“A Good Time”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

It’s a good time to jump off of the ride

To slip this struggle, find a way to survive

Thought it might seem like a tip of the hat

I’ll kick that stone across the welcome mat

A good time to turn invisibly gone

Leave the painted ponies, circling on

This matter of, improvement was lost

When I found myself, tied up and tempest-tossed

A good time

A good time

 

It’s a good time to jump ship in the sea

Take a dive into uncertainty

The risk is great, but rewards will come

A chance to sit, staring at the sun

A good time to play chess in the rain

With watercolors running down the drain

If I get tagged as a fumbling fool

I’ll blame it all on what I learned in school

A good time

A good time

 

It’s a good time to hang my head

Go into hiding underneath my bed

To be a trouper carries nothing but shame

I’ll shed my skin, and my change my name

A good time to find the keystone slot

Draw with chalk around the parking lot

Memories make me, a fool for tears

Haven’t been happy in a hundred years

A good time

A good time

 

It’s a good time to turn up the heat

Stage a protest, marching out in the street

But that’s too obvious, for a detective

I’d rather kept it cool, and highly selective

Getting kicks is an easy pursuit

Going swimming in my birthday suit

But a satellite may scan the scene

And print my picture in a glossy magazine

A good time

A good time

 

It’s a good time to get drunk by the fire

And take a trip on the fly-by-wire

I might crash into the stoney bluff

But a cold calculation will be enough

A good time to curse at the dark

And drive my rig through the trailer park

People scatter at the sound of a gun

A sign of conflict, lost or won

A good time

A good time

 

It’s a good time to squeeze and kiss the sky

With lips puckered for a sour reply

The ghosts of old, contribute their best

And when I gander, I’ll go off on a guess

A good time to flip the world on its head

Pay for nothing, take it free, instead

As a joker, there is little to lose

It’s all the same as mud on my shoes

A good time

A good time

 

It’s a good time to widen your eyes

Look at the heavens with honest surprise

No matter what the plan was, before

Murphy’s Law will even the score

A good time to break bread with a friend

From start to finish, we’ve reached the end

It might be easy to accept the choice

When an opponent, raises their voice

A good time

A good time

 

It’s a good time to turn the knob to ten

With a cascade of sounds, ready to send

Rattle windows, and nerves as well

That’s the bargain I bring to sell

A good time, to boldly seek relief

And find shelter in the sweltering heat

Just remember that the target may claim

Every arrow when you take your aim

A good time

A good time

 

It’s a good time to say goodbye

Make an exit, pull the curtains aside

When you leap off the stage, like a trick

They’ll applaud with a swizzle stick

A good time to fade the camera to black

As the aperture closes to a thumbtack

The final finish is a merciful thing

Like the tone of a telephone ring

A good time

A good time

Nobody Reads This Page: “Medical Misfire”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

“Healing of the physical without the change in the mental and spiritual aspects brings little real help to the individual in the end. How true, because the mind and the body imprint and imitate each other. What we think, we become. What we become, we think. It’s an insidious process that can predispose us to illness or it can lead us to health.” – Edgar Cayce

 

I grew up in a family that was interested in the pursuit of healing, on all levels. With a great-grandfather who practiced medicine as a physician in both a civilian setting, and as a member of the United States Army. And a father who eagerly read the writings of clairvoyant Edgar Cayce, despite being a Christian pastor. One who adhered strictly to teachings contained in the Holy Scriptures, as his primary source of wisdom. With that background in effect, it is not difficult to explain why I have a particular respect for those in the profession of treating individuals who seek to be well, and maintain their good health.

 

Yet becoming disabled upset that paradigm in a sense. It caused me to question habits and methodologies that were long accepted in the community. As my own body declined in ability and excellence, I found myself relying on strategies that pitted the power of mind against failings of the flesh. This predisposition must have been sired, at least in part, by lessons learned from the Kentucky seer and his New Age movement. And indeed, Cayce was raised in the Disciples of Christ fellowship, a non-denominational group related to my pater’s chosen flock. Therefore, a sort of symbiosis was at work, between what I remembered from these forms of childhood inspiration, both human and divine.

 

But a recent experience challenged this faith, directly. I had sought to win a referral to someone who other residents of my rural neighborhood said was a doctor with amazing skills as an orthopedic surgeon. After years of struggling along with debilitated joints, and compromised mobility as an unhappy yield of this affliction, I guessed that such a person could help me resurrect myself, as a viable and energetic member of the human family.

 

Making my visit to his Chardon office required assistance from the staff, because it was part of the University Hospitals facility. I enlisted a parking valet to take my car at the front entrance, while another aide brought a wheelchair for transportation around the facility. Before my examination, I received multiple x-ray scans that documented the condition of my knees and hips. All of this required standing, and contorting my body to properly position it for the equipment. I was trembling and exhausted once this process had finished. But grateful to finally have reached this important milestone in my care.

 

Upon being taken to the doctor himself, I felt a flutter of emotion in my belly. It was a dramatic moment, one full of electricity and anticipation. Instead of reclining on a medical table, or sitting on one of the other furnishings that were provided, I remained in the wheelchair. It seemed appropriate as a sign that my ability to move around had been severely affected by whatever ailments he would diagnose.

 

When we met at last, he was more youthful than I expected. His handshake felt firm, and his voice carried a steady meter of confidence. But as he began to assess what his own observations, and the x-rays had revealed, I turned pale and numb. The plan for recovery he offered was one of half-measures, and hesitation.

 

“Mr. Ice, I note that you’ve recently had an episode with cellulitis. Your records indicate a visit to the emergency room in Geneva, and a stay of three days here at this hospital. While your leg appears to be healed now, I cannot consider any invasive procedure until that is completely confirmed. Also, your BMI number, the Body Mass Index, is too high for joint replacements. So, I have a few suggestions regarding how you might want to proceed. First, injections into your left knee and hip. Second, physical therapy. Third, taking Tylenol for pain, as needed...”

 

I turned woozy at this declaration, as it was impossible to hide my disbelief. While using a simple, over-the-counter medication for a headache might have been logical, I knew well that it would fail to address the serious nature of my infirmities. Cortisone shots were a gamble which seemed worth taking however, so I allowed him to administer one to my left knee, while still seated in the mobile chair. I could feel the foreign compound squeezing its way in between my bones, but got no immediate benefit. Still, I thanked him for providing care in this formal setting.

 

“Peace of mind is important to have. I am glad to know where I stand - metaphorically speaking of course!”

 

Getting back into my SUV was difficult, as the affected joint had stiffened from this new treatment. But I was able to drive home to my rural township, with a pause along the way for fuel. Sadly, in the days that followed, I realized that the shot had not bettered my condition. As before, I could feel the bend popping sideways, when upright. And a persistent ache still plagued my every move. Moreover, because of my brief stay as a patient in the hospital, and numerous trips thereafter to see physicians around the area, I was at my limit. Literally unable to do much more than sit on my front porch with a beverage, and wave to neighbors who passed by throughout the day.

 

No return visit had been scheduled with the orthopedist. I had been processed, poked, prodded, and set adrift on a sea of indecision

 

The conundrum I faced created a mood of befuddlement. How could I hope to survive, living alone, with such a lack of ability hampering my daily routine?

 

I used an online app to communicate with my primary physician, ahead of our next scheduled appointment, which was still a dozen weeks away. And I inquired about a rollator walker, which apparently could be obtained with a prescription, via Medicare. Something that I had foregone in the past, using two canes, but now decided would offer an extra measure of stability.

 

For years, I had heard friends, neighbors, and members of the family opine that I ought to ‘Get those joints done, and be glad!’ Yet now that a first step had been taken to accomplish that goal, I felt underwhelmed by the options that were offered. With notes of conflict resounding over what I faced, living in the minimalist setting of an isolated community by our county line.

 

The words of Edgar Cayce returned, while I pondered my plight over a cold brew.

 

“What we think we become. What we become, we think. It’s an insidious process that can predispose us to illness or it can lead us to health...”

 

I decided that no matter what remedies might come my way in the future, I would continue to rely on that power of positivity. A priceless gift from the Kentucky clairvoyant, and my father.

“Dracula, Dancing”

 

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

If I put a dagger to my head

And quoted a Bram Stoker manuscript

Like a stale breath from a forgotten crypt

“To die, to be really dead, that must be glorious!”

Would you consider it to be an act, laborious

Or simply know that I was stuck, in a moment of woe

Like a child who stubbed their toe

Playing kickball in the yard

I would hope that my impulsive plea

Could resound without evoking an emergency

One that opens doors I would prefer

To deny and defer

But I realize that to speak this thing aloud

Witnessed by a neighborhood full of watchful eyes

And ears lusting after an echoing prize

Might be seen as a desperate act

A dance along the concrete wall, creviced and cracked

While dressed in the garb of a count

Long separated from his horse and mount

Yet still able to ride

I will admit this much, in a moment of clarity

That to say what I think is a tragic rarity

But a habit inspired by what I learned

As a pupil, studiously reciting the terms

Of schoolhouse imprisonment

In a carnival tent

Not permitted to contribute my own two cents

When that sum was not requested

This matter has been tried, and tested

And in the aftermath, judged accordingly

So, when I experience a slide into the emotional deep

And wander in a wilderness that causes me to weep

I hope you will forgive

That misstep on path to gather and give

Freely, of myself

Conscious and checking the status of intellectual wealth

Stored among cobwebs, in my brain

In time, I will visit those treasures that remain

But for now, I offer no more

Than a tally of the tendencies, heretofore

Tucked away in a shadow lair

In a broom closet, under the stairs

This festive shuffling of feet in time

Is a celebration of one meaningful line

From a book I read, long ago

Not a sworn statement, sealed with tallow

If I meet the candle with a forceful snuff

With a cupped appliance, inverted and abrupt

No, I do not wish to cause alarm

With this winking supposition of doing great harm

In a poetic context, written in ink

Let it fall in the wastebasket, under my sink

Crumpled and illegible

A verse made negligible

By willful neglect

Let me high-step and turn on my spot

Safe in the knowledge that a jury of peers forgot

The meaning I wished to convey

A curse on the lips, quickly swept away

With a cough and a clearing of the throat

Monsters and men find immortality on the printed page

Yet for those made of flesh, a lesser cause is relayed

An excuse to be brief

Whistling through gaps in between their teeth

With a sense of dismay

That sign will be enough, I proclaim

Do not rise to the target, and take aim

When I utter that message, from the parchment of old

When I bare the patchwork nature, of my eternal soul

Let it be no more than flash of lightning against the black

Look to the heavens, and relax

The dagger is dull

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Stuck” (Part Fifteen)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

The drive south from Lake Erie, back to Evergreen Estates, was a lonely experience for T. C. Lincoln. After years of feeling that he was stuck at the junkyard oasis, having his home set ablaze by Linn Speck had given him a measure of freedom. A prize that he could never have imagined earning on his own. And yet, weeks of living in his Econoline van had taken a physical toll on his body. He was sore and stiff, groggy from not being able to sleep soundly, and grouchy due to a limited diet of truckstop coffee, and hot-rolled frankfurters. He wanted to dive deeply into a pool of alcohol, as was so often the case on his porch at the trailer park. But his mood did not match that kind of celebration.

 

As a resident of the mobile-home village, he had been familiar enough with his surroundings to feel strangely comfortable. Now however, he had to stay vigilant when on the road, or locating a convenient spot to park his homemade camper. Potential threats were everywhere. A kind of paranoia kept him perpetually on his toes, seeking to preserve his anonymity.

 

The offer from Dana Alvarez of a refurbished longbox at her rural enclave had turned his stomach, at first. He reacted darkly to this unexpected sales pitch. Yet with the winter season approaching, and his wallet empty, logic drove him to reconsider that option. Once again, he was in survival mode. Not thinking of pleasure for himself, but simply about being able to endure under harsh conditions. He had no funds to afford fuel for a long-distance trek to Florida, during the blustery months that lay ahead. And little interest in digging out his vehicle, when snowfall buried the rig where it sat. So, the choice he had to make was obvious. Though it still soured in his belly like the residue of a bad meal.

 

When he arrived at the maintenance garage, and main office, his intended contact had already left for the day. This break in tradition rattled his nerves. But an underling who he did not recognize passed along a single envelope, with lease forms to be signed and a set of keys. That official gesture signified his reentry into the community, without any fanfare. When he beheld the replacement dwelling on his former lot, it appeared to be a budget model from the Schult line of manufactured products. Plain, narrow, and unadorned with frills or accessories. Though in principle, it had a similar amount of living space to the shack which he had occupied, before. A small porch was inset by about six feet, at the middle of this construction. Since his wooden bench had perished in the fire, he would have to cope with a steel, folding chair, for the moment. Otherwise, the prefabricated shelter had no furnishings inside. And no services for water or electricity in place. This would mean sleeping in his hauler for a few more nights, until some bargain could be struck to get household amenities, on credit. But it gave him a foundation for going forward. Also, roots of a metaphorical sort, to keep him grounded.

 

After surveying the location, he returned to his camper for a cooler of cold beverages, and snacks procured at a Dollar General on the hilltop. But as he stood in his rented yard, scanning the street, a commotion distracted him from taking a break. The sound of a diesel truck, belching a plume of black exhaust, shook the earth. Shotgun blasts filled the air, along with a siren and commercial horn. The lively sound of a Country ballad, blaring loudly, buzzed window glass in every direction.

 

Aimes Hefti barked through a loudspeaker mounted on the roof of his Chevy Silverado. He had a rifle across the seat, and a handgun holstered at his side.

 

“YA DUMB SON-OF-A-BITCH! I HEARD Y’ALL WERE GONNA MOVE BACK INTO THIS PARK! BUT I COULDN’T BELIEVE IT WAS TRUE! GAWDAMN, THAT’S SOME MAJORLY MESSED UP SHIT RIGHT THERE! HOW STUPID DO YA GOTTA BE, FER COMIN’ BACK WHERE YA ALMOST GOT BURNED TO DEATH? THAT’S AN IDIOT’S BEHAVIOR, DUDE! YA GOT NO EFFIN’ BRAINS, THAT’S FER SURE!”

 

Linn Speck was close behind, walking on foot. He had a facial expression of confidence and superiority. Though his bald scalp was dripping with sweat.

 

“Link, your presence isn’t welcome here. I don’t know what kind of deal our property manager made with you, but it can’t be worth coming back to a place where you don’t belong. Think about this! You’re dirty and cranky, and combative as a general rule. We like to keep things on an even keel here, conflict and dissent just makes for trouble. We don’t need trouble in our neighborhood, do you understand?”

 

The weary hermit leaned on his disability canes for support. He had not intended to interact with other people so soon.

 

“Speck, you’re full of shit! We’ve got trouble in this dump almost every day. Folks not paying their bills, having family disputes, getting loaded or stoned, or stranded when their rusty cars break down on the way to buy more beer. I listen to the noise of fights and howling dogs, and ruined mufflers, constantly. You are a pretender, living in a fantasy world. This development is a rathole! But, it is also a place where those of us who are down on our luck can get a second start. That’s what I’m here for, to set up shop and thrive on my Social Security income. That’s what I was doing before my original trailer went up in smoke!”

 

Aimes climbed down from the seat of his lifted pickup truck, and drew the military sidearm. He did not appear to be in a friendly state of mind. His face glowed in a flushed shade of crimson. The pistol gleamed with a metallic sheen of violence.

 

“MY PARTNER AIN’T GONNA SAY IT STRIAGHT OUT, SO I WILL! WE DON’T WANT YER ASS HERE! TELL THAT SKANKY BITCH AT THE OFFICE THAT YA CHANGED YER MIND! GET OUTTA HERE WHILE YER STILL IN ONE PIECE! OTHERWISE, SOME HEAVY SHIT IS GONNA GO DOWN, PRONTO!”

 

Lincoln was exhausted from chilly nights spent in his van. He gestured with one of the disability canes, while urging both opponents to act on their deadly intentions, and end his suffering.

 

“Look guys, I’m old and crippled, and out of patience. My joints are shot and full of arthritis. I can’t see to read anymore, and the only thing that keeps me going is a good swig of bottled-in-bond bourbon. I don’t want to get sent to a hospital or a nursing home. So that means being stuck here in this park, instead! If you really want to play cowboy shoot-em-up right now, then let’s get it done! Pull the damn trigger! Split my skull and set me free!”

 

The mismatched duo felt their courage beginning to wane. Neither of the men had expected an actual confrontation. Now, there was a literal standoff in progress. One that could only be finished with a blast of ammunition, or a public surrender to the contrarian figure.

 

Linn shuddered visibly, and folded his hands. His flabby jowls were sagging.

 

“You can’t be serious, Link! That gun is loaded, and Mr. Hefti means business!”

 

Their adversary leaned forward, and hardened his gaze.

 

“PULL THE DAMN TRIGGER ALREADY! DO IT AND QUIT WASTING TIME! YOU’RE A GAWDAMN HARDASS, RIGHT? WELL THEN PROVE IT! SHOOT FIRST, AND THINK ABOUT IT LATER! SHOOT TO KILL! SHOOT TO KILL... ME! DO THE DEED!”

 

Aimes felt his right arm go limp. He could see that they were being watched by impulsive spectators, up and down the street. Men, women, children, and grandparents of all kinds.

 

“Awwww, ya dumb ol’ bastard! Yer a head case! I ain’t gonna snuff ya right here in broad daylight! I wish y’all had died in that damn fire! Now we’ll never get rid of yer flea-bitten carcass! That’s a freakin’ shame, bro! One-hundred percent!”

 

The evening temperature dropped quickly, once sunset arrived. More fumes were dispersed as the jacked-up Chevy disappeared, and quiet returned.

 

Lincoln sat on a milk crate, inside of his Econoline. His first day back at Evergreen Estates had concluded. What awaited in the weeks and months ahead was certain to be challenging. But at last, he was home again, and on his familiar slab of concrete.

 

Now, it was time to drink.

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Stuck” (Part Fourteen)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

When Evergreen Estates was acquired by Coastal Reserve American Properties, out of Tehachapi, California, the trailer village experienced a resurgence in activity. After years of changing owners and languishing as a redlined asset, the park found new life with displaced citizens looking for affordable housing amid the economic pressures brought on by tariffs, war with Iran, and profligate government spending. So at first, the entry of a replacement trailer for Lot 13 did not raise any eyebrows. Yet gossip about its potential buyer traveled around the isolated development at a rapid pace. Unconfirmed rumors spoke of the possibility that their most unconventional neighbor might be returning to his rented space. And when chatter about that eventuality reached the ears of Linn Speck, there was a predictable and vehement reaction.

 

The failed association leader paid a visit to their on-site office, where he pounded at the front entrance, for attention.

 

“DAMMIT MS. ALVAREZ, UNLOCK THIS DOOR! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE! I WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON UP MY STREET! IS THAT OLD DRUNK COMING BACK HERE? PLEASE TELL ME THAT I AM MISTAKEN! I CAN’T IMAGINE YOU BEING STUPID ENOUGH TO ALLOW HIM IN OUR COMMUNITY AGAIN! THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS!”

 

A peek through the window confirmed that indeed, the central hub for their rural oasis was unoccupied. But he continued to protest despite seeing that the desk chair inside was vacant.

 

“THIS IS HORSESHIT! WE’RE SUPPOSED TO HAVE A MANAGER ON DUTY, EVERY WEEKDAY AT LEAST! WHAT IF THERE WERE AN EMERGENCY RIGHT NOW? WHICH, TO BE HONEST, I DO THINK IS REALLY THE CASE! YOU CAN’T GIVE T. C. LINCOLN ANOTHER CHANCE AT LIVING IN THIS DEVELOPMENT! HE DOESN’T BELONG HERE! HE NEVER, EVER BELONGED HERE! HE’S NOT OUR KIND OF PERSON, NOT ONE OF US! NOT A GOOD HUMAN BEING, OR A CHRISTIAN, OR A PATRIOT! AS A MATTER OF FACT, I CONSIDER HIM TO BE NO BETTER THAN A PILE OF RUBBISH! DO YOU HEAR ME? THAT DIRTY BUM IS NOTHING BUT TRASH!”

 

With no employees at work, the maintenance garage and office had basically been abandoned for the moment. So, the only reaction came from leaves scattering across a courtyard, next door. They were dry and colored in fall hues. A crackle of seasonal decay made them tickle the air.

 

Linn decided that an organized event was his best hope of stalling the reentry he feared. But he would need allies to bolster this effort. Upon returning home to his vintage singlewide, he reached out to various members listed on a residential roster, first created during his feeble attempt to take control. People who he was certain would agree with banning the alcoholic loner from their ranks. Aimes Hefti, the junior militia commander who had been promoted when Esmeralda Jonovic committed suicide, was particularly enthusiastic about repelling the shaggy hermit as he tried to return. Garter Haines, who no longer lived in the park but still visited frequently, agreed to help with patrolling their perimeter as a sentry. Several others around the enclave agreed to participate in one way or another. But Darby Stronelli, always one to sit on the fence regarding any serious issue, decided not to join.

 

Her rationale was simple, especially when expressed in the noncommittal words of a neutral party.

 

“Link always keeps to himself, so I don’t see where it matters if he wants to come back. And I don’t! The guy is an oddball. I always thought it was pretty much like living next to an empty trailer. I never saw him anywhere but on his porch! Shit, I don’t think he can walk any farther than that, though! Who cares if he is over there, again?”

 

Her neighbor on the corner did not appreciate this note of civility.

 

“NO NO NO! WE NEED TO GET TOUGH WITH THAT OLD DRUNK! JUST GIVING HIM A PASS IS THE WRONG STRATEGY! I TRIED TO CONVINCE MS. ALVAREZ, BUT SHE WOULDN’T LISTEN! AND SHERIFF RATH WAS JUST AS STUBBORN! THEY SEEM TO THINK HAVING HIM BACK AT LOT 13 WOULD BE THE BEST SOLUTION TO THIS DILEMMA. I THINK BOTH OF THEM HAVE ROCKS IN THEIR HEAD! THAT HERMIT OUGHT TO BE ARRESTED ON SIGHT! JAIL IS WHERE HE BELONGS, NOT HERE IN OUR LITTLE SPOT ON THE MAP!”

 

Darby only cared about keeping the refrigerator stocked in her party barn, with light Budweiser products of the bottled variety. Otherwise, she spent little time fretting over episodes of drama that were happening on their streets.

 

“You worry too much about bullshit, buddy! Not me, I’d rather listen to music and play beer pong! I ain’t gonna waste my time being a pain in the ass! Count me out!”

 

Aimes wanted to take a more direct and militant approach, when discussing this subject. He suggested smashing windows and walls, when the new mobile home arrived. Or perhaps, severing electrical and plumbing connections, before it was inhabited. Making the boxcar dwelling unlivable seemed like a smart way to communicate their opinions in a non-verbal fashion. Yet that sort of bold gesture was guaranteed to produce a harsh response from the township police, and county officials. With newspaper and television reporters gathering to document the mayhem in real time.

 

Finally, Linn called upon Pastor Cabriel Forester, at their Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven. He decided that if parishioners were informed about the return of this contrarian outsider, they might be motivated to participate in a lobbying effort to stall the plan.

 

The veteran clergyman had been busy in his study. But paused in reading scriptures to listen when confronted by the former community organizer.

 

“Brother Cabe, I need your help with something really serious! The manager at our property wants to welcome back someone who we were all glad to see expelled. I think it is a disgusting idea. How do you feel about this awful mistake?”

 

The longtime minister took off his thick spectacles, and bowed graciously. He wore a white polo shirt, with the church logo on its front pocket.

 

“Mr. Speck, you know my beliefs very well. Every concept of right and wrong that I hold to be valid comes from the Holy Bible. Love, forgiveness, redemption, kindness, it’s all in the Word of God. I would suggest that you do some reading on your own, if your heart is troubled...”

 

Linn gasped and growled while stomping his feet. All the respect he held for their preacher had suddenly vanished.

 

“WHAT KIND OF BLEEDING-HEART NONSENSE IS THAT, PASTOR? I WANT TO HEAR SOMETHING DIFFERENT FROM YOU, SOMETHING TOUGH ENOUGH FOR BATTLE! REMEMBER THE LYRICS THAT SAY, ‘ONWARD CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS, MARCHING AS TO WAR? WITH THE CROSS OF JESUS, GOING ON BEFORE?’ THAT’S WHAT I BELIEVE! NOT SOME KIND OF WOKE GARBAGE FOR PEOPLE WHO WANT TO HOLD HANDS AND SING ‘KUM BA YAH!’”

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Stuck” (Part Thirteen)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln found his exile from the junkyard village in Geauga County to be a sort of resurrection. For the first time in many years, he felt unencumbered by the habits and opinions of others. While being able to live without a sense that his existence was predicated on avoiding conflict with neighbors and park employees. Yet strangely, he could not escape the mental imprint of this bygone experience. Being shunned and shamed as an outcast had given him an indelible identity. One of purposeful antagonism, in the midst of blue-collar, social decay. Now, he was simply a tumbleweed. Homeless, faceless, and alone. Invisible against a backdrop of those who were busy chasing after the possibility of trophies, rewards, and accolades that would fail to fulfill their true aspirations. A condition that Janis Joplin had once vocalized artfully, in song.

 

“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose

Nothin’ don’t mean nothin’ honey, if it ain’t free...”

 

This realization came as a shock to his system. He had believed that escaping the restrictions of a cultural continuum such as their trailer oasis would restore him to what he had been, before. A liberated spirit, who did not need a crutch of alcohol to prop up his sagging personality. But without the negativity of that previous environment, his inner gyroscope had been sacrificed. He wallowed in a mood of vertigo. Off-kilter, and unable to track the course of his own well-being.

 

Eventually, he allowed the Econoline van to find its own direction. They wandered together across the eastern flank of Ohio, and over the border into Pennsylvania. Then, across the region of western New York. He passed communities that were barely familiar, forgotten for the sake of time and expedience. Findley Lake, Mina, Sherman, Bemus Point, Jamestown, and finally, Falconer, where he had once paused during a motorcycle run on the way to Corning and Ithaca. Cities where friends from his younger days had remained. The joy of that stopover from antiquity glowed in his head, and yet rattled him with its contrast to the current climate. He was no longer ambitious and carefree, or mobile as an individual. His bones ached, and the seasonal tilt toward winter made him cautious with anticipation. A round of gas-station coffee helped to steady his nerves. But then, the chirp of a ringtone interrupted this lazy break in the action.

 

Somehow, his device had reactivated itself, despite being intentionally disabled. The exchange registered in his call history was for an office line at Evergreen Estates. When he punched up the related voicemail, a breathy accent of Latin inflections filled his ear.

 

“Ayyyyy, you don’t answer this phone no more? Hey, I get it, you must be pissed off about your trailer, right? But I got good news maybe. You wanna come back here, Link? The owners are bringing in new trailers, well, sorta new I mean. Better than some of the shacks we already got in this park. They gonna put one on your slab, after the bull mierda gets cleaned up. I figure you should get first pick. They said the company will give you a discount, because of what happened. I always liked you, because your rent check got to my drop box on time, every month. No excuses, no arrastrando el culo! No dragging ass! So, hit me up, bruh!”it me up, bruh!

 

Lincoln wiped java residue from his mouth. The thought of returning to that isolated development in Thompson Township caused his stomach to ache. And yet, it was entirely appropriate as a nod to convenience. He had lived on the property for a quarter-century, longer than anywhere else in his personal history. While he never felt loved or accepted on that isolated patch of dirt, it had been a comfortable landing zone for desperate souls. He belonged there, somehow, by staying aloof and detached as a general rule. That placed him on a solid footing, as one of many individuals who were battered and broken, but still alive and able to endure despite the harsh realities of their residential status.

 

With his hands trembling, he returned the call while battling emotions of regret and remorse. Responding to the solicitation proved to be more difficult than he expected.

 

“Dana? Hey, I’m out of the area right now. What is all this shit about bringing in more trailers? You’d really want me back in that rathole?”

 

The property supervisor was cheerful and loud when she answered.

 

“Ayyyyy, you kidding me, Link? Of course I want you back here! Maybe that bastardo on the corner would hate on it, but I don’t care. Like I said, you paid your rent on time and didn’t start crap with nobody. I like peace and quiet, you know? Give it a thought. Those guys in Cali will offer you a good deal on another trailer!”

 

Her former tenant sighed heavily while pondering the possibility.

 

“You’d need an EMT crew on standby with their ambulance. Linn Speck would have a cardiac event! I guarantee it...”

 

Ms. Alvarez snorted and tapped her red nails on the desktop.

 

“That gordo cabrón can kiss my ass! All he does is stir up things, and get people fighting with each other. Like I said, peace and quiet is good. I don’t need headaches! Dios mío!”

 

Lincoln did not feel happy about going back to the rustic neighborhood from which he had been expelled. But there was a measure of comfort in having his membership in the group reinstated. It would put him back on his assigned lot, and in a geographical location that was convenient for family members and his doctors.

 

“What will this cost me, Dana? I’m busted right now, my wallet is empty...”

 

The park manager whistled through her teeth.

 

“YOU AIN’T GOTTA PAY NOTHING, LINK! NO DINERO DOWN! WE’LL WORK IT OUT LATER, YOU DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT. MAYBE THE SHERIFF WILL TAKE IT OUTTA THAT DUDE’S ASS! HE OWES YOU, AND HE OWES US, TOO!”

 

After concluding their brief conversation, the shaggy misanthrope reclined on a narrow bunk in his homemade camper. His face burned from the moment of surrender. It was out of character for him to accept returning to the cluster of manufactured homes, without some kind of justice being won. Yet winter was about to arrive, and his joints throbbed from injury. He needed a proper bed where rest would come more easily. And the amenities of an actual dwelling, instead of his boxy rig. A place that he could call his own, however humble it might be as an asset.

 

But most of all, Lincoln needed a stiff drink.

 

 

“Genetic Curve”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

Stalled by a genetic curve

Some say this is an inherited judgment that I deserve

But from wherever it comes

This day is done

I used to move from one place to another

Stealthy and easy on my feet, always under cover

A special agent, searching for clues

But now I don’t know what to do

The bend of my knees is uncontrolled

Limbs going wide when I languish in the cold

Stiff and sore, slouched on my spot

Crouching in a shadow that Father Time begot

Gray strands on my brow

I want to find the exit, but don’t know how

A petition to heaven is made

But the lines of communication seem seriously frayed

And there is a peg in my ear

Inclined to listen, yet unable to hear

I need to know what password will suffice

To cause the gatekeeper to key his device

And let me step over the threshold

A commoner, turned bold

I conjure up such images in a watercolor splash

With my brush tip tracing the lines of a carnival crash

Which I am certain will come

When my balance is surrendered for a pricey sum

Last in the queue

Last one permitted to be going through

This is the boardwalk where I step along

Counting the tiles like verses of a song

In a succession of tones

A journey that I must take alone

Arthritic, and fraught with muscular fits

A refugee held in a cavernous pit

Voice calling upward against the walls, for relief

A ritual that transpires while in my sleep

One that causes me to toss the bedcovers aside

And beg God not to be denied

The genetic code contained therein

Is a sequence summoned by spirits who rule my kin

As much a part of what I become

As the names of mothers, daughters and sons

Once, long ago, my birth was considered to be

A miracle of life, a planting of the seed

Yet now, when the garden has grown so well

I have only a cautionary tale to tell

An opening of the puzzle box

A tinkering with mechanical locks

Which in time, will reveal

That this breaking of the seal

Has brought me to the point of cursing my coil

How much better it would have been to slumber in the soil

For a longer passage of days

I did not germinate and mature

Did not become fully assured

Of a long run toward the horizon

In a marathon, neither lost or won

And I must weep

With these secrets to keep

Fear of falling when I need to stand

At the crest of a new endeavor, to be taken in hand

Why does the clock tick and chime, when time itself is still?

At the hour when I surrender my will

Stiffly stooped over, in the manner of a mortal relic

Not ready to embrace a mood, angelic

Over this graduation to the portrait gallery

Where those of antiquity

Are remembered in palette hues

Swaths of color, too quickly passing through

Breaths breathed and exhaled

It is the season to trim my sails