Nobody Reads This Page - “Mobile Home Manuscripts”

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

When I moved to a trailer community 21 years ago, as my first marriage was falling apart, it represented a sobering moment denied even to myself. On business cards that I had printed, my lot number was designated as a ‘suite’ to lessen its sting. The admission of such a fall from respectability made me shudder and shake. I thought the adjustment might help to ease my woe. But it did not, of course. The sour taste of residing in a manufactured box was something I could not erase with a linguistic trick.

 

One may speak freely about living in a rented loft, or studio apartment, or even a room set up as an efficiency address. But the stigma of a shipping container on wheels is indelible. Perceptions about such clusters of humanity have long been set in stone. Even many of those on the bottom rung of our American social ladder have that bias in effect. It is a stain that will not wash away, easily. So, I had to learn coping skills to survive.

 

My trepidation over being tagged as a loser continued for many years. But after evolutionary changes wrought by career interruptions, marital chaos, bankruptcy, and health issues, I finally discovered a sort of inner peace. As my writing adventure was revived, I realized that two decades in this spot on the map had reordered my perspectives.

 

There were stories to tell from my experiences. At first, I used many of these anecdotes in a volume of work titled ‘Evergreen Estates.’ Yet after the fact, more tales of a darker nature remained. I was stumped when trying to find a logical place for their inclusion in the Icehouse catalog. How? Where? Why? I had a nagging sense that opportunity was being wasted.

 

Finally, an Edison bulb of inspiration brightened my gloom. I thought about a fictional take on the place where I had been stuck for so long. A satire, written as truth delivered through the conduit of gallows humor. I wanted to call it ‘January Jones.’ Named for a participant in the January 6^th insurrection, on Capitol Hill in Washington.

 

When I discussed this brainstorming notion with a friend, she reacted unpredictably.

 

“DIDN’T YOU KNOW THAT IS A PORN STAR? YOU’D BETTER COME UP WITH SOMETHING MORE ORIGINAL! THAT ISN’T GOING TO WORK!”

 

I was stunned and speechless. She sent a link to prove her case which only deepened my confusion. I did a quick internet search and realized that the name was also one of an actress who starred as Betty Draper in the series ‘Mad Men.’ Apparently, she had once played a role as an adult performer. Was that the underpinning of my adviser’s argument? I could not be certain. Suddenly though, it didn’t seem to matter. I realized that her assertion was correct.

 

My idea for a setting was the fictionalized Evergreen Estates, where cultural norms were skewed from the outside world. That template remained viable as a foundation for my writing project. But in deference to fame, I changed the masthead moniker to ‘Jonovic’ - which had a pleasant air of Old Europe. My character first appeared in mysterious fashion, seeking anonymity in rural Ohio. With a natural progression of random events, her identity developed with a complexity I hadn’t originally intended. It worked well to augment the storyline.

 

I added the porn star experience to her list of qualities. It helped to sell the personality as an authentic femme fatale, a leader of a militia group dedicated to reviving the lost cause of Confederate loyalists. My wordsmithing radar visualized this twisted tome of fascist fantasy as a single endeavor. So, Miss January perished at the end, by her own hand. I figured the exercise was a non-violent way to rid myself of lingering ghosts.

 

Then came more inspiration from my surroundings at the trailer oasis. And an awareness that years of isolation had altered everything about how I approached the craft of creative composition. I penned a second book without much effort. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, and many more. What was birthed as a one-off curiosity grew to a dozen volumes.

 

Pickup trucks, Gadsden flags, firearms, cheap whiskey and piss beer, against a backdrop of fierce loyalty to Donald J. Trump, became elements that were more durable than I could have imagined. After each installment, I would pledge to be finished with my labor in the home office. Then, another news headline would have me breaking that oath, like snapping a toothpick.

 

I could not stop going back to the well, in metaphorical terms.

 

Police surveillance, video mockery, public outrage, theological proclamations, student protests, testimony before Congress, FBI investigations, secession from the Buckeye State, foreclosure and new ownership, controversy over drag performances, and even an attempt to physically demolish the park itself, all played nicely into this contrarian narrative. Financial intrigue with Wells Fargo. Conflict among equals. A misguided attempt to organize some sort of residential association. Militant confrontations of opposing factions, battling for control over the wreckage. Even a visit from Christ the Lord. All stitched together with threads of drunkenness and alienation and the futility of existing outside of rational boundaries set in place by conventional wisdom.

 

Viewed with hindsight, this collection is actually more than simply a poke-at-the-bear in prose form. It is a document put on paper in real time, with literal facts and remembrances woven into the fabric. This smattering of truisms makes it compelling in a way not found with more stilted, predictable jabs at the paradigm of Midwestern living, I hope. This is after all, our beloved ‘flyover country.’ A region eschewed by coastal elites who would be most likely to appreciate seeing dirt kicked on their foes. Does that dichotomy mean that the purpose of my series is unclear and muddied as a result?

 

Judgment is a privilege of the reader. I will leave that conclusion to them, in the end.