister Sage is coming to pick us up at six o’clock...”

 

Lincoln reacted by excusing himself to the bathroom. He had imbibed over half a gallon of potent, red juice. Sorrowfully, he stared into the mirror over their sink, frowned and grimaced, then turned to the wall and lashed out with his right fist. This righteous blow scattered plaster and wooden trim around the small space. When he exited with a bleeding paw, to explain this noisy interlude, his voice had risen to the sound of a wounded lion’s roar for relief.

 

“YOU’RE GOING BACK TO CALIFORNIA? WELL, I’LL TELL YOU WHERE I’M GOING, HONEY! DO YOU WANNA KNOW? I AM GOING STRAIGHT TO HELL!”

 

Their relationship continued in silence, until the airport rendezvous had transpired. After that wordless farewell, he was once again a vagrant bum, on the sidewalk. With no job, place to stay, or advocates left to offer comfort. He had alienated every friend in the city. And emptied every bottle in his possession. A chain wallet hung meekly at his hip, bare and useless, except for carrying an expired license and coupons for pizza.

 

Now, the senior mom relived this bygone adventure while considering the queries of her daughter. Who was her real father? The question burned her ears with a toxic resonance. She had been stoned, dizzy, and intellectually compromised until that moment of clarity, some four decades earlier. She could not be sure of anything before+ her escape to the gold coast. Lovers? Partners? Chance encounters? They had been many and numerous. Her only interest had been to seek pleasure and gratify herself. Anything else turned her stomach as being decidedly square and out-of-touch.

 

Only the call of motherhood planted her feet solidly on the ground.

 

In Cali, she realized that her belly was growing again. With the gift of another child, soon to follow. And new alliances forming, as she skillfully navigated through circumstances, to rebuild her life in view of the Pacific Ocean.

 

Townie Link no longer existed in her mind, or heart. But as she looked into the face of her daughter, lovingly, an odd vibe made her lips tremble. There in the eyes of her offspring was the look of someone else, someone very far away. Not only in terms of chronology, but also, geography.

 

A forgotten man that she never intended to remember.