c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(1-24)
Note to Readers – T.C. Lincoln is a descendant of our noted and beloved 16th 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!”
No comments:
Post a Comment