c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(2-24)
Townshend Carr Lincoln had been cooped up in his trailer at Evergreen Estates since November of the previous year. Seasonal patterns kept his neighborhood either soaked throughout cold, rainy days, or buried under drifts of snow when winter was truly in effect. But now, groundhog star Buckeye Chuck had predicted an early spring. February temperatures soared on his inset porch, with a gleam of sunlight suddenly present once again. This unexpected change had found him supercharged with hopeful vibes. He dug into the household stash of liquor varieties, and opened a new 12-pack of Narragansett Lager. A brewery product from Rhode Island that had somehow found its way to one of the local food emporiums where he was a regular patron.
Their community of mobile homes had brightened immediately, when Mother Nature dispensed her blessing of better weather. Residents up and down the street had started cleaning their lots, washing cars, bagging refuse, and busying themselves with outdoor activities. An exercise undertaken while knowing that before long, sub-freezing conditions were likely to return.
Participating in this celebration was Gina Marie Puchevsky. Still an intriguing yet mysterious figure in their boxcar development.
With his nose tingling after a swig of Jack Daniel’s, Lincoln noted that the new arrival on his cracked-up boulevard had decided to spruce up her big-tired, yellow Jeep. The tall, leggy woman was wearing a spandex outfit with racer stripes down the sides, hued in fluorescent orange. Her red hair had been teased out to the point of an 80’s extreme. She crouched and kicked her way around the vehicle with a sponge and bucket, while hits from Mötley Crüe played on her wi-fi receiver. A Marlboro cigarette dangled from her painted lips.
The old loner felt his pulse beginning to rise. She reminded him of someone seen only in photographs sent into the electronic void of cyberspace. A person he loved as a parent, but did not want to ponder in such direct terms.
A line of familiar pickup trucks passed individually, as Gina polished her off-road champ, and danced to the Heavy Metal classics. She would disappear inside her home for brief interludes in between cleaning chores, and reappear counting treasury bills with unfamiliar presidents depicted. Each return from inside seemed to have her revealing more flesh and fashionable accents. Eventually, she wore nothing but an oversized running shirt, and fishnet leggings. The last hauler in her caravan of customers was a lifted Ram 3500, with Cummins diesel power under its hood. The driver was a young stud, short of stature, but running hot on liquid courage. He had a local Country station blaring from his in-dash radio. His eyes were bloodshot and narrow like slits.
“Hey Ginnie! I heard you know how to take care of a cowboy! Whoo damn! What the goin’ price fer a hook-up in this park?”
Soap suds dripped from the feral femme’s unruly mane. She had grown tired after a long day of earning money to pay off her overdue account.
“That’s Gina, dumbass! Don’t flap your trap here on the street! We can talk about shit over a Seagram’s cooler, if you want. Park next door, that spot has been empty since I got here...”
The loudmouth kid was offended by her bawdy demeanor. He pushed the Confederate hat backwards on his head, and let out a Rebel Yell.
“GET IN THE TRUCK, DAMMIT! PAYIN’ CUSTOMERS GIVE THE ORDERS, YOU CRANKY BITCH!”
She began to retreat, after throwing her wet sponge. But the immature buck jumped from his place behind the steering wheel, and caught her arm. She ended up as a hapless victim, flying through the open door in a fit of rage. Her face met the passenger window with a rude slap of skin on the glass.
Tears streamed down her cheeks. Makeup smeared until the colored stain dripped over her stretchy top. The downside of returning to her old profession had just become painfully evident.
The hillbilly runt fished out a revolver from his glovebox, as his prey was struggling in her seat. His mood had turned dark and threatening.
“NO MORE GAMES, WHORE! I FIGURE Y’ALL OWE ME A FREEBIE NOW! WE’RE GOIN’ OVER TO MY SHED, IT’S ON THE BACK ROAD BY TRUMBULL WOODS. I GUARANTEE YA WILL HAVE A GOOD TIME. PLAN ON SPENDIN’ THE NIGHT!”
Lincoln was watching from his porch, not far away. A resilient thump pounded in his chest. He leaned forward, with a mist of Tennessee whiskey rising from his beard. An altercation of some sort was transpiring in the pickup cab. He saw a fist pummel the unwilling captive until her head drooped with submission. Then, the dual rear wheels began to grind out smoke and chunks of rubber.
The Dodge Ram made a speedy getaway, with violent intentions lingering in the trail of exhaust that remained. Yet the promise of vengeance had not been fulfilled. The shaggy loner stood up with his disability canes at the ready.
“This ain’t over, little man! I guaran-damn-tee it ain’t over!”
Hogan Bayles lived in a crumbling, single-wide hovel not far from the property’s sewer facility. Summer months meant that he had to keep his windows closed, and the air conditioners running, to avoid breathing a prevailing stench of dung. Colder months kept him protected. But the thaw they were experiencing seemed to set loose disgusting wisps of solid waste. Traces of fecal matter clung to the air. It made him surly as he ordered his weeping prisoner inside.
“Yer prettier than anything I’ve had in my house. I’ll give ya that, girl! It’ll be a privilege to shag that booty, I gotta say! Believe me, y’all will be grateful when we’re done! I’m a stallion in blue jeans, the ladies say around here!”
Gina fell onto her knees, in the deep-pile carpeting. A floor tapestry she guessed must have been left over from a previous owner. She spat at her tormentor, and raised a middle finger. Her long, glossy nail glistened in the light from a ceiling fan.
“Pound salt, donkey! I don’t give anything away for free! You’d get your ass kicked on my side of Painesville. A puny prick like you would be laughed at, and knocked flat on your butt!”
The raucous MOPAR rancher stomped her right hand with a western boot. He had completely run out of patience.
“ON THE COUCH, MAMA! QUIT TALKIN’ AND DROP YER LAUNDRY! THIS BULLCRAP HAS LASTED LONG ENOUGH! I WANT SOME KITTY ACTION!”
A quake of human dimensions began to resound from outside the musty room. Footsteps shook the front entryway. Then, a crash of three-hundred pounds split the plywood door in half. Splinters scattered over a pockmarked coffee table and chairs.
Lincoln stood in the gap with his pores oozing droplets of whiskey and beer.
“Let her go, dickhead! The action you’ll get tonight is coming from me! Are you ready for a freaking party? Let’s do this!”
Hogan tried to project the strong image of his pro-wrestling namesake. But the attempt failed miserably.
“I’ve got a gun, old timer! Don’t risk yer life for a tramp! That’d be a sin and stupid to boot!”
The contrarian outcast spun one of his canes like a baton, then held it backwards by the bottom. The engraved, derby handle swung like a mallet. Its metal construction left an imprint in the kid’s jaw. He dropped his pistol and howled with injury.
“WHAT THE HELL? YOU REALLY WANNA SAVE THIS HOOKER SO BAD? IT DON’T MAKE ANY SENSE, GRANDPAW! SHE AIN’T WORTH GETTIN’ STOMPED!”
The hairy hermit flashed on memories of serving in conflicts, overseas. He brought the walking implement down skillfully, with tactics learned as an Army grunt. Soon, his boastful opponent had wilted into a pile of blood and broken bones.
Jason Aldean crooned from a wireless speaker, in the kitchen.
“Stomp on the flag and light it up, yeah, you think you’re tough, well try that in a small town, see how far you make it down the road...”
Gina lunged to escape after the confrontation had ended. She ran across the yard, hissing and screeching all they way back to her own trailer near the maintenance garage. The intentions of her knight-in-shining armor were unclear. Yet it didn’t matter. She had been liberated.
Hogan coughed up crimson phlegm. His teeth were broken. Giving up the animalistic quest for pleasure seemed like his best option, to sidestep the ignominy and humiliation of being defeated by a cripple.
A day later, the young trollop found her hero back on his bench at Lot 13. He was numb and silent, reeking of alcohol and charcoal from the grill. Gratitude swelled in her bountiful chest. But she did not know how to vocalize this genuine emotion.
“I won’t ask why you stepped in, old fart. But I want to, just the same. You’re a damn riddle in this park. Harder to understand than I am! So I’ll say this instead, thank you! Thank you for giving a damn!”
Lincoln was very drunk. He could barely see far enough to recognize that she was standing at the top of his access ramp.
“Neighbor, I won’t judge you for taking risks. I don’t talk a lot about stuff. But here’s the deal, there’s a lady in California right now who looks a lot like you. She had to grow up without a dad in her life. Because he’s a reject. A teenage dude who had a chance encounter with an older dame. A wild traveler, who once lived on the west coast. That wayfarer from Cali claimed she had an abortion. Ain’t that a trick? But the truth offered a second shot at being a parent. Except it didn’t. They never met. Both of them were on opposite sides of the continent. She has a son now, one that carries the genetic traits of their bloodline. Her heart has a hole in it, from not knowing completely how she entered this world. And he has no place in her life. The one thing I hope, sitting here getting wasted on booze, is that somebody out there will care enough to protect her, as I did for you. Maybe for no reason at all, just because right had to be done.”
Gina was sobbing. She lit a coffin nail and sat down on a plastic chair from Walmart, situated by the garbage bin.
“Tell me more about your daughter and grandson, Link... I want to hear the story!”
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