c.2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(2-24)
Bolan Frye woke up early on Friday morning. Not by the standards of younger neighbors perhaps, who had regular jobs to dictate their daily schedules. But he rolled out of bed at half past seven o’clock. A time that suited him only because he had grown fatigued with the chore of trying to get rested before sunrise. His body ached at every joint and in every crevice of flesh. He had been up overnight at least six times. Twice to sit in his desk chair and muse over late broadcasts on television, as a distraction. And otherwise, to relieve his bladder in the bathroom which was inconveniently situated at the opposite end of his trailer home.
This was what constituted a normal existence at Evergreen Estates. A community of mobile dwellings located east of the Cleveland metropolitan area.
While struggling to focus his eyes, the disabled oldster attempted to make coffee. His Proctor-Silex brewer, a low-buck prize from Dollar General, had only lasted for a single year. Now, it sputtered the death rattle of a dying animal. What dripped into its thin-walled carafe was like hot molasses. Thick and unsatisfying. Yet it would do until a replacement arrived, a better model ordered online.
Bolan was disabled to the point of barely being mobile in any sense. A shopping trip to the mega-center outlet in Chardon, which was nearest to their isolated development, would have been risky. So, he used a modicum of computer skills to acquire a new unit for his kitchen. Almost everything in the boxcar hovel was old now, and prone to fail. Much like himself. A kind of synchronicity had all components in the household aligned. This gave him a strange sense of harmony with the greater universe. Though in the end, it would bite him unmercifully, like a beartrap.
One day, he also might cough and hack and fight to breathe long enough to greet the morrow. But until then, he would simply hobble forward on his journey. Creaking, stooped over like a sagging buttress, and weakening with every step. Yet never, ever in a mood to surrender.
The first day of March had blessed their rural oasis with temperatures that seemed to portend an early spring. Something that had been predicted by Buckeye Chuck, the Ohio groundhog. With his mug of black java swirling and spilling, the decrepit loner made his way outside, to a roofed deck that had been built by neighbors up the street. There, he sat contemplating the day ahead. While watching a parade of cars and trucks exiting toward responsibilities that lay beyond the borders of their blue-collar development.
Trish Nardell was out walking her pooch as he took his seat. Her undersized canine appeared to be some sort of oddball mix, with characteristics of Terrier, Dachshund, and other unidentifiable breeds on display. She had dressed in a purple hoodie over her comic-book pajamas. An orange headband held back her long, streaming locks of gold. She strutted with a gait that proclaimed confidence and good muscle tone.
“Hey Boley, Good Morning! What’re ya doing with the front door open already? I’d say it must be a case of the winter blues, right? Being cooped up in these damn boxes-on-wheels is hell. I figured my doggie needed a walk around the park today! Both us are feeling better already!”
The wizened hermit felt his insides beginning to warm with the dose of too-strong coffee. He had barely begun to feel awake, despite the offensive taste in his mouth. Yet he lifted his big cup in a salute of friendship.
“How are you, Tee? I figured this warming trend was a sign to get outside. My knees are shot though, too many changes from cold to hot and back again, all through February!”
The young woman did a pirouette as her canine companion piddled on the tarmac.
“They were working on the park well yesterday, that messed up everything. My car is broken down, I had to call off of work. And I couldn’t get caught up on the laundry. At least the kids went to school. I was broke already! This’ll make it ten times worse. Now what I get in my kitchen sink looks like piss from East Palestine, freaking chemicals and slop!”
Bolan shrugged and scratched his beard.
“I use fresh jugs from the store, this water has never been very good...”
His young friend nodded and lit a cigarette. She was standing at the edge of his muddy yard.
“Why do we live here? It’s a freaking shame! I got stuck when my husband left. He was always driving over the road, so it didn’t make much of a difference. But sometimes, dammit, I need a man...”
Her senior cohort laughed out loud.
“My ex-wife says there’s nothing good about us, she would argue the point. I miss her company though, sometimes. She was great for fetching beer or Taco Bell, when I had gotten too drunk to drive!”
While they were conversing, a Walmart delivery van pulled into the driveway. A tall, urban fellow got out, and scrolled through entries on his cellular tablet. He had the build of an NBA star, and a pleasant demeanor. His voice boomed across the lawn.
“Lot 99, bruh? Y’all got a package here. It’s kinda bulky!”
Bolan spied the cardboard box through an opened cargo door. It was much larger than he had expected.
“My last coffee pot died today. This one is a lot better. It’s a Bunn model like I had before. You get your hot drink in four minutes, pronto! It’s a slick setup...”
The retail agent rolled his eyes and whistled.
“I get my wake-up juice at Speedway or GetGo, or Sheetz. I don’t have time to make it at home. They keep me running these hillbilly counties all day, every day!”
Trish tugged on her tangled hair and blew tobacco smoke. She took offense at being labeled a hick.
“Hillbilly? Where’d you come from dude? Arkansas?”
The driver kicked his LeBron Witness VII shoes, until they scuffed on the asphalt.
“I run out of ‘The Land,’ girl! Cleve-Land! Y’all get me? But, the bosses keep sending me out here to the country. ‘Cause I know where shit is located. The other guys get lost and give up too easy. They can’t tell one cow pasture from another!”
Bolan snickered and covered his mouth.
“I’m much obliged to you, for getting my purchase here so quick. I couldn’t stand another round of motor oil from that piece of trash sitting inside. It burned my taste buds this morning...”
Rap music began to bump and grind, as the Walmart driver made his exit. He waved politely, then hit the accelerator. A stream of loose gravel and pavement chunks filled the air.
Trish nearly toppled over as her pet became frantic from the mechanized clatter.
“Okay Boley, I’ll leave ya with yer kitchen project. Have fun, neighbor! Catch ya on the flip side!”
The hour had almost reached noon. Yet he still hadn’t enjoyed a proper serving of coffee. So, he decided to unpack the new appliance, and start brewing a more satisfying beverage.
The shipping container was printed with blue ink, and the yellow spark logo of that ubiquitous company. Inside, a second box carried stickers with logistics information. A third sheath inside was the original liner issued by Bunn, the manufacturer. By the time all of these repetitive coverings had been opened and discarded, the living room was a mess.
The contrarian recluse stood over a pile of Styrofoam inserts, folded shields, instruction leaflets, and spare basket filters. His legs ached. He had to steady himself with one cane, and a hand on the kitchen counter.
“This took so long that now, I don’t really want a shot of steaming Maxwell House, anymore. I want a cold, refreshing, beer!”
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