“Thinking Too Early”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

I started thinking too early

Got my mind lost in a ceiling fan

A wild safari through the daze

Riding a breeze born in a coffee can

I started thinking too early

Spun myself into knobby knots of despair

All the while stuck in the cushions

Of a thrift store easy chair

 

I started wondering too early

About crazy circumstances beyond control

It made me uptight and out of sight

Like a police cruiser on patrol

I started wondering too early

Mind playing tricks like a show horse at play

Something rattled my consciousness

It ran my mobile backwards into the bat cave

 

I started jumping too early

Got pulled in with the thought of leaping a fence

It made me hop like a critter with long legs

But the animal control took offense

I started jumping too early

Over hill and dale on the run

The last competitor in a race

Riding high into the sun

 

I started dreaming too early

Though my brain was clearly still quite awake

It caused me to testify

To deeds that I could not lawfully embrace

I started dreaming too early

With the morning glow still overhead

I fell among thieves and had to recant

Everything that I had unwisely said

 

I started typing too early

At the keyboard like a student, so naïve

Crouched over the electronic display

Pecking away at those square keys

I started typing too early

With the deadline approaching, fast and quick

I should have admitted my failure

But the thought turned my stomach sick

 

I started loving too early

A desire that came out like a plea of hope

Once I saw her so close at hand

Once I heard the words she spoke

I started loving too early

Every curve and caress she carried along

The way she purred my name like a kiss

The way she turned hello into a song

 

I started looking too early

For alternate routes to pass the day

A path around the castle walls

A stone skipping through the maze

I started looking too early

For something that was not a chance to take

Got my ankle caught in a jump rope

Fell hard on my knees like an earthquake

 

I started thinking too early

About the verse teetering behind my eyes

A thought that tickled the gray matter

Like a witty, clever, quill-and-ink reply

I started thinking too early

That a page of sheet music was enough

To sit still on the piano bench

And call out the dirty, demon’s bluff

 

I started drinking too early

Got an olive stuck in my Martini craw

Doubled over like a wallet fold

By what this jester saw

I started drinking too early

And found that it blurred my sense of self

I couldn’t write my way out of that brown, paper bag

It trapped me right there on the bookshelf

Trailer Park Vignettes – “TrailerCakes” (Part Five)

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

At first, the bargain struck with Kimmie Tickle worked flawlessly. She proved to be more skilled as a salesperson than her business partner. With a bubbly personality, and lots of local contacts in the realm of adult entertainment. Profits were split 60/40, in deference to Dremel Kongin having originated the online platform. He was a good steward, and reinvested most of his share in the business. So, they both prospered. New recruits for their roster of content creators meant that the operation far exceeded expectations. So many posts were available for review that additional storage had to be added to the servers.

 

The reclusive, computer engineer liked being anonymous. He was content to let his associate flaunt her assets in public, and handle personal interactions. The arrangement allowed him to hide out and work on new projects.

 

But as weeks and months passed, there were unexplained interruptions in service to the rural trailer enclave. Power would dip during periods of peak usage, or be cut altogether. A visible police presence persisted throughout every episode. With these issues becoming more common, he started to ponder relocating TrailerCakes to a new physical environment. Yet thoughts of doing so made him feel perplexed. Any spot nearer to populated areas would only increase his risk of discovery. He preferred to remain off the beaten path.

 

Kimmie finally interrupted his self-imposed exile, to protest about deteriorating conditions at Evergreen Estates. She called after one o’clock in the morning, on a Tuesday in July.

 

“Hey buddy! Things are getting spooky out here in Thompson Township. The Po-Po riding by, dudes in black sedans, all suited up, flashlights beaming in the dark. Y’all know anything about this shit? There ain’t been nothing on the news. The girls are getting antsy about putting things on their pages. We get dumbass kids knocking on the doors and windows at night. Weird noises on the phones, and images popping up in the middle of streaming shows. Likely, hackers playing around. What’s the deal? Yer supposed to be the damn techno freak. Explain this nonsense!”

 

Dremel had grown accustomed to sipping wine in the evenings. It helped him sleep restfully after being busy in his home office, in daylight hours. But her ranting made his head ache.

 

“Kim, I’ve got no idea about any of that. I run scans on our network all the time. Nothing odd comes up in the results. I had a friend from college say that the FBI was fooling around out there, once. I didn’t believe him. But maybe, who knows? Just maybe they are still peeking through the curtains...”

 

His attractive cohort rattled ice cubes in her drink glass.

 

“Look shithead, y’all are supposed to be keeping this under control. I don’t know a thing about yer electronic gizmos. I know about dancing on a stripper pole, and teasing customers for a good tip. Okay? Do yer damn job! Take care of this before it gets any worse!”

 

The squawking ultimatum sent him back to his station of monitors, and keyboard. He decided to make a more thorough inspection of the grid. Hotspots appeared as he searched all around the trailer park. In places where he never thought to dig, before. A command center was in use, just down Pine Trail Road, from the property entrance. When he hacked a police network in the township, and the sheriff’s office, details emerged of their cooperation with federal agents.

 

These revelations caused him to feel incredibly stupid. Hubris had tricked him into becoming a patsy. Prying eyes must have already seen what sins he was committing. He knocked over a bottle of Ferrante Pinot Grigio, while flailing his arms, and yelping like a wounded canine.

 

“I’m screwed! She’s screwed! We’re all screwed! We’re screwed!”

 

He showed up at the lot where his partner resided, around three o’clock in the morning. She was passed out on her sofa, wearing only a silk pajama top, and lace panties. The front entryway stood wide open. Country warbling sounded from a wi-fi speaker, on the entertainment center.

 

One footstep across the threshold had Kimmie awake and on her feet, however. Her instincts were sharp. She scratched and clawed at her unannounced visitor, before realizing his identity. This left him bloodied, and in retreat.

 

“WHAT’RE Y’ALL DOING IN MY TRAILER? WHAT THE HELL IS YER GAME, MOFO?”

 

Her feline paws did enough damage that Dremel had to wipe crimson and scar tissue from his face. But then, the attack was over. Fully conscious, his slumbering opposite stumbled back to the couch, and collapsed.

 

“I’m sorry dude, that was like a freaking nightmare! Y’all scared the crap outta me. I’ve been on edge with this weird stuff happening. Did y’all figure out who’s yanking our chain?”

 

Her friend nodded in the negative.

 

“Nah, I but confirmed that Stan Finkel was right about the bureau being here in the hinterland. He was another student in our college classes. They’ve got assets stationed across the road, just as he said. But why? People in this park cook up meth, they sell fentanyl, they do all kinds of insane things. Being dumb and poor makes you desperate. We’ve obeyed all the laws, though. There’s nothing on TrailerCakes that wouldn’t stand up to legal scrutiny, especially if some money changed hands. I’ve never had a desire to experience life in jail...”

 

Kimmie rubbed her eyes. Her leftover makeup had smeared enough that she looked like a raccoon.

 

“So, if that’s the case, then why is someone hassling me? Why are they messing with the internet, and the lights? And pounding on the walls?”

 

Dremel bowed his head. He had reached a conclusion that could not be logically refuted.

 

“Did you ever hear the old saying that two things can be true at the same time? Guys like Chris Cuomo like to use that line, on TV news shows. Well, I think that our erstwhile pal Stanley might be involved. He wanted a cut of the profit from my cyberspace venture. But I blew him off. Because he did it to me, first! So then, he tried to rattle me with talk of the government messing around. Now, I would say that it isn’t necessarily one or the other pulling strings. Everybody can be a player, right? It’s an open competition. The feds want to be sure taxes get paid. And palms get greased. Our fellow attendee at Tri-C wants to put his thumb on the scales. For a better deal on his end. Maybe there are more people involved. Like some of the women you signed up after I moved back to the city. Maybe their boyfriends or husbands. Maybe someone thought we were pissing on their shoes, and calling for rain...”

 

The young porn star was flummoxed and off balance.

 

“So, what does that mean, bruh? What are y’all gonna do about this mess?”

 

Her confidante folded his hands, and stared at stains on the carpeted floor.

 

“Say goodbye. This is it, we’re done. No more cakes for us, no more good times. We’ve made a boatload of cash here, it’ll last for a long while. I’m heading west. I’ve always wanted to live on the gold coast. How about you?”

 

The fiery femme hooked her arm in his, and curled up like a cat seeking favor.

 

“Wherever you go, I’m with you, Drem. You’re not such a nerd, after all! Let’s hit the road!”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – TrailerCakes (Part Four)

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

Evergreen Estates proved to be a perfect launching pad for the TrailerCakes website. But more than simply being a convenient physical location for the underground business, it had offered real inspiration for Dremel Kongin. His reward in landing at the rural village of mobile homes was a two-sided coin. He felt humiliated and debased by living in such a dirty environment. And yet had learned valuable lessons, that made success and amassing wealth truly possible.

 

Now, he could escape. That was the upshot of his plan, from the very beginning.

 

Kimmie Tickle was his biggest star on the CheeseCakes partition. She had saved money somehow, while working as a waitress at a nearby travel plaza. Slinging bacon, eggs, and hashbrowns to the truckers who visited paid her well enough to put a few dollars aside, each week. She had entrepreneurial skills that were rarely seen in the neighborhood. Eventually, her stash of spendable funds paid for breast implants at a clinic in Cleveland. She was already pretty enough, with a European bloodline gifting her in many ways. Not the least of which was with large, deep eyes that caused lustful fantasies to be aroused online and at their isolated burgh, on a regular basis. Yet the artificial swelling of her bosom tipped the scales. After a quick recovery, she strutted around their junkyard community with a new sense of confidence. Male tongues hung out of open mouths on every street. Drool dripped and catcalls resounded. Even some lesbian admirers were moved enough to shout their approval, despite the public MAGA social and political paradigm.

 

Her photographs and videos featured lots of lingerie, heels, leather, and erotic cosplay. With friends participating who were also blessed with a wealth of feminine charms.

 

She seemed to be a likely candidate to control the salacious, cyber empire. He only needed to figure out a way to propose this takeover, logically.

 

Weeks passed as his bank account grew fatter with each deposit. Then, Dremel was ready. He reached out through a messenger app on his cell phone. The young woman agreed to meet with him, next to the maintenance garage. A place where, after hours, they would be inconspicuous enough to talk freely.

 

He still remembered Stan Finkel’s warning about the FBI. Perhaps his extended hut was bugged? He couldn’t be sure.

 

After scoping out his surroundings, the nerdy engineer pulled his red Prius close to a tall set of bay doors, in front of their official repair center. Kimmy reversed her yellow Jeep into a space that corresponded longitudinally. Both left-side windows faced each other. She lit a menthol cigarette, and relaxed in her bucket seat before offering a formal greeting. Her 80’s mane was full of blonde highlights. Her long, glistening nails curled around the steering wheel.

 

“Alright cowboy, y’all wanted to do a face-to-face, so here I am. What’s the deal? You got some wild hair up your ass, or did ya just want to look at my pumped-up hooters?”

 

The techno wizard reddened a bit, with embarrassment. He was still in a sweatshirt and pants from three hours earlier, when neighbor kids wanted to play a pickup game of basketball.

 

“Look Kim, I’ll be totally straight with you. The first thing on my mind when both feet hit the ground here was getting out. I never wanted to live in a glorified shipping container. This isn’t my kind of place. I belong in California, maybe. Or at least a better district around Lake Erie. This has been hell, listening to diesel trucks and shitkicker tunes all day, every day...”

 

The budding model cackled and flicked ashes out of her window.

 

“Y’all sound like a gawdamm sissy! But I think yer cute in a funny sort of way. In high school, I used to like teasing boys with pencil necks and a gangly build. I figured they were wetting their gym shorts! Girls grow up faster at that age. It don’t look like yer fully mature, even now! When do you shave that mug of yours, once a week?”

 

Dremel stroked his angular chin. It felt like sandpaper.

 

“Let’s stay on the subject. I’m bringing in a big haul of gold every month. It’s crazy how much this sketchy venture has paid off. But I want out. Out of this park, and out of the porn biz. I’m headed back to the real world. Maybe dabbling in the stock market or selling financial products for an investment firm. Anything that’ll get me off this cursed little piece of land...”

 

His potential successor bit her lip and frowned. She did not deliver the reaction he had anticipated.

 

“GET OUT? SO, WHO’D RUN THE DAMN WEBSITE, CHIEF? THAT’S A JOB AND A HALF, I BET!”

 

The college graduate snorted and gestured with his right hand.

 

“You, woman! It’s the best solution for both of us, you’ve got spunk like Calamity Jane. I could see you riding a horse, bareback. With a rifle in your hand!”

 

Kimmie gasped and rolled her eyes. She breathed so hard that her overloaded bra straps nearly burst from the strain.

 

“ME? ARE Y’ALL TOUCHED IN THE HEAD? I’VE NEVER RUN ANYTHING BUT A RESTAURANT KITCHEN, OR THE DINING ROOM. I’D BE LOST LOOKING AT UTILITY BILLS AND P&L STATEMENTS AND ALL THAT KIND OF BULLSHIT! THAT’S WHY I DIDN’T EARN A DEGREE LIKE Y’ALL DID! YER LOSING IT, BUD!”

 

Her benefactor was surprised and frustrated. Beads of sweat appeared on his pale forehead.

 

“No, no, no! You can do it, trust me! I’ll teach you the tricks of management. I did some student teaching at Cuyahoga Community College. You’re a much faster learner than many of those inner-city troublemakers, who got sent to me as a part of their probation with the court...”

 

The rowdy femme stubbed out her smoke in an ashtray under the dashboard.

 

“LOOK HERE, STOOGE! IF Y’ALL WANT ME TO SHEPHERD YER INVESTMENTS IN THIS STINKHOLE, I’LL NEED YA TO HANG AROUND AS A SILENT PARDNER! I COULDN’T SWING IT ON MY OWN. I’D NEED TO KNOW Y’ALL WERE AVAILABLE 24/7, WITH ADVICE AND SUPPORT. KEEP YER CUT OF THE TAKE, AND HANG AROUND. I DON’T GIVE A DAMN IF YA MOVE AWAY TO THE CITY, JUST DON’T GO TOO FAR!”

 

Dremel cleared his throat and slouched sideways, in the little Toyota hybrid.

 

“I want out of this dump! Out all the way! Out! Out! Out!”

 

His prospect pounded her steering wheel with both fists clenched.

 

“NO, DAMMIT! I SAID NO! Y’ALL STAY IN THE LOOP, OR IT’S NO DICE FROM ME!”

 

Her suitor hung his bulbous head in defeat. Realizing that he would never be able to sever his connection to the crumbling development made him wallow in a pool of sadness. He cursed in a whisper, while throwing up his hands.

 

“Okay, okay. You win. I’ll be your shadow. You handle the day-to-day ops. I’ll be waiting in the wings, if you get stuck. Can we call it a deal?”

 

Kimmie reached through her open window, and patted him playfully on the arm.

 

“It’s a deal, tenderfoot! Thanks for thinking of me. I’ll do ya proud, its guaranteed. Sit back, and watch the money roll in! We’ve got a damn deal!”

Trailer Park Vignettes – “TrailerCakes” (Part Three)

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

After an unseasonably warm day in February, with everyone in the neighborhood enjoying summery outdoor activities, Evergreen Estates retreated into a rainy, seasonal gloom. The downpour began early, even before sunrise. Its persistence throughout the day dampened festive emotions that had arisen in the community of manufactured homes. Everyone felt seasonally depressed. Yet for Dremel Kongin, a wholly different mood was at work. One of intense motivation as he labored at his triad of computer screens in the home office.

 

The clean-cut, young, techno-geek was full of energy. He had been up all night, writing code and executing new programs. Each step in this virtual odyssey brought him closer to the fulfillment of a personal dream. A quantum leap froward, taken boldly and without remorse. After years languishing in failure and obscurity, he would finally prove his worth as a wizard of modern thinking. His brain would win what his body could not secure, by physical prowess alone. TrailerCakes was the key. It would unlock doors never opened previously. And deliver him into a world of rapture, renown and glory.

 

He would remain a nerdy nebbish, no longer.

 

When the website first went live, early on Friday morning, his skin turned prickly. He was giddy with anticipation. An address book for park members was already in his possession. Something obtained by snooping on the property manager’s terminal while she was away trying to collect rent money on overdue accounts. He had attached a tiny, plastic wafer to the back of her PC mainframe. A minimalist bit of spyware that worked magically. With e-mail information successfully obtained, he created a solicitation for the new platform. Then sent out advertising to all of the local members who were connected. His TikTok advertising video boasted images pilfered from other clips. By continuing to harvest data based on his results, he soon had a stash of more contacts filed away for future use.

 

The cake he had baked was beginning to rise.

 

Amber Zorcheski’s initial suggestion of a three-pronged approach to building the website made enough sense at first. But Dremel realized before long that few among the neighborhood’s male population wanted to participate. A certain measure of reluctance and shyness kept them from joining. Only a slight number of inhabitants who were interested in alternative lifestyles added to this scarce quantity of resources. But women who wanted to offer photos, videos-on-demand, and livestreamed content were numerous. He set the sign-up fee at $9.99 per month, a minimal cost of entry. With additional in-app charges where appropriate. An explosion of new members quickly overwhelmed his ability to supervise and moderate.

 

He had opened a new frontier. Now, this rowdy creation was beginning to evolve in real time. With such unbridled fury that he no longer remained in full control of the wild forces he had unleashed. Demons were loose upon the trailer park landscape.

 

Every day saw the total user count grow by a dozen. Then by a hundred, and finally, thousands more. The reach of his cyber-borne marvel spread all across Ohio, and the Midwest. Then, it moved outward in opposite directions, toward both continental coasts. Those familiar with OnlyFans and Patreon began to protest. This new platform was leaching away members at an alarming rate.

 

Eventually, Stan Finkel showed up at his door, on a Monday afternoon. He was carrying a briefcase stuffed with legal tender. This chum from bygone days had changed his style during their separation as friends. Now, the slightly-built hacker looked more like a mob figure than a college geek. He drove a sleek, black, BMW sedan. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers.

 

A pounding knock at the front entrance announced his presence.

 

“Hey Drem! Open up, dammit! I should’ve called first, maybe. It’s been a long time since we talked one-to-one. But I’m here with a cash offer. I want to buy into your scheme, okay? You’ve convinced me after all. Hell, you’ve pretty much convinced the whole world, right now! Good job, brother! Sorry I blew you off before.”

 

His friend from yesteryear turned red in a fit of pique. He did not want to discuss the dealmaker’s impulsive query without more preparation, beforehand.

 

“Stanley, you’re an asshole! There, I said it! You laughed in my face when we were both just amateur kids. None of my ideas were worth your time. Now you want a piece of the action? That’s how it goes? Kiss my backside! As a matter of fact, kiss it two times!”

 

His lost associate put a shoulder to the door frame, causing it to split down the side. This gave him full entry into the boxcar dwelling.

 

“Look man, I’m not playing cat-and-mouse games. This is straight-up, a real proposal from my umm... business partners. You’re in deep, did you realize? There’s an FBI van parked across the road from this shithole junkyard. It’s in a thicket of weeds and brush. You never noticed that, right?”

 

Dremel broke out in a cold sweat. Beard stubble felt rough on his chin.

 

“FBI van? C’mon, are you trying to give me the heebie jeebies? That won’t do it, try again...”

 

Stan took out his phone, and clicked on the photos partition. He scrolled until a murky image of a plain, white Ram ProMaster filled the display.

 

“Does that convince you? He’s close enough to be intercepting signals and collecting gigabytes of data. I can always smell a rat, even one hiding out in the woods. That stink can’t be mistaken for anything else...”

 

Now there was a hint of panic in the voice of his former friend.

 

“You wait years to rekindle our bond. And come in here howling about a government agent keeping tabs on me? What gives with that? I don’t get it! I wouldn’t cut you into my deal if you had a gun in my face!”

 

His estranged associate sat the briefcase down on an end table by the sofa. He worked its security mechanism until the lid popped open. Inside were many bundles of $100 bills. The aroma of newly-minted certificates wafted upward like the signature of a fragrant floral display. This erased any doubt about his direct intentions.

 

“Take the payoff. I know you need investors. If you’ve got a stone in your craw about how I acted in the past, let it go. That’s water under the bridge. This cash will fortify your business. It’ll also make us partners again, real partners. I’ll throw some shade at the G-Man trying to listen in on your calls, and poke into your operation. Trust me, we’ve both grown up since sitting in a classroom at Tri-C...”

 

Dremel lowered his gaze, toward the carpet. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his belly. Nothing about this unexpected offer of a new business venture sounded appealing. Especially after so many years without any contact. He was struggling to maintain control over the sprawling, virtual empire of TrailerCakes, and the women who were eagerly showing their wares. And the thought of being under surveillance only caused him to be more concerned about the future.

 

How had everything turned sour, so quickly?

Trailer Park Vignettes – “TrailerCakes” (Part Two)

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

Dremel Kongin was a young man with lots of ideas, but few friends. That reality kept him feeling somewhat isolated at the Evergreen Estates community of mobile homes. Yet it meant that he always had plenty of free time for brainstorming. At first, living on a property where skinny plots of dirt were rented to uneducated, downtrodden people made him feel decidedly out of place. But eventually, his inner psyche and this humble environment meshed. He began to see opportunities where before, there were only rusty pickup trucks and broken hearts. Profit potential appeared in place of poverty and alienation. Hope rose over a horizon dotted with broken concrete, pallet fences, and cabins nailed together from scrap wood and tin sheets.

 

But he needed a sounding board to fine tune his ambitious plan for success.

 

Amber Zorcheski, a bright student who had also received childhood instruction at Our Lady of St. Vitus in Cleveland, was his closest confidante. Though she remained in their old neighborhood, situated near Lake Erie. They kept in touch occasionally, through cellular devices and their computers. Yet hadn’t seen each other, face-to-face, in over a year.

 

A Skype link brought them back into contact, as the techno prodigy was at his desk.

 

“Heyyy! It’s good to see you Ambie! Even if it comes through a monitor in my home office. You look fantastic! How have you been, little queenie?”

 

The ebullient woman had her straight hair pulled back in a messy flop of rainbow colors. She was dressed like an 80’s aerobics coach.

 

“Drem, you haven’t changed a bit. People always say that, right? But it’s true, you are timeless. Just like when we were in classes together at Cuyahoga Community College. Did you ever get married? I live with my girlfriend here, my life partner. She’s really sweet. Nobody hassles us about being open with our sexuality, it’s different out there in the country though, I would guess...”

 

He coughed and sat up straight in his roller chair.

 

“Nah, no so much as you might think. We seem to attract outsiders here, maybe they like being out of the zone, socially. I’m not married. No dating, no significant other, nothing. I work all the time. That’s why I zapped you with a message, really. There are things bouncing around in my head. Ideas I’ve had for a while. You always gave me an honest reaction to new concepts. I need that right now. So far, nobody has been too receptive.”

 

The college graduate snickered and tapped at her keyboard. She had nails painted in every color, which glistened on the screen.

 

“New concepts? Okay, give me a clue. What kind of crazy notions do you have in that thick skull, more stuff about vending machines selling Ramen noodles, or vegan sandwiches?”

 

Dremel laughed to himself. He had failed repeatedly as an innovator, since they last met at a Chinese buffet in Eastlake, for a brainiac session.

 

“A bolt of lightning struck while I was driving around this park the other day. Nobody else has a Toyota Prius in my neighborhood. They roll around on big tires and elevated 4x4 systems. You know, looking down on pipsqueak nerds such as me! I was feeling self-conscious, like always. Then, it hit me, why not use my skills to make their lives better? These people are down-to-earth. They don’t get impressed with techno hardware. They don’t go for fads or trends. They don’t care about looking stylish or fashionable. But there’s one need that makes them the same as you and me, the same as everybody else. They all want a hook-up. A mate, or playmate. That’s the truth that makes us equal. They want love, in some form. There are all kinds of apps for contact, yet none of them are tailored to this mindset. You can’t just throw people together from urban streets and country roads. Get it? Somebody should have realized this a long time ago. That’s where I come in, with a new cyberspace hub. I want to call it ‘TrailerCakes!’ A portal for meeting and greeting others with a similar background. Sort of a big residence park, online!”

 

He half expected his distant cohort to burst into laughter. Yet her reaction was a silent pause. Minutes elapsed while they both stared into the electronic vacuum. Then, Amber leaned forward to provide a better angle via her webcam. Gold bands around her wrists jingled and sparkled, with a tease of feminine charm.

 

“TRAILERCAKES! I GOT YOU! A WEBSITE FOR THE HILLBILLY HOOD! YOU’D WANT TO DIVIDE IT INTO THREE SECTIONS THOUGH, DREM! CHEESECAKES, FOR THE LADIES TO SHOW OFF! BEEFCAKES, FOR ANY MEN WITH ENOUGH COJONES TO POST PICTURES! AND PANCAKES, FOR THOSE OF US IN THE LGBTQ SPECTRUM. RIGHT? PANSEXUAL, DO YOU GET IT? ANYTHING MORE USER-SPECIFIC COULD BE WORKED OUT LATER. THAT’S MY TAKE! IF YOU WANT TO CROSS BOUNDARIES, THEN GO ALL THE WAY, BRUH! SHOW YOUR STONES!”

 

The fledgling engineer was nearly breathless.

 

“PanCakes? What the hell, are you serious about that? People will think we are trying to copy from Denny’s or Waffle House!”

 

Amber snorted at the disbelief inherent in his question.

 

“Yeah I’m serious! Look, there are zillions of dating apps out there. And plenty of content sites, with independent producers and their affiliated adult performers. You want tits and ass, or cowboy studs in leather chaps, showing off their saddle horns? It’s all over the internet. What you would need is something fresh, a meeting place with credibility. What the politicos call gravitas! Okay? You’ve complained for months and months about how clannish those trailer park hicks are in the daylight. Like frightened cockroaches stymied by the sun! Everyone is suspicious of strangers, you say? So, work with that! If you’re gonna build something, build it right! Give them a safe space. Make it legit! Like the rappers used to say, too legit to quit!”

 

Her friend from the rural oasis shook his head and wheezed.

 

“PanCakes... that is freaking insane. CheeseCakes, BeefCakes, and PanCakes?”

 

The free-thinking femme tapped on her desktop with a pencil.

 

“LOOK BUDDY, YOU WANTED MY OPINION, NOW YOU GOT IT! THERE’S THE VIRTUAL BOTTOM LINE, BRUH! BE BRAVE AND ROLL THE DICE! OR STAY SAFE AND YOU’RE LIKELY TO BE A LOSER, ONE MORE TIME! WHAT’LL IT BE, BIG BOY? HOW STRONG IS THAT BACKBONE OF YOURS? HOW MUCH DO YOU WANT A SHOT AT BEING A GENUINE SUCCESS?”

 

Dremel felt nauseous. The room was spinning around him, causing an unexpected episode of vertigo. He wanted to hurl. Yet her logic was impeccable. He couldn’t argue or disagree.

 

“Cakes... that’s the master plan! It all comes down to selling those hot cakes... TrailerCakes!”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “TrailerCakes” (Part One)

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

Dremel Kongin had been born into a family with lots of promise. His parents were loyal and hardworking as immigrants to America. But though he retained the genetic traits of relatives who still lived in distant lands, he was very much a modern citizen of the United States. His proficiency with the mother tongue used at home gave him skill in maintaining contact with previous generations. Yet he preferred the slang dialect of fellow students from college. This dichotomy, between how he looked on the outside, and how he felt at his core, kept him always off balance. Therefore, he never felt grounded. He was a tumbleweed of sorts, drifting through situations in school and at work without really knowing much about himself, in the flesh.

 

Labeled as a nerd and a geek, technology became his obsession.

 

This tilt toward computer programming and cyberspace connectivity meant that the young prospect had a great deal to offer potential employers. But Covid-era lockdowns slowed the national economy, and put his budding career in a tailspin. As layoffs shook the industry in which he labored, creativity was required to keep getting a weekly paycheck. After the global pandemic had receded, inflationary pressures made his battle even more difficult. So many citizens had joined the work-from-home environment that he was no longer considered to be so special. Finally, he lost his upscale, metropolitan living space, and his privileges as an insider.

 

Landing in the rural environment of Evergreen Estates, a mobile-home community, struck a final blow to everything that comprised his identity. Instead of inhabiting a pristine new condominium by the lakefront, he languished in a singlewide trailer. A longbox dwelling that was fit for earthy folks who worked with their hands. But not a gifted man-child with dreams of interplanetary voyages and building societies among the stars. Being cooped up between thin, plywood walls made him feel caged. He thought of suicide, and experimented with recreational drugs. Yet finally, his inner compass found a path toward righting itself.

 

Getting busy once more with his brain was the answer. He needed to think and create and feel alive as in bygone days in the classroom.

 

The buckeye oasis of manufactured homes gave him clues, while observing carefully. Fellow residents were obsessed with basic things. Survival, keeping the lights on, maintaining enough credit to float debts that could not be paid right away, and affording beverage alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol! With cigarettes and marijuana as a compliment. His neighbors listened to Country music on their radios and cellular devices. They drank and smoked and partied whenever days off or weekends permitted. This inclination became even more pronounced when unemployment stilled their work routines. Though eventually, empty pockets meant receiving an eviction notice from the park manager. And possibly, a visit from the county sheriff.

 

Dana Alvarez, their lively, dark-haired supervisor, had her own take on this sobering reality. She expressed it with the flair of her native Puerto Rico.

 

“Around here, the trash usually takes itself out! Holla! That makes my job easy!”

 

With winter weather in effect, Dremel spent long hours indoors at his triple-screen display of hardware. He would engage in gaming competitions, or fiddle with components, or tweak old machinery left in the recycling bin at his place of higher education. But these activities only made him feel more disconnected, and useless. Then, he noticed that a pair of sisters who lived on his street had inexplicably purchased some sort of video equipment. This bounty of studio gizmos was delivered by a white van with the name of a firm in Cleveland on its flank.

 

The twin femmes were tall, leggy, and immaculately clad for sharing such a downtrodden environment. They stood out at every encounter. He had seen them at the mail shed once, both wearing spandex outfits, high-heeled boots, and theatrical makeup. Their appearance warmed his heart, and loins. Yet he was shy and reclusive. He stumbled over words of greeting, as they giggled and rolled their eyes.

 

After that, he heard stories about their escapades as content creators. A fellow who lived by the corner mentioned that they were on a pay-per-view website, like OnlyFans. Something that inspired lots of gossip around the prefab property. In summer months, campfires and cookouts boasted wild theories about anonymous visitors to their abode. No one ever seemed to linger for very long. Somehow, the girls stayed fashionable and fresh, no matter what season held sway.

 

Dremel would sip wine while others enjoyed bottles of Bud Light, and listen with great curiosity. His fellow citizens were bullish on booze and tobacco and fatty foods. With a good measure of suspicion about the world beyond their limited borders thrown in for good measure. And much love for racing cars and TV wrestling. But an older thrill seemed to have eclipsed this cultural stampede – the everlasting appeal of sexual adventure as part of the template for humanity.

 

After much pondering, an epiphany hit him like Newton’s apple. Suddenly, he knew how to derive a lasting benefit from his trailer exile, one that would make the whole sordid experience a worthwhile exercise. His ability to envision systemic operations, and translate those concepts into useful formats was the key. If he could imagine something in his head, it could be built and sold to make a buck.

 

This was the birth of what he wanted to call TrailerCakes, the nucleus of an net-based platform to connect every boxcar hovel in the nation to every other. Which would yield a vast network of producers that he would facilitate, and maintain. A safe portal nestled in the shadowy realm of dark web access. Where only those with a keen ability to delve into the depths could discover what he had brought to life.

 

Stan Finkel, a friend from college, was shocked when he shared this plan in a group chat. It sounded seedy at best, and decidedly nefarious, at worst. The pimply kid shook his head and nearly broke his keyboard while protesting.

 

“Are you crazy, Drem? There are cops on the internet now, just like the highway patrol! They’ll nab you by the balls! Perving through your computer is a bad offense! You’d have to walk the line and be very careful. Probably with guidance from huckster lawyers. What’s the deal you’re imagining, sharing pics and vid clips park to park? I mean, how good could that really be? It sounds like a hillbilly version of TikTok crossed with PornHub! The women out there can’t be that great, right? Probably most would have saggy boobs and too much Walmart makeup. Yuck, what a bummer!”

 

There was logic to what the youngster declared. Yet his impulsive friend from the trailer enclave was not deterred.

 

“Trust me dude, this’ll fly like one of Elon Musk’s rockets! I’ve been here for twelve months or so, watching and waiting. These people want to get loaded and... well... get laid. As they say in the common vernacular. You know, street language! There’s gold to mine in that groove. My neighbors in the tight outfits made an Edison bulb go on, over my noggin. This is it, I need investors to make it happen. You want a piece of the pie? Don’t miss out like those guys who laughed at Steve Jobs, Ronald Wayne and Steve Wozniak, who formed Apple! My plan can’t miss! Watch me show you how to be a winner!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Gold Shoe Gambit”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

T.C. Lincoln had started drinking early on Monday afternoon. A decision that was predictably bad for his health, but common among residents of Evergreen Estates. He sat outside on his wooden bench, basking in February temperatures that had risen to 38 degrees. Solar rays streaming backward into his boxed porch amplified this official temperature. It invigorated him, while sipping Jack Daniel’s straight from the square bottle. And washing down each swig of whiskey with cold brew from his refrigerator.

 

“Another blessed week here in the trailer park! Hoo boy, it’s like I won the damn lottery!”

 

He had begun to tip toward a numb feeling of bliss, when one of the neighborhood kids appeared on his access ramp. A long construction that spanned half the length of his prefab dwelling. The youngster was wearing outdated clothes from a local Goodwill store. Both the T-shirt and pants were sized too small, and faded from many cycles through a washing machine. His crew cut looked to have been executed by a home barber, with clippers from Walmart. Yet nothing dimmed his enthusiasm in passing out fliers for an upcoming meeting. He was grateful to have been picked for the task.

 

“That fat guy on the corner gave me a $20 bill to take these around the park. I get to ride my bicycle and make some scratch! After that, my momma is ordering pizza for dinner, when I get home. Her boyfriend moved in with us last week, when he got out of jail. This job will help me afford a new game for my Playstation! What a life! See you later, old man! Hope you don’t pee your pants from all that booze!”

 

The shaggy hermit snorted in response. But his mood was mellow from the wash of alcohol. Squinting in the glare of sunlight, he took out a pair of dollar-store spectacles, then unfolded the printed sheet of paper and began to read.

 

“Come one, come all, to the Speck Household! We’ve got a business opportunity for you! This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer. It won’t come around again! Have you heard of the ‘Never Surrender High Tops?’ These kicks were just introduced by President Trump himself, at Sneakercon in Philadelphia. The first 1000 pairs of these gold shoes went like hotcakes! So, another round of production has been ordered. You can get in on the ground floor to sell these collectible hoofers anywhere and everywhere. All it takes is a minimal investment. Come to my longbox at Lot 1, and join in the winning! There’s money to be made, don’t miss out and be left crying with the losers! Join the patriot army! March away with your own pair, today!”

 

A disclaimer at the bottom mentioned CIC Ventures, LLC. Supposedly a firm holding licensing rights authorized by the Orange Man, personally.

 

Lincoln was already too drunk to contemplate any business opportunities. Particularly one that sounded very much like an Amway-style, pyramid scheme. But he stashed the invitation in an inverted desk cabinet, cabinet next to his perch. His finances had been ruined for so long that thoughts of profit and loss only gave him a headache. Through years of scraping along in survival mode, he had learned to be content with a minimal existence.

 

If he had flasks of strong drink in his cupboard, and snacks on the countertop, that was enough.

 

Imbibing liquor had almost sent him careening over the edge, into oblivion. Yet the sound of a message arriving in an app on his cell phone interrupted this critical moment. Darby Stronelli, a redneck queen who lived on his eastern flank, had received the same blurb in her storm door. The reaction that followed was one of joyous zeal in making an extra buck, by any means. She must have been dancing in her Red Wing work boots.

 

“HEY BUDDY! DID YOU GET THE LETTER FROM LINN? THAT CHANCE TO SELL THE GOLD GRAILS IS FREAKING AWESOME! HE’S A GENUIS! THAT CHUBBY PIGGIE KNOWS HOW TO JUMP ON SHIT WHEN IT’S FRESH! YOU CAN’T WAIT AROUND, THOSE DEALS DON’T LAST!”

 

The contrarian loner sighed heavily, and slumped in his seat. He whispered to himself while continuing to drink.

 

“Stepping in fresh poop. That’s not my thing by any means, neighbor...”

 

While he was swooning in gallons of brown juice and beer, another text zapped his device. This time, it was Rottie who had come to the park from an urban district nearer to Lake Erie. He was covered with tattoos, and bald.

 

“BRUH LINK! MANNNNN, DID YOU GET THE LOW-DOWN FROM LINN SPECK? HE’S SHARP, THAT GET-TOGETHER AT HIS TRAILER IS A GODSEND! I’VE BEEN CRAWLING THROUGH THIS MONTH, NO CASH IN MY WALLET. I NEED A GOOD HUSTLE! THOSE GOLD CREEPERS WILL FLY OFF THE SHELVES! I BET EVERYBODY HERE WILL BUY AT LEAST ONE PAIR. SEE YOU AT THE MEETING, DUDE! BE THERE OR BE SQUARE!”

 

Lincoln felt his belly churning. He was tipsy and nearly blind. Somehow, information about the time and date of this ill-advised confab had slipped by, unnoticed. So, he read the flier once again. Fine print at the very bottom mentioned that the sales session had been scheduled for later in the evening. He was visibly unfit to share the company of anyone else in their development, particularly his frenemy at the crossroads by the company maintenance garage. Still, there was a mysterious allure to the thought of witnessing the sham event with his own, bleary eyes.

 

Visiting the drab, disintegrating hovel would be dangerous even with a sober head. But he reckoned that being blitzed might help to make such a wearisome happening more palatable, in the end.

 

When he appeared, just before seven o’clock, a crowd of local residents had already arrived. Even Maylene Jefka, matron and adoptive granny to the entire village of mobile homes, was present. She had dressed in a lavender sweatshirt and matching pants, which carried a crest styled in a Christian motif. A gold cross pendant hung around her neck.

 

Linn took charge of the gathering with authority. His wife, Haki, bubbled with adoration as he spoke through a karaoke machine.

 

“Okay everybody, this is it! We’re all ready to get rich, right? Nobody likes being poor. So, if you want to gain wealth, where do you go to learn about money? You go to the source, to the master! You go to a man like our 45^th president!”

 

The single-wide living room exploded with enthusiasm.

 

“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”

 

Mrs. Speck stood up on cue. Her long, floral dress billowed in the blast from a heating vent. She had ruddy cheeks that were glistening with color.

 

“My hubby is right! You don’t have to live the broke life anymore! These gold kicks are a ticket to the high life! For you, for me, for everybody!”

 

Lincoln winked sarcastically, and laughed out loud.

 

“High life my ass! The only high life I get comes from Miller Brewing Company, in Wisconsin!”

 

Grumbling sounded from every corner of the small space. Rottie shook his head like a wet dog.

 

“C’MON, OLD FART! GIVE HIM A CHANCE TO TALK! I LIKE HIS LINE OF THINKING!”

 

Darby nodded in agreement.

 

“Don’t be such a butthead, Link! We’re about to cash-in for a change! You got a problem with stuffing your pockets?”

 

Linn had begun to sweat profusely. His thinning hair had gone completely flat. A stripe of bare flesh protruded from under his polo shirt.

 

“All it’ll take is everybody putting in fifty bucks as a deposit. These gold high-tops are selling for $399.00, at list price. But rarity has already driven up their market value. I see pairs going for thousands of dollars on eBay. If we get in on the ground floor, there’s a ton of moolah to be made! I guarantee it! This gamble can’t lose! Hooray for us!”

 

From a folding chair against the back wall, Lincoln continued his role as an agitator. He belched forcefully and scratched his gray beard.

 

“Go ahead, give up your dough, if that makes you feel happy. Invest in these pro-sports knock-offs. I’ll save mine for restocking the liquor cabinet! Don’t bother calling when you’ve run out of supplies. I’ll be in my own little world, popping corks and getting loaded!”

 

Haki flipped her longish, blonde curls and sneered at her sparring opponent.

 

“You’ll be staying messed up and poor, neighbor! I feel sorry for you! I really do! Everybody else here is getting onboard the profit train! The gold-plated, high rolling, presidential train! This will soon be a community of blue-collar millionaires! Good luck with your exile, feeling sad and alone! I pity you!”

 

Again, the group burst into spontaneous cheering and celebration.

 

“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”

 

In only a matter of weeks, a stampede of gold footwear had completely overrun their rural park. Almost everyone laced up their shimmering, MAGA galoshes, and took to the pavement. Marching proudly, they strode around the property perimeter with the brisk cadence of a Clydesdale herd, galloping gleefully.

 

At Lot 13, the lone dissenter from this active show of support had passed out on his wooden bench. Drool dripped down his hairy chin. He tumbled into unconsciousness with a tune from the Rolling Stones reverberating inside of his skull. The drumbeat and repeating guitar riff led him into a welcome respite of slumber and mental negation.

 

“Don’t care if your love grows cold

Found love in someone else’s home

Don’t like standing in the snow

Everything’s turning to gold

 

You used to know me long ago

Was so lost and way down low

Now that the love juice starts to flow

Everything is turning to gold...”

 

 

 

“Long Hours Before Sunrise”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

Darkness drapes the yard outside

Framed by a string of clear lights, hung from the entryway

A finale for this winter day

A sign of persistent consciousness

Despite the hour

I lean backward in my office chair, pondering a quote offered to soothe

Hack writers on the move

Their newspaper careers crumbling like ancient temples in Greece

Hunter S. Thompson brought me peace

A wild vision comes as I reread his words for a hundredth time

Eyes peering between halves of the veil

Looking out from a netherworld

Imagined into being, composed of dreamscape vapors

That rise like fog just before the sun crests treetops

Arranged along the property line

I think of them as sentries on patrol

Sent to herd wandering souls

Arms at the ready

Guarding ghosts that linger over ground won in combat

And lost again, as generations evolved

Who remembers the railroad that ran through here, from Cleveland?

An interurban link

A stream of water, dripping from the kitchen sink

They took it as a blessing in those days

Hopping a ride to metropolitan delights

Starched shirts and billowing gowns

Fedora hats and floral arrangements worn conspicuously

By men and women native to a distant county

That age is buried now in historical tabulations

Numerically recorded

By scribbling sages

Bent on preserving what they knew would not endure on back pages

Flesh and bone

Breath and bumbling

A musical retort crafted to mimic the cadence of a drunken fool, stumbling

Forward and free

That bum is wiser by far, than me

He knows when to quit

If only I had such skill in perceiving with the mind what optic nerves cannot see

I would punch my ticket to nobility

A swashbuckling pirate, with a sword long and sharp

Leadbelly plucking out tunes with a lonesome cry sung over a blues harp

That trick of the tale

Might be enough, I think

If it echoed through a concrete viaduct

Magnified and reflected

Boosterized and sanitized

For the gentlest of ears

Darkness leaves the heart to yearn for a new beginning

When the cycle is complete

Lit up with the golden glow of traffic and body heat

On the boulevard

Travelers traipse

Seekers and soothsayers meet their fates

And I am still at the desk, though barely awake after so many hours

Falling down

Chin on my chest

Jerking upward from a spasm of unintended rest

Falling, falling

Fingers skip across the keys without connecting

Gonzo guile makes me guilty

Of lyrical appropriation

I cop that vibe

From something he once jotted down on a fast-food menu, in crayon

A jester’s jump

A cartwheel over a speed bump

Long hours tick-tock tippling away

The second-hand swings in increments barely visible to careful inspection

From this to that

And that to this

Besmirched and forgotten

An apple core, turned rotten

After one bite at the fruit

A solemn padre in a pinstripe suit

Holding the study guide gingerly, as he speaks

Vitalis on his combed crop, wingtips on his feet

“Hear ye, hear ye!”

This is a damn sight better than crouching in a doorway to avoid the rain

I reckoned he must have understood

Must have rightly deciphered bad from good

While I hid out in the shadows cast

By an antenna mast

With the coaxial cable unplugged and limp

So useless and cold

No signal transferred, no showmanship to behold

Just a spark of residual electricity, deferred

A flicker among the stars

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Wedding Day”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

Pastor Cabe Forester from Thompson Township’s Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven was slightly miffed when sitting at his desk in the Geauga County house of worship. He had heard that two residents of Evergreen Estates, a trailer village located down the hill from his sanctuary, pledged to take their marriage vows in a ceremony on the park property. Yet this blessed union would take place without his involvement as the de facto spiritual leader of their community.

 

The thought of being sidelined for this ceremony caused his stomach to ache.

 

“I’ve read out of the holy scriptures at nuptials of all sorts around these parts! My name was always the first one mentioned when plans were being made. Generations of families have started under my careful stewardship. So, what happened now? Where did I go wrong with the current crew? Am I too old, or too conservative, or just too darned boring for kids who like to play video games and make cellphone posts on the Tik Tok app?

 

His secretary adjusted her wool sweater, and pushed the half-frame reading glasses backward on her perky nose.

 

“Cabriel, I don’t have a clue. Jenny Ann and Klondike have been sweethearts since going to high school by the ledges. Their parents are solid citizens, members of the local Republican Party. They all like to hunt and fish and play cornhole in the summer. But there’s a new fellow in that development of mobile homes. He’s attracted quite a following. They’ve got a congregation meeting in a long shed, made of plywood sheets and pallet boards. This guy wears a camouflage suit, and a cross made out of scrap metal around his neck. With a pistol hanging from his belt...”

 

The traditional clergyman coughed and wheezed.

 

“A pistol? God help us!”

 

Sally McNamara shook her head in disbelief. Her gray curls bounced with a lively flip of indifference.

 

“I heard it from one of our parishioners who lives there. She said people are going to services now, that never read a Bible before. Even some bikers and malcontents that have their own corner district, a whole row of boxcar dwellings. This fellow has been baptizing sinners and preaching the gospel like a traveling, big-tent evangelist. It has the population riled up and excited. At the beginning of this week, there were fifty residents packed into that ramshackle barn! Nobody ever stirred up so much fervor in our area, before. I think you ought to meet with him, and get a feel for what he really believes...”

 

Forester felt slightly disgusted.

 

“Meet with him? I’m the legitimate one here! Ordained by the official church, and sanctioned to teach God’s word! If anything, he should be seeking an audience with me!”

 

The record keeper rubbed a string of pearls that was draped lazily around her throat.

 

“This isn’t a time to argue, Cabe! Reach out and greet him in a spirit of Christian love!”

 

Weeks passed by as the mainstream reverend found multiple excuses not to visit the rural oasis in person. He had a conference to attend in Columbus, the state capital. Then, a gathering of clerics from across the Midwest. One of his children was finishing her work as a missionary in Honduras, and had been scheduled to return while he was busy with other responsibilities. Finally, he needed to direct fundraising for a restoration project on their rooftop steeple, which had begun to sag visibly after years of neglect.

 

When the wedding day arrived, he had all but forgotten about its controversial presence on the calendar. Many members of his flock wanted to participate in some fashion. But he chafed at it being allowed to happen without his oversight. Curiosity gnawed at his insides however, like a parasite. He wanted to know what was transpiring. Would this clandestine joining of souls take place with a pagan ritual of some kind? Perhaps a recitation of satanic perversion, or new-age heresy? Might it be rendered in a foreign brogue, or a language lost to antiquity?

 

He cloaked himself in a dark overcoat and a plaid, wool-lined hat of the Elmer Fudd variety. After other guests had arrived in an upper field that bordered the trailer enclave’s maintenance garage, he managed to sneak into the crowd surreptitiously. No one noticed him being situated near a makeshift enclosure, covered with blue tarps bought at Home Depot. He crept close enough to see the bride walking up an aisle of armed veterans, with a bouquet of plastic roses in her hands, from Dollar General. She wore a veil over hunting apparel and combat boots.

 

Her prospective husband was already at the altar. He carried a shotgun under his arm, and a canvas pouch with the wedding bands secured. His long hair was matted and slick, and protruded from under a NASCAR cap with Dale Earnhardt’s national number 3 prominently displayed.

 

Preacher Buck Jones from Gallipolis, by the Ohio River, stood with his good book open to 1 Corinthians 13.

 

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.”

 

Gasps and tears began to fill the air. The pastor trembled as he witnessed this display of humility before the Holy Spirit.

 

“I don’t understand... this isn’t what I expected, at all!”

 

The folksy rector raised his hand in a respectful tribute to saints in the heavens.

 

“For many centuries, this forging of a sacred bond has been important at every corner of the world. It is the foundation of our society. The bedrock of nations, tribes, and cultures, everywhere. Some might want to use it as a sword, to mete out judgment. To condemn those who are perceived as being unworthy. To charge infidels with defiling what has been accepted. To frighten those who might stray from a familiar path. But I tell you here and now, this is God’s word in action. A pledge of truth one to another. A rock upon which bloodlines that have endured for thousands of years has been constructed. There is no greater value, no greater promise, to behold...”

 

Rain had begun to fall on the mass of patient attendees. Forester dropped to his knees in the mud. Suddenly, he voiced shame and regret.

 

“This is not how I thought it would be!”

 

Buck ended his sermon with another passage from the same book.

 

“And now these three remain; faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love!”

 

He took the hands of both bride and groom, then clasped them together. Dramatically, his voice boomed from the improvised shelter.

 

“In the name of our creator and beloved parent, the one who brought this universe into being and everything within, I proclaim that you are a new creation! Let not pride or prejudice or pretentiousness put this union asunder! Cleave to each other, boost and uplift your helpmate, and enjoy the bliss of matrimony. In the name of Jesus and all the prophets, Amen!”

 

A procession of 4x4 pickup trucks plowed through the muck. Blasts of ammunition were fired overhead. Gadsden flags and Betsy Ross banners waved in celebration. Slabs of fried turkey and containers of potato salad were waiting on folding tables, by the park office. Bud Light and Miller High Life flowed like champagne. Firecrackers exploded in the sky.

 

And Cabe Forester prayed silently to himself.

 

“Forgive me Lord, for my arrogance. Forgive me...”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Nachos”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

T.C. Lincoln was a professional drinker. One who had trained his body on a diet of strong spirits, and other assorted forms of beverage alcohol, since the early days of childhood. Once, around the age of nine, he and friends discovered a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon that had somehow been dropped by the curb in their suburban neighborhood. This prize had rolled, still fully intact, to a spot nestled in a fold of the concrete apron. He and friends were riding their Schwinn bicycles, all customized with chopper stylings adapted from adult machines. One of the greenhorn crew named Petey boldly retrieved this tall can, and worked the pull-tab until it opened. He was showered with a spray of beer and foam. The aroma disgusted him enough to hand it off without taking a swig. Another member of their gang named Tim tried sampling the clandestine drink, and gagged with surprise. He had expected a taste more akin to Sprite or Mountain Dew. The lack of sweet flavor notes rattled him to his core. Finally, young Townie grabbed the steel cylinder and downed its contents in a single gulp. He snorted like a bull after tossing the emptied container into a hedge.

 

“THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT! I’VE SEEN MY DAD DRINK A DOZEN LIKE THAT, WITH HIS STEAK DINNER! YEEHAW!”

 

Many years later, the reclusive loner still managed to get drunk almost every day.

 

On a Thursday afternoon in February, the temperature had risen to 44 degrees. An amazingly comfortable reality for that time in the year. So, he decided to celebrate having Ohio blessed with such a mild winter. Instead of taking his Jack Daniel’s bottle to an end table by the couch, he went outside to the porch. There, the ritual libation began in earnest.

 

By two o’clock, he was already very drunk.

 

A familiar parade of vehicles passed as he sank deeper and deeper into the tide of liquor. First came a ratty, Chevrolet work truck loaded with pallets, and metal scraps. Then, a Dodge Ram from two decades before, jacked up on big tires and booming with a loud, diesel exhaust. After that, a Geo Metro wobbled along the narrow boulevard. Something so ancient and obscure that it made Lincoln snap to attention. It had been repainted at some point, in such a careless manner that he guessed a broom must have been used as a brush.

 

He was nearly unconscious when footsteps echoed from his lengthy, access ramp. A construction intended to aid him in disability, as canes were necessary just to stay in motion. He tilted sideways in his seat, to look around the corner, and down a vinyl-sided wall that fronted the trailer. But this move only darkened his mood. Seething with rage, his neighbor on the corner was approaching.

 

Linn Speck, a rotund powder-keg of a man, had seemingly chosen the same calendar day to become blitzed on booze. He had both fists clenched. Huffing, wet breaths left a trail of phlegm down his chin.

 

“LINK, YOU BASTARD! WHAT’S THIS SHIT ABOUT MY WIFE? I KNOW YOU’VE BEEN DROOLING OVER HER, DAMMIT! ANY MAN WOULD, SHE’S A TREASURE! BUT I WON’T TOLERATE THE INSULT! I’M HERE TO SETTLE THE SCORE BETWEEN US!”

 

The shaggy hermit opened a bottle of Miller High Life, to clear his palate.

 

“Whaaat? Dude, I figure you’ve popped a cork over nothing. As a matter of fact, I’ve never given a thought to your ol’ lady, for any reason...”

 

Linn stopped in his tracks and howled with anger.

 

“ARE YOU SAYING SHE ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH FOR A SECOND LOOK? WHAT THE HELL KIND OF TALK IS THAT, YOU IDIOT? SHE’S DAMNED SEXY, AND A REAL KEEPER!”

 

Lincoln chortled and spit a mouthful of brew.

 

“Huh? You came storming up the street to just debate her wifely qualities? That’s a hoot, brother. Like I said, she’s never been on my radar. That’s no slam at her, or you. I’m running solo for a reason. Two divorces are enough. I don’t need the drama of shacking up with a female...”

 

The pudgy piggie stroked his bald head and growled. He was wearing a white undershirt, and cargo shorts. Both were soaked with sweat.

 

“YOU PUT SOMETHING ON FACEBOOK ABOUT GETTING YOUR LIPS ON HER! THAT CHEESED ME RIGHT OFF! I WON’T STAND FOR THAT KIND OF LEERING OVER A GOOD WOMAN! YOU’RE A PIECE OF CRAP, OLD FART! A FRIGGING PIECE OF DOG CRAP!”

 

The contrarian hobo rubbed his eyes. A burn of Tennessee whiskey lingered in his throat.

 

“That comment was about game-day nachos. You posted a photo, remember? Right then, I was jonesing for something to fill my belly. Call it an appetite outbreak. Sorry if it got your panties in a bunch...”

 

Linn swung his hardened knuckles forcefully. The wild punch missed, and caused him to teeter over the wooden railing. He hung limply, panting for his breath.

 

“ASSHOLE! LIAR! STAND UP AND LET ME SEE WHAT YOU’RE MADE OF, COMMANDO!”

 

Lincoln struggled to his feet. He had unzipped his camouflage hoodie. Both canes were at the ready.

 

“This is my drinking time, neighbor. That’s important to me, maybe you’ll understand? I don’t get many pleasures in life these days. Having a sip out here in the fresh air brings me peace. If you wanted to pass the time of day and share a drink, that’d be okay. Don’t take that as an invite, because you’ve never been one of my favorite people in this trailer park. But I don’t refuse company. I’m not unsociable, just used to living life on my own. I go along to get along...”

 

His opponent from the corner slouched against the rough-hewn banister.

 

“NACHOS? YOU EXPECT ME TO ACCEPT AN EXCUSE THAT YOU LIKED MY WIFE’S NACHOS? NOT HER BOOBS OR BUTT?”

 

His intended victim laughed out loud. Gray highlights in his beard twinkled in the sunshine.

 

“Pizza, wings, tacos, ribs, or nachos. Any of that sounds good when I’m raising my glass. Getting bombed always makes me hungry. I reckon that’s how I stay fat, otherwise, I don’t eat too many meals. That’s the honest truth, my right hand to God!”

 

Linn was unconvinced.

 

“NACHOS? WHAT KIND OF BULL POOP IS THAT? NACHOS? REALLY?”

 

He lunged forward to strike a fatal blow. But the cantankerous drunk lifted one of his canes, and swiped it in a sideways motion. The brass tip smacked his assailant with a loud crack of immediacy. This made his mouth gush a fountain of crimson and bile.

 

Lincoln stomped his motorcycle boot on the floorboards.

 

“Had enough? I’m not in a mood to fight. I did plenty of that in Vietnam. Against better foes than a fatass with skinny legs, no job, bad breath, and a longbox hovel even more ugly than mine! Say this is settled and go home to your lady! She can kiss your wounds. And you, buddy, can kiss my saggy ass! Vaya con Dios!”

 

The courage of this unexpected visitor had evaporated at last. His head drooped like a broken branch, flailing in a thunderstorm. He muttered to himself while stumbling down the long ramp.

 

“Nachos... that’s what it was all about... nothing but a craving for nachos!”