Trailer Park Vignettes – “Undercover”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

A muted glow permeated the lazy sky, as Evergreen Estates began to awaken on Wednesday morning. Judson Baines had dressed in camouflage apparel and an orange, knit beanie, before leashing his Golden Retriever. Together, they slogged through the muck left after melting snow surrendered to rising temperatures, an oddity at the end of January. The air tasted fresh and clear like mountain water. Overhead, geese were traversing the property in a vee formation. For a moment, the quiet despair of living in a village of mobile homes dissipated. This evoked a sense of liberation that was rare in that distant community. Something he needed desperately. Everything else about being plunged so deeply into the boundless void of poverty and social alienation rattled his psychology. He hated being perpetually broke.

 

Soon, they had managed to walk past all of the other homes on their meandering trail. Both of them came face to face with a deserted, corner lot that other citizens eschewed with gusto.

Pausing in the midst of their short trek, the retired mechanic bowed his head and stood in the street. Obediently, his canine companion waited for direction.

 

“Quigley? We’ve been out and about a thousand times around here, I reckon. But not usually so far, to the edge of this scruffy tract in the country. Until today, I never noticed that slab of concrete over in front of Dirty John’s abandoned longbox. It’s bare and jutting up like a table rock, after the last winter storm. Streaked with black soot, cracked and burned. That just strikes me different somehow. Almost as if it had been used as the base for a campfire. What ya think boy? Am I losing my marbles?”

 

The friendly pooch wagged his tail and looked around for tiny creatures to chase.

 

Baines crept closer to the fabricated stone, with a sense of curiosity. He remembered a swarm of yellow jackets guarding the spot during one of their summer jaunts. His mutt had been naively interested in the aerial zip of those stinging insects. But a nip at his nose changed that disposition. Everything else at the lot reeked of mold and decay and stale cigarettes. John Baughner had died around ten years before, with diabetes and hypertension causing him to succumb. There was no funeral to commemorate his graduation from the park roster. No wake with raised alcoholic drinks. No cheers or a celebration of life. No children or a spouse, to mourn. His body had been carried out in a zipper bag, by the local EMT crew. A sight that reminded neighbors of someone moving garbage to the curb, on their pickup day.

 

Since then, the manufactured hovel sat empty. No one seemed interested in peeking through ragged curtains in the broken windows. Or poking around through weeds that circled the perimeter. A storage barn remained on one side of the dwelling, stuffed with greasy tools and yard implements, and refuse. Theft in the park was not uncommon, especially when a vacated property had been allowed to crumble with neglect. Yet no one came near enough to harvest anything of value. The stench was too great, and a sense of dread unbearably overwhelming.

 

Something unexplained had transpired on this patch of ground, they were certain.

 

Baines grew bold enough to kneel in the driveway, while scanning his deceased neighbor’s residence for clues. He freed the loyal hound while feeling a burst of adventurous spirit.

 

“Quigley! Go over there and sniff around for a minute! See what y’all can flush out of the crabgrass. Maybe there’s a squatter living in that shell, who knows? Times are tough. We’ve had people staying in their cars, or even tents in the woods. Folks got to survive. Maybe there’s a simple explanation for me getting the heebie-jeebies today...”

 

The animal looked sideways and yelped defiantly. Then bolted to escape. He did not appear to have any interest in playing detective.

 

The former automotive technician rocked on his bootheels.

 

“DAMMIT BOY, I NEVER SAW Y’ALL TURN TAIL AND RUN LIKE THAT! WHAT’S GOT YA SPOOKED? IS THERE SOMETHING WEIRD IN THAT DESERTED BOXCAR?”

 

His fearless fido had developed a case of the willies.

 

From farther up the rustic boulevard, Kayleigh Cricket appeared in her big-tired, Jeep Wrangler. The orange vehicle had been splashed with mud, after a trip through the local outback of Thompson Township. She had her platinum mane pulled back with a patriotic scrunchie colored red, white, and blue. A Marlboro Red dangled from her puffy lips.

 

“Juddy, what the hell are you doing at Dirty John’s place? Nobody goes over there, it’s hexed! I wouldn’t let my favorite pet run on the lawn. There might be shit buried, maybe even a body! Or poison in the water!”

 

He responded with a drone of embarrassment. She had broken his concentration.

 

“I can’t explain it in so many words, but something is off, today. That mound of inedible hardtack in front of his trailer looks different. The slab is lifted, like something made the ground swell. It’s been cooked pretty good, on top. Do ya remember seeing a fire out here in the cold? Things don’t add up to me...”

 

Kayleigh wrinkled her perky nose. She flicked ash out of her window.

 

“You been alone too long, bro! Any other guy would be on the prowl for a barfly at one of our hillbilly taverns down the road. I think your brain is coming unglued! You need some stimulation! Go get it!”

 

Baines shook his head and spat on the tarmac.

 

“SCREW THAT NOISE! I KNOW WHAT I SEE! THERE’S SIGNS OF SOMETHING OVER AT JOHN’S PLACE, I JUST DON’T KNOW WHAT. Y’ALL CAN BET I’LL FIGURE IT OUT THOUGH. JUST GIVE ME TIME! I AIN’T AFRAID OF THE CONSEQUENCES!”

 

After the tattooed woman had pulled away in her bouncy vehicle, pleasant sounds of nature returned. The weary loner found Quigley hiding behind a garbage bin at an adjoining lot. He reconnected the leash strap to his dog’s harness, and turned in the opposite direction. Their minor adventure was now a boring footnote to be forgotten. But as he moved briskly, back toward his own strip of acreage in the park, a reflection of light streamed from inside the barren living space he left behind.

 

A mirror of some sort was still over the faux mantle and fireplace, in John’s ruined living room. A glare of rising gold called out from that interior wall, with strange urgency. Almost as if an invitation had been given.

 

Later, while emptying a bottle of Busch lager on his redwood deck, this unspoken call echoed in his skull. He twirled the longneck container in his fingers, and crouched on the stadium chair.

 

Kayleigh messaged his phone as this reflective interlude was passing.

 

“You’re a big boy, Juddy. I know there’s no need for a woman to nursemaid your ass! But seeing you snooping around at Dirty John’s dump made me wonder. I’d stay away, that’s just my cautious self, talking. That hairy freak should have disappeared without a trace. Nobody ever came to clear out his trailer. Even the park owners left it sitting unclaimed. Now what does that tell you? There’s damn sure bad vibes on that ground. Shit a smart person don’t mess with! Be one of those dudes, stay away and keep your balls intact! Booyah!”

 

Her text lecture only muddied the emotional water. He had to know what secrets waited inside. Once the 12-pack of suds had disappeared, with a compliment of Evan Williams bourbon, he had enough liquid courage in his bloodstream to embark on a second excursion.

 

Quigley stayed behind alone. There was no need for another being to shadow him on the risky adventure.

 

John Baughner’s shipping-container-on-wheels had been a premium build, initially. A Schult design with plenty of extra features. There were no current residents with enough seniority to remember when it first arrived at Evergreen Estates. But as years and decades flew by, the glistening example fell into disrepair. Much like its owner. Both were dragged down by unfavorable circumstances and bad fortune. When his mortal end came at last, the reclusive hobo had been mostly forgotten. A quirk of existing in the pines. Someone thought to be barely human and unworthy of affection or trust.

 

Baines took a circuitous route to visit the shunned shelter again. He wanted to be more anonymous as a spectator, on this occasion. Stealthy in probing beyond the outer bounds of that deserted lot. Once his bold mission had been accomplished, he slipped into a side door that barely opened on its rusty hinges. Fluttering wings alerted him to the presence of a bird nest, above. Then, he strode along a hallway that connected the small rooms. Once he had found the looking glass, across from a front entrance that had been nailed shut, he noted must hanging thick in the air.

 

The carpet was soggy with dripping water and mushy snow. Outside, it had begun to rain. Lightning flashed through a large hole in the vinyl siding. This helped him to see the interior conditions, without any electric light.

 

Reusable bags and boxes from the Heinen’s market in Chardon were everywhere. This upscale vendor of foods and necessities was one rarely patronized by anyone in their neighborhood. Stacked on shelving that had been cobbled together at both sides of the fake fireplace were rows and rows of reference books and novels. Biographies of notable figures throughout history, such as Mahatma Gandhi, Winston Churchill, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and Nellie Bly. Along with volumes penned by Oscar Wilde, George Bernard Shaw, C.S. Lewis, and Virginia Woolf.

 

This library stunned the impulsive intruder with its considerable variety. He drifted through each cubicle in the prefab home, noting an assortment of wares and trinkets that did not comport with prevailing views held about its former inhabitant. In the last space adjoining a closet and bathroom, there was an upright piano with sheet music sitting regally above the ivory keys. A candelabra sat on top, with wax droplets scarring the wood underneath.

 

Outside, a burst of electric blue struck the concrete pad that first garnered his attention on the previous day. This caused the trailer to rock on its foundation, and shed a modified petrichor of desiccated fungal life. Baines heard bits of the roof disintegrating, as a new storm blew through their mobile oasis. He ran for the nearest window, which had been stripped of its glass panes and framework. A dive through this rectangular portal sent him crashing to the sidewalk, with debris falling swiftly in his wake. He had escaped just before support beams gave way, and material fatigue felled the withered, old structure like an oak in the forest.

 

As he crawled toward the street, a new revelation became evident. The gray slab that had fascinated him during his dog walk was now split in half. Buried beneath the shroud was a canvas tote labeled with a stenciled number. It looked to be a relic from military surplus. Or a government-issue carrier. An inexplicable find in their humble neighborhood.

 

As he untied the bag, an odor of vintage paper stock wafted upward. There were bills stuffed inside, loads of legal tender printed in an earlier era. A banker’s note accompanied the seedy stash. As if it had been taken from a vault, or a delivery truck. With surprise, the lonely retiree realized that this bounty of misappropriated cash must have been hidden for many years. An Edison bulb illuminated in his imagination, providing a eureka moment. By chance, he had received a post-deathbed confession from the mysterious figure. Not unlike a priest dutifully listening to a voice speaking from beyond the veil.

 

Perhaps Dirty John had been willfully undercover, all along?

 

Once the clandestine treasure had been returned to its point of exile, Baines slid the broken concrete back into place. He crossed himself while standing at the driveway edge. Lightning from the heavens had provided an awe-inspiring moment of truth.

 

“In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Understand me, y’all, I’m doing this to keep peace. Money messes with human minds. I don’t want that on my hands. Yer secret is safe with me brother! Rest easy in the grave. Now two of us are carrying the burden of omerta. Amen!”

 

 

Nothing To See Here – “Fading Out”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

Three o’clock in the morning.

 

As I sit in front of my computer early on a Tuesday, the gravity of being at work long after my cerebral synapses have begun to fall asleep is evident. While sunrise is distant at this hour, I am still edgy with anticipation for the new day that lies ahead. My need to exorcise demons of boredom and futility has been satisfied with YouTube clips of Jerry Springer, vintage car reviews, and Johnny Carson anecdotes. This foray deep into the vast emptiness of night has left me unarmed, in a sense. Yet still able to cope. I am at the desk in my home office, awake enough and active enough, to strike the wireless keyboard with purpose.

 

Should a drunken scholar try to compose a manuscript at such a late hour? Probably not. But regardless of that truism, here I go...

 

Basic biology has an overwhelming effect on the human mind. This is something I have learned over years spent pondering my own existence as a mortal being. When I chug beer of a full-strength variety, and eat Ramen noodles or some other satisfying, starchy meal as a compliment, the result always comes as a fall from dietary grace. I get food fatigue, crash in my bed or some other convenient spot, and snore away an interlude between famine and feasting.

 

Then, my energy levels reset.

 

This paradigm was in effect tonight as I had a bowl of Sapporo Ichiban Miso Ramen, after two bottled brews, and a few extra rounds from my refrigerator stash of cans. The carbohydrate blast hit my bloodstream with enough intensity that I fell on my face, soon afterward. But the period of slumber that followed did not last too long. I was down around seven o’clock, and back up only a couple of hours later. When conscious again, I felt cranked and driven to survive the event with impunity. I took a seat at my desk, with a fresh ration of suds, and embarked on an adventure that was unplanned and impulsive.

 

Getting blitzed after passing out has a peculiar charm, as experiences go...

 

I started to drink while watching videos via my Roku device. The late Gerald Norman Springer was still very much alive, in cyberspace. His familiar voice tickled my ears with seedy stories of interpersonal conflicts, and making a career out of letting everyday people express themselves honestly, in a forum without pretentiousness.

 

“So today we start our 25^th year of doing this show. My gratefulness surpassed only by my surprise. My surprise at its longevity. How in the world did we last so long? Let’s be honest, virtually anyone could do what I do. Which is to basically say three things. ‘You did what? Come on out! We’ll be right back!’ You practice that and you’ll be hosting your own show in no time! Oh, there is one other thing that brings success. Luck, lots of it. And surround yourself with smart, talented people who know a heck of a lot more about television than I do. Look, I’ve been blessed through these 25 years to have people of enormous talent and drive producing a show of constant challenges which can’t be saved day to day by simply booking a big-name celebrity. You see, we don’t have any on our show. No, just regular folks of no fame, little if any wealth, and very little influence. Folks just taking a moment which they rarely if ever get, to let the world know about what they are thinking or feeling or doing. Admittedly it is often outside the norm of accepted behavior, but what I have learned over our quarter-century of shows, is that deep down, we are all alike. Some of us just dress better. Or had a better education. Or better luck in the gene pool of parents. I’ll say it again. Deep down, we are all the same. We all want to be happy, we cry when we’re hurt, we’re angry when we are mistreated, and to be liked, accepted and respected, not to mention loved, is the greatest gift of all. Yes, we’re all alike. Know this, there’s never been a moment in the 25 years of doing this show that I ever thought I was better than the people who appear on our stage. I’m not better, only lucky. So, thanks for the 25 years. We’ve signed on to do a whole bunch more. And as long as I stay healthy, we will. And on that note, take care of yourself and each other.”

 

As four o’clock approached, I had lost my trill. In the slang terms of tavern culture, my taste for beverage alcohol. I quit drinking while the clock ticked away, in a march toward sunrise. It seemed impossible to contemplate that half of a day had elapsed since I sat in front of the television in my living room, watching news reports from Cleveland media affiliates. But the reality squeezed my brain. I had moved from one end of my home to the other, and traded live programming for reruns-on-demand. Everything else remained the same.

 

Before surrendering to fatigue, I sent out an e-mail message to friends in New York State as a final gesture of consciousness.

 

“Hey, I’m still awake here, forgive me for not making a late call. One or more of you might have still been at the viewscreen, possibly. Perhaps we could have enjoyed a meaningful conversation. Yet I am buzzed, to say the least. I reckon that discussing anything coherently would have taxed my gray matter at the moment. My head is clouded with bullshit right now. Hops and grains and too much sodium and fatigue. I can’t see straight. The furnace keeps cycling on and off and on again. It must be cold outside. This is January, after all. I’ve been stuck inside for weeks, just the occasional moment out on my bench for a respite. Warmer months lie ahead, I know that might not excite you so much, but it makes me giddy with thoughts of fresh air and basking in the solar glow. I need that kind of rescue to clear the cobwebs. Take it easy, friends. Be well and safe!”

 

Motor vehicles were passing my mobile home now, as the rush to stay on schedule had returned with vigor. The work routine of a day being birthed was beginning. I coughed and spun around in my office chair, while straining to read the clock on my computer. Soon, daylight would be streaming through the windows. I needed to crash.

 

I hobbled through my trailer while fading out, like a spent candle. My time at the keyboard was done. Another chapter of the saga had been written and filed away.

 

Now, it was time to greet oblivion.

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Exodus”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

Note to Readers – Townshend Carr Lincoln is a descendant of our noted and beloved 16^th American president, and appears in all twelve volumes of the ‘Trailer Park Militia’ series. He lives at Evergreen Estates, a rural enclave in northeastern Ohio. He is a hermitic misanthrope, and enjoys Tennessee whiskey and solitude, both in plentiful amounts. Neighbors consider him to be something of a mystery. But after more than two decades as a resident, he has become accepted as a fixture in the community.

 

When I awakened on Monday morning, there was just enough frosty precipitation on the ground to accurately say that it had snowed. Otherwise, the cover of winter white was little more than a nuisance. A blip on the radar, as February was approaching. I had been in and out of bed throughout the night, feeling restless after a weekend of televised sports events and high-calorie foodstuffs. Now, I felt groggy. A pot of coffee did little to clear away the cobwebs. So, I decided to start raiding my household stash of Tennessee whiskey again. It was the strategy once described by Lemmy Kilmister, core member of the boisterous and beloved Rock & Roll group, Motörhead.

 

“A kid once said to me ‘Do you get hangovers?’ I said, ‘To get hangovers, you have to stop drinking!’”

 

The hours seemed to drag along until that decisive moment. But once I took a first slug of Jack Daniel’s, straight from the bottle, my mood changed immediately. Worry over nagging details began to fade. I stumbled around the kitchen, making an improvised breakfast of canned sausages and eggs, fried in a cast-iron skillet. This bounty was served up with toast. It made me belch softly as I headed to the front porch with a measure of brown liquor poured discretely into a vessel from my cupboard.

 

A thermometer outside read 34 degrees. Yet I couldn’t feel much. My body responded quickly to the alcohol assault, once this ritual commenced. I had begun this familiar routine of self-abuse too early in the day. But it didn’t matter in the scheme of a life spent huddling inside of my prefabricated boxcar. Once I became a resident at Evergreen Estates, I stopped living in the traditional sense. It was more like existing in a cage or a cell. Tantamount to being a lost dog at the pound, or a vagrant incarcerated because of homelessness and poverty.

 

Staying drunk kept me sane. Sobriety was the only danger I tried to avoid.

 

I had managed to gulp half of my high-proof ration, from a vintage Tabasco rocks glass, when the cell phone rang in my hoodie pocket. I recognized the number as being one listed for a neighbor often likened to the cartoon character Velma Dinkley, from ‘Scooby Doo, Where Are You!’ She wore thick glasses, framed in black plastic. Her hair was a metallic shade of red, not wholly accurate to the nearsighted comic adventurer, but plausible enough to be accepted.

 

“Link! Can you hear the rumbling on our street? Another trailer is being pulled out of here! Those oddball jerks at Lot 22 really started something! It’s like people suddenly realized why they call these things ‘mobile homes’ in conversation!”

 

I was buzzed and swigging Miller High Life, to wash the booze burn out of my throat. The unexpected noise hadn’t gotten my attention. But then, I could hear our asphalt boulevard cracking and creaking under the weight of a home-in-motion. As I peered past the corner of her hovel, across the yard, a jutting corner of vinyl siding and shingles appeared. The weathered roof looked to have survived many seasons with hail, ice, and snow.

 

“Damn! I see it now! Somebody else wanted to jet out of this junkyard? I can’t say that it is a bad idea...”

 

Velma whistled over the wireless connection.

 

“These people got a permit and a professional company to do the move, unlike the losers who went first. They’ve been passing out business cards around the park. The price ain’t bad, actually. There is some kind of new development opening in Newton Falls, just down Route 534. We got an advertisement in the mail. Have you checked your postal slot lately?”

 

I reddened with embarrassment, though it would have been hard to see as my face had already flushed from inebriation.

 

“Nah, I wait to go down to the barn maybe once a week. Sometimes longer than that, if nothing important is on the way. All I get is junk! And bills I can’t pay, screw them all!”

 

My fellow resident hummed to herself with amusement.

 

“There’s another house already jacked up on wheels, one street over. I hear lots of people talking about trying to escape. Alveda our property manager says the company will sue people for breaking leases. But I wonder if that matters. Everybody here is broke!”

 

I nodded and emptied the artfully decorated glass. A dribble of spirits trickled into my beard.

 

“WHAT WOULD THEY TAKE? SOME RUSTY TRUCK FENDERS OR CAR PARTS? MAYBE A SHOTGUN THAT THE LOCAL PAWN SHOP WOULDN’T WANT? OR A 30-RACK OF NATTY LIGHT? SCREW THEM! I’D SAY LEGAL ACTION IS POINTLESS!”

 

She snorted and coughed and corrected herself, as I was getting to my feet for another serving of refreshment.

 

“Oh crap, I just got a text from Richelle who lives back by the woods, at the end of this avenue. She says there’s a line forming from her side of the place, to ours. Two other trailers are in a queue, behind the one passing your porch. And there are more waiting to leave, on other streets. It’s crazy dude! I never realized how many people were sick of this community! Don’t get your shorts in a bunch, but I figure it will be pretty empty around here in another month. Jinkies! What a show!”

 

My cheeks were on fire. I had started to get tipsy enough that walking to the refrigerator required a lot of patience and effort. What my quirky neighbor described reminded me of ‘Operation Exodus’ from the Gerry Anderson series, Space:1999. A plan invoked to liberate inhabitants of Moonbase Alpha from their lunar exile.

 

“It’s been building up for months and years. The bad water, the power grid always going down, the rent and fees increasing, the busted tarmac and crumbling foundations. There’s not much sunshine in this development. I’ve put up with it for so long that I can’t tell the difference anymore. This is strangely normal for me, now. I’d be better off renting a cabin from my friend by Lake Erie. I wish she would get released from the rehab facility!”

 

Velma snickered and opened her window. It provided a low-tech line of communication that superseded the phone connection.

 

“Sorry, I should have realized you were on your wooden bench. I called while looking at search results on the computer. Did you know that the MH Village website has information about moving a mobile shack? They’ve got listings from all over America. Damn, if this gets around our park, people will have ants in their pants! I bet there’s a traffic jam about to happen, by the main road. The flier we got says that this new property will pay $1000.00 on a relocation. They’re looking for tenants to lease spaces. What an opportunity! They call this project Breezeway Bluffs. It’s affiliated with the Dolans who own our Cleveland Guardians baseball team!”

 

Her catty report echoed over and over inside of my skull.

 

“GUARDIANS BASEBALL TEAM! GUARDIANS BASEBALL! GUARDIANS BASEBALL!”

 

Shock made my eyes go wide in the dim gray of morning. I was sitting in a muted glow of twilight, on the edge of my bed. The mask from my CPAP machine hissed gently. I shook off the dream state with a huff, and tried to stand up before reaching my canes. This sent me falling forward, onto the chest of drawers. I shuddered and stomped in place, while trying to find one of the walking sticks for support. Everything I had seen in the netherworld of REM sleep had been a figment of imagination. An unconscious trick played on my mind.

 

“I’m clean and clear-headed after all? Stone cold sober in the morning?”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Cleveland Connection”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

Note to Readers – Townshend Carr Lincoln is a descendant of our noted and beloved 16^th American president, and appears in all twelve volumes of the ‘Trailer Park Militia’ series. He lives at Evergreen Estates, a rural enclave in northeastern Ohio. He is a hermitic misanthrope, and enjoys Tennessee whiskey and solitude, both in plentiful amounts. Neighbors consider him to be something of a mystery. But after more than two decades as a resident, he has become accepted as a fixture in the community.

 

Sunday brought us a wintery mix from the west. Something that might have been pure snow in a seasonal pattern, if not for the fact that it had warmed up a bit since our Arctic blast. While having my coffee and toast, I listened to the pitter-patter of droplets on every window. This downpour was deemed to be the start of a slide into more frosty precipitation, later in the afternoon. But I noticed it only as background noise.

 

Amazingly, when Janis Mays called from her hallway phone at the nursing home in Ashtabula, she talked about wanting to go outside.

 

“I’ve been cooped up all day! It’s too much to take! I want a cigarette!”

 

I sat at my desk while listening. Her craving was one I guessed would have drastic effects on the health recovery that was underway.

 

“You’ll piss off the nurses there, by saying that word. Bite your tongue, chica! Smoking so much contributed to your strokes in the first place!”

 

She uttered rude, combative words that must have shocked her caregivers, if they could hear.

 

“Screw their advice, I’m having a nicotine fit! I could punch the wall right now! Unlock the damn doors! Let me burn off some cancer sticks!”

 

My head bowed and I closed both eyes.

 

“Is your roomie back from church yet? Go talk to her, it’s wet outside! We’ve been getting doused all morning! Ain’t it making a racket on the roof of your building?”

 

She responded with more curses.

 

“I’m stuck in here eating mush! And they have news on the television all day, in our activity room. What a load of crap! I don’t enjoy hanging out with these old geezers and biddies! They’ve all got oxygen tanks and walkers and heart monitors...”

 

I laughed to myself, while trying not to let it slip out audibly.

 

“You were on a feeding tube for how many months? Don’t judge those other patients. They want to get healthy just like you do, right? Cut them some slack...”

 

Janis belched pureed eggs and cornmeal.

 

“Kiss my backside, Townie!”

 

I protested with mock outrage.

 

“You’re not very ladylike!”

 

My ornery sidekick began to laugh out loud. The thought of being girly by any definition of the term made her brighten with amusement.

 

“HAHAHAHA! THAT’S HILARIOUS, DUDE! THERE’S NOTHING FEMMY ABOUT ME, I GREW UP FIGHTING WITH MY YOUNGER BROTHER AND COUSINS! WE HAD A ROUGH HOUSEHOLD UP BY THE LAKE! SHIT GOT BROKEN A LOT OF THE TIME!”

 

I closed my eyes again. Her life story was one that always tied my stomach in knots.

 

“I hear someone there with you, is that Julie Mora? I figured she would have made it back from Sunday Mass by now...”

 

A deeper, more mature voice rasped from the empty passageway. I could tell that her friend at the rehabilitation center must have already gone through menopause. Her accent was regal and very European.

 

“Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis. Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis. Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: dona nobis pacem. Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us. Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us. Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, grant us peace.”

 

Janis fretted with the funky, corded receiver. She wished for her cell phone from home, instead of the landline device.

 

“Julie gets weird after going to her church. She talks about being from Collinwood. Where is that, Cleveland? Her family came over from the old country when she was a little kid, I guess. I don’t care about all that mess, or her Bible nonsense!”

 

I clenched my teeth and hunched over the desktop.

 

“Stop already! You’ll hurt her feelings! Don’t you care about being polite in a public place like that nursing facility?”

 

My scolding did nothing except to arouse her contrarian attitude.

 

“HAHAHAHA! YOU’RE A DELICATE FLOWER, TOWNIE! I DON’T CARE IF SHE GETS PRISSY! NOBODY EVER CARED ABOUT ME, YOU KNOW? EXCEPT FOR GRANNY MAYS, WHO ENDED UP RAISING ME...”

 

My belly had turned sour.

 

“I care about you, dammit! I do!”

 

There was a long pause as Julie continued to recite Latin words from the traditional Catholic Mass. Then, my misbehaving chum retook her place on the line.

 

“Are you trying to make me cry? Stick it up your ass, loser! You’ve been sober for too long, that’s the problem. What time is it? Too early yet for a drink? Open a bottle and get wasted! Then you can call me back!”

 

I was red in the face, and huffing like a dog.

 

“You called me, remember? I was here getting things done. It’s too freaking damp out there to sit on my porch right now...”

 

She honked like a goose and then giggled.

 

“I was bored, okay? The biggest thrill they let us have in this place is playing Bingo. I hate that game! All these blind bats trying to win chocolate chip cookies or cheese puffs or whatever. And I can’t even get a real bite, unless they put it through a blender, first! Yuck! I’m tired of thickened water and slop!”

 

I knew that after around eight months, her endurance must have been put to the test.

 

“You’re almost there, don’t mess it up now by cheating! Don’t choke on a treat stolen from the kitchen! You’ll have a dangerous setback and get reprimanded by the staff, not a fun end to the day. Don’t go out to the yard for a coffin nail, either! Quit thinking about that dirty addiction! Another stroke might actually finish you off, where would your cat go for companionship?”

 

The mention of her feline child resonated more than anything I had declared, previously.

 

“My kitty! That poor little kitty!”

 

I heard the clunky handset slam down while waiting for her to regain composure. My comment must have tipped the scales. She had gone over the edge, emotionally. I should have avoided saying too much.

 

Sitting alone at the computer, I folded my hands and repeated her Italian cohort’s prayer, in a whisper.

 

“Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis...”

 

Postscript: Thanks to my friend Mary Malloy Bramstedt for the Latin inspiration.

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Ghost Story”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

Note to Readers – T.C. Lincoln is a descendant of our noted and beloved 16^th American president, and appears in all twelve volumes of the ‘Trailer Park Militia’ series. He lives at Evergreen Estates, a rural enclave in northeastern Ohio. He is a hermitic misanthrope, and enjoys Tennessee whiskey and solitude, both in plentiful amounts. Neighbors consider him to be something of a mystery. But after more than two decades as a resident, he has become accepted as a fixture in the community.

 

I had been at the desk for about an hour on a Saturday afternoon. Hungover and woozy with remnants of brew and liquor lingering in my gray beard. Working in the space that used to be my back bedroom, when I had a family and career and a genuine social life. Now, this part of my manufactured hovel was more commonly referred to as the ‘home office.’ A label that indicated it had been repurposed for clerical duties. Though about two-thirds of its width and length were taken up by boxes of items from my discontinued storage space in Montville, and shelves of vinyl albums.

 

Breakfast scraps and a coffee mug had been taken away, as I shifted gears to ponder my typical daily routine. I wrote down the debit amount from a previous trip to Cantini’s Village Market in Rock Creek. Still using a paper check register amused some younger members of the family. Yet it kept me on track. While adapting to the progress of new technologies, I held fast to some habits that continued to seem useful. Like hanging a new calendar every year. Despite the fact that after cataract surgeries, I could barely read the analog chart without magnification. I was used to it covering that bare spot on the wall. Its presence made me feel comfortable.

 

After going through letters and bills, I opened an internet browser and started to look at e-mail messages. But a sound from the other room made me flinch and rock backward in the roller chair. A plate and silverware rattled loudly in the dishpan. It was the sort of errant noise I used to hear when visiting my parents out-of-state, because their southern home was sometimes infested with mice. In my own situation however, such rodents had never managed to invade. So, the distraction left me puzzled and clueless. I spun around, to face the doorway. Then, called out a hoarse greeting.

 

“Who’s here? Somebody at the window? Are you standing on my porch?”

 

Visitors usually climbed the long, wooden access ramp before making a right turn into the three-sided box that served as a crow’s nest for my trailer. Once under that small section of roof, it was easy to peer through a square window that let light stream over the countertops and onto my stove.

 

I struggled to stand, and hopped over the linoleum with both canes. Then paused in front of the dual sinks. No one was outside. This caused me to lean forward for a better view, and huff with irritation.

 

“What the heck, do I have ghosts in this mobile box, now?”

 

A whisper of cantankerous laughter made the glass pane rattle in its moulding.

 

“Ghosts you say? Ghosts? Why, you are far too old to believe in such things anymore!”

 

My belly groaned and growled once this otherworldly cackle had abated.

 

“HEY! WHO’S THE WISEASS OUT THERE? QUIT TRYING TO SPOOK ME, DAMMIT!”

 

Cupboard doors opened and slammed shut in succession, around the perimeter of my narrow cooking area. Lights flashed above my head. Then the faucet began to stream a frothy blast of cold water.

 

“Spook you, dear soul? Oh no! I would do nothing of the kind. You have been my companion here for a very long time. Unwittingly, perhaps. But that doesn’t dim the appeal of our partnership...”

 

I saw a charcoal outline form on the window. It tilted one way and the other, as if giving me a thorough inspection. Then, the image brightened a bit. I realized that my hands had turned numb, and the air was oddly dry and stale.

 

“Man, this is crazy stuff. No more games, okay? I know you’re around the corner by my trash bin. Or down in the yard, I can’t see that far. What’s the deal, did you run out of beer and figure that maybe I had extra in the refrigerator? Show yourself, I’m in a generous mood!”

 

The translucent face smiled with a grimace of graveyard arthritis.

 

“I had this lot for many years. Our property was owned by a local family in those days. Things here were run more professionally, to be blunt. We had lots of camaraderie and took pride in living on this land! It meant something to us! My ramshackle dwelling wasn’t so fancy as yours. It looked something like a sailing vessel, that was the style in those days. With big pillars up front, around a bay window. And a roofline that swept lower in the back. After I had a stroke, it wasn’t possible to get around so well. I would sit in the front room, and stare out that portal, at the street. I needed a wheelchair to move from one room to the other...”

 

My skin began to chill. I remembered a neighbor across the way describing an old fellow who had preceded me at this address. My lips were stiff and parched. I could barely form any words in response.

 

“You’re John, from the Methodist church on our township square?”

 

More echoes of chortling and amusement filled my ears.

 

“Ah, you even know my earthly name. What a pleasure to hear it spoken aloud! In eternity, we all perceive thoughts directly. There is no need for formal pleasantries or greetings. But I miss those customs of mortal life more than you might know...”

 

I gulped hard, with fear.

 

“Granny Maylene told stories about waving to a fellow parishioner. He couldn’t converse anymore, after having a health crisis of some sort. She said he would be across the street from her covered patio, sitting there every day. Soaking up the sunshine, or watching rain fall. She guessed that it helped him feel alive and connected.”

 

A breathy intonation tickled my ears.

 

“Yesss, yesss, it did make me feel more vital! I hated being crippled. I felt alone without my wife, she had passed away years before. My children rarely visited. They were shocked to see me in such a ragged condition. I actually made them sad! The days and nights in that big window were very long, believe me! Yet I sat here until the end. God is merciful to those who believe and obey. This concrete slab sat empty for several months, after I ascended to glory, and my trailer was sold...”

 

I had started to tremble uncontrollably. Everything the specter described mated perfectly with what I had been told as a new immigrant to the rural park.

 

“So, how do I figure in all of that? More to the point, why were you playing around with dirty dishes in my sink?”

 

There was a rattle of phlegm, as if he needed to clear his throat after a multiplicity of years spent dead and buried in our cemetery up on the hill.

 

“You have been here with me, all of this time. Do you realize what that meant? I was starved for companionship. You inherited my slot in this development, the only point of reference I had left! You made my trudging through the corridors of eternity an experience I could bear. I watched your own struggles. At first with cherished personal relationships, and workplace responsibilities. Then with divorce and alienation. And finally, the march of time. You too are older now, and feeling the clockwork mechanism of this universe beginning to unwind. You are on the voyage, as I was, long ago. Good luck to you, friend!”

 

A fork I had used to serve up fried ham and eggs, with hash brown patties, went sailing across the room. It bounced on the floor and came to rest by my chest freezer. I had turned to jelly. My legs wobbled like pliable strands of rubber. Before I could offer a comment in return, the voice hummed a melancholy farewell that faded into silence.

 

“Good luck to you! Be well!”

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Moving Day”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

Note to Readers – T.C. Lincoln is a descendant of our noted and beloved 16^th president, and appears in all twelve volumes of the ‘Trailer Park Militia’ series. He lives at Evergreen Estates, a rural enclave in northeastern Ohio. He is a hermitic misanthrope, and enjoys Tennessee whiskey and solitude, both in plentiful amounts.

 

By Wednesday afternoon, the temperature on my porch was 42 degrees. A welcome break from what we had experienced during the previous week. Sub-zero readings from my thermometer dipped to four on the Fahrenheit scale, as everything outdoors turned to ice. But now, the mood of Mother nature seemed to have brightened. Since we were still in the month of January, this interlude felt like a breath of summer. Given out as a sweet refreshment to ease our seasonal gloominess.

 

I sat outside on my wooden bench and had a brew and a glass of Jack Daniel’s, to celebrate.

 

Across the street, one of my neighbors was working on his longbox dwelling. The extended hut looked to be decades old, made and towed to its concrete slab even before I had crashed into the village of mobile homes. A woeful, post-divorce event that happened over 20 years before.

 

While drinking, I kept my cell phone at the ready. From nearby, the sound of a vintage, International stake-bed truck could be heard, warming up for duty. I guessed that after weeks of preparing for his shift in residence, and crawling around under the manufactured hovel, he had reached the point where escape was finally a possibility. This terminal moment must have made him feel giddy with anticipation. His pace was accelerated and energetic beyond anything I had seen over the past few weeks. So, I felt confident in thinking that at long last, he was about to make a jailbreak.

 

I planned to take a video of this event while playing the role of an alcoholic voyeur.

 

But after chugging half of a 30-round case brimming with aluminum cylinders of Miller High Life, and downing shots of Jack until my nose had started to tingle, it still hadn’t happened. The clatter of diesel combustion was only a tease. When I crept along my access ramp with one cane for support, to peek around the corner of a trailer situated to the west, I found that little had changed. My neighbor was still wrenching and fiddling and getting his work clothes stained with grease. I figured that after expending so much effort, he must have become very thirsty. Yet no pause stilled his labor. He had an expression of total commitment to the task. Much like a professional athlete competing to win a league championship.

 

Eventually, I gave up on my surveillance mission. Leftover Ramen noodles were waiting in the refrigerator, along with snacks of various kinds. My belly was growling. I microwaved a bowl of food while continuing to imbibe. My television flickered in the background with reports about political contests, and a local fire in the county capital.

 

Eventually, I fell asleep in my chair next to the couch.

 

After the dark hours had reclaimed their prominence, I woke with a need to relieve myself. The traditional bathroom fixture in my trailer had been out-of-service, thanks to our frosty episode of Arctic air. But I soon discovered that a respite had arrived. Pipes under the prefabricated floor were free and open, once again. I was able to let fly, like a racehorse. This liberty made me grateful, after so much willful intoxication.

 

I doubted that my kidneys could have managed to withstand any further denial.

 

While sitting at my desk in the back bedroom, yawning forcefully, I heard a vrooming rap of mechanized power on the pavement. It was now just before three o’clock in the morning. The jolting blast made me sit up straight, and stiffen with sobriety. Was that the red hauler owned by my anonymous cohort across the boulevard? I heard it spinning tires and revving the high-mileage engine, over and over with futile abandon. Had I selfishly slept away my opportunity to be an observer of such a consequential moment? The thought caused me to grit my teeth. I pounded my fists on the empty workspace.

 

“DAMMIT! WHERE’S MY PHONE? I’VE GOT TO GET OUTSIDE!”

 

I found my track shoes, camouflage hoodie, Harley-Davidson beanie, and medical cane in the shadows. My stumble toward the front door was careless and risky. But I could think of nothing else than getting to the front yard, for a better view. The sky overhead was black and foreboding. I listened as the vintage rig throttled up and down. Then, there was a distracting burst of conversation, from next door.

 

Three other citizens of the park were already outside, holding a private vigil. One who reminded me of Velma from the Scooby Doo cartoons offered a cheerful greeting, despite our chance encounter coming at such an early hour.

 

“Hey buddy! I figured you must still be asleep in your bed. That old trailer we’ve been watching rattled and creaked right past your window. What a hellish racket! They were down the street in a jiffy, around two hours ago. But then got stuck on the corner, there’s a boulder in the yard. They couldn’t make such a sharp turn. Now those losers are caught in a messed-up predicament! You should have brought a lawn chair!”

 

My arthritic limbs had already begun to protest. I felt wobbly and slightly hung over.

 

“True, very true. I’m barely awake, but recognized that sound. It pissed me off, actually. I wanted to livestream their exit on social media!”

 

Velma shook her head, and giggled.

 

“They’re trying to pull that prefab house backwards with a GMC pickup. Listen to the rubber burn! It won’t work, stupid is as stupid does! Especially with everything still so slick from us getting rained on, all day! They must be dumber than dirt! Sheesh!”

 

I tilted my head for a better angle through the lingering fog of melted snow. When the try at repositioning their mobile home failed, the driver providing assistance hooked his tow strap to the giant rock, instead. This desperate move delivered a similar result. The wheels spun, the workhorse vehicle slid sideways, and nothing else happened.

 

Curses echoed from the distance. Those who lived on both sides of the intersection had offered advice. But nothing solved the problem.

 

I could hear voices debating with hushed tones, somewhere in the suffocating darkness. After such a long time spent in the cool mist, my neighbors had relented at last. They were bored and ready to retire for the night.

 

The one I envisioned as a comic character waved before turning toward her own driveway.

 

“Be careful going back up your ramp, old man! Everything is so wet out here! I know the sheriff is waiting for those dweebs. He can handle their shit. It’s over now, all over...”

 

Inside once more, I tossed and turned on my sofa. Sodium excess from the serving of Ramen made me edgy. It was difficult to surrender when thoughts of oblivion returned. Yet eventually, I zoned out and began to dream.

 

In the morning, I pulled a curtain aside, before getting to my feet. While I slept, the patched-together shipping container had been pulled from its muddy spot, on the corner. Our streets were clear as before. I felt glad that the unhappy situation had been rectified. Still, a twinge of jealousy was alive in my gut.

 

Why couldn’t I be the one to escape from Evergreen Estates?

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Campaign”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

On the last Tuesday evening remaining in January, the maintenance garage at Evergreen Estates was full of residents. This unusual situation seemed decidedly odd, because the repair bays had been cleared to set up folding chairs, instead of accommodating work being done on park equipment. Yet their property manager had given her blessing to this public event. With a boisterous political season already underway, a representative from Columbus had been scheduled to speak. His appearance was sponsored by the Geauga County Patriot Federation, a group that promoted familiar themes always popular with local citizens. Less regulation, lower taxes, parental rights and school choice, along with respect for veterans and members of law enforcement.

 

Pastor Jed Nardell, from the Methodist church on their township square, provided a benediction and introduced the speaker. He had dressed casually for the event, but wore a silver cross pendant around the neck of his polo shirt. His dark hair was slicked back with Vitalis oil.

 

“Let us pray! Heavenly Father, we dedicate this meeting to you. It is in your name that we gather to make difficult decisions about the future of our community in the pines. We trust in your word, and in your love for us as children of Almighty God. We give you the glory for every ray of sunshine that brightens our days, for every drop of rain that blesses the soil, and for every seed that grows to feed our people. Without you, there would be no life and no hope for tomorrow. In your name we harvest the bounty of this land, and we remember the gospel truth that made our prosperity possible. Your grace is our protection. Your commandments secure the victory of believers, everywhere! We kneel before your throne, with humility and awe. All of this we return to you with our thanks. In the beloved name of Jesus Christ we petition you, Amen!”

 

Despite their differences and doubts, the mismatched bunch came together as one. They were somewhat bored and disinterested, but present in body if not fully in mind.

 

“AMEN! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

 

A tall, unfamiliar figure stepped to the lectern as they were buzzing with whispered conversation. He looked the part of a state official, in a tidy blue suit, and red necktie. His head had been shaved, and it glistened in the glow of florescent lights, hanging from the bare ceiling.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Nugent T. Brooke III. I am your elected steward in the Ohio General Assembly. District 99 of our venerable House of Representatives. Normally, I would be coming to you seeking support in the next cycle of balloting. But today, I have a different task at hand. Members of our state legislature have introduced a bill that would confer new rights and liberties to those of you living in mobile homes. It has long been true that those who occupy fixed dwellings in municipal entities of whatever sort possess the authority to govern themselves in some manner. This democratic principle is deeply American and undisputed by any political party. But for folks like you, there has always been a disconnect in place. You reside on land held by private or corporate owners. You are treated much like guests at a motel or hotel. Forced to pay for a room that you will never own, legally. Your trailers are considered to be little more than temporary shelters, parked on a rented space. Living out of a car would, in truth, offer about the same amount of standing in the eyes of our authorities. This is I believe, untenable. It is exploitation of an underclass. One never addressed by Republicans or Democrats in their partisan liturgies. You good people who vote and hold assets, and serve the grand state in which we live, are treated with only a modicum of civility. Your work propels the economy of Ohio. Your raising of families, and your labor to keep the faith in tenets of America learned from our founders, helps to move this nation forward. Yet the yield in real terms is slight. I say that the time has come to free every park like Evergreen Estates! To unshackle those who live in manufactured homes. To instigate a revolution that will bring justice to the halls in our capital!”

 

Loud cheers and celebratory whoops echoed throughout the steel building. Suddenly, every resident seemed to be fully attentive.

 

“MAKE LIVING IN TRAILERS GREAT AGAIN! MAKE THEM GREAT! MAKE THEM GREAT!”

 

The political wonk smiled broadly while continuing. He had struck a nerve with this unexpected proposal.

 

“What I ask is that each one of you, according to your own abilities, make contact with our governor and other elected officials. Call by telephone, send e-mail messages, or write postal letters. If you can, interact with these people directly. Let them see your faces and hear your voices. Make them know the truth of this unfair kink in the system. To quote former Cleveland Browns quarterback Bernie Kosar, ‘You Matter!’ All of you, every one of you, really does matter! Don’t allow yourselves to be shortchanged! Speak truth to power, as they say in the modern vernacular! Lift up your voices, and be heard!”

 

The entire gathering had gone wild. Everyone was on their feet, and shouting with unrestrained ebullience.

 

“MAKE LIVING IN TRAILERS GREAT AGAIN! MAKE TRAILERS GREAT! MAKE TRAILERS GREAT!”

 

Pastor Nardell retook his place of prominence. He had begun to sweat despite the cool interior temperature of their spartan venue. The citizen mob had become so noisy that he could barely be heard above a prevailing din of enthusiasm.

 

“Friends and neighbors, settle down please! Let me thank our guest for speaking here, as I do believe he’s tapped a vein of gold. His perspective is frankly, unique and right on target! I’ve never thought about things in the way that he has described. I’ll bet none of you have, either! On behalf of our rural oasis, I give my gratitude to him and offer prayers of support. Godspeed to you, Mr. Brooke! Godspeed! We are all behind you in this righteous effort!”

 

In the back of their maintenance garage, a skinny kid stood up and gestured for attention. He was wearing Beats headphones, and a knit beanie with a tassel colored in hues that conflicted with each other. Only by straining for a better view did anyone realize that the garish headgear was an item boasting loyalty for the Los Angeles Lakers. The basketball franchise that inherited LeBron James, after he had exited Cleveland for the second time.

 

“Preacher, could I interject something while we’re all together? My name is Donny Rubega. Some of you might remember my dad’s ice cream stand, just up the road. He made a good living off of racers who came to the drag strip, over by Sanker Farm. But times are harder now, and he’s in a nursing home. So, I’m doing my best to hold it all together. I just graduated from high school three years ago, so it hasn’t been easy. Anyway, I get looked at sideways sometimes. Most people figure that because I am so young, I must not know anything. Think about that for a minute, and realize that it’s the same for those of us that live in a shack brought in on wheels. A shipping container, not really fit to house living beings. How does that fit in a world run by insiders? They don’t think much about us, trust me! They hardly know we exist! So, when you go marching down to Columbus, what makes that add up differently than it does right here in Geauga County?”

 

A stunned silence fell upon the crowd. Their revered pastor began to chew his lip while pondering the wisdom of this youthful contrarian. With some trepidation, the political representative looked at his watch, and groaned to himself. He had no answer for the vexing query. His desire was to get out quickly, without a confrontation.

 

“Thank you everybody! Thank you! Thank you! I’ll see you all in November! Don’t forget to show up at the polls, and choose me for another term as your agent in the state government!”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Boredom”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

Mitzi Fontaine had been bored in her marriage for several years. The sense of emotional abandonment she carried was like an albatross around her neck. Or perhaps, a scarlet letter that marked her, not as a breaker of marriage vows, but instead someone who had proved to be unworthy of love. A dangerous condition in their small circle of friends at Evergreen Estates. Her husband had little interest in their physical cohabitation. He was identified with the nickname of ‘Flabby’ by most residents. A balding, hulk of a man. He had a fetish for professional athletes and political icons that nearly bordered on homosexuality. Yet the sight of other, younger members of their rural community immediately revived his adventurous spirit. He would wolf-whistle and growl with obvious lust, when any of these curvaceous dames passed their trailer. Being ignored in the flesh made her drink incessantly. She often tipped glasses of Tito’s Handmade Vodka, and fruit juice, until oblivion took over.

 

When she would end up snoring on the couch, Phil never seemed to notice. Maybe he simply did not care if she shared his bed.

 

When the late days of January brought a welcome thaw in winter temperatures, she decided to take a walk up their street. Predictably, her spouse barely noticed when the front door had swung open. He was too busy sorting through baseball cards and assorted trinkets. The statuesque, middle-aged woman sheathed herself in a shiny running suit. With a bit of imagination, she guessed that the stretchy garment actually made her look appealing. Her hair was long and dyed blonde, and pulled back with a gold clasp. She strutted through lingering drifts of snow, while basking in the sun.

 

A few lots from the corner, Rand Reskewicz had opened his storage barn, and moved a lawn chair into place between the front doors. He felt invigorated by the gleam of solar rays, despite a thermometer on the interior wall indicating that its sealed course of mercury had only reached about 38 degrees. His mood was one of emotional restoration. It caused him to jones for a Camel cigarette, something he hadn’t enjoyed in decades. But instead of surrendering to that seedy temptation, he twisted off the cap of a Miller High Life, from the cooler by his seat. He tilted the bottle upward, with a cheer of victory over his seasonal confinement.

 

“Hot damn! This feels like a summer day, after sittin’ on my ass inside fer so long!”

 

He heard a pitter-patter of stylish, orange flats coming up the driveway. Then, a bubbly sound of feminine amusement tickled his ears.

 

“I see you wanted to be outside today, neighbor! That was my idea as well. I needed some fresh air for a change. Do you mind if I visit for a minute or two?”

 

The reclusive biker scanned his yard, and the street beyond.

 

“Y’all don’t have yer dude taggin’ along? I’ve never seen ya runnin’ solo before...”

 

Mitzi shook her head and giggled playfully.

 

“Nah, he’s at the kitchen table sorting through sports collectibles. Some guy on eBay offered him a trade. I decided to get away while things were starting to melt. He didn’t even look up from his ring binder of cards!”

 

Rand considered her tall, leggy frame for a moment. She was truly a ‘MILF’ in the modern vernacular. Pleasant and puffy in all the right places. Skilled with a saucepan, and a queen at making game-day nachos. But he stilled the rising pulse in his chest, with moralistic deference. He was an old-fashioned sort, a cowboy at heart. Staying away from devilish inducements kept him out of trouble. He liked remaining somewhat anonymous, and invisible.

 

“It ain’t warm enough to start a spring project just yet. But I reckoned that a couple of brews would hit the spot. Do ya like beer, Mrs. Fontaine?”

 

Mitzi shuddered and wrinkled her nose.

 

“I don’t know how you boys drink that piss! I need a sweeter flavor on my lips. Something like vodka and a mixer. Or on a good day, a kiss to show me that I’m still able to look attractive. Do you think I’m pretty, neighbor?”

 

The quiet loner stiffened and lowered his eyes.

 

“In a court of law, I’d plead the fifth on that one. It’s enough to say I keep my opinions where they belong. Undercover and out of sight. Hope ya enjoy yer walk, lady!”

 

The melancholy wife reddened with embarrassment. She was being given a polite brush-off. The feel of rejection had a sting of familiarity. Yet it hurt more coming from an impartial observer, away from her own prefabricated longbox.

 

“You sound like a ‘made man’ in the mob, being interrogated! What kind of answer is that, buddy? Tell me the truth, am I worth a second look? C’mon, don’t be so shy!”

 

She lunged forward unexpectedly, and caught him between the legs. A pinch of wandering fingers had him jumping to his feet, and spouting curses with disbelief.

 

“WHATDA HECK? Y’ALL MUST’VE BEEN DRINKIN’ TODAY I FIGURE! THAT’S NO SIN WITH THE SUN SHININ’ BRIGHT. BUT ANYTHING MORE IS A GAMBLE I WON’T ABIDE. YA DIG MY VIBE? I’M LONELY BY CHOICE, MA’AM. IT AIN’T AN ACCIDENT. IN THE MORNING, Y’ALL WILL BE HUNGOVER, AND COUNTING YER REGRETS. DON’T MAKE A MISTAKE THAT CAN’T BE ERASED. YER A GOOD WOMAN. FINISH YER HIKE AROUND THE PARK, AND GET ON HOME!”

 

Mitzi felt her throat tightening. She didn’t want to go back to that vinyl-sided jail. Or the overweight warden that called her his spouse. Yet the tide of alcoholic courage had run out at last. She relented and stepped backwards. Her female glow dimmed as a cloudy sky took hold, overhead.

 

“Damn you! You’re really a gentleman, after all! What kind of luck do I have, picking the last of those good men? I thought you had all disappeared into a world of online porn sites, and burner phones calling out tricks! You won’t take a squeeze on the sly? That doesn’t interest you in the least? Quit lying, asshole! There are no Boy Scouts left anymore. No true-blue heroes. No sons of John Wayne! No keepers of the faith!”

 

She had started to cry. Rand tossed the beer bottle aside, and took off his hat in an antiquated gesture of respect. He did not want to say too much.

 

“Maybe there ain’t many of us out there, but there’s still a few. That’s how I was raised. I hope y’all will understand. Have a good day, Mrs. Fontaine. I hope ya find peace...”

 

The walk home to her corner lot was a silent interlude. She had already begun to feel sober again. By now, her life partner would have passed out in a food coma, on the couch. She had left a full plate of spaghetti with meat sauce, in the refrigerator. Irony lingered in the air, like errant flakes of snow. The one she respected was at his barn, up the street. And the one she loathed, the one wearing a wedding band, was likely to be burping up macro swill and pasta, on their davenport.

 

She couldn’t help wishing that those fates had been reversed.

Trailer Park Vignettes – "Worry"

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

Nardi Psenka had a natural inclination to worry. This tilt toward fretting over details was one that made him aloof and disconnected from the social continuum at Evergreen Estates. For brief periods, he was able to escape this habit, one learned from his doting mother. But as circumstances prevailed, he would descend into the obsessive abyss, once more. His critical approach to everyday events, in truth, did little to affect their outcome. Nothing changed by twisting his belly into knots. Yet it was something he could not unlearn easily.

 

“What about my furnace? It broke in December, and I had it fixed. But how long will that last? It started once, even twice, but how many times will that cycle repeat before an igniter fails again? Or the blower fan, or the roof jack that brings in cold air, and vents exhaust? What about the supply line? Is there enough propane in the tank? What if the power goes out, like last winter? What if I can’t find any candles or my butane lighter? What if I am stuck in this trailer with no food or water? Worst of all, what if I am caught short, without any beer?”

 

The middle-aged retiree had endured being alone for about 14 years. As a new resident of the community, many years before, he was more outgoing and successful with interpersonal relationships. His wife and daughters had attracted many friends into their circle. Yet with the collapse of his marriage and family structure, this veneer of civility was stripped away. He became withdrawn and gloomy, a condition that had plagued his childhood. Escaping the inner paranoia at his core was no longer possible. He fell hard from an emotional cliff, into a canyon of tortured self-analysis and criticism. Ghosts in his head were boisterous and persistent.

 

“Never good enough! Never, never, never! That’s the story of your miserable life! Only having a chemical swill in your bloodstream makes you content! What a pity! You’ve failed even with so much promise. So much hope to be better! So many chances given by people who thought you deserved to be happy. All of that is gone now! You have nothing left but a sad image in the mirror, and judgment from your own reflection. Look at that face! Look into those drooping eyes! This is the handiwork of consequences. This is fate! Gaze upon what you have become, and inherit the negative value of your own lack of worth! You sir – are nothing!”

 

He felt haunted. As if Vincent Price were narrating his damned adventure, with theatrical poise. In tones that added to the overall aura of desolation carried by his existence.

 

Nardi got very drunk on Sunday evening. He had watched ESPN for hours, clinging to sports scores and clips of athletic prowess as a diversion. With each alcoholic beverage, he became more liberated. More distant from the trembling, withered fool he saw in the looking glass. He nearly inhaled a bag of waffle pretzels while drinking. Then, he reached for his cellular device, and started to scroll through posts on a social media platform.

 

There amid familiar cat memes and generic political rants, was a blast of feminine allure that he did not expect. One of his neighbors, a young woman who lived on the back half of their rural property, had put up photos taken at a modeling studio. She wore a yellow outfit that lovingly caressed her curves, and accented the charm of her long, toned legs. Her dark hair framed a friendly face, with deep eyes and a perky nose. She boasted about being signed to a developmental contract by an agency. One that would allow her to explore the business of being voyeuristically poked and prodded and preened, for public consumption.

 

The reclusive loner felt his heartbeat quicken. She was someone he barely knew. Though they might have met once, at a meeting of the park’s neighborhood association. A failed group that had been designed to bring residents together for the purpose of promoting mutual interests. Gently, he held the phone while reaching for his reading glasses. Then, went through all of her pictorial albums. Each section on the virtual profile yielded more of the same. She had posed in dozens of different garments, with heels and nylons and jewelry that accentuated her undeniable appeal. His favorite from the bunch was one taken in a Hooters restaurant. She was clad in the white top, orange trunks, and shiny tights most often used by waitresses who worked for this national chain. On a plate, delicately balanced in her right hand, was an order of Buffalo wings. That pleasant sight made him hungry. Instead of sexual conquest, his thoughts veered sideways, to whetting his appetite.

 

He loved spicy chicken wings. They were a perfect compliment to mugs of cold brew.

 

Being quite inebriated, he clicked on a messenger link and decided to make direct contact. Though shy and humble, this sort of plan seemed perfect to defeat the cackling voices in his head. They grew louder as he typed out a brief greeting of sorts. One rendered through a fog of hops and grains and self-deprecation.

 

“Jennica, I saw your pics this evening, while trying to stay warm through this long interlude of winter confinement. I must say that they really caught my attention. You’ve got style, girl! I’m not usually one to comment on sites like this, but I think we spoke at our township library, over the summer. Weren’t you wearing a spandex tracksuit, bright orange in color, and pink running shoes? Your hair had been pulled back in a ponytail. It was shimmering and glossy and bouncy. I thought it matched your personality. You’ve got so much energy! Anyway, I just wanted to give your post a ‘like.’ Thanks for breaking the boredom here, I needed that diversion. If you’re on my street, stop over for some refreshment. I’m usually out on my porch when the sun shines...”

 

After finishing his geeky solicitation, the hermit huddled in his easy chair, with a recorded fireplace playing on YouTube. He opened a new 12-pack of Miller High Life, and wallowed in numb glory. Somehow, he had overcome the weight of his own inadequacy to find a moment of respite. Not having to ponder his reflection in the mirror made him feel free.

 

Nardi was very tipsy by the time a reply popped up in his message app. He strained to read it clearly while continuing to satisfy his thirst.

 

“Hey Hot Dog! I remember you, that was a fun gig up at the bookery! Y’all were very polite, a real gentleman. I don’t get a lot of that in the trailer park. Guys usually want to grab my tits! I never had anyone describe me with all those big words. That’s a hoot, man! I figure it’s because you’re an older dude. Shoot, y’all must be my dad’s age, I think! That’s a different generation from the rockheads we got now. But I appreciate being treated like a lady! Damn straight I’ll stop by for a beer some time! Count on it, buster!”

 

By the time he finished reading, his pulse had begun to pound like a jackhammer. He poured a bottle of suds over his head, just to feel this cold wash of liquid ease the fever that resulted. His skin tingled, all over. And his sweatpants tightened with anticipation.

 

Then, the beasts of worry returned. He doubled over in the cozy chair, and held his stomach.

 

“What about this hovel? I haven’t cleaned up in months, maybe years. There are boxes everywhere, from Amazon and Walmart, and eBay. I keep everything, just like my parents. It’s a bad tendency, hard to kick! What if she doesn’t like all the clutter? And what if she wants to date a man with a big-tired truck or a four-wheeler, instead of a ratty Jeep? What if she hates seeing gray hair and thick glasses and a slouching profile? What if she likes sushi and wine? What if she wants to lie on the beach and giggle over suitors with lots of cash in the bank? What if this is all just a trick to get a rise out of me? What if I sent a text to the wrong person? What if she’s really 300 pounds and flabby, and used her sister’s glamour shots to get attention on Facebook?”

 

Nardi had driven himself insane with doubt. He tossed his brew at the wall, and watched as its remnants trickled downward in slow motion, until foam reached the carpet.

 

It was time to go to bed.