Geneva Go Round – “Guilty Gut Check”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

Five years, gone...

 

My second colonoscopy happened at Geauga Hospital, a familiar venue in a convenient location. A health depot situated in Geauga County, which is not far from the Cleveland metropolitan area. Yet removed by a sufficient distance that its characteristics were different in many ways deemed to be attractive for residents moving out in search of an escape from urban congestion. My sister and brother-in-law both provided support. Meanwhile, I reckoned that those in our brood who had already passed on were watching prayerfully, from their vantage point in eternity. Doctors and nurses worked their magic with great skill. The actual experience, as expected, was mostly in preparation for this scope of the hindquarters. All prep, and very little needful work done on the laboratory bed.

 

At that spot in my personal timeline, I was able to receive a positive diagnosis, despite a family history of intestinal cancer. And, won the right to go 60 months until my next gut check. A reward for which I was very grateful. The respite was for so long a period that I figured it would span the ages, chronologically. But as with my life routine in retirement, everything seemed to progress at a rapid pace not yoked to the march of literal time.

 

My sister passed away in October of the previous year. My brother-in-law battled with senile dementia, and finally landed in a local nursing home. As these events transpired, I slid deeper into disability, while still maintaining a fighting spirit and upbeat attitude. Eventually, only my niece was available to handle family needs, face-to-face. I did my best to avoid adding to her burden as the new hub of our group.

 

When my general physician spoke about the anniversary of this important procedure arriving, it did not come as a surprise. I had felt the date creeping up from behind, ominously. Chilling me with a sense of dread and anxious anticipation. Meekly, I listened to her appeal that the exam be scheduled immediately. And I agreed to have the procedure occur at a different facility, believing that an Uber or Lyft vehicle would be needed to get me there and back home again. My doctor had relocated her office to the city of Geneva, a place where my own career as a retail business manager concluded in 2016. So, I was not unfamiliar with their care center.

 

I got a confirmation notice via the MyChart app on my cell phone.

 

One roadblock to this test developed however, when I read their guidelines for visiting the team. A demand that some person who was related, or friendly enough to be dependable, was present on the day things happened. This scuttled my plan of action, and caused some concern. Briefly, I thought about driving myself to the hospital, and surrendering the keys to my car. With a caveat that I would wait patiently until given a sign of ‘all clear’ by one of the representatives that were on duty.

 

That impulse proved to be unworkable, of course.

 

In the interim, my niece volunteered to play the role of chauffeur. A task that made me feel guilty, and yet comforted in the balance. It was the proper arrangement for what needed to be done. Therefore, I did not argue too much. Because the colon-check had already been scheduled, I let the details stand as they were with no alterations. Still, an additional measure of shame arrived when I realized that it was her 40^th birthday.

 

I had reached the zero hour. There was no time to linger in regrets.

 

When the countdown period arrived, and dietary options became restricted, I found myself unconsciously perusing food reviews online. Each one caused me to sigh and salivate. A cheerful, curious woman who custom-ordered a bucket of Chicken McNuggets with 100 pieces. Another female critic who compared burgers available from competing chains. Recipe queens, amateur cookers, and shaggy, backwoods chefs in denim overalls. All of these creative views kept me on the edge of my bench, at the front porch.

 

When the final 24 hours arrived, only clear liquids were proscribed. I chafed at ingesting water and sports drinks before the SuTab prep pills. And finally surrendered to temptation. Against the advice included with my messages on the University Hospitals app, I hammered several rounds of Miller Lite in a blissful moment of sin and disobedience.

 

Once I began the final steps to prepare my innards, things settled down a bit. Somehow, I was able to sleep approximately four hours, in between doses.

 

Limited mobility has kept me close to home in recent years. So, the trip to Geneva was accomplished with a bit of difficulty getting in and out of my niece’s Subaru crossover. Then, similar woes manifested themselves as I struggled inside, rode an elevator to the second floor, and got to a bed that was waiting. Every move, every transition, every roll and turn, and twist had me slightly off balance. I noted with irony and amusement that a wristband bearing the imprint of ‘falls risk’ had been put on my left arm.

 

Those who took care of my needs were predictably kind and professional. The setting at Geneva UH was friendly and conducive to healing. I liked the intimacy of their setup. Having a more limited footprint seemed to evoke a sense of familial charm.

 

While in the room where my procedure was about to take place, I asked if the doctor or her staff had ever seen a ‘King of the Hill’ episode which referenced father Hank having a gut check of his own. My query must have confused them at first, because a moment of silence elapsed, before laughter resounded over the beeping and buzzing of analytical machinery.

 

A mindful member of the care team responded eventually, by saying that a ‘Full House’ installment had once featured actor Bob Saget undergoing such an exam, on camera.

 

That was the last thing I remembered. The anesthetic took hold as I wandered into oblivion.

 

Upon returning home, I felt groggy but grateful. Navigating my access ramp proved to be a chore. I had exhausted the muscular ability of my legs to remain useful. A plop in my desk chair followed, with a lazy interlude of snoring soon in effect.

 

Internet service had been interrupted by a bluster of Mother Nature’s wrath, while I prepped for the colon scope. Now, my computer monitor remained blank. Yet it did not matter too much, as I continued to teeter on the precipice of slumber.

 

Hank Hill beckoned from the other side of a cartoon veil.

 

“Y’all shut them eyes, son! It’s time ta get some sleep!”

 

 

Nothing To See Here: “Red Wine Ouija” (Part Three)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

The appearance of Jordan Psenka was real enough to be shocking. Yet didn’t quite add up, chronologically. If he had been dead for a century, and employed at a store on our township square before the closed IGA that a few older neighbors remembered from the 1940s, then his connection to me and the lot where my prefab home sits could not be confirmed. The residence park wouldn’t have existed in his time. Therefore, this ghostly claim of being pushed off his spot, at home and at work, seemed illogical.

 

But Mercy Goodrich-Tait only intensified her spiritual search for knowledge. She put aside the Ouija board, and returned to her readings in red wine.

 

“You see neighbor, on the other side, there are no concepts of time. A day might well become a year, or longer. Perhaps a thousand years! Those who have crossed over perceive everything as being part of a unified whole. Calendars and measurements of distance are irrelevant. What matters is that their memories from the mortal plane are respected...”

 

I could not help thinking that this explanation bordered on a nonsensical rant of hucksterism. Still, I did not want to offend my host. Her passion for peering into the realm of otherworldly spirits was genuine enough. So, I simply shrugged and nodded.

 

“Okay then, your take is that this butcher from antiquity thinks I stole his acre of mud?”

 

The wise crone smiled while refilling her goldfish bowl with fermented, red juices.

 

“If you like to view it in that context, then yes. I prefer an opposite point of reference. He has chosen you as his contact in the timeline. Your manufactured hut is where he must have had a cabin hewn from logs. And the business that succeeded his trading outpost was also part of the story. We view only a chapter of this tale, as people of the flesh. But once our souls pass beyond the veil, then we become part of the eternal saga. Everything, as I said, is connected to everything else, ultimately. And all of that is tied to our origin as a species, sired by a cosmic creator.”

 

I rubbed my eyes while attempting to understand.

 

“You’re referencing the idea of... God? Isn’t that out of character for a mystic seer?”

 

Ms. Goodrich-Tait cackled so loudly that her fishbowl began to ring like a chime.

 

“EVERYTHING IS PART OF THE GRAND SUM, RODNEY! DON’T YOU SEE?”

 

I had expected some sort of palm reading, or display of Tarot cards, with a prediction of future events. But she had given me a challenging perspective on life, death, and what might come afterward.

 

“Okay, let me put two and two together here. A settler from the early days of this state practiced his trade to feed pioneer families. Then, those of the postwar era continued to develop their civilization, locally. And now, I am sitting in the midst of their graves? Apparently not showing the proper respect for what transpired, beforehand?”

 

My benefactor rattled her bracelets, and huffed at this note of skepticism.

 

“You must learn to live beyond the ‘now’ Rodney! Your eyes see what lies on the land, and hangs over us in the sky. But for those like myself, I have learned to perceive much, much more. Listen to me, and learn. Listen to the visitor who gifted us with his presence, and learn!”

 

She dropped more pieces of uncooked pasta into her reserve of wine. Then, began to narrow her gaze, with a frown of concentration. She put both hands on the glass vessel, and repeated a chant I did not recognize.

 

“Darksome night and shining moon, East then South, then West, then North; Hearken to the witches’ rune – Here I come to call thee forth!”

 

I could hear my stomach gurgling in protest. A quick glance at my wristwatch indicated that I had passed the normal hour for drinking cool beverages on my front porch. My patience was wearing thin.

 

“You really want to hear from that phantasm again?”

 

Ms. Goodrich-Tait hummed a melody of droning, ancient characteristics. She brought her face close to the bowl, and began to breathe rhythmically.

 

“Grace us with your knowledge. Forgive us if we are careless. Our intentions are pure, our hearts are just. We pledge to you our devotion as children of the Grand Goddess...”

 

Again, an inexplicable rush of wind blew across the crowded room. Cats scattered for cover. Artifacts toppled from their perches. A painting actually fell off its wall hanger. And my belly ached from the pervasive uneasiness.

 

“Look, ma’am, I think this has been an interesting experience to say the least. But my time on the clock must have run out. Or sand in the hourglass, however you measure such things!”

 

A guttural voice barked from the shadows. Jordan Psenka was offended by my impatience.

 

“SIT AND BE QUIET, MORTAL MAN! THIS WOMAN HAS SUMMONED ME AGAIN, AND I WILL HONOR HER TROUBLED PLEA WITH ANOTHER PART OF THE STORY!”

 

My head drooped. I could not stop trembling in my seat.

 

“Alrighty then, say your piece! I’m not going anywhere...”

 

The veteran cutter of meats whispered in my ear.

 

“My smokehouse was ruined in a fire. It left me a pauper, with no way to feed my wife and children. They departed for relatives who lived across the lake. I was left alone, with no means of support. I could never afford to follow them to those new lands in the north. My cabin collapsed during a storm in the summer that followed. I was hungry and cold at the end. Eventually, they buried my bones up on the hill, without a proper funeral. I have been forgotten now, but not by this sorceress! And as it happens, not by you! In your dreams, I have been able to live again! For that, I give thanks!”

 

The cryptic confession caused me to chill. Had I lost control of my own mind?

 

Ms. Goodrich-Tait released her grasp, and sat back in the crude, handmade chair.

 

“Do you understand, Rodney? You have been chosen. I am only a conduit for comprehension. A pathway from the old to the new. Your cause is clear now, to embrace this voyager, and remember his sacrifice. You must go to the township cemetery. And stand before his burial plot, with reverence!”

 

Before I could respond, she got to her feet, spun around the small chamber, and tore away every curtain from its tall windows. Sunlight flooded into the confined space. I realized that the séance session had finally concluded. Yet I was grateful for any excuse to leave the musty trailer, and its furry, feline inhabitants.

 

“I’ll do whatever you ask, if that brings a conclusion to this weird episode! Let me out of here!”

 

I did not really expect to find Psenka’s grave on the hilltop. But with enough searching among the older plots, a weathered stone appeared with an inscription faded over time. Two knives were crossed under the name, tools of a trade from yesteryear that is still extant, today. A cross had been carved for the top, but was crumbling around its edges.

 

“Here lies a man who did but his best. We commend him this day to an eternity in rest. Let his kin proclaim what he believed throughout life – that the blessings of God were his children and wife. Amen.”

 

The epitaph felt odd for someone who had been abandoned as a byproduct of fate. But with my hands clasped and head bowed, I realized that at least, his memory would no longer be a footnote of history.

 

Nothing To See Here: “Red Wine Ouija” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

Note to Readers: This account is skewed a bit from literal facts. Do not be alarmed.

 

Mercy Goodrich-Tait fiddled with incense holders that were smoldering around the perimeter of her octagon table, before turning to the Ouija board. But I was still lost in a fog of detachment. She had not explained the goldfish bowl full of wine, or macaroni floaters that swam inside. So, I was not quite ready to proceed with a new ritual.

 

“Ma’am, you never gave me a reading from the first part of this experiment. What was the point of dipping dried pasta into the juice of squeezed-out grapes?”

 

My host widened her eyes with a sense of having been insulted.

 

“Did you not hear my words, neighbor? When you believe then all will be revealed. This was not an experiment. It was a revelation, if you will accept it!”

 

I took a deep breath while looking sideways, to clear my lungs from traces of the pungent smoke.

 

“Believe? What, like in the Wizard of Oz or some other fairy tale? That’s what I have to accept?”

 

My benefactor slammed her gnarled hands on the table.

 

“I DID NOT INVITE YOU HERE TO BE INSULTED! UNDERSTAND THAT THESE GIFTS ARE GIVEN IN A SPIRIT OF KINDNESS! IF YOU ARE WILLING TO LEARN, I AM WILLING TO TEACH! OTHERWISE, YOU HAVE BANISHED YOURSELF TO IGNORANCE AND DARKNESS!”

 

My face turned numb, and pale. Nothing she said made any sense.

 

“The goldfish bowl... was that like a crystal ball? Were you peering into the void with that trick?”

 

Again, Ms. Goodrich-Tait raised her voice to a shriek of frustration.

 

“CRYSTAL BALL? DO YOU THINK THIS IS LIKE A DISNEY MOVIE, NEIGHBOR? I WON’T SIT HERE AND BE MOCKED! I HAVE OFFERED YOU ENLIGHTENMENT. DO NOT MISTAKE MY CHARITY FOR FOOLISHNESS!”

 

My skin crackled with a jolt of static electricity. I needed to find another way to express being out-of-sync.

 

“Okay, okay, I apologize. My intention was to gain knowledge here, nothing else.”

 

The mystic seer smiled and softened her tone.

 

“You have been having strange dreams as of late, am I correct? Detailed and vivid, but not founded on any real experiences? That is what the wine and pasta told me...”

 

I was somewhat surprised by her insight, But, nodded with acknowledgement.

 

“Yeah, that’s on target. I can’t explain these visions, but last night was a perfect example. I visited a store of some kind, went in the back room and spoke with vendors who were bringing in product. There was a little break area off the main section, with four chairs, all of the kind you would expect to find in somebody’s living room. I kept exploring and discovered a hallway, and then a prep cubicle, long and rectangular. It appeared to be a butcher shop. There were cuts of waste fat everywhere, in the sinks and on metal countertops. A few chops and steaks left out in the open. Everything was refrigerated, I felt cold while looking around. But it rattled my nerves. Eventually, I went back to the main receiving terminal, and three older fellows were seated in the comfy chairs. I guessed that the fourth was left open for me, possibly. But instead of sitting, I interacted with more of the visiting suppliers. One saw a stack of trade magazines that I wanted, but intervened to grab them first. I let him take that prize because he seemed to be so intent on winning.”

 

Ms. Goodrich-Tait was pleased with my honesty.

 

“And none of this was familiar to you?”

 

I signified my befuddlement.

 

“None of it. I woke up in the night and sat on the edge of my mattress, pondering.”

 

The wise crone sighed loudly before giving her assessment of what had transpired.

 

“You were experiencing a visitation, Rodney. The dream images were not yours, but belonged to someone else who long ago passed across the divide between here and eternity. They are on the other side of that veil. But reached out as you were slumbering. Does that make any sense?”

 

I chilled a bit while thinking.

 

“No, it doesn’t quite honestly...”

 

She turned back to the Ouija board, and then reached for my hands.

 

“We must join our minds when using this spiritual appliance. Concentrate with me on our work. We want to contact the deceased individual who was in touch with you, overnight. Let your consciousness be open to connect. And follow me as I offer my petition.”

 

I felt woozy while looking upon the board. But focused all my energy on its cryptic lettering.

 

“Okay, I’ll do it for you...”

 

The gray-headed woman lifted her hands while still clasping my own. Then began to chant rhythmically, with a melodic timbre to her voice.

 

“You who have come before us, make yourself known! What purpose do you hold in this quest? We ask that you communicate in a form we can recognize. Are you with us at this moment?”

 

She guided our hands to the planchette, which moved accordingly. It stopped in place over the word ‘yes.’

 

My stomach gurgled loudly. I was afraid of losing gastronomic control.

 

“I can feel something... it is like having butterflies in my gut.”

 

Ms. Goodrich-Tait rattled her jewelry while continuing the chant.

 

“By what name are you called? We ask you to come before us now. Let us see your form and witness your cry to be heard!”

 

The room crackled with energy, and a glow of blue-white surrounded the table.

 

“I am a cutter of meats, by profession. I lived at the lot where your subject now resides, and labored on the hill, at an IGA store that closed. He has taken my place. I do not want to surrender that spot so easily. But the flesh has failed me, and I was forced to leave before my time! I still have so much work to do!”

 

My hands were trembling. I could barely see anything expect for the flickering of a candle next to the Ouija board.

 

“Replace you? Hell no, I haven’t replaced anybody!”

 

The wise, old woman cackled to herself before moving the planchette again.

 

“What name is yours, dear friend? Would anyone remember you in this park? Or in this township? Even in this county?”

 

The marker spelled out a series of letters that were disjointed and incomprehensible, at first.

 

“J-o-r-d-a-n... P-s-e-n-k-a. J-o-r-d-a-n, J-o-r-d-a-n...”

 

The senior seeker threw back her head and shrieked with abandon.

 

“YOU HAVE BEEN DEAD A HUNDRED YEARS! THIS PROPERTY WAS UNINHABITED IN THAT TIME! HOW DO YOU CLAIM ANY BOND TO THE MAN SITTING HERE WITH ME? YOU ARE SPEAKING IN RIDDLES WHEN WE WANT ONLY THE TRUTH!”

 

A rush of wind felled the burning candle. It upset decorative flowers that were in vases around the room. And rustled curtains in the windows. Finally, it morphed into a howl of male intensity.

 

“I AM THE ORIGINATOR! THIS LAND REMAINS MY BIRTHRIGHT! THE STORE I RECALL WAS BUILT WHERE MY OWN ONCE STOOD! IT WAS STOLEN BY CLEVER VANDALS WHO SETTLED HERE! AND LATER, OCCUPIED BY TRANSGRESSORS WHO MOVED TO THIS PARCEL OF GROUND AS INVADERS! IN THEIR MINDS, I HAVE PLANTED SEEDS OF TORMENT! THEY WILL NOT REST UNTIL I HAVE BEEN SATISFIED! MY JUSTICE WILL BE THEIR SENTENCE OF DESPAIR!”

 

Nothing To See Here: “Red Wine Ouija” (Part One)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

Note to Readers: This account is skewed a bit from literal facts. Do not be alarmed.

 

When writing my ‘Thoughts At Large’ column for the Geauga County Maple Leaf, a newspaper published in Chardon, Ohio, I used to observe that quite often, the best manuscripts in that series seemed to write themselves. Whether as a byproduct of incidental happenings, chance encounters along the way, or random memories that appeared from the ether. But most recently, this phenomenon was aroused from a conversation heard on WJW-8, a television outlet of great renown, in Cleveland. A regular segment on their morning broadcast is called ‘Plugged In’ – sponsored by Liberty Ford. During one of these freeform, verbal interactions, the subject of reading sliced cheeses was mentioned. And while I let it pass from one ear to the other while waking myself with several rounds of coffee from the BUNN brewer in this household, eventually, the recollection caused me to post something on social media. I offered a simple opinion that as William Shakespeare is said to have observed, “Our fate lies not in our stars, but in ourselves.” I reckoned that this tidbit of wisdom also applied to reading palms, tea leaves, or falling silverware. None of that was particularly relevant, I thought, in an age of scientific analysis and documentation.

 

Like most of the content I share in public, this offhand remark got no likes. Despite writing for various publications over the years, I have generally managed to remain anonymous in my personal life. But later in the afternoon, as I moved to the front porch for a cold brew and fresh air, a notification chirp sounded from my cell phone.

 

An estranged partner who had reinvented herself as a modern-day Wiccan and seeker of ancient traditions, hit me up via the Messenger app. Her impulsive comment was blunt and very direct, as I might have expected. Yet it made me somewhat uncomfortable.

 

“Rodney, don’t be so sure that you’ve got it all figured out! There’s a woman right in your neighborhood who does sessions with the Ouija board. She might surprise you with her ability to see and hear things that are invisible to most people. Why don’t you give her a call?”

 

I was familiar with this mystic appliance, of course, but had never actually seen one first-hand. Moreover, I had never heard anyone in my rural community speak about having such interests, even after some 24 years of residency. But the admonition from my departed love-interest stuck like a dart in the wall. I could not forget her plea, wash it away with beer, or commit it to mental storage in some remote and neglected corner of my mind.

 

Eventually, her report caused me to chatter about this odd subject with other residents in my isolated park. At first, the query seemed to inspire concern over my emotional state, as a retired fellow, living alone with few friends on our street. But then, my appeal produced a token gesture of acknowledgement from our property manager, Dana Alvarez. A steward for the development, employed directly by distant owners located in southern California.

 

“You want to know about some lady who tells fortunes and contacts dead spirits? Ayyyyy, that sounds like Mercy Goodrich-Tait, she’s all the way on our back parcel. The very last road on this big piece of land. Her trailer house is a doublewide, full of cats and plants, crystal hangers, brass gongs, and burning incense. I never go there for any reason, she’s kinda spooky, you know? But I get her rent check on the first of every month, so that keeps me happy. It’s all good, bruh, I don’t judge! You do you and I’ll do me!”

 

My stomach began to ache just a bit. I knew that my second wife would be popping up again, on the phone, with questions about what had occurred when visiting this unusual neighbor. So, thoughts of avoiding a face-to-face encounter were hard to sustain. But I stalled on making contact for several weeks. Only an intervention by a casual friend next door put us together as a client and benefactor. Somehow, she passed along my name and number.

 

Eventually, a crude business card was left in my door, actually a folded piece of notebook paper, with a handwritten note clumsily scribbled in between the lines.

 

“To receive the gift of knowledge you must be pure. Are you a child of the wise crone? Come here, and be sure!”

 

I rarely ever drove to the far corner of our little village. It was a portion of the whole situated past township woods, an abandoned dump, and a busted sewer facility. I did not know anyone who lived at that point on our map. But when rolling to my destination, there was an aura of otherworldly vibrations palpable. I could smell ginseng and other aromatic elements lingering on the breeze. The lot inhabited by Ms. Goodrich-Tait was messy and overgrown. Her extended hut was surrounded by tall trees of various kinds. I guessed that sunlight was a precious commodity in such a restrictive environment. And indeed, the stoop by her front door was dark and dreary.

 

I knocked gently, for fear of being too forceful with my petition to be heard.

 

When the portal opened, I beheld a tall, slender woman with curls of gray, wearing a homespun frock dyed in hues of purple and maroon. She carried a walking stick carved from a natural branch. Though it seemed to serve no purpose other than perhaps, representing a ceremonial scepter of some sort. The interior of her dwelling was crowded and musty. An octagonal table sat in the midst of this cramped space. She invited me to sit, and then took out a glass fishbowl. Into that vessel, she poured wine vinted along the shore of Lake Erie, in Geneva. Then allowed elbows of homemade macaroni to float around in that liquid reserve.

 

I could not discern how this ritual would unravel riddles or reveal hidden truths. Yet she cooed and murmured over the bowl, with her eyes closed. Massaging the air with her fingers extended, and jewelry clattering.

 

“I see many things for you, neighbor. But they will not come to pass until you believe. Am I a serpent to be feared? Am I a demon to be shunned? Am I a jester to be mocked and jeered? Only you can open the puzzle box. When the latch is set loose, your answers will prevail!”

 

I recalled that my erstwhile spouse had altered her personality, preferences, and appearance, in a progression that no one understood. So, the cryptic chant I heard resonated as perhaps another peek into a void of unresolved mystery. I did not comprehend her vibe, and was possibly not intended to be given that kind of access. Just as the flight of fancy that ensnared my former companion seemed artful and fascinating, yet beyond my ability to process.

 

As I watched, Ms. Goodrich-Tait set the fishbowl aside, and took out her vintage Ouija board. An audible growl sputtered from my belly.

 

“Umm, excuse me, ma’am. I’ve got to admit being a novice in this regard. Are you going to summon a ghost or gobblin now, or what?”

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Distance, Maintained” (Part Six)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

With his spouse gone, and other residents keeping their distance because of persistent lapses into self-pity and grousing about the alcoholic neighbor nearby, Linn Speck had become isolated. The trailer abode that he occupied felt empty and uncomfortable. He did not enjoy evenings spent sitting alone, staring at photo albums from previous years of marital bliss. Haki had been a cheerful partner throughout their marriage, but now her whole personality was different. She projected an air of independence, something that upset the balance of their household completely. He had always been unquestioned as the natural head of a faith-centered home. Yet now, seemed to have been kicked off his throne of gold. Not by chance, he thought, but instead as a result of interference from a lone individual with a bad reputation. Someone he hated more than any opponent imaginable. A divisive force that had been permitted to linger in their rural community for far too long.

 

He slouched in a chair at the kitchen table, wearing an undershirt and boxer shorts. Sweat beaded on his bare forehead. He could thing of only one thing that would end this unprovoked period of torment – judgment for T. C. Lincoln, and a physical expulsion to follow. That alone would bring him peace, and justice.

 

Finally, he could bear no more of this mental torture. With determination swelling in his chest, he dressed in olive-drab fatigues, stuffed a vintage, Beretta M9 pistol under his waistband, and picked up a baseball bat. With a marching cadence, he walked the short distance between his corner dwelling, and Lot 13. There he was certain that his foe would be outside on the front porch, and inebriated beyond comprehension. The moment for doubt and sorrow had passed. He wanted to take action, and rid the park of a menace that no one would miss, in the aftermath.

 

Linn was out of shape from years of loafing at Evergreen Estates, in between brief periods of gainful employment. So, his high-stepping jaunt left him breathless and panting for air. But it quickened his pulse, and inspired a feeling of confidence. He was sure that being rid of the dirty boozer would pay dividends for weeks and months to come. It might even reassert his dominance as a leader in their blue-collar neighborhood. That was something he craved perhaps even more than the return of his estranged spouse.

 

Upon reaching the target destination in short order, a guttural burst of snoring filled his ears. The reclusive hermit had already passed out from an afternoon of imbibing Kentucky bourbon. He slobbered and spat with his eyes still closed. Mucous dribbled from his gray beard.

 

The failed association head raised his bat defiantly, and shouted a sarcastic greeting.

 

“WAKE UP LINK, I’M ABOUT TO SETTLE THE SCORE FOR WHAT YOU DID WITH YOUR CANE!”

 

The sports implement nearly flew from his hands, but stayed on track. Its hefty design caught the snoozing senior square on his jaw. The blow could be heard all up and down their street.

 

Lincoln was already dazed, so despite being bashed in the face, he barely reacted to this frontal assault.

 

“Whatdafuggggggg? Hey, who the hell... what the hell... dammit, quit swinging for the fences!”

 

Linn stood with a cocky flaring of his nostrils signaling violent intentions.

 

“THIS IS NO JOKE, YOU SORRY BASTARD! STAND UP AND TAKE YOUR LUMPS LIKE A MAN! YOU SCREWED ME OUT OF MY HAPPY HOME, SO NOW I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR REAR END! DO YOU UNDERSTAND? THIS IS NOT A DRILL, YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH! I’M GOING TO FINISH THE JOB RIGHT HERE AND NOW!”

 

The alcoholic contrarian struggled to comprehend what was happening. He could barely focus his eyes.

 

“Dude, you’re out of control! I never talked any shit to your wife, maybe she got tired of all the crying about that association and your summer picnics. If people don’t really want to hang out with your ass, I’d say that’s a good call on their part. Let it ride, man! Go back to your piss beer and trading cards. She’ll come home when the money runs out, cut her some slack. She probably needed a breather after being married to you for so long!”

 

The portly, balding fellow reddened with irritation. He took another swat with the baseball bat.

 

“LINK, YOU’RE A DUMBASS! DID YOU THINK I WOULDN’T KNOW THAT SHE CAME UP HERE TO APOLOGIZE FOR ME? WHATEVER YOU TOLD HER MUST’VE GOTTEN THE BALL ROLLING! I’VE NEVER SEEN HER BEHAVE LIKE THIS, SHE’S ALWAYS BEEN A GOOD, CHRISTIAN WOMAN. NOW THAT LADY HAS GONE OFF THE RAILS! IT’S A DAMN SHAME TO SEE THE DEVIL GET HIS DUE! BUT I DON’T CARE ABOUT THAT, BECAUSE YOU ARE GONNA GET YOURS, TOO!”

 

Lincoln sputtered a mouthful of liquor. It spewed all over his black T-shirt.

 

“Go home, neighbor. She’s probably back home and waiting for you right now!”

 

With mechanical reflexes, Linn slipped the pistol out of his pants. It felt cool and solid in his fingers. Automatically, he raised the weapon and took aim.

 

“THIS IS IT, MOTHER-EFFER! YOU’RE DONE, OLD FART! DONE, DONE, DONE!”

 

He squeezed the trigger with glee, but nothing happened. He had forgotten to load any ammunition.

 

Laughter bellowed as the contrarian drunk fell back on his seat. His face had turned pale, but now began to regain some of its natural color.

 

“Gawdamn, bruh, you’re a mess! No bullets in that clip? Shit, I suppose you were in a hurry to get over here. I’ll call it an act of God though, at least you won’t be spending tonight in the safety center. Sheriff Rath has enough work to do, he don’t need another case to handle...”

 

Linn stomped his feet like a disappointed child. He threw the weapon impulsively, and then kicked at his baseball bat.

 

“YOU’RE THE LUCKIEST ASSHOLE I EVER MET, TOWNSHEND LINCOLN! I SWEAR THAT YOU’VE GOT NINE LIVES LIKE A FREAKING CAT! DAMN YOU TO HELL! DAMN YOU, DAMN YOU, DAMN YOUUUUUU!”

 

Lincoln reopened his liquor jug, and took a long pull of brown juice. The burn made his eyes water, but felt good settling in his gut. Then, he looked up at the clear, blue sky.

 

“I owe you one, Heavenly Father. I’ve heard people say that you take care of babies and fools. Well, look after that boy, will you? Cause he ain’t right!”

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Distance, Maintained” (Part Five)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln paid little attention to anyone else at Evergreen Estates. He had been in the isolated village of mobile homes for so long that his immediate environment was now completely invisible. He followed a life routine centered on waking at sunrise, having coffee at his desk while working throughout the morning, and then pursuing the fine art of drunkenness, once the noon hour had arrived. From that point, inebriation clouded his perception of everything that followed. He would sometimes dive deeply into the liquor, so far that oblivion became his only target. Or, when merely tipsy and more aware, he might engage in brief conversations with neighbors who passed by on foot. Occasionally, trips to his refrigerator and cupboards yielded snacks to satisfy cravings aroused by the wash of alcohol. Every episode ended at a similar place, however. Whether outside on his wooden bench, on the floor of his living room, or even in bed, he would pass out for the night and snore until all of the booze had exited his bloodstream.

 

But on a quiet Sunday, he noted that the ratty, Japanese sedan of Linn Speck was missing from its normal place on the corner. While not necessarily a sign of any calamity within the household, there was an air of mystery involved. Because it had also been absent, the day before. And even prior to that, during the week. As if it had broken down and been towed away, or perhaps driven to some distant location where the vehicle still remained.

 

Feeling curious, the old contrarian took out his cellular device from a hoodie pocket. He visited groups on social media platforms that connected residents of the park for informational purposes, and saw a post advertising a singlewide hovel for sale. The architecture and faded, brown hue were strangely familiar. A paragraph of text, included below this image, explained the connection in more detail.

 

“For sale, a 1976 Schult with the bay window up front. Great location, on a lot with a big yard and extra space around the corner. A large barn beside the front steps, for lots of storage. Trees and decorative boulders around the perimeter. A steal at $16,000.00 cash! Contact the park manager for more information. Current resident has owned it for a dozen years...”

 

Lincoln felt his pulse quicken in response.

 

“Shit, is that the bald dumbass who wanted to be king of this sorry sinkhole?”

 

A bit of scrolling through sites related to the junkyard oasis revealed that the boxcar abode had been available for about one week. An odd development with no obvious signs of the portly, balding fellow moving out with his wife. Lawn furniture and a kettle grill were still visible, around the exterior. The grass had not grown wild from neglect. There were no signs placed in the windows, for a realtor.

 

Perhaps the advert had been a desperate plea, following some sort of marital episode? He could not be certain without more facts. Though a natural predisposition to being uninterested in any of his neighbors made this chore difficult. Finally, he reached out to Darby Stronelli, who lived on his eastern flank. The short, butch female was high-strung and always preoccupied with busybody gossip. Therefore, she was most likely to know what happened behind those closed doors.

 

Reluctantly, Lincoln tapped the Messenger icon on his phone, and sent a brief request for edification.

 

“Hey Darb, hope you’re good over there. Any idea why Linn would be dumping his shack? I just saw the blurb on our Evergreen E. Residents page...”

 

A reaction came swiftly. The shrill, spiky-haired femme sent a string of laughing emojis. Then text typed out in all caps.

 

“HEY BUDDY! I AIN’T HEARD FROM YOU IN A LONG DAMN TIME! AND I HAVEN’T! YOU USED TO COME OVER FOR BEERS AND TO HANG OUT, I MISS THOSE DAYS!”

 

The reclusive hermit scratched his beard and groaned.

 

“Right, I get it. Walking is difficult at the moment, my legs are shot. But anyway, do you have a clue about what happened with the Speck fam?”

 

Darby did not answer right away. But eventually sent a different emoji, one with wide eyes and a look of concern.

 

“HEY, YOU DIDN’T CATCH THE WAVE ON THAT? THERE WAS A BIG FIGHT I GUESS. WE COULD HEAR IT FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF MY TRAILER. YOU KNOW, THERE’S A SECOND PORCH IN THE BACK. I SIT OUT THERE SOMETIMES WITH A BUD LIGHT. THOSE TWO WERE SCREAMING AT EACH OTHER, I DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED. THEN SHE TOOK THEIR CAR AND LEFT.  AFTER THAT, HE CAME OVER TO PLAY POOL IN MY PARTY BARN AND GRUMBLE ABOUT HIS MARRIAGE. I DIDN’T REALLY WANNA HEAR IT, YOU KNOW. BUT THEN HE BLAMED IT ALL ON YOU! THAT MADE ME PERK UP MY EARS. HE ALWAYS BLAMES EVERYTHING ON YOU!”

 

Lincoln needed a swig of Kentucky bourbon to steady his mood.

 

“How would I be responsible for her bugging out of their dwelling? That makes no sense at all, Darb! Not a damn bit of sense!”

 

The nosey neighbor must have been giggling at her wireless device. More laughing faces appeared on the display screen.

 

“Linn thought you probably put bad ideas in her head. You know, talked her into going on a cross-country run like Thelma and Louise. But by herself, instead. He thinks you’d like to steal her away, which made me laugh out loud. I know better ‘n that, and I do! How the hell would you steal anyone, when you never leave that trailer? I thought it was freaking funny!”

 

Her contact next door felt his stomach turning nauseous. He wanted more whiskey to settle his restless innards.

 

“Linn is a gawdamn fool. I’ve already been divorced twice, that’s enough punishment for me. My ass is still bruised from the last trip to county court...”

 

Darby reacted with a string of unrelated symbols, punctuated with a fist emoji.

 

“I GET IT OLD FART, AND I DO! WE’VE BEEN KNOWING EACH OTHER A LONG TIME. BUT YOU KNOW HOW THAT GUY IS, I COULDN’T TALK ANY SENSE INTO HIM. HE’S GOOD COMPANY FOR DRINKING AND PLAYING GAMES THOUGH, ESPECIALLY SINCE YOU WON’T COME OVER NO MORE! I’D RATHER HAVE YOU HERE, TO PLAY DARTS AND LISTEN TO MUSIC!”

 

The shaggy iconoclast sighed to himself, and put the phone back in his pocket.

 

“Haki has more sense than I do, at least she got out of here. If I had been that smart, this place would’ve gone up in flames a long time ago, and I could be getting drunk on the beach, somewhere!”

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Distance, Maintained” (Part Four)

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had a restless bout of sleep after his unexpected encounter with Haki Speck. He tossed from side to side in his bed until the all the sheets and comforters had been pulled sideways, to the floor. Pillows were scattered around the small, crowded room. His C-PAP machine lost its hose, and blew a stream of air uselessly at the window. Images of his neighbor taunted him throughout the night. Cackling, cooing, giggling, pleading for affection, even chasing him through the darkness in lingerie that was completely inappropriate.

 

By morning, he was a wreck.

 

Instead of having a traditional breakfast with coffee, he went outside to the front porch where it was already 68 degrees. At his side was a large bottle of Kentucky bourbon. Upon popping the cork, and quenching his thirst, things began to regain their focus. His trembling hands became steady once more. He felt a sense of gyroscopic balance returning. A pleasant buzz of inebriation swelled in his head. Then, he slouched on the wooden bench.

 

The normal rush-hour of rusty trucks and cars heading off to work had already passed. So, a quiet mood took hold at Evergreen Estates. He listened to leafy branches swaying in the breeze, nearby. And his own wind chimes ringing out joyfully at the start of another day.

 

But from down the street, at its front corner, came a racket of marital unrest. Muffled shouting and breaking furniture could be heard above the usual sounds of a waking population. A persistent thudding and thumping of interpersonal combat filled his ears. Some sort of woeful exchange was transpiring, a few lots away. He sat on the edge of his perch, listening and looking for clues, while sipping the brown swill. Then, the origin of this uneasy display presented itself, directly. At the weathered, singlewide home of Linn and Haki Speck, their front door came off of its hinges and landed in the driveway.

 

Loud cursing followed this violent burst of destruction. It was punctuated by the shriek of a woman’s voice, groaning and sobbing with emotion.

 

“Honey, I told you what was going to happen yesterday! It couldn’t have been a surprise! You just didn’t think I had the courage, that’s all. You didn’t think I would really make peace with our neighbor at Lot 13!”

 

Linn was in his white undershirt and plaid, boxer shorts. He stood in the open doorway and shook his fists.

 

“YOU WENT OVER THERE TO APOLOGIZE! TO APOLOGIZE FOR WHAT, I ASK? TOWNSHEND LINCOLN IS AN ANTI-SOCIAL FREAK, TO PUT IT MILDLY! HE’S A MENACE IN THIS COMMUNITY, AND HIS BOXCAR HOVEL IS AN EYESORE! HE REEKS OF WHISKEY AND BEER, NOT TO MENTION THE ODOR OF SOMEONE WHO MUST NOT BATHE FOR WEEKS AT A TIME! HE IS GRITTY AND GREASY, AND SHAGGY LIKE A LOST DOG! NOBODY HAS ANY RESPECT FOR HIM, AND NEITHER SHOULD YOU!”

 

Haki stood at the edge of their lawn in her pink, ruffled nightgown. She wiped tears from both cheeks while attempting to explain her act of diplomacy.

 

“Yes, I wanted to settle things with him no matter how offensive he might look! The poor soul rarely goes anywhere, and doesn’t bother us, or anyone else in this development. I never see his family visiting, I don’t even know if he has anyone left to check on his well-being! The only reason you have to complain about him is your darned residential association! And that flopped because nobody really wanted to get involved. That’s the way of the world, honey. People moan and groan but never get together when it counts. Don’t blame that on the old drunk, it’s a sad part of human nature!”

 

Her spouse was sweaty and stammering to the point of slurring his words.

 

“NONSSSSSENSE! THAT’S A LOAD OF COW CRAPPP! WE WERE DOING FINE UNTIL HE STARTED DUMPING ON MY GOOD IDEAS! HE WOULDN’T BACK ME WHEN IT COUNTED! AND EVERYTHING FELL TO PIECES! HE SHOULD’VE BEEN EVICTED RIGHT THEN AND THERE! BELIEVE ME, I ARGUED THE POINT WITH OUR PARK MANAGER! BUT THAT BLACK-HAIRED HOOCHIE WOULDN’T LISTEN!”

 

His companion shook her head with frustration. Nothing she said seemed to invite calm to return. The temperature of their words kept increasing, exponentially.

 

“Link is a loner by nature. I’ve never seen him spend much time at bonfires or cookouts or parties. He’s a hermit. A reclusive, crazy, oddball guy. I think every place we’ve ever lived had someone like that. And it’s no crime to be happy with your own company. Not everyone needs to be praised and applauded just for getting out of bed in the morning!”

 

Linn reddened at this obvious bit of sarcasm. He stomped across the deck and growled, while pointing his index finger for emphasis.

 

“WAS THAT A CRACK AT ME, MRS. SPECK? DO YOU REALLY THINK I NEED TO BE CODDLED LIKE A DAMN CHILD? WELL I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT I AM A LOT TOUGHER THAN THAT SACK OF DUNG UP THE STREET! HE’S AN ALCOHOLIC BUM WITH BAD BREATH AND A BADDER ATTITUDE! NOBODY SHOULD EVER APOLOGIZE TO HIM ABOUT ANYTHING, OR WORRY OVER HIS PERSONAL LIFE! SCREW HIM AND HIS CUPBOARD FULL OF FIREWATER! HE CAN KISS MY ROUND ASS!”

 

Haki smirked visibly, while pulling her robe tighter with a silk tie at the waist.

 

“I think he kicked your ass instead of kissing it, honey. That’s why you still have bruises from his cane!”

 

A wild yowl of lost composure echoed from the deck. Their marital incident had run its course.

 

“I’M DONE WITH THIS ARGUMENT! YOU WILL COME BACK INSIDE RIGHT NOW, AND START MAKING BACON AND EGGS! NOT ANOTHER WORD ABOUT THAT LOSER AT LOT 13, DO YOU HEAR ME? NOT ANOTHER WORD! BE A GOOD CHRISTIAN WIFE, AND KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! I MIGHT BE BRUISED, BUT I AM STILL THE HEAD OF THIS HOUSEHOLD!”

 

A silent moment passed between them, with each partner glaring at the other. Then, the statuesque female turned on her heel. She had surrendered any desire to be a peacemaker. Instead, for the first time, her thoughts turned to self-care and making an escape.

 

“I’m going to say this straight out, Mr. Speck. Your bullying days are done! You treat me like that, and Link like that, and frankly, everyone like that! Well, I can’t stomach it anymore. I’m taking the car and going on a road trip to Pennsylvania. My sister is waiting, she’s tried to talk me into leaving for months and years! You can sit here and feel sorry for yourself. Or go get whacked again, if you prefer. But I’ve had enough of your insults and taken enough of your orders. This is goodbye, honey. G-o-o-d bye!”