Trailer Park Vignettes – “Disappointment”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-24)

 

 

Ridell McKay had begun life as a golden child of sorts. Born to a preacher and his devoted wife, in a small community located deep in the rural hinterland of southern counties around Zanesville. From a young age, he manifested skills that seemed to indicate a likelihood of following in his notable father’s footsteps. He was cheerful and bright, with a love for reading books. He had a personal glow whenever interacting with adults or other children. And he took to biblical tenets of Christian faith eagerly. It was as if his sire had been reborn, through some miracle of divine intervention.

 

But this heavenly disposition faded, as his homestead was moved repeatedly. Something that occurred because of the wandering nature associated with a clergyman’s life, serving the master. By chance, he ended up in places that were not so welcoming or comfortable. Distant towns that had been scarred with unemployment, crime, and hardship. He became aloof and misunderstood by others in his regular classes. In Kentucky, the district where he received formal instruction was so impoverished, that his daily routine mirrored the style of a one-room school from yonder days. He had to sit in a trailer behind the crumbling, brick building where kids learned math, history, and language. Because there was no more room for students, inside.

 

Finally, as a teenager, he decided to leave the congregation where his family worshiped. This choice rattled the entire bloodline like a bomb blast. His mother wept openly, fearing that he had just earned a sentence of eternal punishment, in Lucifer’s woeful lake of fire. His father proclaimed that he had started to question how someone so contrarian and undisciplined could possibly be his spawn. Around the household, gossip was whispered between brothers and sisters who looked sideways before speaking.

 

“He has wasted his talent! What a shame to lose him from God’s Army! He could have been a mighty warrior for the faith! He is dead to us, now! We grieve for him! And we pray!”

 

Eventually, he married and divorced before leaving the Ohio Valley region altogether. With his few possessions crammed into an Econoline van from the 1970’s, he drove north until running out of gasoline, near Cleveland. There, on a two-lane road down the hillside from a township square that he did not recognize, was a cluster of manufactured dwellings. A peeling sign at the entrance read like a quaint newspaper ad from long ago.

 

“Evergreen Estates – A great place to get started, or retire!”

 

He was financially broke, and fractured at his core. But when the property manager for this prefab oasis appeared, she mentioned that they had units available, on a rent-to-own basis. A grandmother affiliated with the Methodist church he had seen at their town center offered to loan him enough money to start living on the property. A show of charity he did not expect. This pledge of support made him wish for a full tank of fuel, instead. Something that would have been less of a burden to bear for the gray-headed, neighborhood matron. Yet somehow, he sensed that being stranded at a time and place so fortuitous was not an accident. He took it as a sign that despite years of alienation, the embrace of an omnipotent creator still protected him in body and spirit.

 

That was how he joined the realm of living in a singlewide boxcar. Just in time to celebrate the anniversary his birth, and formal entry into the world.

 

Some 40 years later, the park had endured a string of ownerships and foreclosures. Residents had come and gone with frightening rapidity. Though a few remained long-term, like himself. The general atmosphere had degraded a bit, with premium services and professional practices disappearing in favor of budget austerity. The population was now younger and more severe in outlook. A transitory bunch that viewed the community as a temporary fix for those struggling to make ends meet. Yet by happenstance, he had discovered a safe space to inhabit. A family based on shared experiences, rather than any genetic link. Where he gained membership through being present, alone. He was not judged or questioned or called upon to prove his worth by any standard chiseled in the stone of a religious dogma. Though in truth, the honest practice of fellowship and care for others was something he saw manifested every day, around campfires and at porch gatherings in the park.

 

In an odd way, he had found gospel truths offered not in the sacred words of ancient texts, but instead, in the common brogue of blue-collar folk, living one day at a time.

 

This was the foundation upon which Ridell built a new life, south of Lake Erie.

 

On a rainy night in May, friends huddled under the enclosure at his storage barn. They had gathered to celebrate his 70^th birthday. A benchmark that someone had gotten from his voter registration at the church on their township square.

 

Katey Bland sat on a wooden crate once used to hold quarts of Cotton Club soft drinks. She was the daughter of a poll worker who volunteered for every local election cycle. A yellow crop top and tight, denim leggings made her look the part of a trailer queen. But she had gone to college in Cuyahoga County. She earned a bachelor’s degree before coming home to the country.

 

“Ridey, you’re officially an old man! Seven decades, dude! The truth is, I can’t remember a time when you didn’t live here. My mom says you were a stray dog, that got taken in by the neighborhood. She remembered you living out of a Ford van painted olive drab. People around here called it Godzilla...”

 

The withered hermit scratched his long, white beard and chortled quietly.

 

“I think it’s still in a junkyard in Ashtabula. It sold for $75.00. Which is amazing, because I only paid $200.00 for it, originally. I dream about buying it back and going on the road again. Car freaks restore vehicles like that nowadays. Though after sitting for so long, I can’t imagine what might be left of that old hauler...”

 

Rottie from the corner stroked his bald head and sipped Ancient Age whiskey.

 

“Happy Birthday, Mr. McKay! I’m with Kay Bee, it seems like you’ve been here forever. I get a kick out of Granny Maylene talking about how gangly you were in those days, when that van broke down on the road out front. She said you were a lost puppy. Just a kid with no money. I think everyone felt sorry for you. Shit, nobody would give a damn now! This place has turned hard. The whole state, the whole country, has turned hard!”

 

Ridell shook his head in disagreement.

 

“Nah, you might be surprised. There are still people who look out for others in need. I don’t have much, but I’d gladly share my stash with somebody who has fallen on hard times. I remember sitting there with an empty wallet, and no gas in the tank. It seems like yesterday. That feeling never goes away, it’s tattooed on your heart. I think it’s the same for everybody...”

 

The skinhead laborer laughed and sloshed his low-buck bourbon.

 

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t want to count on it. I came here from Painesville, that city is tough! You get no sympathy from anyone there, no mercy. At least I’ve been able to survive at this dump. It’s better than being homeless!”

 

The senior sage nodded and scratched his beard.

 

“See? You just made my point. You needed a home and you found one. So did I, forty years ago. It was a gift that has endured...”

 

Katey brightened and flipped her hair with one hand, while sipping from a bottle of Bud Light.

 

“Yes it has, Ridey! Happy Birthday! This is your day to celebrate! And... ours!”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Darkness”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-24)

 

 

“Take it from me, there’s nothing like a job well done. Except the quiet enveloping darkness at the bottom of a bottle of Jim Beam after a job done any way at all.” – Hunter S. Thompson

 

Dirk Loamer had been in Evergreen Estates alone since the passing of his wife, a dozen years before. He was the sort of callused, blue-collar laborer that once populated vast areas of middle America. Raised on a diet of meat and potatoes, and a philosophy of patriotism and the Christian work ethic. In his distant era, he had been completely unremarkable. A faceless member of a teeming horde. Yet by the modernist standards of 21^st Century living, he had become an anachronism. Out of place, and socially inept.

 

He did not participate in the craze of social media interactions. He owned no cell phones, computers, or game consoles. He hadn’t been to a movie theater since John Wayne was still making films. And he drove the same Dodge Ram W250, with a Cummins motor, that first appeared in his driveway as a new rig in 1990. He and the mechanized hauler had both succumbed a bit to the weight of responsibilities and challenges met throughout the years. Yet both of them remained uncommonly strong for their age.

 

Only one vanity kept him occupied during the lonely hours of living solo in a village of mobile homes – drinking bourbon whiskey. Something he did out in the driveway during summer months, when the gloom of being a widower made him seek the comfort of sunshine and drunkenness.

 

On a Monday in June, he started early after a late breakfast of hash brown patties, and eggs. With a pitcher of lemonade mix, and a bottle of brown liquor, he took a lawn chair out onto his concrete slab. The webbing was green and yellow. He remembered purchasing it at a Western Auto store, with his beloved spouse. This reflective jolt made his eyes moist, but did not dampen his resolve to be obliterated by the afternoon.

 

The morning air was already hot. He had just enjoyed a first sip of refreshment, when a tattooed cowboy rolled past in his brand-new Chevy Silverado. The wheeled mule teetered on its jacked-up suspension, and oversized, rubber hoops with wide rims.

 

Eugene Mora was chewing on a vape pen. He had a hipster bandana tied around his bald skull.  

 

“HEY GRANDPA DICK! HOW YA BEEN, OLD TIMER? GETTING ANY ACTION FROM THE LADIES?”

 

The satirical greeting made him flinch. But he sat up straight, and waved in response.

 

“That’s Dirk, boy! Justice Dirk Loamer, US Army, retired. I reckon you can call me grandpa though, everyone else in the neighborhood already uses that handle...”

 

The short-of-stature cowpoke sneered over his steering wheel, which was wrapped with a leather skin purchased at Walmart.

 

“I don’t know about that! I call out a dick when I see one! Somebody ‘s been complaining about the noise on our street, when we have parties on the weekends. I figured it had to be a crabby shit like yourself! Who else wouldn’t appreciate hearing some tunes and turbo diesels getting it on? I ain’t never had too much fun like that! How ‘bout you?”

 

The solitary veteran huffed quietly, and smiled. More than being insulted, he felt pity for the loudmouth kid.

 

“I don’t recognize you, son. So let me ask, how long have you been in this trailer park?”

 

The rogue runt spun his rear wheels until chunks of asphalt began to fly. A cloud of exhaust obscured the dual Confederate flags on his bumper.

 

“That’s none of yer business, asshole! Just keep that mouth shut when I’ve got friends coming over. I don’t appreciate a troublemaker calling the Po-Po!”

 

Dirk was slightly amused by the youthful slang. But shrugged off the aggressive tone of his junior neighbor as evidence that he hadn’t been raised in a stable household.

 

“I’ve never called the police for any reason, boy. I handle my own conflicts. Just like in Vietnam...”

 

Eugene hit the brakes on his half-ton Chevy. Then laughed out loud.

 

“OKAY BOOMER! I GET YOU! ANOTHER PISSED-OFF DUDE WHO SPENT TOO MUCH TIME CROUCHED IN A FOXHOLE! YA GOT PTSD, GRAMPS? DON’T GET CRAZY ON ME! I MIGHT HAVE TO SHOW OFF MY MUSCLES! THE LADIES LIKE BIG MUSCLES!”

 

The graybeard retiree continued to sip his liquor and lemonade.

 

“Service to this country is a proud tradition, son. I can tell you’ve never enlisted...”

 

The pint-sized cowboy jammed his truck into reverse. More road debris filled the air. He made a power turn and ended up grille-first in front of his shaggy, senior opponent. Then, came leaping out of the driver’s seat.

 

“LET’S DO THIS, DAMMIT! STAND UP AND FACE ME! STAND UP! STAND UP!”

 

Dirk sat his drink glass on the concrete.

 

“My late wife used to say ‘Life is choice.’ She was a star pupil, much smarter than me by a mile. Do you understand what that means? Everybody chooses. My thought was to sacrifice. Just like the characters I saw in war movies and western films, as a child. That can cost a pretty penny though, and more. It’s a debt paid so headstrong people like you can run off at the mouth. But I don’t regret what I did. I only wish there had been more men and women willing to serve, when this country needed it most...”

 

Eugene rummaged through the folds of his camouflage, cargo pants. A pistol was hidden in his underwear. He pointed the weapon and yelped with a warble of fugazi confidence.

 

“C’MON GRANDPA DICKHEAD! SHOW ME HOW TOUGH YA ARE! LET’S SEE HOW MUCH COURAGE IS PUMPING IN YER VEINS! GET UP OFF YER ASS!”

 

The seasoned citizen sighed and stiffened. He tugged at his pant legs, without attempting to rise from the folding lawn chair. Slowly, the dungaree fabric of his work trousers crept upward, to reveal twin shafts of polished metal. Black shoes were tied at the bottom, to prosthetic feet.

 

“Every other man in my outfit was killed, when our transport caravan took a strike. I crawled out on stumps. Bleeding like a stuck pig. There was so much NVA artillery present that they couldn’t rescue me for more than an hour. I kept reciting the Lord’s Prayer, over and over. ‘Our father in heaven, hallowed be your name, your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven...”

 

The rowdy rube felt his skinny, inked-up limbs beginning to tremble.

 

“HOLY SHIT, GRANDPA! HOLY FREAKING SHITTTTT!”

 

Dirk lit a cigar and leaned back in the rickety seat.

 

“Once they fitted me with these artificial bones, and I learned how to walk again, I went right back in the military. Not for combat anymore, I couldn’t qualify. But to counsel and advise. There were a lot of soldiers like me, who left part of our bodies in Southeast Asia. Coming home meant facing folks that didn’t understand the conflict. Hell, I didn’t understand it myself! Anyway, if you’re trying to rile up this old soul, forget it. I don’t have feelings anymore. You can’t hurt my pride. My heart is red-white-and-blue. I feel sorry for you, son. You needed somebody like that in your life...”

 

Eugene had actually wet his athletic briefs. He dropped the gun as if it had burst into flames. With his head down, he retreated to the lifted Chevrolet.

 

“Gawdamm, grandpa! Gaw-freaking-damm!”

Nobody Reads This Page – “Phone Assistant, Part Three”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-24)

 

 

Morning arrived with a wash of sunlight filtering through my bedroom window. Something that was very welcome after days of overcast skies and rain. As I started to make coffee, the phone rang from its perch at the end of my sofa. A place where it had been connected to the charger, overnight. Before finishing with my morning ritual, I stumbled across the carpet to retrieve my device. Arthritic stiffness made my short trek difficult. Yet the glow of a new day bolstered my spirit.

 

Janis was up early, at her nursing home in Ashtabula.

 

“What are you doing, Rodbert? They served us breakfast already, more heaps of mush. There was one kind colored pink and yellow, I think that was ham and eggs. I ate it because my tummy was grumbling. Then I managed to sneak a pop and a Snickers bar from the vending machines in our lobby!”

 

I imagined her standing in long pajamas with some sort of cartoon characters decorating the fuzzy fabric. Perhaps with her hair pulled up in a messy bun, and telltale drips of soda betraying the dietary crime she had committed. It made me nervous about a choking event that might follow this misbehavior.

 

“Why won’t you listen to the nurses? They’re trying to keep you alive, after a heart attack and three strokes. Doesn’t that count for something?”

 

She cackled like a young girl at a Halloween party.

 

“Stop telling me that shit! I don’t want to think about it! The food here is horrible!”

 

I covered my eyes and yawned heavily. Her old personality had returned after months of rehabilitation. I was not quite awake enough to face that reality.

 

“Look, I know you’re ornery. It’s unavoidable. But if you keep breaking the rules, they’ll discharge you from the treatment program...”

 

My rowdy friend laughed so loudly that an aide came running to see what was happening.

 

“YOU’RE A DAMN SISSY, RODBERT! BITE ME! BITE ME HARD!”

 

Erica, a student health coordinator on duty, was livid when she saw the contraband items. Her tiny hands flew into the air, as a sign of protest. She began to dance on her spot like someone with a weak bladder. This made her scrubs wrinkle with sweat.

 

“You just won’t listen, right? Miss Janis, you’re a handful, I swear! Now you’ll have to sign another waiver about choking!”

 

The feral female on her patient roster snorted and sneered.

 

“I’M TIRED OF EATING SLOP! OKAY? GRANNY FED OUR CHICKENS AND PIGS BETTER THAN THE CRAP I GET HERE! I CAN’T STAND IT ANYMORE! AND I WANT A CIGARETTE!”

 

Her caregiver tried to deescalate the conflict, with a word of reason.

 

“Woman, you can’t swallow yet. Not properly, anyway! It’s my job to keep you from having a crisis. Doesn’t that make sense? If you don’t quit adding to your daily menu, we’ll have to put you in a private room, away from everyone else. That would be a shame, because I can see you’ve become friendly with several of the other residents...”

 

I scratched my beard and held the cell phone closer to my ear.

 

“Listen to her, she’s trying to keep you from having another trip to the Cleveland Clinic ER!”

 

I could hear the staccato sound of her landline handset being banged against a corridor wall.

 

“NO MORE MUSH! NO MORE MUSH! NO MORE MUSH!”

 

My face was burning. And my stomach felt as if I had been eating gravel.

 

“Your new wireless device should be there later today. Just hang on for a few more hours. Walmart sent a delivery notice to your e-mail account yesterday. I know you’re bored, I get it! Just try to think happy thoughts. Maybe there’ll be chocolate pudding for dinner...”

 

Silence split the distance between us, before she answered in a whisper.

 

“I gotta pee, Rodbert. Dammit, that means I have to get up from this folding chair!”

 

There was mumbling in the background that I didn’t understand. Then, I heard Erica’s soft voice intone a caveat for my benefit. She had the lilting diction of a receptionist at her counter.

 

“Whoever you are on the line, Miss Janis just disappeared with her walker. I think she is headed toward the bathroom. There was a half-empty bottle of Cherry Pepsi in her robe pocket! Maybe she will call you back later! Umm... have a good day!”

 

I finally had time to put coffee grounds in the filter basket of my Bunn brewer. Then, I poured a carafe of water into the reservoir. While waiting for its cycle to begin, I checked the Walmart site on my computer, in the back bedroom.

 

Through bleary eyes, I read a message that had arrived earlier in the morning.

 

Confirmation: Your Straight Talk card will arrive next Monday. However, your Motorola phone has been delayed. Check back later for delivery details. We will do our best to ensure a speedy delivery! Thank you for shopping with us! Walmart is your one-stop destination for electronics and accessories of every kind!”

 

I needed java to jump start my nervous system. But being numb helped me to survive reading this woeful bulletin.

 

“No! No! No! Not again! How long will it take to get that thing in her hands? She’ll have a fit when it doesn’t show up today! Those poor assistants at the care center will have to put her in isolation!”

 

When I reread the order page, it said that her prepaid card was being sent by a delivery service like FedEx or UPS. But the Motorola unit had been scheduled as an item to be taken out of store stock, locally. Something they would drive over from the nearest supercenter. Undoubtedly, this must have seemed to be a logical option, with corporate planners in Bentonville, Arkansas. Yet it had thrown a wrench into the works, for my contrarian cohort.

 

I poured a first cup of the steaming, black elixir, and then sat with my head on the computer keyboard.

 

“She will have a fit! A crazy, wild, caterwauling tantrum!”

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Phone Assistant, Part Two”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

3-24

 

 

Dealing with my rowdy friend Janis Mays has never been an easy task. She has the independent spirit of Calamity Jane, and the style of Ms. Joplin, the famous 60’s icon. Her mode of thinking is always somewhat impulsive. Planning ahead, or pondering possibilities, are not strategies in her personal toolkit. She gets a burr under the saddle, and springs into action. I often find myself playing the role of a mediator. I try to listen, and advise with patience. While keeping others from misunderstanding her capricious nature.

 

A recent effort to get her hooked up with a cellular device, through the mega-retailer Walmart, seemed to have gone well. I managed to set up accounts with PayPal and that vendor of goods, and then make purchases that she wanted, online. Afterward, I celebrated on my home porch with a cold brew.

 

Her treasures were supposed to arrive on a Tuesday. Both the phone itself, and a prepaid card that corresponded. With enough data and minutes for a full month of service, despite not signing a contract. I felt like a hero, though she complained a bit about having to wait a few days for the delivery. When the target date arrived, nothing showed up in the mailroom of her skilled-care facility. Yet her reaction was surprisingly chipper.

 

“Oh well, it’ll be here tomorrow! I can’t wait, Rodbert! There’s a big chicken in our activity room, and I want to take a picture before it disappears!”

 

After our brief conversation, I checked her e-mail messages as an afterthought. Then, my head drooped with a sense of defeat.

 

“Your order has been canceled due to suspicious activity that was detected by our security team. A full refund has been issued. To reorder these items, click here...”

 

My stomach had begun to hurt. I reread the statement, then double-checked her information. A look at the PayPal site confirmed that all funds transmitted had been returned. Nothing appeared to be incorrect or out of place.

 

I took a deep breath, invoked the mercy of a higher power, and sent her order again. Then, decided to make a redneck charcuterie plate, which contained sliced salami chunks, extra-sharp cheese, and crackers. While satisfying my appetite, I watched WWE wrestling on my DVR.

 

Sometime later in the evening, I had a second look at my feminine friend’s Walmart account. There was another communication about the resent order being flagged as suspect. It had again been rejected, like an NBA score blocked at the basket.

 

Janis joked during our previous interaction that she might call late in the day, something she did not usually do as a habit. So, I fortified myself with a few rounds of Miller High Life, to be prepared. Her patience never endured for long. I had become used to her rants and outbursts, over the 15 years of our personal association. Still, these episodes rattled me to the core. Thankfully, I was able to watch all of the sporting matches that remained in my virtual queue, without any interruption. She must have fallen asleep in her bed at the nursing home. My wireless link did not chirp again.

 

Overnight, I tossed and turned restlessly, while fretting about my failure. Ideas did a zig-zag dance inside of my skull. Perhaps I might attempt to make her purchase from my own pocket, and seek reimbursement later? Or brave the miles between my rural dwelling, and her new residence in the City of Ashtabula? To take her forward to the shopping depot located in that municipality? I reckoned that such a trip would be challenging, as she now needed a walker to get around, physically. My own disability would preclude giving assistance, if she fell or floundered.

 

Frustration weakened my resolve. When the sky began to awaken, on Wednesday morning, I crawled out of the sack and made coffee. The computer seemed to beckon, from my home office. It was there that I would find comfort, and a resolution.

 

After scanning the Walmart start page again, I found a link that said ‘begin chat.’ So, I clicked the mouse while preparing myself for a trip down the hi-tech rabbit hole. A bot identified as a creation of artificial intelligence responded.

 

“Hello! I am the customer assistant. Please tell me about your problem, and I will help!”

 

In the guise of my cohort from Lake Erie, I offered a brief explanation about being sidelined for health reasons, and employing the help of a friend to accomplish my shopping chore.

 

“I have been hospitalized, or at a care facility, for nearly a year. My intention was to buy a Motorola phone, and a Straight Talk card. They were to be shipped to this location.”

 

The AI helper provided a range of answers. None of them fit the issue I had encountered.

 

“If you think there has been suspicious activity on your account, change your password immediately. Check your computer for malware. Make sure that your banking details are up to date...”

 

My throat felt uncomfortably dry. Though I had just finished a mug of coffee, my taste buds yearned for a splash of golden pislner

 

“The purchase you rejected was initiated by me, I want to buy a phone and have it delivered to this nursing center. Is there someone who can help?”

 

The bot sent a disclaimer that time would be needed to process this query. Then signed off as if I had been satisfied.

 

“Thank you for contacting us! If you need further help in the future, don’t hesitate to reach out...”

 

I was afraid our connection would be severed.

 

“May I speak to a human representative, please?”

 

My request might have offended Star Trek’s stoic Commander Data. But the retail chatbot simply repeated its warning about a waiting period being necessary for processing my ask. Then, a notice that someone else had joined the conversation appeared.

 

“This is Poobah, may I help you today?”

 

I reread my previous comments from the activity log.

 

“I am in a nursing facility, and want to order a cellular device and prepaid card, to be sent here at your convenience...”

 

The new participant asked that I confirm all of the pertinent information. Including an authorization number from the original order, the name of my contrarian cohort, her e-mail account, and her billing address.

 

“I am Janis Mays, from the west side of Ashtabula, Ohio...”

 

Once I had convinced the rep that something had gone wrong with their security protocols, she declared that a member of their protection team would have to intervene. Again, I received assurances that my issue would get attention, after a pause.

 

“Please hold while I transfer you to a supervisor. You are very important to us as a customer!”

 

Another flash of text popped up in the chatlog. It indicated that a fellow named Zartan had been added to the conversation.

 

“How may I help you today, Miss Mays?”

 

I was struggling to keep typing on my keyboard, without an adult beverage at the ready. Yet forced myself to be compliant.

 

“I am in a skilled-care facility in Ashtabula, Ohio...”

 

This time, the description of my cyberspace woes cracked through the stone wall of static. There was a brief delay as all of the information I had repeated got a confirmation code. Then, apologies began to flow.

 

“I am sorry for your inconvenience in this matter. After about 30 minutes, but not more than 24 hours, please resend your order through the Walmart website. It will be executed and applied to your chosen financial institution. I thank you for your patience. Is there anything else I can do for you, today?”

 

My eyes had started to burn. But it appeared that the online ordeal was over.

 

“No, that’ll do it. I appreciate your help. Thank you...”

 

The representative did not sound too dissimilar to his AI bot. I could barely tell them apart. But now, that didn’t matter.

 

“THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING AT WALMART!”

 

 

 

“Appalachian Mud”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-24)

 

 

Indigenous blood

And the Appalachian mud

Flow freely where I lay my head

I have given up thinking

About things other than coffee drinking

And meals of red beans and cornbread

 

Once upon a time

I stood long in the bloodline

Trying hard to shape myself like a stone

But that carving of me

Represented a fallacy

A trick to keep me wandering far from home

 

I realize now

That the sweat on my brow

Is a blessing bestowed by the maker

When I work hard and repent

Of time foolishly spent

Then I become a humble giver, not a taker

 

My parents spoke their worth

Of damnation and dirt

And rewards for the righteous who pray

But I have often found this

That the stealthy, Judas kiss

Comes dancing with the Devil’s ballet

 

Grown up from the ground

This is the truth I have found

A philosophy of common folk on the porch

Singing hymns written years ago

A faith foundation put in escrow

Until it could offer us young’uns support

 

I am that inheritor

Sat outside the screen door

With grandma’s poems on my mind

Her voice still tickles my ears

It protects me from fear

In eternity she lingers for all time

 

I will never travel beyond

The spiritual pond

That offered a drink when I needed it most

Though backward I may slide

Into selfishness and pride

That baptism remains from the Holy Ghost

 

I can’t make the claim

To be righteous in name

But in my heart beats a tide of crimson

It began on a mountain top

In a place where they tend the crops

With a hoe in a vertical position

 

Up and down the hillsides

Old tractors and bromides

Which do not offend the listener, by hearing

Though commonly said

And often echoing in my head

They help me to keep plowing and steering

 

I’ll work the soil as a metaphor

My typewriter behind the barn door

A place that might seem somewhat reclusive

But in that crude setting

With my Carhartt and mosquito netting

I’ll spin a yarn both witty and elusive

 

It’s in my veins, friend

Wordsmithing right to the end

An occupation I took on from my sire

I reckon that it is best

To hold this medal to my chest

Like a Model A Ford rim, and tire

 

An odd combination, maybe

For a budding, bold baby

Who came from the womb with a pen in hand

But when viewed in hindsight

Like a mirror gleaming sunlight

That disposition formed the flesh of a man

 

Now grown tall and strong

Still humming those church songs

Learned at a young age, and remembered

They still bring me a smile

Because all the while

They summon the messages I heard

 

Promises of hope declared

Trust in the true and the fair

A foundation that Appalachian mud provided

It has never washed away

Only hardened like clay

To bolster this house, undivided

 

Loving labor is a chore

That the wise use to restore

Their worth as prime pebbles of prophecy

Sustained by the daily bread

Of folklore and scriptures, read

By gray-headed souls, from their memory

 

Amen is my creed

I kneel with the seed

First planted by ancestors from the old lands

Native chieftains and pilgrims

We stand here as their children

With bowed heads and callused, folded hands

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Red Baron’s Bully Brigade”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-24)

 

 

Living in a mobile home community for nearly 22 years has been a learning experience for this writer. Something I never expected in my future, while studying television broadcasting through Cornell University, In New York. In those days of the late 1970’s and early 80’s, housing was something I usually took for granted. After living in a family environment throughout childhood days, I stayed with friends or lounged here and there as was necessary. But never considered that a long-term situation of being disadvantaged might befall me personally. One within the strict confines of a manufactured dwelling. Surviving the physical limits of such a minimalist lifestyle was not my greatest challenge when this shift occurred, however. What became most obvious was that the owners of such rustic properties often had little respect for their own inhabitants. So, I had to adjust to being treated as an uneducated lump, with little sophistication or smarts.

 

The language used in lease agreements, or regular bulletins and newsletters, is sometimes quite stern and aggressive. The sort of in-your-face prose one might expect in a paramilitary or prison setting. When presented outside of a legal document, this dark tone typically comes with a counterbalance of juvenile themes. Perhaps like medicine with a sweetener to make it more palatable. A passive-aggressive methodology that sounds undeniably bipolar in nature. Headlines like ‘Hello Spring’ and ‘Happy Summer,’ or illustrations of shining suns and flowering plants frequently appear in the margins. A visual adornment that in actual terms, does little to mute the sting of condescending rhetoric.

 

Despite the form of delivery, a slap in the face is hard to take as a compliment.

 

“Grass is to be cut and trimmed weekly or tenant will be billed a substantial, hourly rate by the office to have it maintained when maintenance or management sees it not being attended to. All patios/decks MUST be always kept in an orderly fashion. If you have a shed that is for storage of your items. All patio furniture, toys, and bikes are to be kept in a neat, orderly fashion. Only furniture manufactured and sold for the purpose of outside use is permitted to be on decks or patios. All oil spills or leaking or spills of any fluids is to be cleaned up by the tenant with an approved absorbent.”

 

Just reading through the text of these regular decrees, issued on-site, can produce stomach cramps for someone raised in an environment of schoolteachers and university professors. Imagine being left alone with a computer, sans the writing skills of a grade school student? The yield might be amusing, were it not so serious in tone. Pondering this perplexing conflict between levels of authority and ability only deepens the mystery of origin. Moreover, since no one on the staff is paid much for their work, how can great sums of cash be imposed as punitive penalties? Doesn’t that disconnect ring a bell, somewhere?

 

Use of the word ‘tenant,’ for example, is decidedly pejorative. Many of my neighbors own their residences, as I do personally. To be tagged with that kind of transitory descriptor makes me feel somewhat like a person feeding a parking meter. Will I be here tomorrow, on this concrete slab? Sadly, the answer is yes. And the day after, and the day after that, ad infinitum. Living in a trailer village is not an undertaking embarked upon for pleasure or entertainment. It is a hardship endured out of need. One that faces those battling poverty, and family alienation. Or challenges the ingenuity of blue-collar laborers, retirees, and handicapped citizens with few resources and a scarcity of options.

 

‘Furniture manufactured for being outside’ is another nebulous term. Since many of my fellow sojourners resting at this prefab oasis are handy with woodworking and light construction, homemade benches, tables, and chairs are not at all uncommon. Do they qualify despite having started out as pieces of pallet wood, packing crates, or decommissioned boxcar frames? One must imagine referees running around the property, with rulebooks in hand. Is there a league office to hear appeals and address grievances? Or a supreme court to chasten the unrestrained governance of property supervisors? Our Revolutionary War began with such weighty questions lingering in the minds of patriots.

 

‘Oil spills or leaking or spills of any fluids’ provides an exclamation point to this missive. Is it possible that someone wealthy enough to afford a new motor vehicle at current, inflationary prices, would live in a singlewide shack that came in on wheels? That conclusion seems difficult to defend. Aging cars and trucks, belching smoke and gushing lubricants, are plentiful in places like the one where I live. My own people-hauler is slightly less than 20 years old. If I had been blessed with a kiss from Lady Luck, I might drive a new Cadillac or BMW instead. But before reaching that point of esteem, I would certainly invest in a ticket out of the clapboard confines of a park built on swampland filled with construction waste, and landfill.

 

“No outside shelters, dog fences, or dog houses are allowed. No ‘Beware of Dog’ signs are allowed.”

 

So then, Snoopy would not get to ride atop his canine kennel, on the grounds of a mobile development? I have to hold my head when pondering that his imaginary contests with the Red Baron might never take place. But the banning of warning signs about his poochie brothers and sisters seems logical. I would guess that a more honest declaration comes by hanging a sign that reads ‘Never mind the dog, beware of owner!’ Advice usually rendered with an illustration of a pistol or rifle. I have never feared seeing wandering pets so much as I tremble when thinking of their owners, engaged in similar behavior.

 

“Pets found running loose or tied up unattended at a homesite is a violation. Resident in violation will receive a violation notice and a $150.00 fine that will be considered rent and added to Resident’s account. Any resident with one or more Pet violations will be A) required to remove the Pet from the Community or B) be given a 30-day cancellation of the Residents Lease.”

 

After two decades at my rural enclave, it has become painfully obvious that retaining occupants of any kind presents a challenge for the owners. ‘Here Today, Gone Tomorrow’ might be a slogan painted on the welcome sign by our property entrance. Though a devoted core of citizens like myself has kept the ship of state afloat. Since many neighbors already struggle to pay their monthly lot rent and skyrocketing water bills, is adding to that burden of woe a rational step? In the bizarro world of mobile homes, thinking along such lines must be discouraged. Because it happens so rarely.

 

The result of these conditions is a revolving door, spinning faster and faster. Much like the blades of Herr Manfred Richthofen’s celebrated tri-plane. Spitting out the weak, and humbling those who enter with cockiness and self-assurance, before crawling out on their hands and knees, from the wreckage. Mercy does not exist. Only judgment, and harsh consequences for those untested in battle.

 

As a lone resident, I have indeed been tested. So, despite being unable to escape, I have learned how to survive. To obey, and be silent.

 

While drinking every day, for the rest of my life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Phone Assistant”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-24)

 

 

I have written here before about Janis, my contrarian friend from yonder days who lives near the shoreline of Lake Erie. Because of health issues suffered last year, she has spent many months either hospitalized at the Cleveland Clinic, at a skilled care facility nearby, or at another nursing home located in the city of Ashtabula. For a long period, she was on a feeding tube and responsive only in a general sense. Alive enough to occupy a bed, but far less energetic than the person I remembered as a team member at Giant Eagle. I wondered if her ability to participate actively in social situations had been eclipsed by such woes. But more recently, her ornery nature seemed to return. Something I took as a sign of recovery. Though she still battled gastrointestinal maladies, and some vision loss, her feisty attitude endured. This return to form meant that every telephone call became an adventure of sorts. I listened patiently while hearing about her care and treatments. Or reacted somewhat squeamishly to confessions of upsetting the staff and medical professionals with her rowdy behavior. Despite being scolded for drinking liquids without a thickening agent added, or for her desire to chain-smoke cigarettes, she continued to push boundaries and challenge guidelines. I reckoned that it was a demonstration of her inner strength.

 

Sometimes, meals of pureed mush and pudding were simply too bland to tolerate. These episodes usually resulted in culinary experiments with cookies, potato chips, or even pizza. All acquired in clandestine fashion. When something got ‘stuck’ in her esophagus, the result was usually messy. Clothes and bedding became soiled. Lunchroom furnishings dripped with a shameful spew. She even trailed partially-digested food down the hallway. These incidents stirred up controversy with those on duty. Yet each infraction made me more certain that her true personality had returned. Her own self-assessment hit the metaphorical target.

 

“I AM NOT A DAMN DELICATE FLOWER! SCREW THIS DUMP!”

 

Because her current place of residence has no landline devices available to individuals receiving care, Janis has learned to dial my number from a hallway phone near the entrance. Or at a station in the activity area. Neither of these spots provides much privacy, or comfort. So, almost every day, I hear her petition for help with getting a wireless device on the sly.

 

A recent explanation of the difficulties involved was lengthy and exhausting to navigate. But I did my best.

 

“Look, you’ve got a financial account there in the city, where your government payments can be received. But not being home at the moment means you aren’t picking up mail that relates to its management. You never had a computer or the internet, at the house where you live. You don’t do online banking. You also can’t drive, and do not have a vehicle, anyway. And your roomie hid the checkbook, because she is the budget queen. All those things taken together present quite a challenge. I can’t just log on here in my home office, and make things happen...”

 

Her reaction was predictably sharp.

 

“HORSESHIT! YOU’RE SMART ABOUT THAT STUFF, RODBERT! YOU SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN A JOB WITH THE ‘GEEK SQUAD’ AT BEST BUY! QUIT MAKING EXCUSES! QUIT BEING A SISSY! I KNOW YOU CAN FIGURE IT OUT! HOOK ME UP! THIS IS BORING AS HELL! I NEED A CELLY!”

 

I had to plead poverty as a limiting factor, due to my own survival on a fixed income.

 

“Years ago, we could have gone out for Chinese food, and a shopping excursion. I wouldn’t complain about escaping this neighborhood for a few hours, even now. But things have changed for both of us, unfortunately. I am retired and out of circulation. I hobble around with two canes, as my father did in his 80’s. And you are in the midst of a long-term project to restore your health. There is no magic wand to wave. All of this will take time and effort. You have to be realistic about that...”

 

Her response must have shocked anyone nearby. Yet I guessed that it entertained her fellow patients.

 

“YOU’RE AN EFFING ASS! I NEED A RIDE TO WALMART, AND A POLAR POP FROM CIRCLE K ON THE WAY BACK! GET OFF YOUR REAR END AND DRIVE UP HERE! JUST DO IT! DO IT!”

 

After she slammed down the receiver, I wallowed in silence for a couple of minutes. My face was stinging and had turned red. Then, I sat down at my desk. Methodically, I began to search for options that might be available online. She already had an e-mail account which I had created for use in circumstances where I was helping to provide assistance with official chores. Like the filing of her original claim for disability funds. I went to the Bentonville, Arkansas retailer’s website, and tried to set up an account. But ran into a snag with getting her method of payment confirmed. This moved me to try linking with PayPal, but that also uncovered roadblocks that I could not pass. In desperation, I tried to enroll her in online banking, with a similar result. Every attempt failed. Yet I had learned enough from this exercise to develop a better plan. I needed a keystone to put everything together.

 

When she rang my bell again, I was prepared.

 

“You said something about stopping at Mays Manor, your house by the lake. Right? An aide from the nursing facility let you retrieve some personal effects. Including your debit card...”

 

She squawked like a wounded hen.

 

“YES, DAMMIT, YES! YOU KNOW ALL OF THAT! I EVEN FOUND SOME SMOKES BY MY OLD BED, BUT THE BITCHES HERE TOOK THEM AWAY! I JUST WANTED ONE HIT OF TOBACCO, RIGHT? IT’S BEEN A LONG FREAKING TIME! HOW WOULD YOU FEEL, GOING WITHOUT FOR SO LONG?”

 

I chuckled a bit over her query.

 

“I haven’t had a cigarette since the 1980’s, so honestly, you are asking the wrong person!”

 

Janis spat curses and whistled with disbelief.

 

“I WAS A LITTLE KID IN THE 1980’S SO THERE’S THAT, RODBERT! ANYWAY, I CAN’T USE MY CARD UNLESS YOU TAKE ME TO THE STORE! GET IT? YOU... TAKE... ME! GET UP HERE AND QUIT PLAYING AROUND!”

 

I inhaled deeply, and then began my summation like a lawyer in court.

 

“Actually, you can use your card without having to visit Wally World, or any of those places. I would worry about your stability in that kind of open environment. And I am sure your caregivers would agree. But how about this... I can revisit my work in cyberspace, with that new information in hand. That’s the game changer for both of us, a strategy to solve this riddle...”

 

My friend began to purr like a kitten.

 

“So, that means you can get me a phone?”

 

I leaned back in my roller chair, and sighed with relief.

 

“I think so. All of your old information is still in my office notebook. We’ve been a dynamic duo for quite some time. Honestly though, I have been gypped in this arrangement. You get favor after favor, but what do I get out of the bargain? What do I get in the end?”

 

The feral femme cackled and twisted her long, orange hair.

 

“YOU GET... TO KNOW ME! I AM... AWESOME!!”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Huntress”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-24)

 

 

Traci Topps had been in Evergreen Estates long enough to acclimate herself to the general surroundings. Living at the rural, trailer compound made her feel somewhat isolated from regular society. Yet it offered perks that apartment life, in a more urban area like Cleveland, could not deliver. She had her own driveway, where a vehicle could be parked safely. She was able to wash clothes in her own laundry room. Or lounge in a yard that was decidedly small, but private. The cost of living met budget requirements that kept her always pinching pennies. And when she wanted to stay anonymous, particularly after working a shift at the Kinky Kat by Lake Erie, being off the beaten path made her nearly invisible.

 

Still, sometimes during leisure hours she got bored.

 

Her redneck neighbors liked to drool and leer, no matter what kind of outfit she had chosen for the day. Spandex and leather and platform heels would have been fairly commonplace at Geneva-on-the-Lake, or adult venues in Cuyahoga County. But so far into the hinterland, they aroused the spirits of unemployed mechanics, truckers and laborers who rarely got to sample such rebellious, feminine beauty one-to-one. This made her an object of whistles and catcalls whenever she lounged with a Seagram’s cooler during warmer months, on her redwood deck. Yet the yield of this attention was underwhelming. Typically, she ended up being pawed by young bucks with no money or social skills. Or sagging, old men who could only brag about adventures from a different century in bed, before falling asleep. Neither option kept her entertained.

 

She soon discovered that there were other young women in the mobile village with a similar disinterest in this dull social scene, however. Life among the ratty trailers was unsatisfying to all of them, but provided no means of escape. Only the realm of gaming, and fantasy, offered hope. So, they spent hours away from work competing online. And dreaming of betterment through some wild blessing of good fortune that might arrive, by chance.

 

Traci had been at her video console all morning, on a Tuesday. Instead of the garish grandeur of her work attire, she was dressed in a simple T-shirt and pajama leggings. Her contact lenses had been abandoned in favor of thick glasses with oversized, purple frames. She wore no makeup. Her highlighted hair was tied up with a pink scrunchie.

 

On the screen, a message appeared from one of her contacts who lived next door. Another dancer she knew personally, at the Kinky Kat. An emoji of a smiley face, with bulging hearts for eyes, danced around as the text scrolled forward.

 

“Hey chick, are you down for a new fun league? This bummer of a year has got to change! How’d ya like to be a huntress? Like a lioness on the prowl, right? There’s a game going around that we can join. Are ya into having a good time?”

 

The twenty-something performer sat cross-legged in front of her display. She was mystified by the vague challenge.

 

“Hey Camber, what the fugg? You’re talking in riddles, girl! Spit it out, mama!”

 

Her associate from the neighborhood sent a string of four-letter words in sparkling colors. They spun and scattered across the monitor.

 

“This new game is called ‘Badass Bimbos Bag-n-Tag,’ honey! What d’ya think? It’s a secret, so I can’t say who wrote the program. Or who’s already a player. But check this out – you get jewel points for breaking in when one of these drunken hicks passes out. Do the deed, give them a hook-up kiss in their sleep, you know what I mean! And get a phone pic. That’s your prize claim. That’s the proof...”

 

Traci turned a bright shade of red.

 

“ARE YOU FREAKING SERIOUS?”

 

Camber Faye giggled and tapped her long, red nails on the wireless device.

 

“It’s a sisterhood, you know? These shitheads can’t back up their rowdy talk. They’re all horny perverts. This is our way of taking charge. We run the tables, get it? I challenge you, and if ya do the trick, then its yer turn. Pass it along...”

 

The tall, nimble dancer was out of breath.

 

“YOU TELL ME WHO TO BAG-N-TAG?”

 

Her friend next door giggled again. She smacked her puffy lips on a piece of hard candy.

 

“That’s it, babe! I figure yer first game should be bagging that old alcoholic up the street, at Lot 13. You know the guy, Townie Lincoln. The bro with shaggy hair and a gray beard...”

 

Traci was horrified. She had hoped for a younger, more clean-cut cowboy of a target.

 

“LINK? THAT FRIGGING GRANDPA? C’MON GIRL, I BET HE HASN’T BEEN WITH A WOMAN IN YEARS! THE POOR DUDE WOULD PROBABLY PISS HIMSELF! ANYTHING I DID WOULD BE WASTED!”

 

Camber pulled at her blonde mane, and laughed out loud.

 

“That’s how this works. I make the challenge. If ya do it right, yer the next woman up...”

 

Her pal from GOTL was still mildly disgusted.

 

“He’s a good guy actually, I’d hate screwing with him like that! I see him out there every day, rain or shine, even in the snow! He’s always loaded by the afternoon. There are empty bottles of Jack Daniel’s all over his porch! I think he must be lonely!”

 

Her cohort played the role of instigator.

 

“Look, if you’re too much of a prude, just say it! I’m a little bit surprised, but there ya go! This is how we kick the blahs and show these hillbillies who’s in charge! I think it’ll be a hoot!”

 

A whole week passed before the young femme found her courage rising. By Friday, the working weekend had overwhelmed any thoughts of a personal nature. But then, as the doldrums of off days landed on her brain, she weakened.

 

Late on Monday, she realized that the boozing bum on her street had vanished from his outside bench. A quick investigation revealed that he had gone unconscious on his sofa, in the living room. The front door stood carelessly ajar. Beer cans and liquor containers were strewn everywhere.

 

Stealthily, she crept up the long, access ramp that ran beside his manufactured boxcar. She peeked around the corner to see him snoring and slobbering in between couch cushions.

 

A shiny, spandex sheath kept her from being noticed in the moonlight. Her movements looked like a glimmering reflection, from a distance. She slid through the unlocked portal, tiptoed over the carpet, and straddled her prey on the soft furnishing. He reeked of stale brew and Tennessee whiskey. A whisper of pleasure ebbed from his mouth, as she began to work her magic. She gripped his torso with both legs, and started to squeeze.

 

Suddenly, he kicked like a mule. She was thrown onto the floor, dazed and dumbfounded by this nocturnal bout of rejection. Her conquest had been upended. The inebriated hermit was still lost in a netherworld of strong drink and obliteration.

 

“NO MORE DIVORCES, DAMMIT! NO MORE JUDGES, NO MORE GARNISHMENTS, NO MORE SUPPORT MONEY! NO MORE HEARTBREAK! I’M A MONK FROM THIS DAY FORWARD! NO KISSY-FACE, NO FOOLING AROUND, NO NOTHING! THAT’S THE DEAL, DIXIE! I AIN’T EVEN GONNA HOLD YOUR HAND!”

 

Traci was flustered and offended by the unconscious rejection. She did a baby crawl back to the front door, and made a silent dash for the street. Her black sheath glistened in the lunar light. After skipping back to her own trailer home, she sat inside alone, dripping sweat.

 

Accepting the childish challenge had been an awful decision. One she wouldn’t make again!

 

Camber was at her kitchen window, in an instant. She had also chosen dark apparel to remain cloaked in the lingering shadows of night.

 

“How’d it go, honey? Did ya get a picture? Did ya? Did ya?”

 

Her fellow entertainer from Lake Erie was almost in tears. She trembled with regret.

 

“HE CALLED ME DIXIE! THE OLD FART HAD PASSED OUT DRUNK! I FELT ASHAMED BEING THERE! HE WAS A PITIFUL WRECK! BUT WHO THE HELL IS... DIXIE?”

 

Her witchy accomplice shrieked with amusement.

 

“That was his second wife. She dumped him for a guy with a big house by the water. They were living here when I first moved to this dung hole, ten years ago. It messed him up bad, he’s never been with a girl since. Everybody says that’s why he stays blitzed all the time. I thought maybe this sexy contest of ours might cheer him up, ya know?”

 

Traci threw her wine glass at the window. Broken shards flew everywhere.

 

“I hate myself now! And I hate you little bitch, even more!”

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Deputy Dogged”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-24)

 

 

Note: Townshend Carr Lincoln is a long-time resident of Evergreen Estates, a mobile village in northeastern Ohio.

 

I had been awake for long enough that my coffee pot was empty. With water in our mobile village having taken on characteristics of laundry detergent, after a thorough inspection to find leaks in the system, my stash of jugs had become depleted. But there were still enough in reserve to get me through until mid-week. By then, I reckoned that either an official remedy would have taken effect, or that enough coins might have surfaced from my couch cushions to afford restocking the household supply, with a visit to Giant Eagle.

 

Either way, I would maintain my caffeine intake, and avoid withdrawal pangs.

 

A clock on top of my entertainment center indicated that the hour had crept forward, almost to noon, as I half-dozed in my chair. Realizing that it had taken so long to become fully conscious made me redden with guilt and embarrassment. But this emotion was wasted. I had no schedule for the day, only a numb crawl of listlessness until with confidence, I decided that it was deep enough into the afternoon to start drinking.

 

In a trailer park, the opening of an alcoholic beverage is like partaking of communion at a church service. It glorifies a higher power, and sanctifies the believer. It is a cleansing act. One never taken lightly among the blue-collar folk who inhabit such communities. So, I felt a touch of grace while taking a first round of Miller High Life out of the refrigerator. My last sip of brewed grounds had only just been swallowed. Yet the outside temperature had already reached 70 degrees. A point on the thermometer unexpected with the month of March having just arrived.

 

On my wooden bench across from the front door, I took a seat and gave thanks while raising my bottle.

 

I had barely managed to down one swig of suds when a pair of police cruisers appeared at the end of my driveway. Both vehicles were painted in the familiar colors of our local sheriff’s department. I had seen deputies roam through our development of manufactured homes on many occasions. Typically, in search of miscreants making meth, or distributing other banned substances, like fentanyl. Sometimes they would be enforcing eviction orders, or responding to reports of domestic battery, or firearms violations. I always greeted them with respect, and kept my distance. But now, their radar seemed to have been focused on a different target.

 

Inexplicably, they were coming to have a conversation with me, as a person of interest.

 

A pair of young fellows stomped their way up the access ramp, as I sat contemplating my beer. Both were neatly groomed and physically fit. They reeked of after shave and starched uniforms. The taller of this duo had a thin mustache that made me think back to watching cop shows in the 1970’s. He spoke into a radio microphone pinned near his collar, to announce that both men were engaged in an on-site interview. Then, stepped forward so that he was directly in my line of sight.

 

His partner, who was completely bald, pulled out a notepad and a pen. He tried to strike a cordial tone despite being on a mission of law enforcement.

 

“Good morning, sir!”

 

The other deputy cleared his throat and nodded.

 

“Yes, good morning! Sir, are you T.C. Lincoln? I have some questions to ask regarding events on this property. Specifically, I am interested in the content of several books that you have published in the last year or two...”

 

My stomach was quivering. I scratched my beard and belched. But then started to laugh.

 

“Books? That’s your mission? You want one of my books? They’re free up at the library if you’ve got a membership card!”

 

The taller lawman shook his head and smiled.

 

“Sir, my name is Deputy Kleidnik. Members of the department have been investigating activities by suspicious groups in your park. We’ve seen evidence of militia supporters, and political extremists. There are Gadsden flags and Confederate banners all over these streets. Even the Pine Tree ensign, a symbol that predates the Revolutionary War. Someone on our team mentioned that you’ve written about that kind of ideology taking hold. We want to know if you have any direct information that might help us take a closer look. We have instructions from the governor to root out violent threats before they can grow!”

 

I was nearly speechless. But chugged my High Life to compensate for being out of words.

 

“Boys, let me quote Foghorn Leghorn, the Warner Brothers rooster. ‘It’s a joke, son!’ The shit I write is satire. Have you ever run across anything like that?”

 

The gentleman enforcer shrugged and patted a porch railing next to my bench.

 

“Mr. Lincoln, you give a lot of details in your stories. If all of them are fiction, then I’ll tip my hat to you for being quite a wordsmith. But the top brass at our department guess that you must have an inside track on all of this underground stuff. You’ve been here for years, I was told. You must have seen things, or heard things. Maybe you’ve been a spectator, when there were marches or cross burnings, or rallies...”

 

I wheezed and spit brew at his persistence.

 

“CROSS BURNINGS? WHAT THE HELL?”

 

The shorter deputy fiddled with his notebook.

 

“My name is Lapman, sir. Let me ask you bluntly. Have you seen evidence of the Klan here? Or the Oath Keepers, Three Percenters, Patriot Front, or the American Nazi Party? We think they may have operatives secluded in this rural neighborhood.”

 

I was starting to crave Jack Daniel’s Tennessee whiskey. And maybe a party pack of Taco Bell entrees.

 

“Damnation! Where did you get that idea?”

 

Deputy Kleidnik frowned and looked directly into my eyes.

 

“FROM YOUR BOOKS, SIR! YOUR BOOKS!”

 

I hacked up phlegm and beer foam. Sweat had begun to stain my Harley-Davidson T-shirt.

 

“Look, I use Google to find names when working on those passages. There are lots of listings on the internet. The SPLC has a ton of info...”

 

Lapman had the narrow gaze of a desert recruit who was not used to the hot sun in a dry climate.

 

“SPLC? Let me jot that down, what are you talking about?”

 

His partner looked mildly irritated.

 

“It’s the Southern Poverty Law Center, dummy! So, you use search terms on the computer when composing your books, Mr. Lincoln? Doesn’t that feel like cheating on an exam in college?”

 

I would have spilled my drink, except that the bottle was now empty.

 

“Cheating? That’s funny as hell, officer! No, I don’t feel bad using help when writer’s block hits me between the eyes. It’s a tool of the trade, you know. See, every day, I try to get something accomplished at the desk. It makes me feel productive. Like I did my job. Then, I can go outside and drink with a clear conscience. I feel worthy of existing...”

 

Both deputies sagged with defeat. Kleidnik pounded his fist against the wall of my boxcar-on-wheels.

 

“SO, ALL THAT NONSENSE ABOUT GUNS AND GOOSESTEPPING AND MANEUVERS AT NIGHT WAS JUST A RUSE? JUST A YARN SPUN TO MAKE A BUCK?”

 

I struggled to stand. Our confab had made me intensely thirsty.

 

“I tell friends that it’s a labor of love, something I do for beer money. Sorry to disappoint you, gents...”

 

Curses were whispered as the team turned on their heels, and marched back down the long, wooden planks. A scuffle of sorts ensued, as they reentered their cars.

 

Deputy Lapman shouted sarcastically from his driver’s window, while pulling away. His veneer of professional courtesy had begun to peel.

 

“Have a good day, Mr. Lincoln! Thanks for all your help!”