Nobody Reads This Page – “No Fun Allowed”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

My time in the traditional newspaper business was a learning experience like no other. This journey began in New York State where I had befriended an editor with one of our local weekly publications. She was a fan of the television show I hosted on a public access channel, as a result of an apprenticeship through a program affiliated with Cornell University. I eventually submitted written material for her approval, and one of these items ended up on the front page of the journal she helped to supervise.

 

I was hooked forever. Seeing my own words in print felt truly rewarding. I wanted more of that thrilling experience. A lot more!

 

Eventually, I wrote for a motorcycle magazine in California, via long-distance submissions. This also offered an opportunity to practice the craft and grow, as a professional wordsmith. But when I stumbled into an opportunity to labor for a local gazette in my native Ohio, the yield was much greater than simply being educated on how to create manuscripts and edit them properly. I witnessed directly how the opinion of one person, or a small cadre of individuals, could shape the editorial content of a respected icon. And steer that paper through the business of providing news with humbling authority.

 

After a regular column I had penned became quite popular for readers, my editor-in-chief gave it a prominent placement within our esteemed pages. This achievement made me glow with pride. I had worked for years to hone my skills, and develop a sense of what would be interesting to those who bought each issue. Yet when we had a meeting to discuss the official terms of payment, his response made me sit slouched in my chair, with glazed eyes. Disbelief took hold as I heard him intone a mantra that had never before tickled my ears.

 

He was a tall fellow, with a background in the military, and higher education. So his observations had the gravitas of tablets handed down from heaven.

 

“You see Rodney, writing features like those you provide is fun. We don’t pay for fun in this business. We pay for work! Having fun is an activity for leisure hours. It rests the mind and body. Like playing golf, going to the movies, swimming, or eating ice cream. If you want to earn an income, you’ve got to give us some kind of meaningful product! Go sit at the courthouse and take notes during a trial, for example. Investigate an accident. Track down details of a scandal in politics or business. Or maybe a dust-up with elements of both! Even follow high school sports teams, our readers love to hear about their children and other kids in the neighborhood competing for trophies!”

 

I felt a burst of sarcasm welling up in my gut.

 

“So, if I enjoy following athletics, would that disqualify me from covering those events for a paycheck? How would you know? What if I watched a losing team all season? Wouldn’t that absolve me of having any fun? Like watching our Cleveland Browns during an 0-16 campaign?”

 

My commander-in-print was not amused by such wild speculation.

 

“Look, I didn’t make these rules. You’ll find it’s the same at every outpost in this business. Hard content wins the gold. You have to get your hands dirty, like a mechanic or a bricklayer, or a construction worker. The breezy, lazy, easy-reading articles you hammer out on the typewriter are fun. Fun to author, fun to stick in a blank space when we need filler, and fun for subscribers to chew over when they are bored with the daily grind. But don’t expect to get rich stroking your intellect. That’s not what this business is about! We pass along facts, in between advertising and promotional flash. That’s how this institution makes a return on the owner’s investments. It’s how I get paid. It's how the staff gets paid. It’s how... umm... you would get paid if you did anything useful!”

 

My face stung with the realization that although I had helped sell our newspaper on numerous occasions, throughout the community, my contribution remained a footnote in his eyes.

 

“That is the rule? No fun allowed? I can’t crack a smile while sitting at a desk in this building? What comes next, a parking ticket or a corrective notice, like clerks get at Walmart?”

 

My keyboard boss drummed his stubby fingers on the desktop.

 

“Rodney, don’t be difficult about this situation! You’ve earned a rep with our customers as a lighthearted scholar of grand nonsense. I read your columns, and enjoy them, most of the time. You’ve got a unique perspective on things. Still, there is no market for what you do, in creative terms. It can’t be quantified in circulation numbers. I need real evidence to include you on a paysheet! Give me solid ground to stand on, and I’ll meet you there!”

 

I had difficulty breathing. My mouth turned oddly dry, and stale.

 

“No fun allowed. That’s the prime directive? I used to have a blast, sneaking sessions on my father’s Underwood portable. It sat in his home office, in our basement. I would plunk away at that message-machine, it was fully manual. My little fingers would become sore and numb. I spun all sorts of tales, usually just to file them away under my mattress. Nobody read them, ever. Except for him, if he found my bundle. He knew a lot about writing, from contributing to religious monthlies, printing church bulletins, and even having two books published.”

 

My editor smiled with the insincerity of a used-car hack.

 

“I appreciate all of that, believe me! But you’ve just proved my point. He was having fun. You were having fun. Now, you want to have fun here, with us and this weekly. I’m on board with that, you’ve already got my blessing! Don’t expect to get rich though, it won’t happen! If you came here for glory and jewels, you came for the wrong reason!”

 

I could not restrain my tongue. Words that needed to be said were ready to find release.

 

“So, what you do here isn’t fun? You don’t get a jolt out of showing up every day, and being master of this domain? You don’t feel lucky? You don’t feel privileged to live in a nation where the free press matters? And regular folk look to you as an arbiter of truth?”

 

The text titan rolled his eyes and stifled a guffaw.

 

“Rodney, you sound like a character in a college play! This is a for-profit enterprise. Everything I do, everything everybody does here, is about maximizing that potential. I am a journalist, pure and simple. But I’m also captain of a ship. I have to sail around the icebergs and keep away from the rocks on shore! It’s a job. It is work! Not fun, not a hoot, not a party. Work! That’s how I earn my keep! I would suggest that you follow my example!”

 

I left our encounter feeling strangely dubious about this career path, for the first time. But the jones for creative output was already part of my personal DNA. I could not shake it, or shirk it as a duty.

 

The adventure had to continue. Even if I was just having fun.

Nobody Reads This Page – “Scoundrel”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

I have written here before about my friend Janis, who has been either hospitalized or in a skilled-care facility for almost an entire year. Her odyssey began with a stroke, which caused her to be placed under the care of doctors at our noted and renowned Cleveland Clinic. A place of healing, celebrated around the globe and cited proudly by residents of Ohio as a jewel on the north coast. I am certain that her survival, with numerous health concerns over the span of a young life, is due in part to the knowledge of their physicians and nurses.

 

Though after three such events, and a heart attack, I also credit divine intervention as a factor.

 

We interact almost every day, through telephone conversations. These episodes are completely unpredictable and follow no regular pattern. So, I try to be near my cellular device when called. My rowdy cohort has done well to socialize in her new environment, yet still has some standing as a rogue of sorts among the residents. She is cheerful, but defiant. Never aggressive or combative, but always bending the rules just a tad. Each person at the home has a lockbox for their private use. A secure space to store valuable items or documents. She uses that privilege to hide candy bars and snacks, along with bottles of soda. Treats that have not been approved as part of her dietary regimen.

 

Swallowing is a concern always top-of-mind for her caregivers. They worry that she might have a choking episode with too many transgressions having been committed. Somehow though, none of these cheating episodes have caused a problem, so far.

 

Again, I figure that she is being protected by a power higher than medical science can provide.

 

During our most recent chat, she confessed to receiving a nickname from one of her favorite members of the staff. Someone with whom she seemed to have a great rapport. The woman humorously dubbed her ‘Scoundrel’ for manifesting secretive habits, despite repeated warnings. She appealed for understanding about the kitchen discipline being promoted.

 

“I would be sad if you were not here, one day! I mean that sincerely! I would give you a kiss on the forehead, before they wheeled you out of this room! Please listen to me, and behave!”

 

Harvard Professor Laurel Thatcher Ulrich apparently wrote in 1976, ‘Well-behaved women seldom make history.’ That observation might also ring true of my friend from near the Lake Erie shoreline. It is doubtful that anything in her in her personal timeline will ever be considered historic. But her restless spirit has endured so many challenges, that I reckon it must help to keep her strong.

 

She trumpeted this air of self-confidence, as we exchanged words on a Wednesday afternoon.

 

“I’m a scoundrel, Rodbert! Hah hah! How about that? I’ve been called a lot of things before, but that’s a new one. Hell, I’ve even been going to church with a lady I met here, at a spot somewhere in downtown Ashtabula. I sit there with dressed-up grandmas and Jesus freaks! But I’m still a scoundrel? Do you think the name fits me?”

 

I had to clear my throat before answering. It felt prudent to be diplomatic.

 

“Well, honestly, yes. I’d say that hit the bullseye...”

 

She must have wrinkled her nose, because the tone of her voice became narrow and sharp.

 

“SCOUNDREL! SCOUNDREL! THAT’S A GOOD ONE, I’M A SCOUNDREL! WELL, I CAN’T HELP IT, ALL THESE MONTHS EATING PUREED MUSH HAVE REALLY SUCKED! I WOULDN’T FEED THAT SHIT TO MY CATS! YUCK! EVEN MY CARETAKER AT HOME NEVER CALLED ME A SCOUNDREL!”

 

I rolled my eyes while nodding.

 

“Yeah, I get it. No fun allowed, that’s probably what it says on your chart. Look, they’ve got your best interests at heart. It’s their job, okay?”

 

My estranged companion cackled and sneezed.

 

“DOG BARF! THAT’S WHAT THEY FEED ME HERE! I WANT SOME TACO BELL! AND A POLAR POP FROM CIRCLE K!”

 

I covered my face with both hands. There was a noise over the connection like bedsheets rustling. I wondered if she was still listening.

 

“You’re fortunate to be alive, honey. Don’t you get that? Luck has been with you, or the blessing of a loving creator, however you choose to see it...”

 

Her answer buzzed in my ear like a honeybee.

 

“CRAPPPP! YOU’RE FULL OF CRAP, RODBERT! I WANT TO BREAK OUT OF THIS JAIL, THEY CAN’T JUST KEEP ME HERE, RIGHT? WHAT IF I SIGN MYSELF OUT? THEN WHAT?”

 

My stomach had started to ache. I scratched my gray beard and tried to think of a comforting reply.

 

“If you go back to that old house by the lake right now, how will you live? You can’t see to drive. The furnace is worn out and its oil tank is probably empty. You don’t even know if the electric bill got paid for certain, with you and your caretaker both out of commission. Think about it, right now, you need to be where you are...”

 

Janis whistled and played with her hair. The noise sounded like static.

 

“Okay then, I’ll come to live with you! I get around okay with my walker, I can help with household chores!”

 

Her ridiculous proposal rattled my nerves. I took a deep breath to clear my head.

 

“Look Jay, I’m disabled myself. You know that! I barely get along here, running solo. There’s no room, my hovel is full of boxes and books and vinyl records. Things are broken all around the trailer, I don’t have the income to keep making repairs. Benevolence from Community Action got me a ramp outside, I was grateful for that help. My nephew cuts the grass every couple of weeks. Neighbors keep watch, in case I fall or get stuck in bed. But adding another tenant here would be a no-no. Seriously, I think your roomie at the house was on target with the idea of assisted living. You need that kind of supervision and care...”

 

She did not like the tone of my retort.

 

“WHAT I NEED IS A CRUNCHWRAP SUPREME! AND MAYBE A CHALUPA ON THE SIDE! YOU CAN FORGET GIVING ME ADVICE, RODBERT! I DON’T WANT TO BE STUCK IN ANOTHER HOLE LIKE THIS ONE! I WANT OUT OF HERE! OUT! OUT! OUT!”

 

I folded my arms and rocked in the roller chair. My phone indicated a low-charge condition. It needed to be plugged in before our connection was severed.

 

“I see it’s almost time for your soap opera. And my device is flashing a warning about running out of juice. Call me later when I’m out on the porch having a brew...”

 

Janis sneered and snorted like a petulant child.

 

“CALL ME LATER! CALL ME LATER! OKAY, BUDDY! THIS IS THE SCOUNDREL, SIGNING OFF! OVER AND OUT!”

 

The screen went blank, except for a bubble that read ‘Call Ended.’ Then, a text message appeared. When I opened the app, a photo had been attached. It was of a religious tract from the church she had attended on Sunday. She wrote a plea underneath the pic.

 

“What does this say? I can’t read anything until they get me new glasses!”

 

Her photographic skills were lacking. The image looked blurry. But I read the page to myself, one word at a time. While peering through reading spectacles bought at a Giant Eagle pharmacy.

 

“Exodus 20:8-10, ‘Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God. On it you shall not do any work, neither you, nor your son or daughter, nor your male or female servant, nor your animals, nor any foreigner residing in your towns.’”

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Broadsided”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln was known for two things around his neighborhood at Evergreen Estates, a community of manufactured homes in rural Ohio. Being perpetually drunk, and lacking any sort of social grace when interacting with other residents of the park. Therefore, he normally kept a safe distance from anyone else, while pursuing his daily routine. After rising early, and consuming a pot of black coffee with dry toast, he would typically adjourn to the comfort of an outside bench on his front porch. There, with the gusto of someone who had reached his 60’s in a disabled and shaggy condition, he would begin to swig rations of bourbon and beer. One after the other, in a repetitive cycle that quickly numbed him enough to tolerate the angst of having inhabited his narrow lot for over two decades.

 

This was his existence. A sort of life few would envy and no one would behold with reverence.

 

But up their street past other boxcar dwellings, and a cul-de-sac that veered off to the right, someone was watching. A woman of middle age, a remarkable stature, and fully-developed, feminine curves.

 

Chessie Mae Preen had lived on the distant property for about two years. Her husband was a doting figure, a good provider and loyal in a strict sense of taking household responsibilities seriously. Yet despite being fit for his age, and athletic enough to participate in pickup games with young kids who played basketball next door, he had little interest in any romance with his spouse. Somehow, the fire had gone out between them, long ago. His drive to project manliness seemed to have evaporated into oblivion. Though gifted by nature, he had no interest in putting these physical blessings to work. This meant that his busty, long-legged spouse spent most days sipping vodka mixed with Kool-Aid. And pondering the weight of her boredom.

 

She would sometimes walk around the neighborhood, with their faithful puppy on a leash. The mutt was cheerful and friendly to everyone. A Poodle mix with an energetic disposition. But when passing by Lot 13, where Lincoln spent his days drowning in liquor, a sense of canine confusion took hold.

 

The puffy pooch would cock his head to one side and stare, as if some odd creature had emerged from the brush. This behavior reflected how everyone else viewed the old hermit, as someone who inspired a sense of wonder and perhaps, disbelief.

 

Chessie felt something else while her dog would linger, however. A reckless desire to experience the danger of an interlude with this mysterious figure. A phantom of sorts, with a gray beard and deep eyes.

 

Late on a Monday morning, after her hubby had exited on a journey for auto parts, in their county capital, she dressed in a tight blouse hued in screaming pink. And cutoff, denim shorts trimmed with strips of western fringe. Her stride was naturally lengthy and bold. Yet for dramatic effect, she performed a high-kick with each step. At the end of her target’s driveway, she did a pirouette while taking care not to stumble over her fuzzy companion. Then, called out with a greeting that resonated like the chirping of a songbird celebrating a glow of sunrise.

 

“Howdy, neighbor! Y’all are out here every day, I see! Rain or shine! That makes me smile, I got to confess. I’m glad to see yer doing good!”

 

The quiet hobo was still fairly sober. So, shyness kept a bridle on his tongue. He lifted his hand in a gesture of comity.

 

“Good morning, miss...”

 

The eager woman tied her pet at the end of a railing that ran out to the street. Then, she turned toward a long access ramp that bordered the weathered trailer.

 

“Maybe I can join ya for a spell? It’s a long hike to go all the way ‘round our property. My gams are aching! I’ve made the circle twice already!”

 

Lincoln could not help noticing the gentle sag of her generous bosom. Her mounds stretched the brilliant fabric she wore to its limit of elasticity.

 

“Umm, sure, I suppose. There’s a guest chair by my trash bin. That’s what I call it anyway. People use it when they pay a visit, which ain’t very often...”

 

She sat down with a plop and a jiggle. Then, began to confess her loneliness and hunger for adventure.

 

“I been here for a short time, me ‘n the big man moved up from eastern Kentucky. He had a job prospect in Cleveland. We were looking around for something affordable, ya know? But shit, it’s gotten damn expensive to live anywhere near the city. This dump was our last hope. The park manager said she’d hook us up with a nice spot for a couple, but what we bought was a hole-in-the-wall. With a leaky roof and a cracked-up slab underneath. It gets chilly in the winter! There are gaps around the windows! That bitch sold us a crock of shit!”

 

Her host nodded and shrugged, sympathetically.

 

“Yeah, that describes most of these longbox shanties. Mine ain’t much better...”

 

Chessie adjusted her top while speaking. Both nipples had turned inexplicably hard.

 

“My ol’ boy is good with his hands. Larden Preen can fix anything, or build anything! So, he got our place in shape before too long. But I don’t know what happened. Between his job and living in this damn burn pit, life just dragged him down. Y’all understand? I used to get kissed and squeezed, every morning. Now I could dress up like Dolly Parton, and he wouldn’t notice. It’s a gawdamm shame!”

 

Lincoln had started to feel uncomfortable. Sweat dotted his forehead.

 

“I’ve been running solo for 15 years. My wife bailed out when money got tight. So maybe you should’ve gone somewhere else for the Dr. Phil treatment. I don’t know much about wedded bliss...”

 

They locked eyes for a brief instant. Then, there was a yowling from the street.

 

Chessie howled in protest. Her long nails tapped the porch railing as she stood up and scowled.

 

“Just a minute, Percy! I’ve hardly been here long enough to say hello!”

 

Poodle yips and yaps echoed across the yard. Then, the tipsy iconoclast held out his bourbon bottle. This reflexive move came without a proper amount of forethought.

 

“One for the road, ma’am? Maybe that’ll calm your mood a bit...”

 

She swiped the container from his hand and chugged its contents until her throat burned.

 

“Hell yeah, cowboy! Y’all are a good dude! Thank ya so much!”

 

Her boots did a click-clack dance on the floorboards, as she stood up to leave. But then, a twirl threw her off balance. She fell into Lincoln’s lap, and began to stroke his wiry facial hair. This made him flinch with shock and surprise.

 

“Hey now, you’ve got to be careful with that joy juice. I’m a professional drinker, so maybe you need a warning. ‘Don’t try this at home,’ like they say on TV...”

 

Chessie reached between his beefy legs, and let her fingers wander. This made her newfound friend sit up, uncomfortably straight. Her eyes met his, once again.

 

“Every morning I see y’all are out here. Every damn morning! And today, I don’t know what got into me. I just figured maybe it was time to break the ice. What else might get into me, I wonder. What else, do ya think?”

 

Lincoln was out of breath, and thirsty. He wanted to get drunk, and be alone.

 

“I don’t do much thinking, miss. It makes my head hurt. Have yourself a good rest of the day...”

 

Her four-legged bodyguard growled and pulled at his leash. He knew instinctively that something salacious was about to transpire. It made him stand at attention, and hop on his paws with naked aggression.

 

“Yip yip, yap yap! Yip yap yip!”

 

Chessie pressed her lips against the loner’s mouth, adding a dart of tongue as an exclamation point. Then, she clattered down the wooden ramp on her high heels. Frustration made her want to kick the scruffy dog like a football.

 

“I’ll be out walking around here, tomorrow. Hope to see y’all again real soon! Yippee-Ki-Yay, Mofo!”

Trailer Park Vignettes – "Air Guitar"

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

Holden Bryce had lived by himself in a singlewide trailer, in Thompson Township, since the breakup of his Heavy Metal band in 1989. He still lingered in that lost decade, mentally. Though since those exciting days after his high school graduation, he had lost dexterity in both hands. His prowess with riffs of Eddie Van Halen or Ritchie Blackmore had been diminished by age and fatigue. Now, he was more comfortable playing lazy, cowboy ballads. Something that made him feel slightly frustrated whenever picking up a fretted instrument. Years had passed since he attempted to do any serious gigging around the county. But his muse kept speaking in whispers, with ideas for compositions that bounced around inside of his skull.

 

Though his fingers were no longer nimble, every brain cell was still plugged into the creative continuum.

 

Late on a Monday evening, he sat in front of the household computer. Scrolling aimlessly through listings on the eBay website, for amusement. He looked at Gibson, Fender, and other axes that were available for purchase. Though most were priced far out of his comfort zone. Amplifiers and accessories had been sprinkled throughout this varied mix of entries. Their presence made him remember that his own stable of relics was buried in a walk-in closet. Far at the back of his boxcar dwelling. Boxes of junk had been stashed everywhere, over the years. Shelves of records lined what had originally been a bedroom. Cases of cassette tapes were stacked almost to the ceiling. He had managed to fill the space left when his wife of a dozen years exited, after an argument over buying a Rickenbacker guitar. Something he did impulsively, because it was an oddball model, offered at a tempting price. A collector’s prize!

 

He won the online auction, but lost his spouse. In Rock & Roll terms, it was a trade-off worthy of being written into bold lyrics of an anthem for the stage. Something he did later, with the gusto of a fan living on high-octane dreams. Yet he still missed his opposite half.

 

Now, he could only get to two of his plectrum trophies. A pristine, fender Stratocaster, which he had stored in a G & G reproduction case. And a Gibson Les Paul Special. Both were in a corner behind his file cabinet. He had wanted to pluck away at the pair, for many years. But could no longer get to any of his related audio equipment.

 

Then, an item appeared in his feed over the eBay site. It was a curiosity that caught his eye, an affordable, Ibanez practice amp. Described as having 14 watts of total output. Comparable combos he saw were all going for a hundred dollars or more. In truth, he lusted for a vintage, Pignose tone-booster, which had more mojo and street credibility. But he figured that this alternate device would sit by the corner of his desk, anonymously. Perhaps he could once again bash out power chords, and rattle the windows of his manufactured home, with joy.

 

The idea caused him to put in a lowball offer. Something he did while drinking Miller High Life, and Evan Williams bourbon. Days passed with other chores and responsibilities taking hold. Then, he happened to be checking e-mail messages in his account. And there was a notice that made him sit up straight in his roller chair, and howl like Ozzy Osbourne, onstage.

 

“You have won your item! Click here to complete this transaction through PayPal, and take delivery via USPS! Our website awards you a gold star for being a Power Purchaser! Congratulations!”

 

Thoughts of the score dogged him throughout the days that followed. He was already writing lyrics on the backs of junk-mail envelopes and paper grocery bags. But now, he strummed on a guitar while brainstorming through a series of random ideas. These musical underpinnings sounded hollow without any sort of amplification. Yet he had been electrified by the blessing of chance. Finally, he revisited his ode to separation, and divorce. Feeling undeniably blitzed, he vocalized the words from memory, while nearly toppling over in his leather chair.

 

“A black-n-gold Ric hanging low on my shoulder strap

Kicking out the jams, just for a laugh

She said ‘I don’t know that damn song at all!’

Then packed her bags, and went to live in a hostel hall

That’s a down-low kick

A ballbust on the bricks

But I took it like a fan

Rock & Roll is always my plan!”

 

When the jam box arrived, it ended up on his stoop by the front steps. The packaging was remarkable for someone selling on a bidding site. Lots of packing material inside of a repurposed Amazon box, with plastic wrap used to shield the contents. This sheath was surprisingly difficult to pierce. So, he spent several minutes, working carefully with a pair of scissors from the kitchen. Each poke made him nervous about ruining something inadvertently. But eventually, he had managed to shuck the device like an ear of corn, and had it sitting on an end table by his sofa.

 

A brew and shot of liquor consummated his celebration. Afterward, he returned to the home studio in his old, master bedroom. And started rummaging through desk drawers and dusty cases, for a cable to hook up his guitar. A pounding in his chest quickly signaled that this fruitless search had elevated his pulse. There were camera cords, printer cables, and spools of speaker wire, everywhere. But nothing of the kind that he was seeking. Not a single ¼ inch, end-to-end conduit for his passionate expressions.

 

“WHAT THE FRIG? I THOUGHT THERE HAD TO BE A HOOKUP AROUND HERE SOMEWHERE! I JUST USED IT THE OTHER DAY! WELL, MAYBE 14 OR 15 YEARS AGO... RIGHT AFTER STACIE BUSTED ME WITH THE BARGAIN BASEMENT ELDORADO 250! THOSE ARE GOING FOR A COUPLE GRAND NOW! THAT WAS A KILLER DEAL!”

 

He looked in the cases of all his tuneful plucksters. And in every drawer, even where spoons and spatulas were stored, by the stove. Not a single connector could be found, anywhere.

 

His dream of revisiting the land of jukebox heroes had been derailed.

 

“DAMMIT, I JUST HAD ONE HERE! I JUST HAD ONE! I DID!”

 

A red light on the amplifier panel indicated that it was powered and ready. Yet that status of technological willingness did him no good at all. He traced the EQ controls and master volume knob, which seemed to have rearranged themselves into the arc of a grin. It was as if the silent machine had decided to mock him for being inept and unprepared.

 

“I’M NOT THAT DRUNK! SHEESH, HOW MANY NIGHTS DID I GIG WITH THE BAND WHEN ALL OF US WERE HIGH AND EFFED UP AND FLYING THROUGH OUTER SPACE? AND SURROUNDED BY HOT CHICKS IN LEATHER AND LACE?”

 

Gulping down shame and resentment, he fell into the roller chair. It slid backwards and slammed into a bookshelf full of limited-release, boxed sets of vinyl records and compact discs. Crowded into the tower furnishing with books, and VHS tapes.

 

His head rang like a bell. It reverberated with the stinging cackle of his ex-wife, passing judgment.

 

 “YOU’RE NOT THAT DRUNK? HAH! NO, NOT AT ALL! I GET IT, LOSER! NOTHING IS EVER YOUR FAULT! SO, SIT THERE AND CRY IN YOUR BOOZE! YOU’RE A ROCK STAR WITH NOTHING BUT AN AIR GUITAR!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Old Gray Lady, Part Four”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

S. Gordon Finkel had the look of a military sergeant after retirement from the service. His crew-cut and sharp sense of style projected an air of authority, everywhere in the New York Times offices. He was courteous to members of the staff, yet blunt when assessing their output. While sitting behind his desk, or roaming the complex, he was always a formidable figure.

 

As editor-in-chief of the newspaper, his word was never questioned.

 

Yet for Nacelle Breech, a measure of conflict had entered this equation. She sat before her superior in a side chair, hunched over slightly, and totally consumed with a satchel of notepads accumulated during her stay in Ohio. After conducting interviews at Evergreen Estates, a trailer enclave situated east of Cleveland, she had gained new insight into the thought processes of Midwestern people. But now, a great challenge was at hand, one which perplexed her with its difficulty in being justified and executed. How to communicate the value of understanding that cultural divergence in the prevailing context of work done for the ‘Old Gray Lady.’

 

She read aloud from her notes, quoting Townshend Carr Lincoln, while flipping through the long, ruled pages.

 

“I didn’t vote for the man, myself. (Donald Trump.) I’m a Libertarian, to be honest. That rattles some of the other residents here, it gets me tagged as a weirdo. But to your point, yes, DJT is very popular in this state. You can walk around our streets and see his banners flying, with Gadsden flags and Confederate standards, and such. Maybe even the green arbor that hangs in my front window. That’s a historical reference, from 1772. Have you read about the ‘Pine Tree Riot’ from Weare, New Hampshire? Their spirit is still alive today, in communities such as ours. You see, nobody here has much love for the government, in any form. It’s a different mindset. A different lifestyle from living in an urban setting... We handle our own maintenance, watch over our own families and friends, and settle our own disputes... If there’s a beef between citizens, it gets thrashed out in person. With no cops or lawyers, or media bullshit!”

 

Finkel frowned and growled like a cranky bear.

 

“YOU ACTUALLY WASTED TIME TALKING WITH A DRUNKEN IDIOT IN A CLUSTER OF MANUFACTURED BOXES? C’MON NOW, WE PAY OUR REPORTERS FOR QUALITY WORK! NOT THE KIND OF DIDDLING MUSH THAT COLLEGE KIDS WRITE FOR A GRADE!”

 

His underling wrinkled her nose and kept running through the mass of notes.

 

“This material is golden! Trust me, Stan! I could pen an essay about the culture of middle America from this, and maybe do a series on how our views differ according to geography...”

 

Her leader-in-print shook his head angrily.

 

“GOLDEN? I’D SAY IT IS MORE LIKE SOLID WASTE, DANK AND DIRTY!”

 

Nacelle ignored his opposition and read more from her scribbled records.

 

“I know the talking heads on network newscasts think we’re all stupid out here. Naïve, uncivilized, easy to fool, that kind of thing... If you want to get the vibe of Ohio and other states in ‘flyover country,’ then consider where we are as a nation. Many folks don’t trust institutions anymore. They have figured out that the games are rigged, just like fun activities at a county fair. Or a claw machine in a supermarket lobby. Bankers and insurers and investment barons run the show. They channel corporate money to elected officials that do their bidding. Loyal subjects stand in line at the ballot box, and vote for the two parties, over and over again. Even though they feel as if the system has screwed them for participating... You get shamed and canceled for thinking along divergent lines. For asking questions like the kid in the story of ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes.’ Do you understand how that feels? It’s a sense of hopelessness that can’t be erased. Only one act makes it all seem worthwhile – defiance! That’s the tradition set by colonists who had gotten tired of British rule. Their faith flows through the inhabitants of this trailer village, and beyond.”

 

The media chief shuddered and cursed under his breath.

 

“YOU WANT ME TO PUT THAT KIND OF MORONIC NONSENSE IN OUR TIMELINE? PLEASE! COME TO YOUR SENSES, WOMAN! YOU IGHT AS WELL HAVE HAD A CHAT WITH AN APE AT THE ZOO!”

 

His keyboard servant snorted and tapped her pen on the desktop.

 

“Stan, listen to yourself! Don’t you get it? This is why we can’t reason with each other. We’ve all become so factionalized. Each side retreats into its own bunker. I don’t agree with that shaggy misanthrope, personally. But it felt refreshing to hear him speak openly and honestly. Isn’t that the principle that made a foundation for what we do? A free flow of words? We can’t reach one another unless someone takes the time to listen, and learn!”

 

Editor Finkel wanted to vomit. His teeth and fists were clenched.

 

“NO! NO! NO! NO! THAT BUM NEEDS TO EARN A DEGREE IN LIFE! THEN MAYBE WE CAN CONVERSE WITH EACH OTHER, INTELLIGENTLY! I WON’T GIVE HIM ONE COLUMN-INCH IN THIS PUBLICATION! NOT ONE!”

 

The hired scribe turned pale with remorse.

 

“See, there it is, Stan! That’s the arrogance we carry like a shield, into battle. Our self-importance. Our veneer of enlightenment. We presume that anyone who does not share our perceptions must be oafish and clueless. That condescension keeps us isolated. We feel pity for those on the outside. But would never consider breaking through the bubble. What does that say about us? What has it done to our mission, to share all the news that’s fit to print?”

 

Her designated steward pounded his desk until tools of their trade began to scatter.

 

“I’M NOT GOING TO LISTEN ANY LONGER! GET OUT OF HERE WITH YOUR NOTEBOOKS AND CRAZY THEORIES, PLUS YOUR HIGH-AND-MIGHTY ATTITUDE! I’M CANCELING THIS ASSIGNMENT! THERE’LL BE NOTHING IN YOUR PAY PACKET FOR THE TIME SPENT IN OHIO! I CALL IT A WASH-OUT! A HANDLE-PULL, AND A COMPLETE FLUSH OF RESOURCES! EVERYTHING STRAIGHT DOWN THE DRAIN!”

 

Nacelle attempted to sidestep this harsh decision by raising a white flag of surrender.

 

“I’ll rewrite my feature, it’s okay. I can make it work for you, believe me! A second chance is all I need! I’m a pro at this game, remember?”

 

The head of their staff was unmoved by her capitulation.

 

“I AM DONE DEBATING THIS ISSUE, MS. BREECH! CLEAN OUT YOUR CUBICLE. YOUR BYLINE WILL NO LONGER APPEAR IN THE TIMES. PLEASE LEAVE THIS BUILDING, PRONTO! GOOD DAY TO YOU, WOMAN! GOOD DAY!” 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Old Gray Lady, Part Three”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

Morning sun filtered through the curtains, as Nacelle Breech dozed lazily on the sofa. She was covered in a plush blanket with the Harley-Davidson crest repeated over and over in a geometric pattern. While awakening, she meandered through thoughts of home, and breathed pleasant aromas of bacon and eggs, and fresh coffee.

 

Suddenly, she sat up on the long furnishing.

 

“OH MY GOODNESS! WHERE AM I RIGHT NOW?”

 

Townshend Lincoln was busy in his narrow kitchen. He had started breakfast in anticipation of his guest rising to greet the beginning of a new day. Disability meant that he had to handle cooking chores while leaning on at least one cane. His left-handed routine was somewhat awkward, yet served to keep him able to cope.

 

He smiled while tending to cast-iron skillets, including one in the oven full of cornbread.

 

“Rise and shine, ma’am! I hope you were able to get some rest...”

 

The reporter swung both feet forward. She sat rubbing her eyes and yawning. Her blondish hair was a mess.

 

“What happened to me? Did I pass out on your porch?”

 

The old loner nodded and stood with his back to the countertop.

 

“I managed to get you inside, somehow. It was cold last night. I didn’t expect to have a visitor sleeping over. But I hope you were comfortable...”

 

Nacelle checked her cell phone. There were ten calls from New York City.

 

“I was supposed to go back to the hotel last night! My editor had expected a call with story details. He must be livid! Stan is a worrier. This did not turn out how I expected!”

 

Lincoln shrugged and brought the groggy woman a mug of java.

 

“I don’t see too many people over here, so forgive me if I was gabby last night. I get talkative when there is someone to listen...”

 

She laughed and fretted with her tangled mane.

 

“I got good vibes from our conversation. There were lots of quotes I can use, you really helped to build a narrative for my feature. I appreciate it, truly!”

 

The contrarian hermit raised his eyebrows.

 

“Most people tell me that I’m full of dog poop. So, thanks for the endorsement, miss. Honestly, I never had anyone ask those kinds of questions about our little dump, or my neighbors. As you can see, we’re off the beaten path here. Even being in a rural setting like this county. Evergreen Estates is considered to be something of an embarrassment by the township trustees...”

 

The professional wordsmith sipped her hot beverage, and felt clarity returning.

 

“Where I live, people don’t understand this part of America. They are mystified by you, and perhaps a bit afraid. I think much of that comes from being isolated by choice. Social media platforms were supposed to bring us together, you know? But they’ve created echo chambers for partisan thinking, instead. Bubbles that keep us apart. We don’t really interact anymore. We shout across the divide.”

 

Her host dabbled with his chef’s fork and spatula.

 

“Well now that’s a good theory, I think. Here in the trailer park, we speak plainly. The other day, a fellow down the street who had shot off his mouth about me came up the ramp to clear the air. I warned him to maintain a safe distance. And then advised that he was lucky I hadn’t been drinking liquor that day. Otherwise, he might have gotten one of my walking sticks across the teeth! I didn’t waste any words trying to be diplomatic. But then I confessed that he was in my prayers. That’s the example of Jesus on the cross. Does it make you think I am a hick? I could easily have busted him in the chops, but chose to petition a higher power on his behalf. He left knowing where we stand. No bullshit. No word games. No memes in cyberspace...”

 

Nacelle signaled her understanding.

 

“See, that’s what I was referencing. The way you conduct yourselves here, amid all these manufactured homes. It’s an oddity now. Almost like a whisper from frontier days. An echo of old traditions. I would call it ‘analog thinking.’ As a matter of fact, that would be a great headline for my piece in the newspaper. I’m going to use that, if you don’t mind!”

 

Lincoln was slightly amused. He pulled plates out of the cupboard, and began to assemble their meal. The dishes were made with a pattern from decades before. One that testified to a lack of change in the household.

 

“I’ve been here 22 years, and didn’t expect this to last more than a couple of months. The community took me in, they adopted me like a stray mutt. I had gotten divorced, my life was chaotic, family members were furious. They put the blame on me, and my bad habits. Maybe that stance was justified. Whatever the case, I learned to survive here. I wasn’t cut out of the same cloth as most folks in this development, but that didn’t matter. You know, I actually used to look down on people like my neighbors. I thought they didn’t work hard enough, or discipline themselves right. I had a real home, a brick dwelling in the city. A career, stability, a good life, all of those things that young couples dream about. Plenty of friends too, until that house of cards came down. Living here, in a glorified shipping container, I had nothing. Except crazy fools shooting off fireworks and guns, and getting drunk by noon. But then something happened, as I got older and slower and more isolated from the outside world. I realized that this was my family. Ain’t that a hoot? These downtrodden souls are my kin. They don’t judge. They don’t preach. They don’t let me fall without a hand to get back up again...”

 

The keyboard queen glowed with newfound respect.

 

“This story is going to be incredible! I can’t wait to see it in print. I am so excited!”

 

The cell phone rang again as she was finishing her coffee. A desperate voicemail message registered after she waited too long to respond.

 

“DAMMIT, WOMAN! ANSWER MY CALL! I’M BACK AT THE OFFICE NOW, AND REALLY FEEL PISSED OFF! YOU SHOULDN’T LEAVE ME IN THE DARK LIKE THIS! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN OHIO?”

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Old Gray Lady, Part Two”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

Nacelle Breech had only been standing at Lot 13 in Evergreen Estates for about two minutes. Yet her mood was dramatically different, being on the inside. A drastic shift from mild curiosity and wonderment, to a sense that she had come to a foreign land, which was very much unlike her own world in the metropolitan grandeur of New York City.

 

“Sir, I’m working on a story for my newspaper. Could we talk casually for a few minutes?”

 

Her host gestured toward a discarded shower chair that was half-hidden behind his trash bin. The offer he made sounded surreal, as if it had been written in a novel about traveling through Appalachia in search of cultural roots.

 

“People around here call me Link, okay? Have a seat if you want, it’s for guests when they stop to share a brew. Everybody has had a turn sitting on that plastic furnishing. I found it driving home from a trip up Sidley’s Hill to our township post office. Someone had abandoned a unit on the first street, going left. There were mattresses in the driveway, a leather recliner that looked brand new, and that bath appliance from Walmart. I didn’t bother with the bedding, but the other two items looked to be in good condition. We have a tradition here, it’s sort of how they handled things on episodes of ‘The Walking Dead.’ Castaway treasures in this park get harvested and repurposed. You can’t be sure who’s had them before, and maybe it’s better not to know...”

 

The eastern reporter shrugged and accepted his invitation without arguing.

 

“How odd! That sounds like curbside shopping on municipal cleanup days!”

 

Lincoln had just finished his breakfast, but was already chugging righteous swallows of Tennessee whiskey. His eyes wouldn’t focus clearly.

 

“Care for a drink, ma’am? I’ve got bottles of Miller High Life in the fridge. Excuse me for not saying anything right away. I’m normally more hospitable...”

 

Nacelle shuddered when pondering such a pedestrian beverage.

 

“Macro Beer? Oh please! I haven’t had anything so common since my high school days. We used to sneak cans of Rheingold at football games. You sit here drinking that swill by choice? Really? Ugh!”

 

Her host stiffened, and put down his liquor bottle.

 

“Friend, this ain’t Manhattan. If you find any wine in this neighborhood, it’s probably in a box, or a screw-top jug. I might be able to coax the lady next door to share her stash of Tito’s Handmade Vodka, but it’d be easier just to drink what I’ve got in the kitchen. You’d be welcome to do a shot of Jack Daniel’s of course...”

 

The professional scribe broke out in a nervous sweat.

 

“I’m sorry... did that sound pretentious on my part? Forgive me. Of course I’ll take a cold brew! Thanks, Link. I’d like to get some of your opinions for a feature on regional differences across America. This is something my editor thought was important for our readers.”

 

The reclusive iconoclast stumbled to his refrigerator, and back again, with a cane carved from a tree trunk. He carried two rounds of the golden refreshment. He and his guest clicked their bottles together as a salute, and show of comity. Then, the old man made a verbal toast.

 

“They say it’s the champagne of beers! So here you go, ma’am! Welcome to Ohio!”

 

Nacelle balanced her notebook on one knee. The sudsy offering tingled her taste buds. She decided to try a nip of southern sour mash, and the distilled concoction went straight to her head.

 

“Where I live, people are befuddled by Midwestern habits. Like eating fried bologna, driving pickup trucks, and hunting deer. You wear camouflage attire to weddings and baptisms. You collect firearms like souvenir cards for athletes. You take football loyalties seriously, often more than memberships in any political party. And you can build almost anything out of pallets or shipping crates. Your people know how to work with their hands, and survive hardships and calamities. But honestly, there is one thing that sets you apart beyond any other... love for the Orange Man... the MAGA King!”

 

Lincoln bowed his head after a deliberate blast of brown liquor.

 

“I didn’t vote for the man, myself. I’m a Libertarian, to be honest. That rattles some of the other residents here, it gets me tagged as a weirdo. But to your point, yes, DJT is very popular in this state. You can walk around our streets and see his banners flying, with Gadsden flags and Confederate standards, and such. Maybe even the green arbor that hangs in my front window. That’s a historical reference, from 1772. Have you read about the ‘Pine Tree Riot’ from Weare, New Hampshire? Their spirit is still alive today, in communities such as ours. You see, nobody here has much love for the government, in any form. It’s a different mindset. A different lifestyle from living in an urban setting. I wouldn’t say better or worse, just independent out of necessity. We handle our own maintenance, watch over our own families and friends, and settle our own disputes. Thanks to neglect by the property owners and managers, we even end up filling potholes in the roads, and providing our own security lights around the perimeter. We share information, door-to-door. We make sure nobody gets left behind. And if there’s a beef between citizens, it gets thrashed out in person. With no cops or lawyers, or media bullshit!”

 

The Times employee was slightly embarrassed.

 

“Sorry, Link. I’m part of that media fertilizer you describe. But maybe with your help, I can give a fresh slant to my readers back in New York!”

 

The shaggy hobo nodded and grinned.

 

“I don’t watch much television, unless the Browns or Guardians are playing. Maybe a Cavaliers game now and then. I know the talking heads on network newscasts think we’re all stupid out here. Naïve, uncivilized, easy to fool, that kind of thing. Maybe those words describe some in my own bloodline. But if you want to get the vibe of Ohio and other states in ‘flyover country,’ then consider where we are as a nation. Many folks don’t trust institutions anymore. They have figured out that the games are rigged, just like fun activities at a county fair. Or a claw machine in a supermarket lobby. Bankers and insurers and investment barons run the show. They channel corporate money to elected officials that do their bidding. Loyal subjects stand in line at the ballot box, and vote for the two parties, over and over again. Even though they feel as if the system has screwed them for participating. Lobbyists run free! When a splinter group veers away from that herd, outrage fills the air. You get shamed and canceled for thinking along divergent lines. For asking questions like the kid in the story of ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes.’ Do you understand how that feels? It’s a sense of hopelessness that can’t be erased. Only one act makes it all seem worthwhile – defiance! That’s the tradition set by colonists who had gotten tired of British rule. Their faith flows through the inhabitants of this trailer village, and beyond. It’s why some pull the lever for a bombastic dude like the guy at Mar-a-Lago...”

 

Nacelle felt tipsy and only half-conscious. Her pen fell on the floorboards. She slouched on the shower chair and mumbled with surrender.

 

“I can’t jot down notes anymore, Link. My fingers are going numb!”