c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(9-26)
Precarity – “A condition of
existence without predictability or security, affecting material or psychological
welfare.” - via Wordnik
T. C. Lincoln had been wallowing
in a perpetual state of precarity for a dozen years, since his abrupt exit from
the workforce, and society in general. His connection to the outside world had
been immediately severed by this unexpected shift in routines. But a deep dive
into the dark realm of alcohol dependency kept him grounded. By staying
perpetually drunk and distant, he was able to survive in this vacuum. Even
without the benefit of daylight or oxygen to support his endurance. He was
unwashed, unloved, and unafraid. Fear did not hold sway over his emotions.
Instead, he relished the thought of going to sleep, forever.
Because in a functional sense, he
had already died.
Yet the flesh of his body, and
synapses of his mind, were still extant and alive. Despite numerous
disabilities and handicaps, he continued to thrive on a certain level. Still
able to move slowly and with deliberation, around the mobile home that he
occupied at Evergreen Estates. He rarely interacted with family members who
lived in nearby communities. And shunned visits from curious neighbors who had
good intentions and bad habits. Living alone had proved to be a difficult
chore, one fraught with challenges that sapped his energy and made him feel
overwhelmed. But he continued to choose isolation over the environment of a
skilled-care facility.
The singlewide abode, and its restrictive,
narrow lot offered enough space for him to live in relative comfort. He did not
need or want anything more.
On a Wednesday afternoon, with
fall having arrived and cooler temperatures in effect, he sat outside on his
wooden bench, with a flask of bourbon. The potent liquor had already numbed his
nerves, and brought on a pleasant mood of inebriation. So, as he began to swoon
and snore, a surrender to the moment took hold. His head dipped, his eyes
closed, and he slouched where he sat on the outside porch.
The old hermit was unconscious for
a half-hour or more. Then, the gentle caress of a feminine hand fell upon his
cheek. He felt fingers running through his shaggy beard and long, tangled mass
of hair. Finally, a kiss teased his lips. Another followed quickly, with a
third punctuating this anonymous gesture of affection.
Lincoln awakened with a jolt. Haki
Speck, a resident who lived with her husband on the corner, was straddling him
on the crude furnishing. She wore a tight blouse and shiny leggings, with her
lengthy legs spread wide, in a vee of temptation. While gloating with an
expression of confidence, and purpose.
The contrarian loner stiffened as
his eyes regained their focus.
“MA’AM, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU
DOING HERE? I HAVE A GUEST CHAIR IF YOU WANT TO SIT FOR A SPELL!”
The curvaceous femme boasted a
bounty of motherly curves, and golden curls draped over both shoulders. Her
Rubenesque profile was undeniably appealing for someone in their middle 60s.
Yet she restrained her salacious impulses, while stepping backward for a better
view.
“Link, you were really zoned out!
I’ve been trying to wake your ass up for fifteen minutes! Do you always drink
so early in the day?”
The graying boozer rubbed his face
and yawned forcefully, He was disoriented and confused, while struggling to
speak coherently.
“Ask around, I’ve got a reputation
in this park. People will tell you that all I do is get loaded...”
Haki sighed and stood with her
hands posed on both hips.
“Neighbor, I don’t care what anybody
says about you. I didn’t come here to judge, or to give a you a lecture about living
healthy. I wanted to make peace, is that something you would like? I’m tired of
the conflict between you and my hubby. As a matter of fact, I’m tired of
listening to him complain about this ratty little village, every day. But that’s
another story. And it’s none of your business!”
Lincoln nodded in agreement.
“Ma’am, I don’t make it my
business to pry into anybody’s shit. So we’re definitely on the same page,
right there...”
Mrs. Speck smiled with
satisfaction at this endorsement.
“I’m a Christian woman, Link. I
care about others. They are God’s children, I believe. Just like I am, just
like the rest of us are. When I see you out in the driveway, struggling to get
into your car, it weighs heavy on my heart. I can tell that you are almost
always in pain. I know you must be in trouble. And I can see that you are very,
very alone!”
The rowdy misanthrope was slightly
miffed by her description. He did not seek to win sympathy or concern from anyone.
“Look ma’am, I get around okay.
Sure I’m creaky, but that’s nothing unusual for an old dude like myself. I don’t
let it drag me down. It’s made me tough enough to handle things on my own. That’s
what really matters, keeping my independence...”
Haki was bold in her response. She
came close enough that her breath tickled his nostrils. Then, she put a hand on
his shoulder.
“You’ve got friends here, and don’t
even know it. People who watch and listen, and pray for your well-being. People
who notice your spunk and creative spirit. People who appreciate seeing a real cowboy,
even if you can’t get up on a horse right now...”
Lincoln sputtered with laughter.
“COWBOY? HELL MA’AM, I’M A WHIPPED
MULE. NOT WORTH A DAMN AT THE MOMENT. NOT WORTH A DAMN TO ME OR ANYBODY ELSE...”
The mature female fell deftly into
his lap. She spun sideways, threw her arms around his broad shoulders, and
pursed her lips.
“I know that you must be tired,
Link. I am tired too, tired of pinching pennies to pay bills, tired of how this
property is neglected by its owners, tired of my spouse bitching about our trailer,
and tired of being stuck in a life going nowhere. Most of all, I’m tired of
seeing you hobble along with nobody to care, when all I really want to do is come
to your lot, and help!”
She placed her mouth against his,
with such determination that it betrayed years of martial neglect and dissatisfaction.
Suddenly, the senior dissenter found himself fighting to breathe. He thrashed
from side to side, as kisses smothered him where he sat. His nether regions
were probed by wandering fingers. And his physique responded in kind, despite a
desire to stall any such reaction before it could begin.
“WHAT THE FUGG, MA’AM! THIS IS WRONG,
WRONG, WRONG! THIS SHIT IS CRAZY AND WRONG! YOUR FATASSED HUSBAND WILL LOSE HIS
FREAKING MIND! DON’T START SOMETHING WE CAN’T FINISH! YOU'RE A CHRISTIAN WOMAN, REMEMBER?"
The barking of a dog next door
interrupted this impulsive tryst.
Lincoln emerged from the fog of
alcohol feeling exhausted and befuddled. A seasonal chill blew across his yard.
The street before him was empty, and silent. He could not be certain if the
visit from his neighbor had been a real event, or simply a vision inspired by many
rounds of high-proof liquor causing him to hallucinate.
He was alone and subdued. Yet
still trembling from the romantic interlude that had seemed so genuine in
character. It left him shocked and stunned. And wracked with guilt for having participated
in an encounter that unsettled him to the core.
He would need a night in bed, and
coffee, to clear away the mental debris. After that, perhaps he could determine
what had been a frightful work of fantasy, and what was real. But until those
comfort measures arrived, he was left at his origin point. Literally at the
start of this unpredictable day in the oasis of manufactured homes.
As ever, precarity was his
companion. At the beginning, and end of everything.
