Nobody Reads This Page – “Benefits Received”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

“No sympathy for the devil; keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride... and if it occasionally gets a little heavier than what you had in mind, well... maybe chalk it up to forced consciousness expansion: Tune in, freak out, get beaten.”

 

Over the course of my life, I have developed certain theories about human existence. Conclusions of a sort gathered from an extended, informal study of this mortal condition. Made generally without applying strict rules of observation, and archiving data. Instead, this pursuit has happened while simply being present in the moment. Eyes open, heart beating, and mind yearning to gain knowledge.

 

What I have seen, first-hand, is what I know.

 

Relating the yield of this adventure might be challenging if it were delivered in a public setting, with real-time scrutiny, and analysis. Yet for this writer, my work is presented here, in a forum generally ignored by all. As stated in the masthead, ‘Nobody Reads This Page.’ Therefore, I speak freely and without inhibitions. No mood of introspection causes me to be shy, and reluctant. I do not hesitate when admitting an odd truism, which now, seems to be a bedrock foundation upon which my personality rests:

 

That moments of quiet agony, when I stumbled, failed, and suffered were painful for me, but good for my art. A conundrum that rules everything I have done, and will do, until the end of days is nigh.

 

I never pondered this epiphany much as a younger fellow. When the desire to write and be read was very strong. I wished to follow in the footsteps of my genetic and intellectual sire, someone who was a published author, scholar, and theologian. His example drove me to seek achievement. I wanted to make him proud, in the sense that I had inherited some measure of his wordsmithing artistry, and command of general understanding. But my manuscripts were always flaccid, and mushy. They had no snap of a genuine substance. No boldness, no edge. I could turn a phrase, occasionally. Perhaps even wittily muse over subjects of various sorts. Yet these experiments lacked the sharp precipice of a rocky cliff. From which ideas might dangle and dare to fly, or fall.

 

I craved that urgency. An insistent force of need to inspire the creative process. Despite this lacking, I had two fictional stories published in a California, cult gazette known as Biker Lifestyle Magazine. That reward gave me the courage to continue. But I needed to grow beyond the status of a seedling, into something more complete.

 

After attempting to live on my own in the Finger Lakes Region of New York, where I miserably proved to be too weak for the challenges of adulthood, a return home to Ohio offered salvation. It was then that I received a most important nugget of wisdom, from my mentor. With obvious empathy, and some frustration, he watched as I hammered out lines of text with an old, manual, Royal typewriter, sat on our coffee table in the living room. That space was where I slept as well, because there were no more beds available in the household, when I arrived on foot.

 

He delivered a sage admonition that literally upset my inner balance, in a good way:

 

“Write from your own experiences. You know them better than anything else.”

 

At first, this piece of wisdom appeared to be somewhat insignificant. Perhaps even obvious, to the point of philosophical irrelevance. But as I began the task of creating a third document for the outlaw publication which had embraced my product, the true value of this advice hit home. Still reeling emotionally from an exit-in-rags, after leaving the Empire State, I infused some of my own rugged memories into the storyline. What resulted was a flash of authenticity. A spark of genuine enlightenment. The cherished gift that my benefactor had predicted.

 

I called my motorcycling tale, ‘Once More A Drifter.’

 

Many years later, after career loss, divorces, bankruptcy, and family exile, I realized that by extension, the guidance I received in yonder days now included another stanza. Not only was there genuine worth in drawing upon personal events, for inspiration, but a strange twist on this truth had also come into effect. The revelation that while my errors in judgment might have precipitated woeful results, they bolstered the art which I considered to be of paramount importance.

 

Hard times equaled better work in my home office.

 

I was stunned by this fact, at first. Because, as most people do by choice, I had sought the comfort of success. I wanted to gain accolades and awards for myself. Rightful recognition. Fame in a sense of being known. Renown among my peers. Or at least, those whom I perceived to be peers, in the craft of writing. But only by crawling through the mud, through hardships and depravation, through loneliness and obscurity, had I gotten anything right. To be denied was my call to cation. It kept me focused and forceful. Able to concentrate on goals that mattered. Without that motivation, my mind would become lazy. My skills would diminish.

 

The crazed, creative essence to which I had been distilled would be no more.

 

When I confessed this belief to Yarrow Rogan, a close friend from my previous life, he was puzzled and perplexed. Even over our wireless connection, via a cellular phone, I could sense his reluctance to accept what I had declared. His voice groaned out a petition for reassessment.

 

“C’mon dude, you’re saying that effing things up gave ya a better life? What the hell, that makes no sense! I never got anything out of making a mess. All it did was kick me in the ass! I think maybe you’ve had too much to drink!”

 

I was sober, not only so far as being free from alcohol, but also in terms of thinking clearly.

 

“No, listen, this is an incredible shift for me. I used to want a better life. More friends, a higher income, a pleasant living space, all the trappings of success. A collection of records and books, and guitars. But here I sit, with many of those trophies in my case, and they mean nothing. What shaped my outlook wasn’t stockpiling assets, but feeling the gnawing cold of a night on the concrete. The harsh tongue of a critic, pointing out my own inability to stay smart. The hungry pangs in my belly, after going days and weeks without a solid meal. Those were my teachers. From them, I learned how to be better, to do better, and thrive...”

 

My excitement did not resonate so well during our brief conversation. Yet after the chat ended, I realized that Hunter S. Thompson had long ago provided a similar wrinkle on this subject, before anyone else.

 

“Buy the ticket, take the ride.”

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Five)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

After the overnight rescue via his neighbor Mockbina, Townshend Lincoln was embarrassed to the point of withdrawal. He felt exposed by the incident. Though a genuine concern for his own health was not a factor. If the end arrived while he lay in a drunken stupor, alone, that would be a just termination of his existence. He did not fret over the thought, or fear it coming. Yet the idea of being outed as someone teetering on the brink of personal destruction was humiliating. It pierced the protective bubble of his privacy. And left him on public display with his new companion, and the entire community.

 

For the Russian immigrant, however, what resulted from this unexpected happening was completely opposite. She felt empathy for her friend across the street, of a sort never experienced since her childhood. Life in her native land had been rough and challenging. She had no time for self-pity or worrying. Strength and faith carried her through each day. A toughness developed from surviving hardships. Now, with this odd revelation, she had begun to understand the cranky, contrarian nature of her cohort. They both had found ways to thrive amid difficult conditions. And grown more able to cope, from that accomplishment.

 

As another, warmer weekend arrived, she once again began to work in her tiny garden, a rectangular box of flowers that fronted the trailer where she lived. A cellular device in her pocket streamed free music from a tier on Spotify. An app suggested by someone at the cheese factory in Middlefield. She sang along joyfully with Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton as best she could, rendering an interpretation in broken English.

 

“Islands in a stream

That what we are, I think

No one between

We cannot be wrong

Islands in stream

Sail with me now

To world, another one

We rely on each other

We rely from one to another

We rely...”

 

Her labor yielded a better mood than working at the business venue in Amish country. But not everyone appreciated her hack of the classic tune. With local residents rolling by, Oren Kronk appeared in his jacked-up, Silverado pickup. An oversized Gadsden flag streamed from a post mounted in its bed. He had been in a fight with his girlfriend, earlier in the afternoon, and huffed along in a foul mood. Upon seeing the foreign femme puttering with her decorative, floral assets, he stopped in front of the gravel driveway. Then, rolled down his window and began to curse.

 

“HEY COMMIE BITCH, YER A GAWDAMN DISGRACE! I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE FRIG BROUGHT THAT FAT ASS TO AMERICA, BUT YA SHOULD’VE TAKEN SOME LESSONS IN ENGLISH BEFORE COMIN’ HERE! Y’ALL ARE WORSE THAN THE ILLEGALS FLOODIN’ OUR BORDER! AT LEAST THEY RUN ‘N HIDE WHEN A REAL PATRIOT SHOWS UP! I SEE YA WIGGLIN’ YER BIG BUTT LIKE YA JUST DON’T GIVE A DAMN! AND IT PISSES ME OFF, LADY! IT DAMN WELL PISSES ME OFF!”

 

Mockbina stripped away her earphones, and turned around. She felt her pulse rising, but avoided instigating a direct confrontation.

 

“I like to seeng, okay? I do it when I work, as a little girl. I do it now also, in this park...”

 

Oren put one boot on the brake pedal of his rig, and hit the accelerator, simultaneously. A stream of crushed aggregate began to scatter, in a violent shower of rocks.

 

“SHUT YER EFFIN’ MOUTH, PLUMPER WHORE! OR I’LL DAMN WELL SHUT IT FER YA! THIS IS MY COUNTRY, NOT YERS! WHEN Y’ALL ARE ON AMERICAN DIRT, SHOW SOME GAWDAMN RESPECT! YA HEAR ME? IT’S ALL ABOUT RESPECT NOW! SHOW SOME RESPECT!”

 

The immigrant woman was puzzled by his anger. And, unimpressed by the vocal attempt to project an air of superiority. His bravado was not convincing.

 

“You no like my seenging? Okay, not listen then. Is okay, I seeng for me not you...”

 

The irritated redneck nearly leaped from his truck, like an athlete in the NFL. Both fists were clenched. He had run out of patience.

 

“THAT’S IT, THAT’S EFFIN’ IT! YER GONNA GET A GAWDAMN ASSWHIPPIN’ LIKE Y’ALL PROBABLY AIN’T HAD SINCE LIVIN’ IN THAT SOVIET HELL WITH VLAD AND THE BOYS! HERE I COME, HERE I FREAKIN’ COME!”

 

As he stumbled up the primitive driveway, a sound of someone loudly clearing their throat echoed from behind. When he looked sideways, the old drunk from Lot 13 was standing by his 4x4 mule.

 

Lincoln had downed a half-jug of Kentucky bourbon. His face glowed with obvious inebriation, hot and red.

 

“Kronk, I’ll say this one time. Back off before I whack the windshield of yer clown-carrier. Back off and go home...”

 

The insurgent agitator spun on his bootheel. His eyes went wide with disbelief.

 

“HAW HAW HAW, C’MON DUDE, YER A CRIPPLED BOOZER! Y’ALL CAN’T EVEN STAND UP WITHOUT THOSE TWO CANES FER PROPS! WHAT’RE YA GONNA DO, PISS YERSELF AND FALL DOWN? I AIN’T SCARED OF AN OLD BASTARD WHO CAN’T SEE STRAIGHT! YER EVEN MORE OF A DISGRACE THAN THIS POT-BELLIED SOW!”

 

The alcoholic hermit flipped his left cane in the air, and caught it by the bottom end. Then swung the square handle forcefully. It crashed through the glass façade with a noisy clattering of structural failure.

 

“One time, I said. One time! I’m not going to repeat myself. The next swing will be at yer hard-assed head. Stand down, and go home! Leave the Russian lady alone!”

 

Oren stomped his boots until the heels went flat. A gaping hole had been left in his windshield.

 

“YA DUMB MOTHEREFFER! THAT’LL COST A LOT OF COIN TA FIX! AND YER GONNA COVER THE PRICE, BUTTHEAD! THAT WAS ONE BIG FREAKIN’ MISTAKE!”

 

Lincoln raised his cane as if holding a ceremonial sword. His eyes had turned bloodshot and fierce.

 

“What did I say, Kronk? I ain’t going to repeat myself. Hike on out of here, or the next swing will give you a powerful headache...”

 

The plastic cowpoke fumed and fussed while dragging his boots through the gravel. But relented, at last. The episode of verbal horseplay had attracted attention from neighbors all along their street. He did not want to be viewed as a loser, with so many spectators watching.

 

“SEE YA IN HELL, OLD MAN! I’LL SEE YER SHAGGY ASS IN HELL!”

 

Mockbina kissed her savior gently, and hugged him around the belly. Then, returned to her gardening, and the music stream. She wanted to be done before a thunderstorm reached their part of northeastern Ohio.

 

“Islands in a stream

That what we are, I think

No one between

We cannot be wrong

Islands in stream

Sail with me now

To world, another one

We rely on each other

We rely from one to another

We rely...”

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Four)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln was known for his contrarian habits at the rural, trailer community of Evergreen Estates. Unlike most others at the junkyard oasis, he did not seek out the company of others. He was socially, politically, and culturally an outlier. Not someone who followed the crowd, or attempted to join any coalition of like-minded individuals. He was surly, cranky, and perpetually drunk. Yet for a very small number of fellow residents, he represented a living history of the park. A leaseholder for nearly a quarter-century, he had been on the property longer than almost all of the other inhabitants. And despite constant inebriation, his memory of that dubious experience was sharp. He had seen expulsions and evictions, collapsing homes, fires, fistfights and arrests, and even shootings, on their crumbling streets. Families fleeing because of unpaid lot rent, and bankruptcy. Interlopers living in tents and storage sheds. Or their rusty cars. The chaos of daily living in such a setting had hardened him to any outside force. He did not pay attention to others. He did not care about their opinions or desires. He wanted only one thing, at the start of each day.

 

To be left alone.

 

But Mockbina Petrovich exploded that mental discipline, without any attempt to cajole or coerce him, in heart or mind. Her hardy build, and broad smile affected him like a magic spell. She was curvaceous, charmingly odd, and pure. Something in her psychological makeup appealed to him, without words. She had proven to be a survivor, both in her native land, and in a new, impoverished world of mobile-home living. Her toughness impressed him greatly. He became a fan without realizing the depth of this bond. Before long, whispers persisted around the development. They were deemed a crackpot couple. Strangely right for each other. Neither of them able to fit in, anywhere else.

 

A Russian dame and the dirty drunk.

 

Yet neither the stocky femme or her alcoholic cohort were aware of the gossip they had inspired. Each pursued their own routine vigorously and without too much self-awareness. She, at the cheese factory in Middlefield, with an Amish crew and Yankee supervisors. And he, at his ratty, singlewide longbox, on a concrete slab numbered 13.

 

With temperatures rising toward the advent of spring, Lincoln spent longer periods outside, on his front porch. This gave him a measure of comfort, languishing in the fresh air and aromas of natural rebirth. But it also sapped his energy to get through the day. He became groggy, tipsy, and lost what little comprehension of time that he had possessed. His face burned with a glow of high-proof liquor. His blood pressure became unregulated. His digestive system protested, with loud bursts of gas that could be heard from a distance.

 

Few ever came close when he was on his wooden bench. So, this condition did not present a real problem. But eventually, as in past years, he began to fall asleep, while exposed to the elements. Or, on the threadbare sofa in his living room, with the front door carelessly standing ajar. He would snore and sputter, until all of the decorative pillows had been scattered, and his position on the furnishing became decidedly uncomfortable.

 

After a weekend of redneck antics in the park, and four-wheelers or motorcycles being brought out for fun, the weary hermit had gotten dangerously blitzed. He couldn’t see beyond the top of his access ramp, or hobble fast enough to reach the bathroom, inside. Therefore, when the need for relief arrived, he simply stood behind a trash bin, on his deck, and sent a golden stream into the yard, below. This act of indifference was satisfying, and matched the slow, unsophisticated pace of life to which he had become accustomed.

 

For an hour or more, he bobbled side to side on the bench. With plenty of bourbon whiskey in his bloodstream. Then, in a daze, he crawled through the entryway, to his refuge across from the flat-screen television. With a flop, he fell on the couch. Oblivion beckoned with a tempting invitation to sleep that he could not resist.

 

The hour was barely past eight o’clock. Yet he had reached a point of complete exhaustion.

 

In a netherworld of unconsciousness, he floated through clouds of negation. Reduced from mortal flesh to an essence of eternal being. One with the universe, and God, and all those who had already completed their earthly journey. He saw nothing but light. And felt nothing but the embrace of a loving creator.

 

Then, a wet kiss from puffy, probing lips met his own.

 

He had been taken by the ears. A sweet taste of womanhood filled his mouth. He stiffened as caresses probed and pressed around his limbs and torso. He could hear the passionate breaths of another. Though for whatever reason, he could not open his eyes. He had become locked in a dream-state. Unable to wake. Disconnected from reality. Drunk to the point of a cardiac collapse. Teetering on the brink of his own finality.

 

In the morning, a glare of solar rays filled his window. He had to shield his eyes at first. Then realized that he had passed out in a sweaty haze of booze. He lay outstretched on the stains and crumbs that covered his sofa. And on the floor, his neighbor had folded blankets to form a makeshift mattress for herself. When he sat up, she stirred, sleepily. Then reached out to touch him as a sign of her empathy.

 

“You almost keel yourself yesterday! Do you understand, old guy? I see you are seek or something, then disappear. I come here and find you not breath no more. It scare me! I do CPR, you start to fight me, but then, at least, I know you are alive. I can’t get you to leesten, so I stay here all night. I no want you to go away. You are one friend for me, I think. I need you. No die, I say! No die!”

 

Lincoln felt his hands trembling. His body was sore, as if he had run a marathon race. Whatever had occurred, must have passed due to her improvised treatment. But now, he had pangs of guilt over the episode. A health crisis had not been on his radar.

 

“That’s a promise, ma’am. I won’t die. Ya know, dammit, I’m too stubborn fer that!”

“Did You Ask?”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Did you ever witness an opinion rush

A crowd massing in a human crush

And think it was the herd mentality in effect

While guessing that a game of chance

Would be valid for squares in a dance

Each one under the spell of a magic check

Minds linked in a loyalty code

To the empire in its death throes

Lashing out at lazy losers that lope

If you were the one that bravely asked

About this march of time to task

Your independence, it gives me hope

It gives me hope

 

Did you ever warn the brutish brood

About a wayward, wilding mood

Some predisposed rip toward throwing stones

And think an assault on foes or friends

Would have consequences, in the end

A better choice to, just leave it alone

Strangers may tempt as a target point

With a bullseye battle to anoint

It’s easy to get caught up in that naïve net

But when the spool is unspun for good

And there’s a sound of silence in this neighborhood

You’ll see things not to forget

Not to forget

 

Did you ever feel the peer preserve

A push to accept what the mass prefers

And quietly question what will transpire

That sense of dread is a human goal

Evidence of a healthy soul

A spark of life in the telephone wire

The call to arms goes out with pride

Resistance to this role, denied

A cause both holy and a duty, indeed

But the stench of shame will follow close

For anyone who knotted up the ropes

Or allowed this mental madness to proceed

Madness to proceed

 

Did you ever wonder, like a child

About the shift from bold to mild

When confronting soldiers intending to protect

And think that a snake-oil salesman’s trick

A puncture made like a silver pin-prick

Might cause a wound to worsen with neglect

A clear path chosen to follow, blind

With heart and head, ably inclined

Looking down at the dirt upon which we stand

A high-kick of ceremonial grace

For a naked emperor, with a citrus face

A rod of correction held tightly in his hand

Tightly in his hand

 

Did you ever want to wish for peace

A happening where the world may feast

A banquet table set from shore to shore

A better choice than spilling blood

And contests with rocky, clods of mud

Once set in motion, it spans forevermore

That dream to dare may seem a ruse

Not something to find without excuse

Yet for the takers, it remains possible and pure

A wish more golden than coins or crowns

A life companion to keep around

A certainty set in wisdom, and assured

And assured

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Three)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Townshend Lincoln was used to being alone, without human interaction of any kind for days or weeks at a time. He stayed perpetually drunk, and existed on a horrid diet of salty snacks, smoked beef treats, pickles, and cheeses. Something that caused his doctor to shake her head with disgust and concern. Yet those in his immediate family rarely visited Evergreen Estates, as it was an unappealing heap of rubbish, and off the beaten path by several miles. Moreover, he had few if any friends in the trailer community. So, there were no hindrances to his preferred routine. He lived life as it came. One crisis, or calamity, at a time. Generally, ignored in favor of imbibing more beverage alcohol.

 

But with the arrival of Mockbina Petrovich, he suddenly had a companion of sorts within the perimeter. Someone accessible physically and emotionally. This threw him off balance with a new wrinkle of his personal evolution. He found himself doting on her in thoughts and deeds. Sometimes greeting her in the driveway, when she got home from her position as a laborer at the cheese factory, in Middlefield. On other occasions, he would sit outside, on his small porch, and wait for her to visit. The pair developed a psychic bond that kept them in contact, even when apart. This happening made him wonder about spirituality, and the afterlife, things he had not pondered in decades. But with enough liquor in his bloodstream, such serious considerations were negated. He simply languished in a sense of peace. That alone was enough to sustain him as an individual.

 

He did not need, or want, company. But her presence brought a smile to his shaggy face.

 

On a warm, weekend afternoon before the start of spring, he heard the Russian femme working on a flower garden in front of her singlewide abode. She was singing aloud, first in her native tongue, which was decidedly unfamiliar. Then, she attempted to render a version of the Dolly Parton classic, Jolene. Despite stumbling over the lyrics, her voice rang out sweet, and strong.

 

“Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

I beg you not take my man

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

Do not take because you can

You a beauty are

With lots of hair, I think

Ivory skin, yes, ivory skin

You breathe like spring

You speak like rain falling on ground

I cannot compete, I think

I cannot compete...”

 

The old hermit had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Yet he was entertained by the courage and passion of his foreign neighbor. He reckoned that she felt even more out-of-place and isolated than anyone in the park. They were all misfits of some sort. Whether coming from shattered relationships, bankruptcy, homelessness, or jail.

 

He had just managed to hobble inside for a full jug of Kentucky bourbon, when a high-riding, Chevy Silverado rolled down their street. Its horn blasted the tune of ‘Dixie’ in a nod to Confederate traditions of olden days. Oren Kronk, a firearms afficionado and political agitator rolled down the driver’s window, while passing. He raised a middle finger, and howled with redneck glee. This visual cue made the immigrant woman pause her music stream, and turn around, suddenly.

 

“HEY, COMMIE BITCH! LEARN TA SPEAK ENGLISH, DAMMIT! Y’ALL ARE A FRIGGIN’ MESS OVER THERE! OTHERWISE, GO THE EFF BACK TO YER GAWDAMN SOVIET PARADISE!”

 

Lincoln flushed a bright shade of crimson. His anger boiled over, quickly. But he stayed silent.

 

Mockbina had been hardened by her origin under Russian rules and traditions. In addition to the loss of her husband, and many members of the family, due to their adventurist escape in Ukraine. So, she remained unaffected by this verbal blast of insults. Instead, she continued to sing.

 

“He talk about you in sleep

There is nothing I do

I cry and cry when he call your name

I understand, yes

How you could take him

You could take

But he means to me, a lot

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

I beg you not take my man

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

Do not take because you can...”

 

Lincoln had ingested a whole bag of hot pork rinds, and a 12-pack of beer, since moving to his perch on the wooden bench. Therefore, his intestinal tract turned rebellious from being abused. Taking liberties better reserved for the inside of his longbox hovel, he belched like a foghorn. The window over his kitchen sink rattled in its frame. A stray feline went running. Birds flew from a tree in the side yard.

 

 Mockbina stripped away her earphones. She was puzzled for a moment, then grinned widely.

 

“Old one, you make joke, I think? Or just seek at stomach? You drink wodka it not do so bad. Eat bread with it, good bread. I make you some good bread!”

 

The contrarian loner had to think his way through her unusual dialect.

 

“I’m a carb craver by nature, so some hearty bread would be all right. But how ‘bout some biscuits? Put ‘em with gravy and you’ll be talkin’ my language...”

 

The stocky female tilted her head to one side. She rolled her eyes, and huffed.

 

“Americans are heel-beely as you say. Hunt deer, hunt rabbit maybe, squirrel, they go fish. They do so many things. Then make biscuits, I hear about biscuits all day long at cheese factory. They make good cheese biscuits, I think! But I no like!”

 

Lincoln was struck by her report. Despite having a full stomach, he felt hungry again.

 

“Cheese biscuits? Damn, damn, damn, now that sounds mighty appealing...”

 

His friend across the rustic boulevard snorted. She did not want to think about her place of employment on a day away from work.

 

“NO BISCUITS! I NOT MAKE THEM! YOU LIKE RUSSIAN BREAD BETTER, I THINK! YOU WILL LIKE!”

 

The gray-haired misanthrope could not stand any kind of clear beverage. Particularly not the distilled drink of which she had spoken. But he brightened at the thought of any other homemade foods. Especially those brought over from distant lands.

 

“I’ve got an open mind, believe me. Just don’t bring me grilled yak or moose, or nothin’ crazy...”

 

Mockbina shook her head with amusement. Then, returned to her garden, and the task she had been pursuing. Again, her voice echoed over the lawn. She had a sense of comfort in knowing that the oddball fellow nearby enjoyed sharing her living space. That negated any sense of being a widow, abandoned, in an alien setting.

 

“Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

I beg you not take my man

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

Do not take because you can...”

 

“Joke”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Got to be a joke

Epstein files and nautical miles

To the coast of Iran, and back

Drone strike news and people in their pews

Praying to survive this heart attack

A twist of fate at heaven’s gate

A robot hack in red

A patriot scheme, on the movie screen

Havana Syndrome in my head

 

Got to be a joke

A pardon placed, for past disgrace

A cover-up for the crowd

A bop on the beak, for crows in the street

Calling out, sharp and loud

A suspicious stance, a concrete dance

To distract attention from

Works of sin and missiles coming in

Before the setting sun

 

Got to be a joke

A swing and miss, a Judas kiss

Identifes the spy

We should have known, leave it alone

Those contrails ‘cross the sky

A polling groundswell rings the bell

But the truth won’t be restrained

The spin gets spun, the deed is done

But nothing will ever change

 

Got to be a joke

A press release, skids get greased

Believe it if you choose

What they tell is what they sell

It’s a matter of being used

A kick in the pants, infestation of ants

Crawling up your leg

Make believe you didn’t receive

Knocked down another peg

 

Got to be a joke

A rip and run, for an old beach bum

Who now trades sand for gold

Animal-brained and chemically sustained

Nevermore growing cold

Wishing hard for games in the yard

Where children play at will

Instead of tricks, with stones and bricks

And breaking lamps for a thrill

 

Got to be a joke

A flashback scene, a nightmare dream

As the army goes to war

Not much room, for the rocket boom

When we’re swimming from the shore

An allied strike, and a motorbike

Ridden right into a wall

Talk about skill, a professional kill

A lob of the wrecking ball

 

Got to be a joke

I hear it again, defending our friends

A cause both just and pure

But a crash of flame overwhelms the same

No matter what the cure

A bootheel click, an arrogant prick

Shouting as to deny

Every deal, is a Roulette wheel

Spinning to win a prize

Trailer Park Vignettes - “Scammer Salvation”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Forghan Maine had lived at Evergreen Estates for longer than any other resident in the park, except for the respected matron and widow, Maylene Jefka. As someone gifted with good genes and habits, he had outlived most of his own family. Including both parents, who immigrated from Canada. Along with a brother, sister, two nieces, a nephew, and his only child. It put him in the odd position of still representing his bloodline, while approaching the age of 90. Yet he was, by any measure, exhausted from this long journey. He did not enjoy witnessing the sunrise any longer. Or going to church on the hilltop, in his rural township. He had become a hermit in nearly every way. Getting groceries delivered, conferencing with doctors via his cellular phone, and leaving the household only if it became absolutely necessary. When those occasions arrived, he generally traveled in an ambulance, with an EMT crew. Something that brought him embarrassment and evoked a sense of regret.

 

Prostate issues kept him perpetually needing to relieve his bladder. So, he rarely traveled far from the community of mobile homes. He needed a rollator or walker just to get out of bed. His personal hygiene was difficult to maintain. His eyesight had failed, years before, which caused him to lose driving privileges. In modern times, he had a cranky disposition, which was opposite to the cheerful self of yonder days. He feared being a burden on those few, distant members of the family who had survived, so his social interactions were few. He made little attempt to keep any friends. There were no residents on his street even close to being so chronologically senior in age.

 

This situation made him wish to pass quietly, in his favorite recliner. Perhaps while watching reruns of television programs from the 50s or 60s, when he had been happier and more successful. Or, while listening to music on his Sears & Roebuck, Silvertone hi-fi. He had quite a collection of vintage vinyl, still on shelves around the living room. They kept the interior of his singlewide hovel smelling musty. Like an old bookstore. But this aroma gave him comfort. It was familiar, and reminded him of collecting records with his late wife.

 

The state of his health had been compromised by many issues. And yet, he persisted in living. A result of dietary discipline, exercise, and a genetic predisposition to longevity. This tilt seemed to mock him now, as an ironic twist on dying slowly. He wished to be done with the experience, of living, and set free from woes and cares. To be soaring toward the horizon and eternity, with an embrace of God awaiting. But it would not happen. Every morning had become a curse. Every waking moment reminded him of his own frailty. His isolation. His ineptitude. His numerous disabilities. Sometimes, he would ponder a line from Dark Shadows, which in his memory had been delivered by the actor Jonathan Frid, as Barnabas Collins, a vampire lost in his own damnation.

 

“To die, to be really dead. That would be wonderful...”

 

But on a Monday morning, peering through thick spectacles at the rectangular screen of his wireless device, he happened to discover a listing on an auction site. He had adapted to changing technologies more quickly than his contemporaries. A blessing that kept him scrolling through news stories and arcane reports with much curiosity. Someone had posted about a pistol made of composite materials, that could be purchased in a quasi-legal fashion, surreptitiously. A product of 3D printing. Useful for self-defense, and undetectable by most methods of scanning and surveillance. The item had been intended to bolster home arsenals and provide an extra layer of security, when desired. Yet for him, this tool of mayhem offered a different wrinkle on possessing a personal weapon.

 

Placed against his temple, after being loaded with ammunition, it could finally end the torment he suffered, throughout every day.

 

“The Titan Terminator 1500: Your guarantee of safe passage in any and every situation. Easy to procure, easy to handle. Inexpensive, innocuous, and deadly efficient. A firearm for the 21^st Century. Light, accurate, and durable. Guaranteed satisfaction. A method for skirting local laws while staying alive.”

 

At first, the design appeared to be rather clumsy and unappealing. It did not quite look like any hand-held armament he had ever seen. The gun was blocky, square, and had rough edges from the way it had been produced. It looked like a college project, perhaps from a science class. But as weeks and months passed, he began to lust after the weapon. His trousers were routinely soaked with urine, even using adult undergarments for aid. He hobbled around his trailer aimlessly, with the jerky, painful motions of a hospice patient. A condition that sapped his humanity. He no longer felt like a genuine person. Instead, he existed only to be pitied, and ignored. Neighbors stayed away. Those passing his yard often averted their gaze, with disgust or sadness. He rarely looked in the mirror. What was reflected often brought him to tears. He had outlived his reason for life, itself. No cause to continue remained.

 

He wanted to pull the plastic trigger, and escape, peacefully.

Buying the TT 1500 proved to be frighteningly uncomplicated. A faux address and company name covered his tracks. He sent the money via a PayPal account, originally set up by his son. When the package arrived, it was left by a FedEx driver on his front porch. It took days to summon enough courage to open the brown box. Then, on an evening when he had experienced a coughing fit, and stumbled into the kitchen counter so forcefully that it bruised his ribs, he finally relented.

 

The gun looked ugly, yet fit neatly in his hand. He flipped it from left to right, carefully considering its heft and shape. The grip had sharp grooves and tingled his palm. He breathed heavily while sitting in the recliner. No note explaining his desperate act had been written, a detail he carelessly overlooked. This caused him to wonder about delaying his exit, at least for long enough to provide some details about what he hoped to achieve. But with a hint of gloom lingering, he guessed that it did not really matter. No one would care too much. His body would have to decay and stink, even to be noticed. By then, his soul would be at the point of some final judgment.

 

Good or bad, his fate was about to be decided.

 

After a short prayer, he lifted the pistol to his skull. Tears dribbled down his face. His chest heaved with sobbing. He whispered an apologetic greeting to his late wife and son, along with other relatives who had passed. The barrel of his composite weapon was cold and unforgiving. He pressed it hard, against his skin. And then tugged on the release.

 

“NOW, NOW, NOW! DO IT NOW! DO IT NOW! GOD HELP ME, I’VE HAD ENOUGH!”

 

There was no reaction from the mechanism. Nothing happened. Upon opening his eyes, he had expected to see God himself, sitting on a golden throne of grace. Or possibly, Satan with his flaming staff of death. Either way, it would end his sojourn. But that decisive moment did not come. Instead, he simply beheld stacked boxes from different storage units. Along with snack crumbs around his chair, dust on the shelves and entertainment center, and trash scattered around the room.

 

This failure left him trembling, and blubbering like a child. He was still alive! The weapon hadn’t misfired, it offered no response at all from his pull on the trigger. He had been cheated. Scammed. Robbed of his retirement funds. Sent back from the brink, to face yet another day in the isolated, Ohio residence park.

 

Hoodwinked, in a good way.

 

He mopped his face with a towel from the stove handle. But before returning to the recliner, there was a knock at the door. From across the street, a young woman had appeared, someone he barely knew. Plain, pretty, and tall. She had moved to the ramshackle village from deep in southern territory. Her cooking reminded him of church dinners, during his childhood. Occasionally, she gifted him with homemade potato salad, baked country ham, or biscuits and sausage gravy. But over the winter, they had been separated by the weather, and her own martial responsibilities.

 

“Hey old feller, y’all ain’t been outside since Christmas! I saw a guy from up the street brought ya cookies his wife made. And I’m sorry not ta have gotten over myself. But today, I wuz makin’ vegetable soup, and figured maybe y’all could use a warm up. Truth is, I been havin’ a hard time lately. My family is in Alabama, I don’t get ta see anybody. My husband works every day of the week, and he’s not much fun after that, all tired and sore. I’ve got the blues, and depression is a bitch! But ya remind me of folks down there. I need ta sit and chew the fat fer a spell. Will ya be my gramps, even fer one day? Say yes and I’ll bring some cornbread too, its fresh outta the oven. It’d mean a lot ta share yer company, right now. I need somebody...”

 

Maine could barely speak. He sniffled and wiped away tears, while attempting to hide the instrument of harm under his decorative towel. Embarrassment flushed his cheeks. He was jittery and ill at ease. But relieved not to be alone.

 

“Yes, yes of course, ma’am! To tell it straight, I need somebody too. You picked a good time to visit! Make yourself at home!”