Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Thirteen)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

At the St. Theodosius cathedral in Cleveland, Mockbina Petrovich lit a candle, crossed herself, and then knelt to pray. She was alone in the sanctuary, which allowed the Russian immigrant to focus her mind on a dire need that now occupied all of her waking thoughts, and the netherworld of slumber that awaited, when in her bed.

 

“God, I am to pray here. America is a land that is free, I was told. But for me, not so free at all. I must be free of this gossip. Whoever stole pictures and made me bad. I pray to be free of them. My heart is in pain. I must hide until you fix. Please fix this now. Make my family believe that I am not that ugly person, on computer and phone. Hear my prayer, God. Hear me and bless...”

 

In any setting, rumors and wild speculation may travel rapidly, from mouth to ear. But at Evergreen Estates, an environment isolated from the mainstream and limited in scope, that sort of gossip found it easy to travel. At a velocity enhanced by doubt and ignorance.

 

As the young foreigner was offering this sacred petition, a member of her brood appeared in the doorway. Pyotr Sache was barely 19, and looked gangly with oversized spectacles, and spiky hair. Yet his intellect had grown out of proportion to any chronological age. He had been able to intensely study modern technologies, by virtue of coming to the new world as an infant. Now, friends and relatives called him a nerd and an egghead. But his knowledge benefitted everyone.

 

After gently embracing his older kin, he whispered a positive message of hope.

 

“Cuz, I know you’re upset about the internet site. But listen to what I discovered. Whoever uploaded that material was sloppy and careless. It isn’t hard to tell how fake those images are. A few individuals might believe they came from your IP address, but it’s a ruse. They used a free VPN to hide their location. But there is context in the posts. The hacker would have to be someone you know personally. Maybe a member of the park Facebook group, for example. It’s not difficult to pilfer photos and manipulate them. The safety protocols are outdated. Things are evolving so quickly, that the network providers can’t keep up!”

 

Mockbina hugged her skinny relation lovingly. Then, quizzed him about taking her grievance to the authorities.

 

“What about the court, they help me maybe? A judge give help? I must make my name clean again...”

 

Pyotr frowned and sighed heavily.

 

“Our law here in America is slow in dealing with these crimes. They don’t understand everything yet. Artificial Intelligence is very new, for most people. I am not sure you could change this, beyond getting the website to delete the submissions they received. That’d be a start, of course. But it wouldn’t stop people from talking!”

 

His female cousin had tears in her eyes. Her rotund face sagged with despair.

 

“Yes, it is talk I am afraid for. They all talk and talk and talk! That is why I leave the trailer. I can live there in the country, no more. If I stay, I must be shamed. I think that this land will show me opportunity. Not make me afraid. This I do not like!”

 

Her familial connection was strong. But not durable enough to survive the scorn of being branded a sinner.

 

With a smile, the young geek whispered again.

 

“It’s all trash, Mocky! They must know it. You shouldn’t worry so much! But I think whoever is guilty here still lives at that community in the pines. They are out in plain sight. I can keep hunting with my cyber tools, and I will, believe me! But the best way to figure things out is to be present in that group. Don’t run away from the challenge. Show them your fighting spirit. Prove to them that you’ve got a backbone! Make them respect our heritage. We work hard to better ourselves. You have worked hard! Don’t run to the shadows like a scared mouse.”

 

Mockbina stiffened upon hearing the admonition to stay vigilant. Her heart ached to see the old drunk in Geauga County, again. And, the bed of flowers she had been cultivating in anticipation of a bountiful spring season.

 

“My friend the shaggy fellow, he did not get told goodbye. I must move wery fast on that day. I do not tell him why I go. But he must know, I think. I miss to see him drink on his bench. He make me laugh, I do not laugh now, much. I need to laugh again...”

 

Pyotr owned a Fiat 500 that was incredibly fuel-efficient. But not roomy enough to hold many possessions.

 

“I’ll drive you back to the park, Mocky! Go meet with the manager at her office. I’ll bet they’d be glad to have you return as a resident. Housing is too expensive here in the metropolitan area. And you already had a job. I think you can put your life back together. You’ve been through things that were much worse, in the old country!”

 

His cousin nodded in agreement. She knew that he was making good sense.

 

“Yes I have done. A lot of heartache. I don’t need heartache, no more. I want to see my friend across the street. I want to tend my garden, yes? I want to sing like the birds do. And like heel-billy Dolly Parton...”

 

The trek from Lake Erie to eastern Geauga elapsed quickly enough. But by the time they arrived, cloudy skies overhead had darkened the region. The muddy soil was soaked, and messy. Residents of the mobile village were absent from their yards. But at Lot 13, a familiar clattering of whiskey bottles, beer cans, and belching, was audible.

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln had zipped up his camouflage hoodie, in an attempt to stay dry. He was very inebriated, and tipsy. His vision had degraded with each round of liquor, until the point of functional blindness.

 

Mockbina rolled down the passenger window, and shouted as they passed the narrow space across from her own.

 

“Old man! You are red like ripe tomato! I think you have much drink already. This is what I expect. Will you now have a glass with me? I am home, my cousin bring me here. How you say, I miss the dump. This place is a dump! But also, it is home...”

 

The alcoholic loner pumped his fist in the air. A dribble of brew foam dripped from his gray beard. His pulse began to thump, forcefully.

 

“YA GOT THAT RIGHT, MA’AM! YES IT FREAKING IS! YES IT FREAKING IS!”

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Twelve)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

After the revelation about salacious content on Southern Charms, Townshend Lincoln sat on his wooden bench, alone. Staring into the void, and brooding over his liquor jug. He did not doubt the veracity of his neighbor from a foreign land. And yet the images displayed online had been frighteningly real. They were unsettling to contemplate. If his Russian companion had somehow been exploited by a scammer, then what remedy could right that wrong? He felt powerless, and slightly bitter. But, determined to solve the riddle.

 

In the morning, he woke to the sound of birds in a tree by his back door, chirping wildly for their mother. Spring had arrived after a hard winter season, and he was ready to celebrate. But that festive mood was now muted by disbelief and uncertainty. He wanted to comfort Mockbina with words and deeds. Yet she had been distant and cold upon seeing the handiwork of an AI creation that upset her world. So, he excused himself politely, and returned home. Now however, that move left him with an empty heart, and an edgy burden of guilt on his brain. Perhaps he should have been more responsive to her emotional advances? If for no other purpose, than to provide some sort of counsel about living in America. That notion raised his pulse. He was flushed red, and jittery, throughout the morning. Finally, he decided to sit on his porch with a mug of coffee, and warm himself against the chill of an early hour.

 

But from the vantage point of his bench, came a revelation he did not welcome.

 

The tan and brown singlewide where his curvy friend resided appeared to have been abandoned. The windows were all bare. Decorative items that dotted the lawn had disappeared. The driveway sat empty. No lights burned in the boxcar hovel.

 

He knew her daily routine well enough to realize that by now, perhaps she had left for a work shift at the cheese factory, in Middlefield. Though usually, her departure came a bit later. Yet an odd vibe of termination hung over her lot. He could feel that she was no longer connected with the rural community. Some defensive impulse had caused her to sever ties with the trailer enclave. No words were necessary to express that shift. He sensed those negative vibrations, in the air.

 

When enough hours had passed, he visited the park office, and Dana Alvarez, their property manager. Information about other inhabitants of the development was kept secret, by design. But he wanted to know if the immigrant dame would be returning to her spot across the street, or had dumped the home, and its meager contents, for good.

 

“Ma’am, I know yer bound by procedures and laws, and such. But I’ve grown kinda fond of our plump neighbor from overseas. Something gave me the willies this morning. It looks like she might’ve jumped off the ship. Do ya have any inkling of what she did?”

 

The ownership representative had been smoking a menthol cigarette. Her black hair was tied with a red bandana.

 

“Ayyyy! You know better than to ask me this question! It is nobody’s business. I have to be quiet about you, me, and everybody here. I don’t wanna get fired!”

 

Lincoln was gruff in response. He still had stains of beer and whiskey on his T-shirt.

 

“Right, I get ya. She won’t answer her phone though. I don’t know what happened. We’ve been in touch almost every day, fer weeks and weeks now...”

 

Dana reached out to pat his trembling hand with her own.

 

“Look, this is between you ‘n me. Don’t tell nobody else, comprende? She left her keys in the drop box. I found ‘em here when I opened up today. No note, no nothing. Just a check for what she owed last month. I hope maybe she will call me, I can’t stand if we lose a good tenant. She do the rent-to-own thing, I figure with her job, the bills will be paid. A good risk to take!”

 

The reclusive hermit stroked his gray beard, nervously.

 

“it’s a gawdamn mystery. We ought to have talked things out. Maybe I could’ve made a difference. Oren from the front corner has been giving her a lot of shit. He needed an ass whipping! But I’m too slow fer action...”

 

The park manager nodded and spit tobacco smoke.

 

“I hate that piece of mierda! But you know, he always pay the lot rent on time. What can I do? he also keep things tidy around his barn. His truck is clean...”

 

Lincoln growled in silence. He bowed reflectively while listening.

 

“This is a business, ma’am. I get yer inclination not to stir the pot. But the truth is, I’d like to bust his teeth with one of my canes!”

 

Dana widened her eyes. She dug her long nails into his skin.

 

“YOU DON’T DO IT! I HAVE TO CALL THE POLICIA, LINK! NOT A THING TO DO, BUT IT IS MY JOB, OKAY? I LIKE PEACE HERE. I LIKE QUIET. I LIKE NO PROBLEMS AND EVERYBODY PAY THEIR BILL!”

 

The old hobo dismissed himself without arguing the point, and trudged home with both implements pounding the pavement. Changes in the weather pattern had aggravated his arthritis. He needed to be sitting on his bench with a drink glass, and a cold brew. Not struggling along the crumbling boulevard.

 

With a clattering of diesel exhaust, Oren Kronk appeared noisily, in his lifted pickup truck. Unlike the alcoholic bum from Lot 13, he was oddly cheerful and carefree. Upon pausing to peer at the abandoned home, where Mockbina had been, he began to howl gleefully, and palm the steering wheel. Toots of his horn echoed across the landscape.

 

“Heyyyy, that fat bitch bugged out, huh? Well, whatta ya know? I never thought she fit in with us. Who the hell sold her that shack, anyway? It’s been fallin’ apart fer years! Y’all gotta think she got ripped off, not that I give a frig about it! That effed-up manager must’ve fooled her into thinkin’ it was an American palace. What’d she know, comin’ here from a turd country like hers? Damn Russia to hell! Those people swig their mashed-up potato peels and eat bread made outta dirt! Screw ‘em, I say! Screw ‘em all!”

 

Lincoln could think of only two things. A jug of Kentucky bourbon waiting in his kitchen cupboard, and the Ithaca Model 37 shotgun, in his bedroom closet. He hoped that retrieving the first of those would cancel out a burning desire to avail himself of the second. With a visit to his irritant neighbor happening, as a result.

 

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Eleven)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Oren Kronk had been in a salty mood ever since the rough encounter with his disabled, alcoholic neighbor. The old, shaggy hermit known as Townshend Lincoln. More damning than the cost of a new windshield for his jacked-up, Chevrolet rig, was the embarrassment of being bested by someone who could barely walk, see clearly, or function without a drink. He wanted more than revenge. A violent payback of some sort seemed proper. Yet everyone on their street knew the oddball contrarian, and kept him in view as he sat on his front porch. A direct attack would have been difficult to manage. Too many witnesses might spoil the escapade before it succeeded. But over the course of days and weeks, a new idea popped into his shaved head. He could target the bovine, Russian invader more easily. Because she left the park on most days, to work at her job in Middlefield. While gaming with partners on the internet, this dark notion blossomed even further. Artificial Intelligence could tip the scales in his favor, while leaving no trace of the actual crime, itself.

 

He created a free account on ConjureChat, a virtual depot with lots of creator tools. Then, secretly pilfered photos from a Facebook page that linked the foreign female and her American hosts. Soon, he was able to author a fake timeline, with manufactured images that corresponded. Seedy, salacious pics of her curvy figure in tight corsets, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels. As a final dig at the immigrant dame, he added military troops and vehicles, in the background. Then, transferred this wealth of falsehoods to an adult site known as Southern Charms. A spot made for amateurs to show their wares, and tempt subscribers to pay for premium content.

 

The result was convincing, and nasty.

 

“I am 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!”

 

Lincoln had struggled with disability for years, since being forced to retire from his salaried position with a regional business combine. So, the use of a cellular phone provided help he needed to stay in touch with the outside world. More for the purpose of obtaining foods and beverages, than any social interaction. But when he received a bogus text, inviting him to visit SC and its mysterious members, that connectivity caused his heart to ache.

 

There on the screen were indelible images he could not erase from his memory. Still photos and short videos that troubled and disgusted him, greatly. Though he was no prude in moral terms, the thought that this new contact across the rustic boulevard had needed to engage willfully in such visual exploitation, simply to make a buck, turned his stomach.

 

He was waiting when she arrived home from the cheese factory, later that evening.

 

“What the hell ma’am? This ain’t easy to say, but, yer a gawdamn media whore now? Selling pictures of yer chubby, naked rump in short little skirts? I don’t believe it! I thought ya went to the St. Theodosius church on weekends, with yer kin! How’s that gonna sit with the priests there? Shit online travels, everybody sees it eventually. Ya done sold yer soul! I’m sick as hell about it! This is a freaking nightmare come true!”

 

Mockbina was confused by this verbal assault. She had barely been home long enough to unlock the front door.

 

“Link, you are crazy, or something? I know nothing you are saying. What peectures did you see? What kind of them? You must settle down first...”

 

His curvaceous friend narrowed her eyes, and huffed. Then continued.

 

“Who say that I am hoar? Who say this to you? I not pose for a camera. I not make leetle movies. I not dance for money. This is to me, not making sense. Are you drunk, maybe?”

 

Lincoln scratched his shaggy beard.

 

“I haven’t gotten round to raiding the whiskey cupboard yet, ma’am. Though it’d damn well be a help right now! I need a snort of joy juice! Some fool sent a message to my phone, today. It’s still there, see? Look at this nonsense. Now, I ain’t gonna judge ya or nothing, but dammit, if ya needed some extra coin, why not hit me up fer a loan? I’ve got dollar bills coming out of my ears lately. Some company from the boondocks sent me legal papers about rights on property in the hills that I inherited. Then the union for places where I worked years ago mailed out pension forms. That’s another chunk of change coming my way. I can do ya a solid, if that’s the need. Don’t bare yer ass fer perverts and freaks, it’s making a bargain ya won’t want to keep!”

 

The Russian widow stomped her feet, angrily. She grabbed the phone, then scrolled through pages on his device, and growled like a mama bear.

 

“LINK, THIS IS NOT DONE BY ME! IT LOOK MAYBE, LIKE CLOSE ENOUGH TO BE A SEESTER. BUT I NOT HAVE SUCH CLOTHES. THEY WOULD NEVER STRETCH SO FAR, I THINK! AND I NOT DANCE, MY FEET ARE TIRED FROM STANDING AT THE CHEESE MAKER. THE BIG MACHINES THAT STIR. THIS IS ACTUALLY NOT REAL TO ME! NOT REAL! NOT REAL!”

 

The weary loner nodded and lowered his head.

 

“Ma’am, I believe ya. But something stupid happened here. I can’t figure it out...”

 

Mockbina hardened her gaze, and handed back the phone.

 

“I have young cousin in Cleveland. He is how you say, a computer geek. Wery, wery smart kid, I think. I must speak to him, when family church happens. This I will do. I promise you Link. Let me ask. I will find out what happened then. I will find out and tell you. Then maybe you can have peace...”

 

The contrarian boozer gestured with gratitude, after pocketing his wireless wafer.

 

“And I reckon there’ll be peace in yer house as well. This is some messed-up shit!”

 

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Ten)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Throughout years of living alone, Townshend Lincoln had paid little attention to the outside world. And even less to himself. With no guardrails in place, he took each day as it came. Health concerns, money woes, and the opinions of others failed to register as important. His philosophy could be summed up in a single sentence. One repeated to friends and neighbors, close relatives, and at family gatherings, until he was excommunicated completely from their orbit.

 

“I do what I want, screw everything else!”

 

But with a willing participant challenging the boundaries of his comfort zone, this stoic reality disappeared on its own. He felt emotionally exposed. Self-conscious in a way not experienced in many years. Now, his habits and mental outlook actually mattered to someone else. That gave him a sense of responsibility that chafed at his mind. He preferred the unbridled liberty of going nowhere, at his chosen pace. Being coddled and corralled held no appeal. But after sharing his primitive bed for the night, that disposition was in doubt.

 

Mockbina was warm, soft, and curvy. A plus-sized partner who liked to snuggle closely. Her aroma lingered in his nostrils, even when morning arrived and he crept out to the kitchen. In front of the stove, he took out iron skillets and started to fry up his own version of an Appalachian breakfast, as coffee percolated on the countertop. His guest did not rise immediately, dozing for another half-hour or more. But when she appeared in the living room, a whisper of protest preceded any greeting for the new day.

 

“I promise you to cook, yesterday. What is this, Link? You are a wery strange man. I cannot figure what you want. Okay? I must guess and guess, while you make fun.”

 

The shaggy hermit bowed with a bit of culinary flair, while cooking up country ham and redeye gravy, for their biscuits.

 

“Naw ma’am, I reckon yer the guest here, so it only seemed right fer me to fix some vittles. I’m creating some real hillbilly grub, I hope it meets with yer approval. Ham, eggs, hash browns, and cheesy grits!”

 

The Russian female tilted her head to one side. Confusion caused her to wonder, out loud.

 

“Greets? What is this, you say, greets? I do not know this greets. It is not a meal in my country. And the ham you cook, it is strong, and salty. I smell it to over here! America is confused for me. I will learn, maybe. You help me to learn?”

 

Lincoln chortled and grinned. But stayed busy with his pans.

 

“See, some folks in my family went away to school, and got an education. Then they came back with all kinds of fancy things fer eats. Weird combinations I don’t savor. The kind of tricky tastes that don’t make my mouth water. My old bones crave down home flavors. The kind of things my grandma made when she lived with us. Or dishes served at church dinners, in the days when sitting in a pew wasn’t an open invitation to get yer ass judged. My folks were all blue-collar people. They worked in the fields, and tended to livestock. That’s an honest life. Not enough people are really honest, any more...”

 

Mockbina rubbed her eyes, which were still narrowed and groggy.

 

“Bloo coller? What is this expression? I do not know it. Is like a dog coller maybe?”

 

The habitual loner gestured with a metal spatula.

 

“It’s about working with yer hands, miss. Being a grunt worker. Earning yer keep in a simple way...”

 

The immigrant dame smiled and nodded.

 

“I feel like grunt, as you say, at cheese factory. We must work wery hard to make the cheese. It is good cheese. I am proud that we make cheese. But then I am tired.”

 

Lincoln filled coffee mugs for himself, and his guest.

 

“A long time ago, I could deal with others. It’s hard to remember now, but I had a real job, in a supervisory capacity. I managed businesses. I tried to be fair and kind to the crew. But that approach bit me in the hindquarters. It got me used and abused. Eventually, when assets were sold and contracts got broken, I jumped off the merry-go-round. That kinda happened in my marriages too. I gave up on pleasing others. Frig ‘em, anyway! That’s when things turned dark. That’s when I started drinking more, and keeping to myself. But now, here ya are, watching me play in my kitchen. Yer like a gawdamn kid, curious as hell. Making me care about things again, which don’t come easily. I hope ya are a woman of yer word, because I’ll say it strait, I’m getting sucked into this groove...”

 

Mockbina hugged him from behind. She cradled her chin on his left shoulder.

 

“I not have man make breakfast, before. Not ever, I think. You do this to be good? It is odd to me, but I do like. I am from work, wery tired. But also in the heart. I miss theengs. My family at home, my husband, my village. All these are now gone.”

 

The sober contrarian turned pale in reflection.

 

“I get ya, ma’am. It’s funny how growing older means losing things. Ya lose friends, and relatives, and abilities to get stuff done. Maybe ya lose yer sense of being alive. Though I sure don’t ever want to let go of that. My grandma used to say that any day above ground is a miracle. And I knew she meant it. Her generation lived through the Great Depression. They were tough and resilient. More so than those of us who came along later. Our burdens have been light. But listening to yer tales of a distant land snaps me back to attention. It makes me grateful fer what little I’ve got. Not much money, I mean, but peace at home. A place to be, even if it's a longbox shack in the woods. Neighbors who can at least tolerate my way of living. And some measure of security. An Ithaca shotgun that I’ve never had to use. A buck knife in a leather sheath. Ditto fer it as well. Those things might not show up on a pay stub, but they matter a lot. They matter to me...”

 

The foreign femme sighed heavily. Then took a sip of the brewed java.

 

“You, Link. You also matter... to me!”

Trailer Park Vignettes - “Immigrant” (Part Nine)

 

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

After an extended thaw for northeastern Ohio, Mother Nature seemed to regroup and collect herself as a meteorological timekeeper, giving no quarter to anyone ahead of her own schedule. On a Monday night, temperatures dropped from a high near 70 degrees, during the previous day, into the teens. This shift taxed the spirits of everyone at Evergreen Estates. Puddles left from a hard rain that preceded this event froze quickly. Streets, ramps, and driveways became nearly impassable. A moderate layer of snow capped off this messy tantrum, with frosty defiance. For residents who had already begun to get out their yard furniture, and decorative accents, the change hit hard. Once again, the stillness of winter returned.

 

For Townshend Lincoln, a familiar remedy was pressed into service. He sat inside with the front door open, for a bit of ambient light in his crowded living room. Then, drank until oblivion arrived. When he finally lost consciousness, it was a blissful, and healing event. His arthritic joints no longer ached. Failing eyesight and numb extremities ceased to be a worry. He did not need to go anywhere or do anything. No responsibilities or duties weighed upon his mind. He was tethered to the mortal world only by a persistent heartbeat in his chest. With a quiet embrace of surrender, he might have been freed from this bond, and allowed to escape. Yet some curse of genetic stamina kept him alive. He snored and sputtered on the couch, as the noisy furnace in a front closet ran incessantly. Clattering and clanging with metallic fatigue.

 

Around two o’clock in the morning, there was a racket on his porch. A thudding cadence sounded in the muck. Then a shrouded face peered through the glass pane of his storm door. A polite knock echoed, which he did not hear. A drunken stupor held him in its thrall. While still being physically present, his conscious self was far away, on the edge of eternal rest.

 

Mockbina Petrovich tugged at the door latch, and crept inside with delicate, yet deliberate steps. She was shivering from the bitter night, one spent alone with a failed heating system in her own trailer.

 

“Link! I freeze in my home, it is wery cold! No working of the machine, I think. It make no noise at all. I am with nobody for a long time. Then, I remember you. Maybe I can stay for a little while, yes? I not bother you. This is a promise I make.”

 

Lincoln was stretched out like a jungle cat. His arms and legs spread in every direction. Drool dampened his gray beard and T-shirt. An empty bottle of bourbon sat on the carpet. He offered no intelligible response.

 

“Zzzzzzzzzzz...”

 

The Russian femme dragged her blankets to the bedroom. There, a bare mattress was waiting, unoccupied. She decided to make herself at home, at least until the first light of day appeared. This act was bold and presumptuous, but justified by their brief history as neighbors. At least, she wanted to view it in that positive way. Upon taking a comfortable spot, facing toward the wall, she fell asleep in only a moment. Knowing that she now shared the cramped living space with her oddball cohort, even on a temporary basis, brought a sense of security.

 

Soon, both the immigrant dame, and her boozing host, were oblivious to the blustery conditions outside.

 

The old hermit lingered on his sofa for a few hours. But eventually, was roused by a need to relieve himself. Staggering and barely sentient, he plodded along through the kitchen, dining area, and home office. Past the laundry room which had been abandoned for some time. He used one of his canes to maneuver around a roller chair that blocked the path. Then, stood at the commode and loosed a torrent of gold. Finally, he rotated on one foot and headed back to his home base for the duration. But impulsively, decided that being already in motion, he ought to visit his actual bed, for a better sleep experience.

 

The front cubicle glowed with a pale wash of moonlight. He could see little of the room from outside, but felt his way along the narrow hallway. Then, fell into place against a heap of blankets and pillows. He yawned and groaned while making himself comfortable. The sound of someone breathing filled his ears. When he stretched his limbs, a warm, curvaceous body pressed against his own. Wet lips met his mouth. A gentle caress of hands toyed with his hair.

 

Lincoln stiffened when realizing that what he imagined was in fact, not a dream sequence. He nearly leaped from the mattress, and fell backward against a chest of drawers that held his meager collection of ragged apparel.

 

“WHAT THE FRIGGGGG? HEY! THIS IS A GAWDAMN SURPRISE! WOWWW!”

 

Mockbina rubbed her eyes, groggily. She had not been awake enough to realize that her benefactor had entered the confined space.

 

“Link! I am here with you. See me? Perhaps I should ask first, but you snore loud. I try to explain. My heater not do anything. It is wery cold at home. No heat, no warm! I come here to ask favor. But you are drunk too much. I cannot talk to make you hear. These blankets I bring. Let me say I am sorry, okay? Should I go? Do not make me go...”

 

The contrarian loner snorted and grinned.

 

“Shit, ma’am, ya gave me a kiss! A real, honest-to-goodness smooch on the mouth! Do ya know how many years it’s been since I had one of those? I’m shaking over here. Ya just rocked my world, lady! Of course I ain’t gonna ask ya to leave!”

 

The foreign female smiled with need. She wrapped the blankets tighter around her generous frame. And whispered as if a mood of shyness had taken hold.

 

“Let me please stay. In the morning, I make breakfast. A good breakfast, how you say, for heel-billy appetite. I know that is your family, yes? You are heel-billy man.”

 

Lincoln reddened with embarrassment. But nodded in agreement.

 

“Appalachia is my homeland, so to speak. I’m one of the tribe. Shaggy and ornery, and stubborn as a damn mule, my grandma would say. But always a good neighbor. And hospitable to guests. Even when they show up in the dead of night!”

 

 

“Overnight Verse”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

Deep in the dark of night

Scattering my bedding, in search of a place to be still

Drifting in and out a world beyond the veil

Visions beyond the pale

I forget sometimes, on which side this episode began

Wandering, wondering

Still ignorant to the guise

Which protects me from being identified

I pause at intervals chosen by chance

In front of a luminous, digital display

A key to the unconscious pathway

That is open when I sleep

A voyage, fantastic

Unreal, unlived

Yet convincing in its lies

For a moment at least, I believe

I accept what the mind perceives

Conversing with those I have not seen

Loving hearts

Lyrically smooth, with a verse turned on its head

Gentle enough, but cold instead

This touch brings a chill

And then I am awake once more

Sat on the crushed edge of my mattress

Peering at the green squares

Silently ticking off time, while I am unaware

Close at hand, but distant enough to be disconnected

Invisible wires frayed and broken

A prayer for healing left unspoken

Until the dawn

Until that beaming burst of brightness

Offers its blessing

And a new day begins

Winds of change

Scattering the dustbins

Along a street marked with rueful events

A lost, lonely sense

Comes to fill my pores

I might have imagined more

If given the opportunity to wake in the midst of this lesson

But I have not yet expired the session

Not yet reached the edge

Dozing and drooling

Yarn spooling

Into a knitted fabric on which I recline

This destination is mine

But one set as a target without any pretense of pride

I am simply along for the ride

Eyes closed

A cough of mucous in my throat

Cleared like the crystal panes I imagine

Glowing and colorful

In the chapel arch

They call across the divide

As I linger in a netherworld

Neither here nor there, in fact

A wayward walk, off the track

Falling through levels of being, distilled

To the circumference of a medicinal pill

One I will take at the morn

Water glass in my grasp

With other prescriptions to clasp

Steadied on the countertop

The blind voyage had to be stopped

Now the waves are still

A sunrise, supreme

Replaces the shadows, and comfort of moonbeams

A new day is alive

As the old one will die

This is how the story ends, with a blank space

And a nod to grace

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Eight)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Townshend Lincoln slept restlessly as the wind gusts continued to howl overnight. The entire trailer rocked and shook on its concrete slab. There were noises of debris and outdoor furniture flying around in the yard. Gaps in the window seals whistled and buzzed. This cacophony infused his dreams with images of mayhem and chaos. And from the midst of that meteorological sideshow, he heard the voice of his neighbor, echoing with purpose. Her frank comment on his living space had been accurate, if harsh.

 

“I not pay attention so much, before. Now I see things. You require a strong wife, I think. Perhaps she would leave you instead of living here? I see so much to do. Bad, bad, bad!”

 

That descriptive term grew louder in his head, until finally, he shouted so violently that it ended his slumber. For a moment, he was disoriented, and had to sit on the edge of his bed.

 

“WIFE? SHE ACTUALLY SAID, WIFE?”

 

He was groggy until managing to stand, find a disability cane, and traipse through the short, narrow hallway to his living room. There, he sat at the end of his couch, in a chair bought from a thrift store near their county capital. Sunrise was still an hour away. But he had exhausted the possibility of sleep by thrashing around on his mattress. A check of his cellular phone confirmed that gusts reached 85 mph while he slept. But surprisingly, also testified that the power hadn’t been interrupted for their rural location. A small miracle considering the utility outages of previous years.

 

Across the lane from his singlewide box, Mockbina had also been unconsciously affected by the bluster of Mother Nature, while attempting to rest her body. She was swept through an eerie vision of her husband, and his fellow soldiers, battling in Ukraine. A war they never desired. That endless conflict had robbed her of inner peace and security. With the eventual result that she fled to a new world, around the globe from her native land. She still struggled to make friends, while learning another language. But something about her new contact with the shaggy hair and threadbare attire felt enduring. He caused her to gasp sometimes, and even avert her eyes in an act of self-preservation. Yet for her, without words to describe the emotional bond, he held a sort of crude appeal. His attitude was rooted in contrarian independence. An ability to exist without being coddled or praised, or helped along the way. This mirrored her own tilt toward survival. She did not want to be indebted to anyone. Except, perhaps, for a loving creator to whom she prayed at the St. Theodosius church.

 

Through an expansive, bay window, at the front of her trailer, she saw that the old bum had moved to his wooden bench with a metal, campfire pot of coffee. And a white, ribbed mug that stood tall enough to hold a generous round of black java. Her interest reverberated as he loafed through a breakfast of plain biscuits, dipped in the hot beverage. To see the senior hermit on his favorite perch, sober for the moment and silent in reflection, was uncommon. But she guessed that perhaps, it was an activity more frequent than first expected. Something she missed while hurrying off to her job site in Middlefield.

 

With a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, she crept across the street. Then, joined her friend on his porch without being invited.

 

“I not have a good night much. There is too many noises, I think. It spin my head around. I worry that the trailer will break in half! Or maybe be under a tree, wery soon. You understand?”

 

Lincoln nodded, while offering to share his invigorating drink. Something that brightened the early morning.

 

“Yeah, same over here. I figured my guest chairs and trash bin would end up at another lot. But somehow, they stayed close. I left lights burning in the bathroom, and kitchen. And it never got dark inside. I can’t figure how that was possible, but damn, I’ll take it! Good deal!”

 

The Russian female smiled and cradled her steaming mug in both hands, for warmth.

 

“Yes, as you say, a good deal it is!”

 

The reclusive loner slouched on his seat.

 

“Do ya notice how quiet it gets after a storm? All that damn racket, and then nothing. It’s weird really, people like to caterwaul about their problems. But when this kind of shit goes down, they get all humble. Not bitching so much about life then, just showing gratitude. I’m here, you’re here, that’s good enough for the moment. Neither of us got blowed away...”

 

Mockbina shivered from the cold.

 

“I am too beeg for that, maybe. You also are not tiny, I think. We stand our ground? As you say, a good deal.”

 

The habitual drunk patted his belly.

 

“Gawdamn right, I’m stout enough fer a strong wind! No worries over being a kite. I’m more like a freaking boat anchor. It keeps my ass where its planted!”

 

His foreign contact covered her mouth to keep from laughing. She rolled her eyes with amusement.

 

“You are what some at work say, is goof. A goof! But I like goofing, maybe. I must like the American goof wery much.”

 

Lincoln snorted after a swig of grounds. Having social contact without the benefit of alcohol made him slightly uncomfortable. Yet he was glad for her company. It had been a long time since he could tolerate the presence of another human being, with such ease.

 

“Ma’am, as my brother used to say, ‘Call me whatever ya want, just don’t call me late fer dinner.’ I reckon that goes fer me as well...”

 

Mockbina grabbed her neighbor by his shoulders. Unintentionally, he had just provided a burst of inspiration.

 

“Yes, that is a good deal, I think. Deen-er. You like? I make some deen-er for us both, when it is spring, maybe. We have a picnic in the grass. You share stories with me? I also share with you, stories. We have good time. I promise.”

 

The graying boozer felt his face turning red. He hadn’t enjoyed a meal with anyone in years. Scattered crumbs around his favorite chair in the living room testified to the careless and solitary nature of dining under primitive conditions. Something he did out of necessity.

 

“Yeah sure, I reckon that’d be okay. But remember now, yer reputation won’t be bettered by being seen at this lot. I’m in a kind of sinkhole over here. Nobody comes this way unless they intend to collect on a debt or lay down the law. Otherwise, I’m invisible. For which I am glad as hell!”