c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(1-24)
Note to Readers – T.C. Lincoln is a descendant of our noted and beloved 16th 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?
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