Nobody Reads This Page – “Calendar Crossed”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

“Most modern calendars mar the sweet simplicity of our lives by reminding us that each day that passes is the anniversary of some perfectly uninteresting event.” – Oscar Wilde

 

When pursuing career goals, earlier in my life, keeping track of days was undeniably important. Everything I did throughout the calendar year, literally every waking moment, was governed by some sort of schedule. I arrived on-time and eager, at venues around my home area, and the country. Feeling a motivational sense of purpose. I was, at least it seemed, a necessary component of many groups, relating to business, family, friendships, and such. It mattered that I was present. My value as a human entity could not be disputed. Every moment seemed to be doled out with that credo in mind. To be always on the go. Moving, watching, studying, and learning. As part of a continuing education and pursuit of serving others.

 

But one crisp, fall day in October of 2016, that benevolent paradigm was dashed forever.

 

My last work shift as a business manager arrived with little drama. I woke early, showered, had coffee and toast, watched a local news broadcast from Cleveland, and departed feeling a bit like a mechanical device with its inner-spring overwound. There were no warning bells or sirens audible as I drove a familiar route to reach my employer. No trumpets blaring from the skies. Nothing appeared to be amiss. It was indeed, a rather boring day to be alive.

 

I suspect that those who perish in an accident of some sort must have had a similar rush of emotion at the end. A chilling, terminal burst of recognition that overwhelmed all their senses, broke up their fragile bones, and blinded their vision. With no opportunity left for protest or debate over what occurred. That confrontation with mortality was in mind as I sat listening to owners of the firm where I labored.

 

“Thank you for your service here, we appreciate all that you have done, sir. With that being said, your position is now redundant. You will receive a small severance, paid over the next few weeks. Please leave the building immediately. And keep in mind that what we say about your exit will be determined by what you say. This separation can and should be on friendly terms. Otherwise, legal action may result to recover the generous compensation being offered here...”

 

My mouth went completely dry, something I had never experienced before. I shook hands with everyone in the office, expressed my gratitude for seven years of employment, and departed without engaging anyone else in conversation.

 

At home, my Black Lab was confused. He knew instinctively that something was wrong. I should not have returned so soon, after starting a regular work day. I sat in my favorite recliner, and drank a cold brew.

 

To quote a line from one of my poems, written during a turbulent time of personal woe, ‘That was how the story ended.’

 

I had originally believed that despite the onset of mobility issues, which involved the use of a cane to get around, my return to the ranks of laborers-for-hire would be swift. My management career had spanned decades. I carried a competent resume, full of documentation. On the list were five different retail chains, all of which had contributed to my skill set. I did not worry over finding another place to land. Despite being unprepared for this kick-to-the-curb, I felt sure that new opportunities would arrive, for expanding my own horizons.

 

That assumption was completely incorrect. Only with the passage of weeks and months did I realize that my unemployment was likely to be a permanent status.

 

There were many new realities to consider, as this era of solitude began. But most vexing of all, at first, was being disconnected from the calendar, and clock. After such an extended period of chasing intangible goals, I found myself rooted in circumstance. I was, literally, on an island of irrelevancy. Nothing mattered, from sunrise to sunset. I would sometimes rise in the wee hours, make coffee, and putter at my desk in the home office. Or walk my pooch, long after midnight. Sometimes, even sit outside on the front porch, with an adult refreshment, just to feel the cold, damp breeze of an early morning in its chronological infancy.

 

Living alone meant no one chided me for keeping to such an odd schedule.

 

With a progression of years, my infirmities multiplied. I grew more handicapped, and yet able to cope with strategies tested by a patient routine of trial-and-error experiments. When my beloved pet eventually reached his own limit of physical endurance, his death snapped the final bond I retained to any sort of responsibility. One day literally assumed the characteristics of another. I was in a cocoon of nebulous nothingness.

 

I stopped hanging a printed document for charting weeks and months on the kitchen wall. That venerable tradition had lost its meaning, in my household.

 

This development was a precursor to transcending time itself. Much like Doctor Who, I was now a traveler through dimensions of space and progression. Able to surpass the everyday discipline of regular folk, while soaring across the cosmos.

 

These things came to mind recently, when explaining to my niece that I had lost track of my days. She spoke about a holiday that was approaching, and I did not perceive it to be drawing near. Moreover, it did not register with importance, as before. We must celebrate? Honor an anniversary of sorts? Because it was deemed important with a reminder on the calendar? The idea had become, for me, quite preposterous.

 

A weekend had passed, but I thought it must be Saturday. Befuddlement caused me to shake my head. Who was right, and which of us was wrong?

 

The end result came as an epiphany. My life-path had been altered. She and I were now on opposite sides of the veil. Her own needs reflected marriage, motherhood, and family stewardship. All noble causes to be honored and cherished.

 

And I was, simply, an old man in a singlewide box. Creaky, cranky, and very much on my own.

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Fire” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Helga Heigel was horrified upon hearing the news that her grandfather had burned down his trailer at Evergreen Estates. But if speaking candidly, she might have admitted to a lingering befuddlement over his initial choice to live in the rural neighborhood. It was a property situated far from any population center, such as Cleveland, where amenities and services were plentiful. Moreover, the isolated development was stuck in a cycle of neglect and decline. It once had been a stepping stone for young couples to begin their lives together, while starting a family. And, a safe space for retirees to live out their golden years. But that era was now little more than a wistful memory. A succession of owners had squeezed every bit of value out of its existence. With little invested, except for minimal repairs that represented a Band-Aid fix for major issues. Now, the remote property was an eyesore for the county where it had been built. A nuisance to law enforcement, and an embarrassment to elected leaders across the region.

 

For several days, she could not locate her bloodline progenitor, anywhere. He didn’t call or send a message. This frightened her with thoughts that he might have somehow fallen into a dark mood of depression, and decided to end his life. But after about 10 days, she received a note in her postal mailbox, indicating that the senior fellow had identified her as an emergency contact with his new residential provider. A group-home environment dubbed Murray Manor, and run by the GMHA, or Geauga Metropolitan Housing Authority. The friendly site was located nearby in Chardon, capital of the local district.

 

Feeling somewhat miffed, she visited immediately. But upon seeing the retired engineer in his new, one-bedroom flat, she quickly became overwhelmed with a sense of relief.

 

“Opa, why would you ruin your trailer and disappear so suddenly? I was terribly worried! I haven’t been able to sleep or eat since it happened!”

 

Rolf was flushed with guilt at hearing this plea for an explanation. But still certain that his choice to torch the longbox dwelling had been wise and just.

 

“Enkelin, verzeih mir, bitte. Forgive me! I acted on impulse, you see. The rent hike by our owners made me furious. I did not think ahead. My phone was left inside, and I could not remember your number. Then, there was much to do. I had applied for this little apartment more than two years ago, and was on a waiting list. But they gave me an approval because of now being homeless. That is what I needed...”

 

Helga embraced him lovingly. Her eyes were full of tears.

 

“Ja, ja, I understand why you might want to move. But starting a fire was crazy! You might have been killed!”

 

The old, German immigrant nodded to accept this verdict. But then offered a bit of insight into his predicament.

 

“Kleines Mädchen, I was stuck in that pit of despair. You know, really, really stuck! By bills that I owed, and a lease I had signed, but also because of my possessions. Many treasures that accumulated over the course of a long history. I wanted to keep those trinkets, but they bogged me down. They were like an anchor. Holding me in place against my will. I could not break free! Day after day, I would greet the sunrise, and give thanks for my life. But also, feel frustrated. Like a prisoner! I have wanted to get out of that black hole for a long time! Yet with every minute, every hour, it seemed to swallow me deeper into the void. I have lost so many things along the way, my wife, friends, neighbors, my career... but it became apparent that I was about to lose myself! When they announced a second rise in our monthly rent, I realized it meant over $100.00 extra, in only the span of a single calendar’s length! What would come next? A third increase? Or a fourth?”

 

His granddaughter sniffled, and dabbed her face with a handkerchief.

 

“Opa, ich verstehe. I understand. But to start a fire, that was so drastic! A crazy solution to your problem! What will they do to you now?”

 

Herr Rolf shrugged and whistled. He did not appear to be concerned about any consequences.

 

“I do not care. What will they take from me? A few weeks or months of living? That is a small sacrifice to give. I am free! The fire made me free. It made me clean again! Literally, human again! No more narrow streets, crumbling to dust. No more outbuildings falling down. No more broken windows and cranky kids roaming around at all hours, in their pickup trucks. No more drunken parties and making drugs, and smoking marijuana. No more of the pipi that Americans call bier, the piss that they drink, like Bud Light! No more! No more!”

 

Helga gathered herself before asking more questions.

 

“So, won’t they take you to court, maybe? For the cost of clearing your lot and dumping the ashes? Are you not concerned?”

 

The European expatriate laughed as if she had been silly in her assessment.

 

“Nein! What can they get from me? I have nothing left. That trailer was my last possession. I don’t even have a car now. Only a small stipend from my retirement plan, it is not enough to battle over, in front of a judge. Let them harass me if they choose. The fire means I am no longer in bondage! No longer a member of the herd. No longer to be treated like a farm animal. I will not be livestock, for anyone!”

 

The young woman was strangely proud of her forebear. But also, wondered about his sanity.

 

“Opa, I live downtown. I like to see events at Playhouse Square. I like concerts. I like the Rock Hall. I like to watch baseball games, and see movies. I like the clubs by Lake Erie. You could have joined me there, it is a great place to live!”

 

Her grandfather lowered his gaze, until looking directly at the floor.

 

“Danke, aber, nein. I will stay here with the other folks who are also tired and gray! We have much in common, you see. We are all limping along, on old bones. This is our final chapter. But, if you really want a partner for going out to see the sights, then I am not far away. Come and get me! I will accompany you anywhere. Anywhere you wish!”          

“Here I Stand”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

Here I stand

Amid the wreckage and chaos of a life well lived

A dip into the conduct that saints must forgive

With regrets and remembrances, spat through a sieve

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

At the precipice of a graduation from this globe

Spinning incessantly over an axis, below

With a discharge dispensed in the consistency of snow

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Unable or unwilling to get out of the way

When gatekeeprs approach, to control yesterday

Guardrails intact guide whatever I say

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Embarrassed yet enabled by my fall from grace

A twist of the plot, with new deeds to embrace

A careless infraction to be noted in disgrace

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

How great is the burden I bear by myself

To be lonely and lost, but undeniably well

Fretting with purpose, like a quill at the inkwell

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Inglorious ingrate, that term is employed

To describe how I look to those deep in the void

A jostle of jesters, who jump wildly for joy

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Chilled to the core by indifference at work

Unrewarded by advantages, or princely, prime perks

More likely to end up on my knees in the dirt

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

A generation removed from traditions of yore

Unable to forget, what I once strived to ignore

A slap on the back and a vow to implore

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

A chill in the air from combatants who fight

At the whims of great thinkers who take heart and delight

In the spilling of blood and the cover of night

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Feckless and fearful, but too hard to halt

A gasp of surprise after opening the vault

Where no treasures remain but trace crystals of salt

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Nonsense and riddles, spun to evoke a smile

And the revealing of a plan to play all the while

A spectacle measured in meters and miles

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Fingers go fumbling, in search of an end

A word to the wise, whispered by a friend

A bow and a wish that they’ll come back again

Here I stand

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Fire”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Rolf Heigel had been at Evergreen Estates since losing his wife, a job at an engineering firm in Cleveland, and his best friend from Germany, all in the span of a single year. Like many young immigrants after World War II, he came to America full of hope and ambition. His goal was to build a better life for himself, far from the rubble of war and economic hardship in Europe. And at first, he had found a level of success never available in his native land. But as the years progressed, he became bitter about having the fruits of his labor confiscated by company owners and investors. Who only came to buy up troubled assets, before squeezing out quick profits, and then dumping what remained. Eventually, he grew to regret the decision he had made as a child. His adopted land remained foreign and confusing. Full of too many lazy, ignorant people who lacked focus, clarity, and motivation in their lives.

 

His last possession with any measurable value was the 1980, Schult trailer where he existed as a hermit and neighborhood outcast. There, he survived on a diet of tinned sardines, tea, and crackers. With an occasional addition of fresh vegetables from open-air markets, in the summer. His minimalist routine was a marvel to others along their street. Yet it let him avoid starvation, while leaving enough to pay bills, and occasionally, contribute to his meager savings account.

 

He might have been revived by the advent of spring, after a hard winter, if conditions had remained as they were for the mobile-home community. But a note in the door, delivered early on a on Monday morning, caused him to lose control. He threw a tantrum that could be heard several lots away, in both directions.

 

“ATTENTION RESIDENTS – Effective on the first of next month, regular rent will be increased by another $75.00. We realize this may create difficulties for some leaseholders and rent-to-own participants, but it is a necessary step to preserve our good standing as a financial entity. We have been forced to carry the burden of rising costs, for everything from fuel to utilities, to maintenance and insurance. Therefore, it is imperative that we secure this operation if it is to endure. We thank you for your patience...”

 

Herr Heigel cursed out loud in his native tongue.

 

“Ach du Lieber! Was ist das? Du kannst zum Teufel gehen! I am tired of being stuck in this horrible pit!”

 

His anger was shared by many in the park. But within the walls of his own, singlewide abode, it resonated more forcefully. He grabbed a polished walking stick, machined out of steel, and started to thrash furnishings and collected trinkets in his home. The result soon looked like a bombing site from when he had been a young boy, across the Atlantic Ocean.

 

“GEH ZUM TEUFEL! GEH ZUM TEFUEL! ICH WILL MEIN HAUS ZERSTÖREN! I WILL DESTROY MY OWN HOUSE, AND LEAVE THIS TORMENT FOREVER!!”

 

Once he had finished breaking up his chairs, microwave cabinet, and antique toys on the entertainment center, he took aim at a window behind his sofa. Glass scattered around his living room. Then, he had to catch his breath. His pulse had quickened to the point of a cardiac event.

 

“Mein hertz... ach, mein hertz...”

 

He slumped in a recliner that was threadbare and stained from years of use. A spot his grandchildren once preferred, when visiting. In an age now lost along with his place in the family. He felt powerless and frustrated. But then, remembered a can of gasoline in his storage shed. Something left from days when he was still able to mow his own lawn as an outside chore that offered relaxation along with a feeling of accomplishment.

 

“Wunderbar! Ich für das verbrennen habe, benzin! I have gasoline for the fire!”

 

With slight hesitation, he trudged down the front steps, across a walkway to his small outbuilding, and fiddled with the broken lock. Inside, he spied the red, plastic vessel next to a Sears shop vac that had not served any real purpose for several years. He lifted the fuel in one hand, while keeping balanced with the walking implement in his other. Then retreated to his doorway. He could feel that his face had reddened. His skin burned, hot and sweaty.

 

There was a surprising amount of petrol in the squarish jug. Enough to trace a path from his back closet, through the master bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen. He finished with a loop around the living area, and up to the narrow hallway by his furnace and water heater. The chemical stink soon filled his nostrils. But it gave him a sense of relief.

 

“VERDAMNT DIESER ORT! DAMN THIS PLACE! ICH HABE GENUG! ENOUGH! ENOUGH! ENOUGH!”

 

A terminal curl of the flammable liquid ended at his porch. He lit a crumpled, brown shopping bag. Then threw it back inside, through the open entrance. The reaction was immediate, and loud. A whoosh of combustion ignited everything with a rapid burst of finality.

 

The senior immigrant cheered in his original language, by offering a command used by the Deutsche military in olden days.

 

“FEUER FREI! FEUER FREI! FEUER FREI!”

 

Reaction from other residents was swift. Sirens sounded as emergency vehicles arrived. Township police and sheriff’s deputies took positions by the office and maintenance garage, to keep order. A woman who had moved to Ohio from Alabama prayed in her driveway. Many spectators took selfies and short videos with their cell phones. One enterprising kid streamed the event via Tik Tok, to gain attention for his own account.

 

Fireman Randle Tait stationed his crew all around the burning, pre-fab hut. He was tall and confident, and well-trained for such operations.

 

“Don’t worry old man, we’ll do our best to save your residence. Though I can’t promise much, as these longboxes catch fire so quickly! Once they start to burn, it’s anyone’s guess what will extinguish the flames!”

 

Herr Heigel smiled unexpectedly, and pulled his knit sweater tightly around both shoulders.

 

“Nein, do not worry about that shack! Let it turn to ashes, mein freund. Once that thing is gone I am free at last! I am finally, forever, freeeeeee!”

 

Nothing To See Here – “Bloodline Confession”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

“If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery – isolation. Isolation is the gift. All others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And you’ll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you’re going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.” – Charles Bukowski

 

My father passed away in April of 2018.

 

Which, oddly, I remember because of the specific date, which was 4-27. I thought it to be quite appropriate at the time because we had always been a family with great interest in motor vehicles of all sorts. And 427 was the displacement of a beefy, V-8 powerplant, built by Ford Motor Company and used in some versions of the legendary Shelby AC Cobra. A fact that fit family inclinations which prevailed in our bloodline, though he had actually owned a plethora of cars. Including some built by Chevrolet, Dodge, Renault, Peugeot, Simca, Saab, and Volkswagen, among other manufacturers.

 

In the months and years since his passing, I have often dreamed about postmortem conversations between us, and the yield of speaking with him from a more mature perspective. But in recent days, this occasional phenomenon produced a lingering memory that I will continue to ponder, for some time.

 

He was at his desk in the home shared with my mother, a two-story relic situated on a rural road that ran up the hillside, from Philippi, West Virginia. A Mountaineer outpost on the Tygart River. As was often the case, he had filled a Pyrex measuring cup with coffee, to avoid making trips from his study to the kitchen. I caught him after chatting in the living room, with other members of our brood. He typically liked to busy himself with books and magazines, or a shortwave radio which could receive broadcasts from around the world. While working on a church bulletin, or a project of some kind for one of his various blogs on the internet. This reluctance to be directly connected to the stream-of-consciousness mirrored the template set by my grandfather. Who also enjoyed having all of us in his orbit, while not necessarily interacting in real time.

 

My sleepy adventure smacked of fantasy, with mixed timelines in effect and a surreal amount of self-awareness, without disturbing this void of recollection. I stood in an open doorway to his home office, and puzzled over the healthy appearance and vitality that he projected. Even in a cloak of the slumbering netherworld I inhabited, some details seemed skewed beyond belief, however.

 

“Doesn’t the old fellow know that he is dead?”

 

As my father puttered away at his keyboard, I gestured for attention with a humble wave of my right hand.

 

“Dad, I want to confess something. This will sound ridiculous, perhaps, but I get your vibe. It was always something of a mystery to me, as a young kid, and teenager. Even when I left our household, and married. You were, by my own estimation, stooped and slow, and reluctant to do things that I knew were appealing. I heard stories about your adventures, growing up in Columbus, and marveled at the energy you must have had. It confused me greatly. I wondered how such a metamorphosis could transpire. But now, I don’t wonder any longer. As said before, I get it. I get you. I get your vibe...”

 

My sire was dressed in the typical garb of a retired citizen from the Midwest. A short-sleeve shirt, certainly acquired from the Sears & Roebuck catalog, with a striped pattern long out of style. And pens in the pocket. Worn with polyester trousers, patterned socks, and casual shoes. No element of his outfit matched any other in the ensemble. He was not visually coordinated.

 

“You get me? How is that, Rodney? What changed your mind after all these years?”

 

I coughed lightly and cleared my throat, before answering in a subdued and honest tone.

 

“Because, Dad, I am tired.”

 

My remark caused him to look up from his monitor, with a measure of amusement. An expression of surprise passed as he noted that I was using two disability canes to stay upright, like his own.

 

“Tired you are? How do you mean?”

 

I had to clear my throat for a second time. Crafting an explanation off-the-cuff was more challenging than I expected.

 

“I don’t intend to suggest being tired of life, or creative pursuits, or the magic of existing. All those components continue to amaze me. They are gifts. I cherish them equally. But my body, my physical form. My mortal coil. My tortoise shell. It is fatigued and spent. I struggle to get out of bed in the morning. I struggle to make coffee. Often, I eat a plain breakfast, to avoid standing at the counter for too long. One piece of white bread, used to make what I call a ‘foldover sandwich.’ With ham or bologna inside, and some sliced cheese. Maybe a dollop of horseradish sauce, to provide extra flavor. I never describe this to anyone else of course, because they would probably burst into a fit of laughter. It hurts to get back to my chair.”

 

He smiled with understanding. My description was quite familiar.

 

“Yes, that is very likely, son. But your habits seem reasonable.”

 

I sighed heavily, with the realization that he had been gone for an extended period. I wanted to ask questions, and seek his advice. I often missed hearing his voice. But instead of wisely using my opportunity, I simply slouched against the door frame, and shook my head.

 

“This is what it’s like, right? To get older, and watch family members and friends pass away. That parade seems to continue unabated. No matter what kind of grief and introspection it brings. One after another, after another. And all I can do in response is to feel tired. I am tired, Dad. Not depressed, or sorrowful, or even lonely as I work at my own desk. But thoroughly and completely tired. Nothing comes easily anymore...”

 

My progenitor nodded and took off his reading glasses. He looked directly into my eyes.

 

“I’m glad to hear that you are staying busy. That is the goal, Rodney. To stay busy, like I did, right until the end. When you are tired, it means you’ve done something worthwhile. Keep going. Go until you can’t go anymore.”

 

I awakened just after six o’clock in the morning. My joints were aching. My bladder called out for relief. And I felt somewhat dizzy, sitting on the edge of my mattress. A momentary pause allowed me to realign my thoughts.

 

I was nearing the age of 65. He had been 88 on his deathbed. Yet both of us lived similar lives, though at differing points in the continuum. If nothing else, I reckoned that synchronicity would keep us together. On opposite sides of the eternal veil, yet still undeniably connected.

 

I was pleased that we had been able to chat, in my dream. And to confess finally understanding what it meant to be tired.

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Fifteen)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

After Pyotr Sache had posted his updated content on the Southern Charms website, there was a lull in activity at the rural, trailer enclave. Then, a Facebook group set up for residents of the community exploded with comments about the outlandish video production. One in particular set the tone for an ongoing discussion about the anonymous instigator, and his possible identity, within the ranks of residents at Evergreen Estates.

 

“Is that dude the cocky, bald guy who lives on my street? WTF, he’s always picking on the poor lady from Russia. It looks like she got her revenge, in that clip, anyway. You go girl! When he’s done kissing your boots, he can kiss my ass!”

 

Oren Kronk had fit in well with the park population, in terms of his cultural preferences and political opinions, at least. But a quick fall from grace occurred, when many began to speculate that he must have initiated the scandal himself, through a work of AI mischief. Those who passed his boxcar home tooted their horns and chanted improvised jeers that sent him fleeing to a back room where he could shut the door and cover his ears. The cadence was like a Jerry Springer episode.

 

“KISS HER BOOT, DOG! KISS HER BOOT! KISS HER BOOT!”

 

For Townshend Lincoln, who had no involvement in the controversy, or online speculation about its creation, the shaming of his redneck neighbor was somewhat amusing. But he stayed in place on the front porch. Drinking and watching as other inhabitants paraded up and down their broken boulevard.

 

Finally, the brash bully appeared at their office by the maintenance garage. He pounded on the windowless door for attention, with a baseball bat, until Dana Alvarez called for him to enter.

 

“What, you can’t turn the knob like everybody else? Ayyyyyy! Don’t come here in a bad mood, I need to get things done. Not listen to bull mierda! Okay? What is your problem, caballero?”

 

Oren dragged his weapon on the floor. He had started to sweat, profusely.

 

“What’re y’all gonna do about this made-up foolishness on the damn computer? Somebody screwed with my picture, and put it on the internet! I’ll beat then senseless when I figure it out!”

 

Dana scratched her head, and lit a menthol cigarette.

 

“It ain’t you in the video, right? The thing is fake?”

 

Her tenant nodded angrily.

 

“THAT’S WHAT I SAID! SOMEBODY HERE IS MESSIN’ WITH ME! I’LL BUST ‘EM RIGHT IN THE FRIGGIN’ CHOPS!”

 

The ownership representative shrugged, and blew a stream of tobacco smoke in the air.

 

“Like, the woman is also not real, correcto? You don’t know nothing about her...”

 

The loudmouth troublemaker sputtered to give a coherent reply.

 

“Well no, dammit! I mean, some of the whores and dicks around here are blamin’ me, but they can’t prove a freakin’ thing! Screw ‘em! Screw ‘em all!”

 

Dana adjusted the red bandana tied around her hair.

 

“Right, okay, so what you want for me to do? You don’t know, I don’t know, that lady, she probably don’t know either. Somebody have their fun and you stand here complaining. I tell you this, pay your lot rent on time, and make no problem for me! Comprende? Let it go.”

 

Oren was unsatisfied with her admonition to deescalate the situation. On the way back to his own singlewide abode, he changed direction, and marched to the space where his Russian adversary was tending to her garden.

 

“HEY, FAT BITCH! ARE Y’ALL HAVIN’ A GOOD LAUGH ABOUT PEEOPLE SHITTIN’ ON ME? I HOPE YER DIGGIN’ IT! ‘CAUSE I’M ABOUT TO WRECK THIS EFFING SHACK. UNLESS YA GET OUTTA HERE, RIGHT NOW!”

 

Mockbina stripped off her earphones and frowned intently. She was covered in potting soil from the flower bed.

 

“You are cowboy, perhaps? I see you must talk beeg and put hands on hips. In my country we call this by word you cannot pronounce. It mean a weakling, with no backbone. I am not afraid, I think. Only do I laugh. Go home now, I must plant new seeds for my garden...”

 

Her unadmitted adversary narrowed his eyes, and lifted the baseball bat to his shoulder.

 

“HAVE A GOOD LAUGH, PRINCESS! WHEN I SWING THIS STICK, YER TEETH WILL BE FLYIN’ EVERYWHERE!”

 

From behind, the sound of a shotgun being readied to fire sounded, ominously. With a single, fluid motion, Oren spun on his heel. Then, dropped the bat and cowered, submissively. His reserve of righteous indignation had evaporated.

 

Lincoln carried the Ithaca Model 37 from his bedroom closet, in hand. He did not appear to be in an argumentative mood.

 

“Do ya remember our confrontation from a few weeks ago? I don’t waste any breath repeating myself, so here’s the one warning ya get. Step back from the brink, gambler! Leave this woman to tidy up her yard. And don’t come to this lot again. I’ve been in this junkyard fer damn near a quarter-century. Those are years I’ll never get back, it’s been like a prison sentence most of the time. But I’ve survived on my own. Just like this lady immigrant has survived. Just like Granny Maylene, Trina Trelane, Darby on the other side, and Garter Haines down the street have survived. Every one of us has found a way to make it work. Mine is staying on that bench over there, with a bottle of whiskey nearby. I can’t live in this dump and be sober! Just like I can’t listen to a jackass joker threaten this dame with bodily harm, when she’s done nothing to make his boxer shorts ride up! Yer a gawdamn fool, neighbor. A fool with lessons to learn about how ya ought to treat other people. Most importantly, a fool who has a lot to lose right now, when I pull this trigger! So spin the Roulette wheel, friend! I’m good one way or the other!”

 

Oren felt his knees go weak. There was a trickle of dampness in his blue jeans.

 

“You got balls, old man. I’ll give ya that. And they must be big tomatas!”

 

The drunken loner smiled with satisfaction. He was glad not to waste his ammunition on the rowdy provocateur.

 

“And you got none at all, brother. How about that?”

 

Mockbina returned to her chore without engaging in any conversation. Instead, she sang along with another track by Dolly Parton, via her cellphone app, while staying busy.

 

“Here come you, again

Just when I get together

You waltz in door

Like you do, before

My heart you wrap ‘round finger

Here come you, again

I make it work without you

You look at eyes that are mine

And tell lies so pretty

Then I wonder how I doubt

All you got to do is smile

And I have no defense

Leave it for a while

You mess up my mind

And here I go...”

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Fourteen)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Being back at Evergreen Estates evoked a mood of conflict for Mockbina Petrovich. She was glad to have her personal space in the park restored. And, to be across the street from her cranky and cantankerous neighbor with the shaggy appearance. But uncertainty over having been exploited online, with the Southern Charms website as an unwitting accomplice, kept her feeling off-balance. She wanted to know who had been responsible for such an invasive and embarrassing act.

 

Townshend Lincoln was characteristically blase about the nefarious deed. He was more interested in seeing the flower bed brought back to life, in front pf her singlewide abode. A pleasant sight to ponder, while he was drinking.

 

“Ma’am, I reckon this whole community is full of rascals and malcontents. Ya never know who might have a score to settle. Though I’d guess not too many residents here have a lot of smarts about using a computer. Folks in this rathole are more likely to work with their hands, ya know? They build shit outta pallet wood, and remodel storage sheds for extra room by their boxcar houses. It’s all about survival here. Why anyone would screw with yer pictures is beyond me. Why anyone would believe it was yer fault in the first place is a damn mystery!”

 

The Russian immigrant signified her understanding. But could not shake the trepidation over being in an environment where so many questions lingered.

 

“I get you, Link. This is not a nice place, maybe. But it is cheap as you say. For now, I can live and keep my job...”

 

The old hermit raised his whiskey glass.

 

“I’d like to hammer on of whoever did ya dirty, ma’am. But to tell it true, there’s a lot of stuff that pisses me off in this dump. I couldn’t even count all the things that chap my ass, I would run out of fingers and toes! Sometimes, I want to burn my hovel to the ground...”

 

Mockbina giggled to herself. His misuse of language was oddly appealing.

 

“America I will not understand. You are unhappy, but you live here still? This has me shaking head. You are stuck, maybe? Now I also am stuck. But at least, I have company.”

 

The foreign femme excused herself to get settled in once again at her own lot. But before she could unlock the tan-and-brown residence, a chirping ring sounded from her cellular device. Pyotr Sache, her young cousin, was calling to suggest an unconventional remedy for the episode of harassment. One that might raise eyebrows around the rural property, but was certain to elicit some kind of immediate response.

 

“Mocky, I’ve tried everything to locate the source for that online content. Creators and their submissions are protected by the website, which must be because of their adult nature. I suppose it goes with the territory. All I can detect is that some kind of VPN was activated to conceal the user. But you know, this is a different country from where we both were born. They call it the ‘wild west’ here. America has a cowboy mentality. They like to get rowdy sometimes. And get their justice outside of a courtroom, when it is necessary!”

 

His relation did not understand. She stood in the barred doorway, and confessed her doubt.

 

“I do not get you, as they say here. You mean what? I must hear to explain...”

 

The youthful prodigy whistled over their wireless connection. He felt reluctant to suggest what was on his mind. Yet eager to resolve the situation.

 

“I got the website to allow me access. So, I can just delete the stolen content. But listen, I think there’s a better way to solve your riddle. You talked about a redneck guy who always stirs up trouble? One who constantly gives you grief? I’d say he must be suspect number one. Now, I can’t prove anything, but if you agree, then I can use the same Artificial Intelligence programs to rattle his cage. Or, the one of whoever else is out there with bad intentions. Let me snoop around a little bit, and you might be surprised what we discover!”

 

Pyotr had top-level skills despite being a gangly, innocent geek. He wanted desperately to help.

 

Again, the Southern Charms platform resounded with salacious content. Before long, new gossip had begun to percolate all around their isolated property.

 

“I am back, I am back! Alexandra Ulre, your Communist mistress! Come to me now for much pleasure and fun! See as I romp with soldiers who fight in the patriotic war! See as I ride on their tanks with the beeg guns, wery beeg and hard! Long, beeg, and wery hard! I promise you good time!”

 

A new video, generated by this technology of deception, appeared on the faux performer’s page. It depicted the dominant female, whipping a captured trooper who wore apparel patterned in colors of the old, Confederate battle flag.

 

“American dog! Kneel before me, now! I give you bone to chew, if you behave! Your truck I will drive around, with you tied up, in back! This is how prisoner get treated in war! In Russia we know how to keep dog in place! Kiss my boot now, like good boy! This you do not to get whipping. Or maybe, you like the whip to get?”

 

 A bald, muscular redneck struggled on his knees, as the camera zoomed in, dramatically.

 

“Please Ms. Comrade, give me mercy! Mercy for me! Mercy!”

 

The foreign commander stomped her foe with a stiletto heel. Then, raised the whip before passing her judgment.

 

“Mercy you say? What is this word, dog? I do not know what it mean. Mercy? In Russia, we have no mercy. We have prisoner, and must punish when bad. This is what we have for dog! Kiss my boot and behave! You will wear collar and be put on chain!”

 

When Lincoln viewed the fake segment on his phone, it made him spit a mouthful of beer in the air. Foam dribbled from his beard. Residue dripped down the glass panes of his storm door, across from the bench.

 

“GAWDAMN, LADY! GAWDAMN! WHAT THE HOLY HELL IS THAT? ARE YA JUST PLUMB CRAZY, OR WHAT?”