Trailer Park Vignettes – “Paradise”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

J. Dixon Pflug had lived at the Evergreen Estates mobile home park for so long, that his recollections of life in the outside world were faded and unreliable. In early days at the rural community, there had been a sense that an escape would come quickly. That hopeful inclination kept him upbeat and positive, while going through the daily routine. He had kept busy wrenching on cars and trucks, at a local shop owned by the son of a former professional athlete, who once had a contract with the bygone Cleveland Rams. A franchise that abandoned their original host city in 1945. But as months, years, and decades passed without him finding a moment of release, that optimism evaporated. Eventually he realized that as with most of the other residents, no silver lining adorned his confinement in the low-buck district. He had been stripped of social standing. Members of his family would look sideways and whisper, when he attended seasonal gatherings. Friends first met in high school days would lower their heads and groan when he attended reunions. Bankers fretted over his lack of concrete assets, when a loan was needed. He tumbled from the comfort of a steady paycheck, to career negation and then, futility. Finally, his noggin went numb in a wash of high-proof spirits. This harsh therapy gave him an ability to cope. It made his brain impervious to bouts of contemplation, and remorse.

 

He was better off staying persistently drunk, rather than having to face the weight of his own failings in life.

 

After a generation had come and gone at the trailer oasis, nobody could remember him being anything but a crabby, unshorn beast of a man. Though there were at least a few in the neighborhood that looked upon him with a mild sense of pity. They would pretend not to notice when he slurred his words, while sitting outside. Or when his bladder became uncontrollable, and he soaked the crotch of his denim overalls. He did not cease trying to be a good citizen despite physical handicaps that kept him stuff and sore even in warmer weather. A small garden of floral varieties flanked his abode, in the front. He seemed to breathe life into this space, almost as if the cultivation of nature’s gifts helped to erase the ugly reality of his own existence. A decided contrast to the gloomy, unkempt appearance that he and his boxcar hovel projected otherwise.

 

On a Friday afternoon in January, he bundled up in a heavy parka and gloves, and sat outside with a 40-ounce bottle of Steel Reserve 211. The temperature was below freezing, though not so severe as it had been during previous days. So, he felt grateful for a chance to trade the drudgery of indoor time for something more rewarding, and sunny in character. The malt liquor swill warmed his pipes quickly. He soon had the sensation of being on a roller coaster, strapped into his seat while twisting and turning and reacting to jolts of gravity and noise. Diesel rigs that passed his yard chuffed black smoke into the white mist of snow that was falling. His nose tingled with each breath. He gripped the glass container with gusto, and let foam dribble into his longish, gray beard. The potent refreshment made him feel like a traveling conman and snake-oil seller, holding a fake meeting under a big, canvas tent. He spoke with a hint of sarcasm dripping from his mouth, like doggie drool.

 

“BLESS YOU, EVERYONE! I’M SURE GRATEFUL FOR ANOTHER DAY HERE IN PARADISE! THERE AIN’T NOWHERE ON EARTH I’D RATHER BE! I’M BUCKEYE BORN AND BRED! THANK YOU, DEAR OLD SOL! THANK YOU MOST SINCERELY! NOW, STEP RIGHT UP, FOLKS, TO GET THIS BARGAIN OF THE CENTURY! A YELLOW NECTAR NUMBERED LIKE HYMNS IN A CHURCH SONGBOOK! TWO-ELEVEN I SAY! TWO-ELEVEN!”

 

A window on the dwelling next door slid upward as he continued to imbibe. Its panes had been patched with duct tape. This crude fix obscured much of the light that filtered through. Aberdeen DeCosta was in front of her television, in a spare room full of jar candles and faux works of cowboy art made in China. Her grandchildren were in another section of the house-on-wheels, playing video games.

 

“Dixx! It’s damned cold outside, are you crazy? I won’t even perch on my deck to smoke a cigarette! My daughter was bitching all day about the stench! But I told her a few puffs of tobacco won’t hurt the kiddos. I’m not going outside to freeze my nipples off! You must be really buzzed to stand this weather!”

 

The crusty loner stopped ingesting brew for long enough to catch his breath.

 

“Abby, could you at least wish me a good day before complaining? That tone of yours grates on my ears! It’s like the sound of a schoolmarm I had in the sixth grade. That horrible bitch liked to single me out for correction in front of our whole class. I was perpetually embarrassed and broken. But in that era, no one gave a dang about feelings and such, you know? We got paddled with a long-handled tool made of varnished pine. My rear end broke it in half, on one occasion...”

 

Aberdeen snorted and snickered while lighting a menthol smoke.

 

“I didn’t know you ever had any feelings, old coot! That’s quite a story you just told. But don’t expect me to give you a hug. I’ve got plenty of crap to keep me busy. My daughter has been divorced three times. She keeps switching jobs, and the kids always get left with me! I’m plumb out of energy now. The truth is, I could use a sip of that piss you’re holding!”

 

Dixon forced himself to smile. He reached out with the 211 as a gesture of friendship, though his bench and the window were probably 30 feet apart.

 

“At least you get to see your grandkids. There’s a lot to be said for keeping families together. Mine are in California, well one is anyway. That little chub looks like our side of the brood, he’s definitely in the bloodline. But my former squeeze won’t acknowledge that there was a DNA contribution of any kind. She ditched me when we were both younger and stupid. Something must have given her a clue that our relationship was doomed...”

 

The blue-collar woman shivered just a bit. She stubbed out her coffin nail and cursed.

 

“If you’re looking for sympathy, there’s none here to take. Sorry, Dixx. Once you’ve landed in a place like this, hard times seem normal. I moved here when my husband was killed in a work accident, he drove a dump truck for that stone quarry on the hill. We never had much, but as a widow, I’ve had even less. Go figure, right? But I still raised my kid. Now, I’m repeating the process with her kids. How’s that for a bite in the ass?”

 

The contrarian hobo smiled through a haze of alcohol mash.

 

“Hmm, well now you’ve told your own tale, Abby! I think that might be even sadder than mine, though I guess this ain’t a contest. You know, every morning comes with me wanting to clear my head. I drink coffee until my hands quit shaking, and both eyes can see straight. Yet an hour don’t pass before I’m thirsty again. In hate being sober. It means I see how things are, which is not what I choose to perceive. I’d rather have my boozy façade in place. That veneer of comfort keeps me sane...”

 

Aberdeen coughed and slouched in her roller chair. She was dressed in a jumpsuit patterned after a package of Maruchan Ramen Noodles. The outfit had been an unexpected Christmas surprise. She hated the garish garment, but wore it anyway to amuse her junior offspring.

 

“Drink yourself into a stupor then, and be happy! But don’t linger on your porch, the township police will find you tomorrow, looking like a fat, shaggy popsicle! Take care, neighbor! Empty that bottle, and go to bed!”

 

The window portal slammed shut before he could grunt out a response. But it gave him a welcome opportunity to finish his beverage in peace.

 

“Another day in paradise. Yeah, that’s it right there!”