c. 2024 Rod Ice
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(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!”
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