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 The youngster was wearing outdated clothes from a local Goodwill store.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 45th 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...”
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