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!”
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