Trailer Park Vignettes: “Sunset Too Soon” (Part Three)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

Despite numerous issues that seemed to deepen his disability on a regular basis, and a social climate of desperation and conspiracy theories, T. C. Lincoln was content with his existence at the mobile-home community of Evergreen Estates. Though he would not describe himself as a cheerful, or happy person, this mood of patient acceptance was one that had developed over years of inhabiting his narrow lot in the rural development. While his singlewide home offered few comforts for living, it did efficiently meet his needs. Things were arranged conveniently for someone who suffered from physical handicaps. And the limited floorplan fit well with his tendency not to spend much time on housekeeping chores and maintenance.

 

He had settled on a libertarian outlook regarding life. One that let him enjoy the time left on his personal chronometer, without fretting over details that he could not control. His neighborhood was rife with unregistered firearms, talismans of fallen empires, and symbols of extremist philosophies. In a sense, his own presence in the park was a risky act that might indicate a paucity of proper judgment to those of a more sober intellect. Yet he was used to being in the rural environment, after a quarter-century. Sounds of diesel motors, bullets and buckshot being fired, and Country ballads, no longer caused him to flinch. When marital disputes erupted, up and down his street, he simply shrugged off any fear over mayhem that might transpire. Visits from the local sheriff were common. He reckoned that a balance needed to be maintained, between the insanity of their private oasis, and rules of law that still existed in the outside world.

 

Everything sat upon a foundation of drunkenness and disinterest. So long as he was able to stay perpetually inebriated and alone, the perplexing riddle of his own life did not become overwhelming. Though his spirit had perished in this backwoods landscape, long ago, what remained of his body continued to go forward. Much like a mindless vagabond scouring scorched earth and sand for sustenance, after the advent of a global apocalypse.

 

For all of these reasons and more, the graybeard misanthrope did not alter his habits after having suffered a cardiac event, on the front porch. He feared longevity more than an early demise. In a sense, every swallow of Kentucky bourbon brought him closer to his moment of finality, and a blessed release. But as the hours of a Wednesday afternoon elapsed, he again felt a tightness in his chest. Heat glowed from his face, and caused sweat to drip freely. He became dizzy and disoriented. Then, a bout of vertigo felled him, once more.

 

This time, there were no spectators nearby to provide rescue. His neighbors to the east had left on a camping adventure, early in the morning. Those on the opposite flank were stoned from smoking homegrown weed, and taking CBD gummies. Almost everyone else on their rustic boulevard was away at work. Laboring hopelessly for Dollar General, Walmart, or some other employer of unskilled individuals who were willing to work for minimum-wage compensation.

 

Lincoln sputtered phlegm and saliva, as he rolled on the floorboards. The daylight seemed to fade as his consciousness ebbed. Finally, darkness eclipsed all of his perceptions. His heart was stilled by this episode of woe. His last breath came with a groan of surrender.

 

This time, there were no family members or deceased companions waiting for his arrival beyond the veil. He lingered in a fog of oblivion, until arriving in a chasm hewn from solid rock. Natural wildfires were burning all around this craggy chamber. He stood before a grisly throne made from skeletal remains and cinders.

 

A peal of laughter announced his arrival in vocal terms.

 

“MISTER TOWNSHEND! YOU STAND HERE BEFORE ME TODAY, AS ANOTHER VANQUISHED MORTAL, HUMBLED BY DEATH. HOW DO YOU PLEAD YOUR CASE?”

 

The shaggy hermit was somewhat confused by this formal scene in the realm of Hades.

 

“Plead my case? What, I get to make an argument about damnation and suffering?”

 

The menacing Lord of Abbadon had an appearance of someone wearing goat horns and a robe of bloody jewels on a cord of string.

 

“I PERSONALLY HATE THIS PART OF THE PROCESS! BUT IT HAS BEEN DECREED BY THAT WHITE-HAIRED FOOL IN THE UPPER TIER! HE IS THE MASTER OF ALL, AT LEAST FOR NOW. UNLESS I AM ABLE TO MOUNT ANOTHER INSURRECTION WITH MY MINIONS! ANYWAY, MAKE YOUR PLEA AND LET US BE QUICK WITH THIS PART OF THE RITUAL! I WANT TO PASS SENTENCE, AND BE DONE WITH YOU!”

 

Lincoln raised his eyebrows, and huffed in disbelief.

 

“This is what mankind can expect on the other side? A hothouse buried in a cavern, and you looking like something out of a grindhouse, foreign film?”

 

The evil emperor was not amused by this candid description.

 

“YOU THINK THIS IS A MOVIE SET? MERELY A JOKE FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT? LET ME SHOW YOU HOW ERRONEOUS THIS ASSESSMENT IS, MY SAD FRIEND!”

 

The alcoholic loner clutched his belly, as a swarm of mealworms feasted inside. He began to writhe in pain, and toppled on the slate floor.

 

“What the friggggggg! I was having a snort of whiskey on my bench at the trailer park, and all of a sudden, here I am with a stand-in for Lucifer, himself! I didn’t know anything about having another heart attack, or landing on my ass in eternity! I just wanted to get drunk! So far as sins go, that has to be pretty far down on the list!”

 

The malevolent figure held a fiery staff, carved from bone. He was apparently running out of patience.

 

“THAT IS YOUR PLEA? A SIMPLE FORM OF IGNORANCE? I PUNISH ALL KINDS OF SIN, YOU IMBECILE! THEY ARE MY TOOLS FOR RULING OVER THE RUIN OF HUMANITY!”

 

Lincoln slouched on his spot. A stale odor of decomposing corpses filled his nostrils. He was intensely thirsty for a swig of brown liquor.

 

“Yeah, I get that you’re a busy fellow. But there are plenty of miscreants and misbehavers all around the known world. Crooked politicians, warmaking generals, serial killers, predators who prey on women and children... plenty of targets for your claws and horns. I’d think those kinds of people would keep you busy, claiming souls. You really want to snag an old bum like me, when there are all those crazies running loose in the asylum?”

 

The demon-in-charge shook his head as if someone had placed a spotlight on his withered face.

 

“TAKE CARE NOT TO ANGER ME WITH YOUR PETTY INSULTS, MORTAL MAN! I CAN DO MANY THINGS ALL AT ONCE! BELIEVE ME, IT ISN’T DIFFICULT TO HERD MEMBERS OF YOUR HUMAN RACE LIKE CATTLE! IT IS A CINCH FOR ME!”

 

The contrarian loner gestured as if he was unconvinced by this boast of supremacy.

 

“We’ve got holy wars and ethnic cleansing going on right now, invasions and injustices, pollution and catastrophes, torture and poverty and exploitation. Take your pick! There are plenty of reasons to go ransack the earth, if that’s your thing. Gather your victims and wreak havoc! But come on now, don’t waste time with a booze-hound from the Buckeye State. Are you for real? I’m a nobody. My life matters little to anyone, not even myself, to be blunt. You’ve got bigger foes to defeat. Why waste your time with a guy who can’t even walk straight? If anything, that really makes you look weak...”

 

The Proto-Satan lost his cool, at last. He burst into a pall of sulfur smoke and scattering ashes.

 

“ENOUGH! ENOUGH! I HAVE HEARD ENOUGH! I BANISH YOU FROM THIS REALM! BE GONE FROM MY SIGHT BEFORE I CHANGE THIS VERDICT! GO BACK TO THAT DUMP BY LAKE ERIE! GO BACK TO YOUR RATHOLE IN THE WOODS! GO BACK TO YOUR PITIFUL LIFE SUCKING DOWN SHOTS OF WHISKEY AND COLD BEER AMONG THE WEEDS AND WASTE, AND JAGGED PIECES OF BROKEN CONCRETE! GO BACK, I COMDEMN YOU TO LIVE A HUNDRED YEARS IN THAT JUNKYARD PIT! GO BACK, GO BACK, GO BACK!”

 

Lincoln awakened on the floor of his living room. He had carpet scraps embedded in his teeth. Somehow, he must have crawled inside, after tumbling on the porch. But none of that mattered now, as he gently fell back to sleep where he had landed.

 

Hell would have to wait for another day in the pines.

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Sunset Too Soon” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

Health journals across the North American continent were filled with stories of senior men who suffered cardiac emergencies, and fell into bouts of depression as a result. Or, who were driven into extreme regimens of fitness and endurance, to bolster themselves against having such episodes in the future. But for Townshend Carr Lincoln, there was no change in his daily routine after surviving a near-death experience. Instead of fretting over his age and physical condition, he simply caught a ride home from the hospital with one of his nephews. Then, took a seat on the wooden bench that was his favored spot for drinking in the afternoon hours, and began to indulge in the household reserve of Evan Williams Bottled-in-Bond Bourbon.

 

It did not take long to reach a point of tipsy detachment from his environment. As notifications filled the Messenger app on his cell phone, he swooned in between swallows of the brown liquor. His niece, who was still on duty with her employer, sent a humble plea for sanity as he continued to imbibe.

 

“Uncle Link, I hope you didn’t go home and start boozing it up again! You need to take it easy for a while. I am guessing you were told to check with your regular doctor in a week or so, to monitor your heart rhythm. Stay clear of the pickled sausages and pork rinds...”

 

The shaggy hermit laughed to himself while guzzling his high-proof swill. He was glad she could not hear his terse response.

 

“They wanted me to wear a home monitor, but I won’t tell you that of course!”

 

Another line of text appeared on his wireless device as the drinking continued.

 

“This is really serious! You’ve got to buckle down and pay attention! If my mom were still alive, she’d grab you by the ear! We can’t handle another funeral in the family right now. Do you understand?”

 

Lincoln belched and passed wind in a dual show of gastronomic defiance. He did not have any intention of surrendering his liberties in the name of staying alive and independent.

 

“Girl, when the time comes, I want to be right here, with a whiskey tumbler in my hand! Not stuck in a bed with tubes in both arms and wires attached to my skull. I’ve seen too many other people in this family expire in that fashion. It’s a kind of ending I refuse to write for myself. Let me go with a blast of moonshine and a hand-rolled cigar! They can bury my carcass in the yard here, next to a Black Lab, Golden Retriever, and a half-dozen cats...”

 

His courage was stalled for a moment, upon realizing it was at just such a point in the normal arc of his weekly timeline that the first cardiac event had occurred. This sobering realization made him pause and take inventory of his faculties. His bones ached, his head throbbed, and he felt woozy with fatigue. Yet all of these symptoms were quite normal, and did not concern him in the least. So, with a tip of his bottle, he began to swallow the potent distillation again.

 

His eyes watered freely. A burning sensation filled his throat. Everything was as it should be, on a typical day in the rustic, trailer village.

 

As this ritual grew more intense, another message appeared on his phone. This time from a younger nephew.

 

“Uncle Link, I worry about you living alone. Did you ever think of getting a place in our neighborhood? I think it would be better to have you right on this street, like everybody else. We want to help you stay safe. You matter to us!”

 

The contrarian loner shuddered at the thought of being visited every day. His privacy was a benefit of being separated by a buffer zone of miles, at a remote park in the pines. He answered by talking to himself, on the porch.

 

“Nah, thanks buddy! Your sister would be hounding me about how much I eat and drink over here. She’d be bringing me hummus and salads and all kinds of fancy, vegetarian horseshit! I don’t need that prissy kind of chicken scratch, I want real, down-home vittles! The kind of meals they serve in God’s country, not a college cafeteria! With a stiff beverage afterward, to calm my damn nerves! That’s the grub that’ll get me saying halleluiah, and amen!”

 

As he emptied the container of Kentucky spirits, a neighbor to the east appeared in his gravel driveway. Darby Stronelli stood nervously at the foot of his access ramp, fearing to come any closer. But her canine companions did not feel the same need to maintain their distance. Both young, spotted pooches came running to offer affection.

 

“Link, how are you doin’ buddy? I really figured you were gone this time, and I did! My husband said you were white as a ghost. They made a big scene gettin’ you outta here. That was off the hook, bruh! I figured they’d be sizin’ your ass up for a coffin!”

 

Lincoln shrugged while maintaining the tempo of his libation.

 

“Honestly, I don’t remember much about it. I faded out in the middle of getting blitzed. The EMT crew said I fell on my porch, and landed against the storm door. All I remember is being sore as hell when I woke up in the Intensive Care Unit. Those nurses were going wild. It’s the most female attention I’ve had in years...”

 

Darby frowned and stomped her work boots. A sheen of sweat glistened in her spiky hair.

 

“You dumb old bastard! That was a wake-up call and here you are gettin’ loaded again! Look at you, it’s like nothing bad ever happened!”

 

The solitary bum shrugged for a second time, and wheezed phlegm from deep in his lungs.

 

“Look, everybody has a timer ticking away. You only get so much on the clock. That’s how it goes for everybody. When it’s my turn to make an exit, I won’t shed any tears. Screw that kind of weakness! Let me die holding a glass in my hand!”

 

His neighbor winced with a visible amount of concern. But stifled a desire to lecture him about having such a careless attitude.

 

“Okay, buddy. I get it. You don’t care about livin’ or dyin’ right now. It’s all good. But just remember you’ve got friends in this park. People who actually care about you being well and happy!”

 

Lincoln burst into a fit of raucous chortling. Both of his middle fingers raised, in unison.

 

“HAPPY? IN THIS AWFUL RATHOLE? THAT’S FREAKING HILARIOUS! BUT TO QUOTE ELVIS PRESLEY, ‘THANK YOU! THANK YOU VERY MUCH!’”

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Sunset, Too Soon” (Part One)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

After the end of his professional career, and upon the advent of disability, T. C. Lincoln developed a routine that was literally set in stone. One governed by the ticking clock, and his own mature biology. He would rise early in the morning, surrender to the impulses of his weakening bladder, and work at his desk after breakfast, with a chair nap at some point. Then once his creative urges had been satisfied, a thirst for beverage alcohol would take over. On his front porch, regardless of the season, he found the sort of refuge that allowed him to survive being socially isolated in terms of interacting with other members of the neighborhood. He did not seek to be popular or well-liked by anyone. Instead, quiet moments alone were his medicine. In those hours of solitude, he felt content with still being alive.

 

On a Monday afternoon, he had begun this ritual of embracing debauchery and distance. With a predictable amount of brain fog arriving quickly. But as he swallowed repeatedly from his bottle of Kentucky bourbon, something tightened in his chest. His breathing became labored and shallow. He swooned a bit on the wooden bench which was his vantage point to observe those passing by the narrow strip of rented acreage. His lot was weedy and overgrown. Yet few members of the park staff were courageous enough to approach him about being more vigilant in its upkeep. It was enough that he always paid his lot fees on time.

 

The shaggy hermit never bothered anyone. In a sense, he was invisible and forgotten.

 

As the restriction in his torso grew with intensity, the weary hermit found himself struggling to maintain balance. He grasped outriggers on both sides of the crude furnishing, for support. Vertigo made him rock from side to side. He nearly inhaled larger portions of southern whiskey, hoping that it might ease his discomfort and steady his balance. But an opposite effect resulted.

 

His eyes bulged from their sockets. His chest heaved mightily, to inhale breaths of air.

 

“GAWDAMNNNNN, WHAT THE FRIG IS WRONG WITH MEEEEE?”

 

Lincoln hit the floorboards in front of his entrance door with a hard thud of finality. His face had turned pale. He could not see clearly, or speak intelligibly. The container of brown juice skipped off his porch, and toppled in the yard, below. With a complete loss of bodily control, he soaked his trousers. The glow of daylight turned darker, until at last, his consciousness ebbed into a dream-state of confusing images.

 

Somehow, he managed to click the emergency icon on his cellular device. The reaction was one of surprise and shock, followed by an immediate rush into action. The local EMT squad arrived in a matter of minutes. They stripped his camouflage hoodie and T-shirt away, and positioned an AED device to restore his cardiac rhythm.

 

The fireman who lived next door stood over him, and provided supervision for this team effort of offering a miraculous rescue.

 

“LINK! DO YOU HEAR ME, OLD MAN? YOU’RE GOING TO BE OKAY, JUST STAY WITH US! CAN YOU UNDERSTAND ME? NOD YOUR HEAD OR WIGGLE YOUR FINGERS. JUST GIVE ME A SIGN!”

 

The contrarian boozer had drool dripping from his beard. He saw a cloudy landscape more appropriate for the realm of eternity than a county near Lake Erie. His grandparents, mother and father, and a sister who were all deceased stood at his bedside. He could not discern what part of this vision was real, and what existed as a projection of his sudden illness.

 

With a great amount of effort, he groaned audibly.

 

“I feel like shitttttt...”

 

The alcoholic loner weighed over 300 pounds. His limbs were always stiff and sore, but now had gone flaccid. Still, with the expert training of their department, the crew lifted him onto a gurney and then rolled him down the access ramp to their vehicle. Assessment and care continued as a siren howled for attention. All along the street, there were gawkers staring from open windows and secluded awnings or redwood decks.

 

Maylene Jefka, a widowed matron who was the most senior resident of their rural community, watched from her trailer. She cried softly and whispered a prayer while clutching the folds of her floral robe.

 

“Don’t let him die, Lord. Not now, not when he’s still got work to do in your name!”

 

The motorized force of spinning tires scattered gravel all along the paved road out of Evergreen Estates. Flashing lights heralded their speedy exit from the secluded development. Traffic went right and left, to avoid hindering this lifesaving jaunt up the hill. Animals cowered in the shadows, under shrubs and in between storage barns.

 

Lincoln felt the touch of a hand on his cheek. His sister had ben dead for almost a year. But her voice sounded strong and insistent.

 

“Townie, this isn’t your time, brother, Not right now, not so soon. Do you hear me?”

 

In his half-conscious delusion, the encounter seemed oddly genuine. It might have frightened him under normal circumstances. Yet as he lay on the EMT bedding, it offered a measure of comfort to be with someone he missed so much.

 

“Rhubie, you weren’t ready to pass, either. So, who’s to say whether this is my time, or not? You don’t know it, and I don’t know, either...”

 

The ghostly apparition smiled with familial affection.

 

“I do know, Townie! When you’re on this side of the veil, there are a lot of things to learn. More than I can tell you right now. Because this isn’t the end, my brother. This is something else, a second start. A second chance. What you might call another roll of the dice.”

 

The cranky misanthrope shook his head.

 

“That bastard on the corner would say that I’ve got this coming. He calls it ‘the wages of sin’ or something of the kind. For living like a crazy-ass hillbilly! I never took him seriously, he’s a dope and a dumbass. But maybe there was something to his damn opinions after all...”

 

The middle-aged woman hovered over her sibling, and stroked his long, tangled, mass of gray hair.

 

“No, I disagree. When it comes to sin, the other side of that coin is forgiveness. You can do better. I know it’s inside of you. Maybe not in the same way that other people show their faith, but you’ve got your own path to tread. Do you get it? You’re going to survive this episode, and get better. You’re going to go back home again! You’re going to be okay!”

 

Lincoln had been wandering in the afterworld, as medical technicians fought to save him from a total loss of cardiac function. And as their work bore fruit, he awakened on the gurney, and opened his eyes. All of the other personalities from his past had disappeared.

 

“I DON’T FRIGGING BELIEVE IT! I’M STILL HERE! BY GOD’S GRACE OR A STROKE OF LUCK OR WHATEVER YOU WANNA CALL IT, MY BUSTED HEART IS PUMPING AGAIN!”

 

“Released”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

Well, I’m looking for a way out

From bedlam on the increase

God, let me be released

God let me be released

I need a touch of grace

From the Prince of Peace

God, let me be released

God let me be released

I need more than a human mind can conceive on its own

I need a mansion with many rooms as my eternal home

I need a better temple, than a whited sepulchre of bones

God, let me be released

God let me be released

 

Well, I’m lonely on a journey

Past tombs of the deceased

God, let me be released

God let me be released

Their sacrifices not enough

To bring down mighty beasts

God, let me be released

God let me be released

They needed more than boasts of brave intentions in the field

They needed more than masters, wielding sharpened blades of steel

They needed more than strategies with violent appeal

God, let me be released

God let me be released

 

When this troupe of cards collapses

Then I’ll be a refugee

God, let me be released

God let me be released

I’ll be in on the outside

I’ll dance with beggars, free

God, let me be released

God let me be released

On that day there’ll be no shame in looking to the sky

And watching for the image of a savior, soaring high

A better cause to celebrate than watching soldiers die

God, let me be released

God let me be released

 

When the hour is struck too late

I’ll feel the energy

God, let me be released

God let me be released

My eyes will find their focus

On a sign of prophecy

God, let me be released

God let me be released

Long ago the scroll was written, a prediction of the king

Who would shun earthly influences, to reign with staff and ring

Blessed by a sacred affection for the worth of everything

God, let me be released

God let me be released

 

Well, I might stumble on the road

It’s more than a certainty

God, let me be released

God let me be released

But when I bruise my heel and fall

The miracles will not cease

God, let me be released

God let me be released

If I cry with a woeful wail of what I had to bear

It will not be too much to ask of angels, unaware

Their aid will keep me moving, up the golden stairs

God, let me be released

God let me be released

 

In the promise of a carpenter

On this I will believe

God, let me be released

God let me be released

And if I fail at times to walk

His arms will carry me

God, let me be released

God let me be released

It’s a story that may sound like a trumpet in the wind

A peal of brass calling out with a holy acronym

A musical inflection, carried by an ancient hymn

God, let me be released

God let me be released

 

Grandma said it sweetly

When my conscience was conceived

God, let me be released

God let me be released

Her voice remains in my ear

Like the lessons of a priest

God, let me be released

God let me be released

Sometimes when the day is dark, I might wander from the throne

And find that I am among the ones who worship an unknown

But never will I feel myself to be rudely left alone

God, let me be released

God let me be released

 

God, let me be released

God let me be released

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Recipe Rejection” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

After his unexpected encounter with Marcy DeVry from Millenium Meal Services, Incorporated, T. C. Lincoln still felt slightly insulted by the visit. Not only because of the contrast between his own dining preferences, and those of the company representative, but also as a result of something she had carelessly observed while conducting her campaign for participants.

 

“You’d really refuse chef-quality meals in favor of eating canned ravioli or boxed macaroni and cheese? That’s a pity, sir! Our service is here to help enrich the lives of disadvantaged people in Ohio! And I do think that you would qualify!”

 

With his face stinging from the judgmental comment, he stumbled into his kitchen, and threw open the cupboard doors.

 

“Canned ravioli? Boxes of mac ‘n cheese? What the hell did that lady think I was? A damn misfit who can’t cook for himself?”

He began to take inventory to prove that this falsehood would not stand up to scientific scrutiny.

 

“Let’s see here... I’ve got two cans of Chef Boyardee Beefaroni, a can of Hormel Tamales, and a can of La Preferida Spanish Rice, a jar of Ragu Double Cheddar Sauce, a partial case of Maruchan Ramen Noodles, six cans of Armour Vienna Sausages, two tins of Brunswick Kipper Snacks, a jar of Herdez Medium Salsa, a can of Mary Kitchen Corned Beef Hash, a can of Great Value Sausage Gravy...”

 

That last item caused him to wrinkle his nose, because he always made his own gravy, in a square, Lodge skillet from Tennessee. The recipe he followed was one handed down as a cultural treasure, via his mother who was a daughter of Mountaineer country. So, the presence of such a pre-made concoction among his household goods must have been a mistake.

 

Patiently, he continued to take stock of what was on hand in his elevated pantry.

 

“A half-bag of Giant Eagle Basmati Rice, Clover Valley All-Purpose Flour from Dollar General, Famous Dave’s Sweet and Spicy Pickle Spears, Hapi Sriracha Peas, a bag of BBQ Fritos Corn Chips, and a can of Fritos Jalapeño Bean Dip. A single package of Act II Butter Lovers Microwave Popcorn that must be several years old... Cheez-It Crackers, Reese’s Peanut Butter Filled Pretzels, and a squeeze bottle of Daddie’s Brown sauce from the United Kingdom. And in the back, Jiffy Cornbread Mix...”

 

Having looked over his shelf-stable eats, he moved to the refrigerator and freezer. He hoped that the foodstuffs waiting there might offer some form of redemption. But the random roster of groceries did not ease his embarrassment.

 

“Tiffe’s Pickled Okra from Louisiana, Old Wisconsin Hot Sausage Sticks, Oscar Mayer Bologna, Great Value Pepper Jack Monterey Cheese, Armour Sliced Pepperoni, Mt. Olive Candied Jalapeño Slices, Bell-View Hoagie Spread, Old South Pickled Eggs, Vlasic Baby Kosher Dills...”

 

The shaggy loner cursed softly to himself while moving to the upper chamber of his tall, General Electric appliance.

 

“Stouffer’s Beefy Mac, Totino’s Hamburger Party Pizzas, Totino’s NXTLVL Buffalo Chicken Pizza Rolls, Nathan’s Famous Thick Sliced Battered Onion Rings, Great Value Breaded Okra, one pound of Sugardale Bacon, Giant Eagle Pork Neckbones. Pillsbury Grands Southern Style Biscuits. And a roll of Bob Evans Hot Breakfast Sausage...”

 

Lincoln hung his head in shame. With the products on hand, he could snack freely while drinking his beverage alcohol. But the possibility of making an actual meal plan was more remote. Much like his daily routine and household habits, there was no obvious sense of order in effect. His collection was random and unorganized.

 

“Damn that woman from the county services! I guess she was actually right on target!”

 

When the reclusive contrarian had been part of an actual family, his approach to making purchases had been more practical. He would acquiesce to the desires of his second wife, in particular, who preached a philosophy of dietary restraint, and good health practices. They ate foods that were low-fat, low in carbs, sugar, and salt, and light on the palate. She favored sipping wine in the evening, instead of beer and bourbon. Her care for the home environment was laudable. But as a son of Appalachia, the old hermit chafed at this constant mode of supervision. Occasionally, he would make a detour from the accepted paradigm, by deep-frying potatoes and seasoning them with Valentina Salsa Picante. Or cooking up chicken breasts in bacon grease. These rebellious incidents always ignited arguments in the kitchen. And sometimes, nights of sleeping on the couch.

 

In modern times however, there was no such oversight in effect. He could do as he pleased, at a time of his own choosing. That sense of liberty was empowering, but also caused him to stumble. He would drink throughout the afternoon and evening, before finally succumbing to the amount of booze in his bloodstream. Every sunset found him face-down, in bed. Or on the floor in his living room. Occasionally, even outside on the front porch.

 

While standing at the sink, he reflected on a question posed by his well-intentioned visitor from the previous day.

 

“Tell me, Mr. Lincoln, what are you having for your supper tonight? Some kind of microwave bowl from Walmart?”

 

As he reopened the refrigerator, reassurance in the form of leftover beans with ham met his eyes. The crockery insert from his slow cooker sat waiting, next to a case of Miller Lite.

 

“A MICROWAVE BOWL FROM WALMART? HELL NO, LADY! I’LL BE FILLING MY BELLY WITH SOME OLD-SCHOOL VITTLES OF THE HILLBILLY VARIETY! MAYBE WITH A PAN OF CORNBREAD OR BISCUITS ON THE SIDE!”

 

Though his intent was pure, he knew that this crude feast was likely to be sidelined, as fatigue and drunkenness took hold. With vertigo and grogginess sapping his energy, he would often turn to ordering delectable pies from a local pizzeria, in a nearby township. It was always easier to sit on his wooden bench, swooning from inebriation, while waiting to be fed. That dichotomy was part of the reason why his cupboards were perpetually full, and his bank account was empty, by contrast.

 

Still, that reality did not matter. Because he was alone and in charge of his own humble domain.

 

“Beans or freezer treats... or a pizza delivery. It don’t matter a damn bit to me! I’m on the downhill side of life, so I can ride easy, no matter what. My doctors, my ex-wives, and that lady from Millennium can all take a hike!”

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Recipe Rejection”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had once been a willing member of mainstream society, with career goals and aspirations that were common all across the North American continent. But upon crashing at the isolated community of manufactured homes in his rural township, this predisposition to follow accepted norms quickly evaporated. In place of that gentle outlook, he gravitated to principles and habits that were popular with older members of his Appalachian bloodline. This minimalist, contrarian mode of thinking pitted him against some in the county who wanted to better themselves as solid citizens. With a pretentious preening that was completely useless among the pallet-board huts and weeded lots of his crude neighborhood.

 

At Evergreen Estates, there was no path to improvement or elevation. Only more of the same scorn and disgust from those who had never been forced to endure living in boxcar shacks, brought in on wheels. So, despite the best intentions of friends in Cleveland and beyond, he reverted to being a hillbilly in every sense. Shaggy, gray, and distant from other residents by design. This alienation brought him a sense of peace. And beverage alcohol kept him numb to any outside force that might attempt to intrude.

 

On a Monday afternoon, he had been sitting outside for an hour or more, alternately swigging mouthfuls of southern liquor and cold brew. With a music stream of Blues classics playing on his cellular device. His mood was relaxed and content. But while gazing from his perch on the front porch, he noted that a young woman with barbered hair was canvassing others along the street from a clipboard full of forms. He stiffened a bit, while wondering about her intentions. Perhaps she might be taking a political survey, or a making check on conditions in their primitive development? Eventually, the slender female reached his own lot, and politely stood at the base of a long, access ramp next to the trailer. She bowed her head gracefully, while checking off his name on her printed list.

 

“You are Townshend Lincoln I believe? My name is Marcy DeVry, from Millenium Meal Services, Incorporated. How are you, today, sir?”

 

The reclusive hermit cleared his throat of phlegm, and barked out a stern reply.

 

“I’m great until this damn bottle runs out! After that, we’ll see if there’s another one in my cupboard!”

 

The company representative cradled her survey accessory in both hands.

 

“Mr. Lincoln, I am here on behalf of Community Action Social Services. We are looking in on people who are retired, disabled, and handicapped. It is our mission to make sure that inhabitants of this district are able to enjoy quality foods at affordable prices. Are you on Medicaid or Medicare?”

 

The contrarian loner snorted at this query. But attempted to remain polite.

 

“Medicare, that’s it. I’ve been sidelined for 10 years...”

 

Marcy scribbled notes on her paperwork.

 

“Sir, we have a dinner program that will deliver packaged meals you may heat and enjoy at your convenience. Let me give you an example of our menu, it is truly impressive for this kind of operation. Imagine sitting down to a feast of turkey-cardamom truffles, with cranberry umami, or fiddler crab with a garlic glaze, butter squash, and an egg and lemon aioli, on naan bread! Doesn’t that sound delightful?”

 

The erstwhile biker felt his stomach beginning to growl.

 

“Umm, yeah... delightful. That’s it!”

 

His visitor continued her sales pitch with a vigorous reading of more items from the Millennium kitchens.

 

“Or maybe a plate of steamed, rice noodles with smoked squid and whale fillets, in a poppyseed, soy marinade? Perhaps even avocado arepas with chickpeas and a garnish of maize brandy sauce? With a tasty slice of mushroom-flour cake for dessert? With sativa icing?”

 

Lincoln had turned woozy, and sat on the edge of his wooden bench. Sweat dribbled from his beard.

 

“MUSHROOM FLOUR? WHAT THE FRIG?”

 

Marcy smiled as if speaking to a nebbish from the hinterland.

 

“It pairs wonderfully with our mushroom-chicory coffee!”

 

Finally, the weary drunk could not restrain his Mountaineer impulses. He leaned forward, with one of his disability canes for support. Then attempted to explain his unique perspective, in diplomatic terms.

 

“Ma’am, I’ll try to say this nicely if I can... that all sounds like a gawdamn mess to me! I wouldn’t give a plug nickel for anything of the kind!”

 

The company spokesperson was astounded by this negative reaction. She slipped the clipboard under her right arm, and glared with indignation.

 

“You’d really refuse chef-quality meals in favor of eating canned ravioli or boxed macaroni and cheese? That’s a pity, sir! Our service is here to help enrich the lives of disadvantaged people in Ohio! And I do think that you would qualify!”

 

The crusty boozer grinned with yellow teeth.

 

“Ma’am, if you’d really like to enrich my life, then how about bringing me a pan of cornbread? Or some biscuits with sausage gravy? That’s the kind of down-home vittles I prefer!”

 

The young femme was visibly horrified. She shuddered and stumbled in the gravel driveway.

 

“Tell me, Mr. Lincoln, what are you having for your supper tonight? Some kind of microwave bowl from Walmart?”

 

The alcoholic misanthrope snickered at this prediction.

 

“Naw, I’ve got the crock pot going in my kitchen. It’s full of country ham and pinto beans, with a dollop of minced garlic added for extra flavor...”

 

Marcy had to cover her mouth.

 

“Country ham? What is that, like out of a can or something? You mean, SPAM?”

 

The solitary resident was slightly insulted. But disciplined himself in the moment.

 

“Ma’am, if you’re unfamiliar with real country ham, it’s a cut of meat, hung up and aged in a smokehouse. Salted away as the old timers used to say, with a good dose of natural seasoning. It’ll curl your lips with that flavor of the hills! You’ll never forget taking your first bite!”

 

The Millennium contact closed her eyes and began to shiver.

 

“Sir, we’re here to help you live better, not kill yourself with unhealthy dietary choices!”

 

Lincoln could not stifle a ribald guffaw of epic proportions. He laughed until his insides had begun to ache.

 

“I ain’t dead yet, as you can see! That ought to count for something, right? Hang around, and I’ll show you how to do bologna steaks on the grill. That’s another hillbilly delicacy that I like a lot! Especially with Famous Dave’s BBQ sauce, as a kicker!”

 

Marcy capped her ball-point pen, and put it in a vest pocket. Her patience had run dry.

 

“Very well sir, I thank you for listening to my offer. If you might happen to have a change of heart, feel free to call the offices of Community Action Social Services. We’ll be glad to help whenever you are ready...”

 

The young representative turned on her heels without another word. In only a minute, she had disappeared completely. Her exit from the park could not come quickly enough.

 

Lincoln raised his whiskey jug before taking the last drink in a single gulp.

 

“I hope those beans are done, all of this chatter has given me one hell of an appetite!”

“Yes, I Did”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

Did you really think that the sunrise would bless?

Yes, I did

Every facet of creation, celebrated in holiness?

Yes, I did

I took it as a promise, made to a child

A fulfillment coming in the afterwhile

Like golden rays of a cosmic smile

Yes, I did

 

Did you really expect to be edified?

Yes, I did

With a conscious climb up the peaks of a mountainside?

Yes, I did

I guessed that doubters would find themselves lost

And those who were able to shoulder the cost

Would inherit the enlightenment of better thoughts

Yes, I did

 

Did you come here, with a heart laid bare?

Yes, I did

A penitent seeker freed from worry and care?

Yes, I did

But now in this moment, empowered and free

I realize that the gifts were always inside of me

To be cleansed and delivered from need

Yes, I did

 

Did you realize that this ritual was a reminder?

Yes, I did

An exercise to clear the path of a wanderer?

Yes, I did

This act of love was always pure in effect

A demonstration meant to focus on the object

Of a sacred rite founded by the architect

Yes, I did

 

Did you read about the glory of a footrace?

Yes, I did

Depicted in lessons of forgiveness and grace?

Yes, I did

If that was truly your master’s intent

Then there is no cause to rudely dissent

When you heed the words written in this covenant

Yes, I did

 

Did you step across the boundary with confidence?

Yes, I did

A bold completion of the sacrifice and penitence?

Yes, I did

I came here unclean and lacking any sense of worth

But now a brighter day has fallen upon the earth

A lifting of this burden, a mighty mortal curse

Yes, I did

 

Did you find yourself at last reclaimed and right?

Yes, I did

No longer banished into the realm of an eternal night?

Yes, I did

The change is one perhaps, impossible to perceive

But is an aroma that brings a prize to receive

A scent of cardamom, carried on the breeze

Yes, I did

 

Did you wonder over names on the scrolls?

Yes, I did

Apostles called from ink stains on the rolls?

Yes, I did

Those who summon the spirit of redemption

Will have a reason to resist temptation

Their faith will be a much greater sum

Yes, I did

 

Did you hear the hour struck by a timepiece?

Yes, I did

A jingle of rings, dangling with keys

Yes, I did

This clue is given so that you may repent

And hear the appeal which was holy and reverent

A claim no conqueror could hope to invent

Yes, I did

 

Did you offer up yourself in a trade for life?

Yes, I did

A better bargain than to battle with daily strife?

Yes, I did

Peace will come as a prophetic award

A release from the judgment of a sword

A code carried on angel wings, spread to soar

Yes, I did