Trailer Park Vignettes – “Intifada, Part Two”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln was used to colorful sights while drinking on his inset porch at Evergreen Estates. A trailer community located east of Cleveland. Emblems that had been repurposed from the Revolutionary War were commonplace. Skulls, and Confederate standards, and leftover campaign materials for Donald Trump hung almost everywhere. Signs that boasted about the merits of Chevrolet, Jeep, Bud Light, and Cummins motors had been nailed to barn walls and pallet fences. Even white crosses stood in gardens and along the perimeter of manicured lawns. None of these symbolic displays caused him to peer through a magnifying glass, for clues. Yet the sight of a Palestinian flag in the front window, next door, made him take notice immediately.

 

He sat with a shooter glass of Tennessee whiskey held in two fingers.

 

“What the hell? When did she put that thing up?”

 

Like the reclusive, bearded hermit, Darcy Trelane had become a fixture in their rural neighborhood. She was fiercely independent and opinionated. Socialist, unapologetically liberal, and unwilling to compromise her values. Though nailing down her core principles could be an exercise in chasing ghosts. She seemed to believe in having a good time with friends, gaming, getting stoned, and little else. Which put her at odds with the whole community of mobile homes. Yet placed her in a narrow groove with the shaggy drunk on her eastern flank.

 

Lincoln was a loner and a Libertarian. His philosophy was non-interference. Only when lured out of the shadows by a nagging soul did he ever express himself vocally. Otherwise, he simply got boozed-up and blitzed, every day. Until inebriation sent him off to a netherworld of nothingness.

 

When he heard voices through the trailer wall, chanting for rebellion, the sound buzzed in his ears like a stray honeybee. He had to tilt sideways on his bench, and listen to be certain of this odd noise, coming across the side yard.

 

“Intifada in America! Capitalist corpses are the real Walking Dead! Intifada! Intifada! Intifadaaaaa!”

 

His eyes felt strangely dry upon listening more carefully. The sensation made him blink and shake his head like a restless canine.

 

“Intifada? What the hell? I thought Miss Poindexter was Polish!”

 

By the afternoon he had reached a point of stagnation in his liquor consumption. The effect of his joy juice had turned stale. So, instead of feeling tipsy or giddy, he went dark. His head dipped as he slid into a groggy state of detachment. But the call of a familiar name shook him from this downhill cascade.

 

“HEYY, LINK! HOW ARE YOU, NEIGHBOR?”

 

Darcy had come outside for a clandestine smoke on her back deck. Sunshine warmed the day with a glow of summer that would soon be fully in bloom.

 

The weary hillbilly rubbed his face, and belched.

 

“Say Miss Dex, I was hoping you might pop out for a breath of fresh air. It’s beautiful out here! I gotta ask though, what’s with the new decoration up front? Did you give up on the pride flag?”

 

She stood, hands on hips, like Wonder Woman facing off with a criminal rogue.

 

“Does it bother you, buddy?”

 

Lincoln shrugged and snorted.

 

“Nah, I don’t give a damn what other people do around here. I just wondered what the motivation was, to go out on that limb. Didn’t your fam make pierogis and play the accordion? I thought you grew up listening to Polka music...”

 

His contact across the green expanse giggled and nodded.

 

“Yeah, that’s right. I used to get pierogis with cottage cheese inside. And baked kielbasa. You ever have anything like that, Link? Grandma made everything from scratch. Grandpa drank Okocim beer, until he couldn’t buckle his belt anymore! No wonder all of us turned out to be on the chunky side!”

 

The alcoholic iconoclast sighed with understanding.

 

“You’ll stir up some shit with that emblem in the window. What’s the angle? I know you ain’t shy about stepping on toes. But this is a different move...”

 

Darcy frowned while thinking. Then hardened her tone.

 

“Have you read about what’s going on over there? Yikes! Thousands and thousands and thousands of people dying. It’s a gawdamm mess! Over here, the college presidents get to lounge with their donors. What about us? What about the kids? What about our free speech? We can’t even pay off our student loans! They’re turning it into material for Fox News! That’s why I invited my feminist friends over, from Tri-C!”

 

Lincoln had turned uncomfortably sober.

 

“Would I sound shallow by saying that you’re a buzzkill right now? Look, I never try to steer people away from what they want to think. It’s your trip. Take it! But I’d think twice on this, are you protesting for a cause, or just to make some noise? Think about where you stand...”

 

Miss Poindexter adjusted her black glasses, and shrugged.

 

“IT’S ALL BECAUSE OF CAPITALISM! IT’S ALL BECAUSE OF GREED AND POWER AND DIRTY DOGS LIKE THE ORANGE MAN! CAN’T YOU SEE IT? THAT SMALL-HANDED IDIOT IS A MENACE! IT’S BECAUSE OF THOSE PEOPLE AT THE CHURCH ON OUR TOWNSHIP SQUARE!”

 

Her neighbor abandoned his drinking vessel, and took a swig of Jack Daniel’s directly from the bottle. The burn made him twitch and grin. But then, he went blank with reflection.

 

“And putting that flag in your front window makes it better? How so?”

 

His young cohort wiped taco crumbs from her pajama pants.

 

“IT’S BETTER BECAUSE I HAD MY SAY!”

 

He smiled thoughtfully and twirled the whiskey container in his fingers.

 

“If that’s what you did, then it’s a good deal. But give it a pondering. Will folks hear what you meant to convey, or get a ring of something else? What notes are you playing? What instrument? A liberty bell, or a bugle for more funerals?”

 

The boisterous BBW was stunned. She fretted with her hair, and T-shirt.

 

“WHAT THE HECK DO YOU MEAN, OLD FART?”

 

Lincoln wiped brew foam from his facial hair.

 

“People always want to battle with each other. They’ve got their reasons, their causes. They’ve got fingers to point. Who started the fight? Who’ll finish it? I’m gonna leave that kind of talk for better minds than my own. What do I know? I’m a freaking boozer. Being conscious and aware frightens the shit out of me. But I’ll tell you this, someday, somehow, you’ve got to quit stirring the pot. Quit making enemies. Quit throwing dirt on the other side. What’s going on in the Middle East is a tragedy. God himself must be weeping. But don’t try to turn that into your own conflagration. Don’t fan the flames. Don’t add wood to the bonfire. Be thankful you are here on this side of the world. Live in peace with others, even if they talk different, and think different, and worship what they recognize as a different creator. Screw all of that nonsense! I’m good with you doing your thing. Let me do mine! Which, as a matter of fact, is going to my kitchen for another round of drinks!”

 

Darcy watched the disabled hobo stumble across his threshold, and disappear. Her face had gone completely red.

 

“I never heard that crusty effer say so much, before! Jinkies, what a speech!”

 

The radical group from Cleveland disbanded, shortly after their host expressed a change of heart about her act of defiance. The front window got it’s third look for that day, now covered by a baby-blue blanket from a shelf in the bedroom closet.

 

Lincoln fell asleep on the raggedy couch, still tasting Tennessee whiskey on his lips.

 

It had been a good day in the country.

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Intifada”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

Darcy Trelane grew up in a Cleveland neighborhood where people from diverse cultures had settled over years of immigration and urban renewal. Her personal world-view was shaped by the experience of going to Cuyahoga Community College, and studying for a degree in nursing. This attempt to set a career path went awry as she encountered members of counterculture groups, and artists who lived on the societal fringe. When she joined an organization of LGBT activists on campus, a new episode of self-awareness began. Yet this shift stunned her mainstream family. Eventually, she dropped out of school, and left the proximity of Lake Erie to live with a girlfriend at a rural, residence park situated near Amish country.

 

That hasty decision changed the direction of her life. She had never lived in a mobile home, before.

 

Evergreen Estates was tangentially opposite to the streets where she played as a young girl. The rustic enclave was populated with blue-collar folk who piloted ratty cars and pickup trucks with oversized tires. Citizens who were light on education, but heavy on family ties and American traditions. She had been accustomed to the sight of rainbow banners and protest signs, while pursuing the goal of higher learning. But now her surroundings boasted an assortment of Gadsden flags and Confederate emblems. Diesel motors rattled her windows. Shotgun blasts often woke her from slumber, with morning sessions of people hunting wild game, in nearby woodlands.

 

Her eyesight had always been poor. But after adopting a pair of thick-framed, black spectacles, she was tagged with the nickname of ‘Miss Poindexter’ in the boxcar community. Her intention had been to play off the vibe of Buddy Holly. Something retro and provocative for a lesbian gamer who had strayed far from native soil, in the city.

 

Eventually, she ditched the healthy guidelines of a vegan lifestyle, and tipped into an excess of eating Ramen and junk food staples, like Mr. Hero and Taco Bell. Her weight swelled dangerously. She dyed her hair a confrontational shade of metallic orange. Then, a new confidence filled her bosom. She organized a Pokemon fan club with kids in the park. Something that immediately made her a hero with disaffected youth, and a suspicious figure for their parents.

 

She put a pride standard in the front window of her longbox dwelling. That single challenge to the normalcy of their distant oasis caused a firestorm of discontent.

 

Linn Speck, who was considered to be a moral arbiter for the entire development, stood with his Trump Bible in front of the Schult singlewide. He had dressed as if going to play golf with friends, in a polo shirt and cargo shorts. The rotund, balding resident shook his fist with outrage, and shouted oaths, before bellowing lyrics from Lee Greenwood. In an atonal vocal style that seemed to have been inspired by the howl of a thirsty mutt left chained to a tree on a hot, summer day.

 

“If tomorrow, all the things were gone I’d worked for all my life

And I had to start again with just my children and my wife

I’d thank my lucky stars to be living here today

‘Cause the flag still stands for freedom, and they can’t take that away

And I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free

And I won’t forget the men who died, who gave that right to me

And I’d gladly stand up next to you and defend her still today

‘Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land

God bless the USA!”

 

Darcy stood on her back deck, which was enclosed by panels of chain-link fencing. She wore an XXL T-shirt, patterned with an image of the drag icon, Divine.

 

“Linn. Go home already! There’s no point in preaching your MAGA shit to me, I don’t buy any of your dogma. My grandma gave up trying to teach me that kind of crap when I was 14 years old! I loved her, but she was nuts. I think she worked in a munitions factory, during the war...”

 

Her conservative visitor shook his head and spit fire.

 

“DON’T TALK THAT WAY ABOUT GOD! ARE YOU INSANE?”

 

The pudgy femme squeaked with laughter.

 

“What’ll he do, zap my trailer with a bolt of lightning? That’d be awesome, better even than watching the solar eclipse from my window! Holy fugg! That was like something on the Xbox!”

 

Linn held his stomach, which had started to ache.

 

“Miss Dex, you don’t belong in this place. Can I just say that out loud? Go back to Cleveland and be happy. This is a Christian stronghold. We keep things on the straight and narrow here, nobody cares about being politically correct, or woke! I honestly don’t give a damn about hurting your feelings! I don’t give a damn about your trans friends and tie-dye freaks! I don’t give a damn about pot smokers and meth heads!”

 

The university reject cackled, and slapped her curvy thighs.

 

“My dad bought this junker for cash. He’s plugged all the holes, shingled the roof, and replaced the windows. Everything is airtight now! All we owe is lot rent, every month. We couldn’t live anywhere by the lake for what it costs in this dump! So kiss my big ass! I’ll do as I please, when I please! Call the cops if your boxers are in a bunch! Those losers are probably your buddies, anyway!”

 

The stocky agitator stomped his feet and cursed.

 

“It’s appropriate that you live next to Townie Lincoln, the old drunk who bathes once a year. That shaggy son-of-a-bitch is the kind of next-door nobody that you deserve! Who’s a bigger pile of dung? That’s a toss-up, I think! A coin flip to decide! The two of you should have a debate about it!”

 

Darcy shrugged and scratched her belly.

 

“Are you done complaining? Jinkies, listening to you is like having my granny back all over again. Whine, whine, whine! I’ve got to smoke a joint! You’re giving me a headache!”

 

The back door slammed with a rattle of loose weatherstripping. Their brief confrontation had ended.

 

After lodging the formal protest, Linn wobbled back down the street, to his own lot. He rummaged through his storage barn, to find cold cans of Milwaukee’s Best, in a cooler by the back wall. Then, he sat down on a lawn chair, which was waiting in the middle of his driveway.

 

From a distance, he spied the rainbow banner at Darcy’s abode beginning to droop from its spring-loaded rod. This change made him unexpectedly hopeful. Was it a sign that his loud opposition to her amoral habits had produced some sort of positive effect? The thought caused a chill to run over his skin. He pumped his fist toward the sky.

 

“God bless the USA! Just like Lee Greenwood sang!”

 

Suddenly, a new set of colors filled the front window at Lot 12. They were oddly familiar, and steeped in controversy. Yet he could not immediately remember seeing them before. But a moment of reflection cleared his head. And made his eyes go wide with shock.

 

At least a dozen other women were crowded into the small bedroom. Piercings and tattoos gave them the look of attendees at an alternative rally of some sort.

 

He could hear a student chant echoing along their boulevard, from the glorified shipping container where his atheist opponent lived. One that used a word rarely, if ever, spoken in their pastoral county. It turned him numb with disbelief. And soured him on the taste of his brew.

 

“Intifada in America! Capitalist corpses are the real Walking Dead! Intifada! Intifada! Intifadaaaaa!”

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page - “Cropduster” (“Undefeated, Part Two”)

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

I used to play at least one of my guitars every day. A habit that began during childhood, while experimenting with instruments from my father’s collection. As my own arsenal of plectrum relics grew, I started to record demo tracks on cassette tapes, whenever a creative jones moved me to write. But as career concerns and responsibilities took precedence, I quit doodling with my axes. It seemed right to focus on real issues instead of Rock & Roll dreams. That choice left me feeling gutted and soulless, but yielded a gainful income for many years.

 

Until it didn’t.

 

Disability pushed me over the precipice, into early retirement. When I finally summoned the courage to revisit this first love of many, it produced a moment of stunning self-awareness. Though words and melodies still flowed through my head, and colored the hues of writing projects penned for newspapers, magazines, and books, I no longer had the chops to play.

 

Sitting with a bargain amplifier bought through eBay, and my Fender Telecaster Standard, I was taken down a notch. Or perhaps, two or three...

 

For a long time while out-of-service, I had considered myself to be a fan of Fender products. In discussions online, or casual conversations, I always indicated that this personal tilt remained in effect. Even when talking about guitar history with my friend and mentor Dennis Chandler, who once worked for Gibson as a district manager of some kind. My first electric twanger was a no-name, Teisco offering. A student-sized appliance, made in Japan. Yet heavily influenced by the designs Leo himself had sired. That provided a template which directed my purchases going forward. I found a Swedish, Hagstrom II, which reminded me somewhat of a Jazzmaster. Later came a Peavey T-60, which was a tribute to the venerable Stratocaster. And a Hofner from Germany, which also carried the telltale traits of those noted creations.

 

But in modern terms, I struggled with the workhorse instrument. My late friend Paul Race had fancifully called his own blonde Tele from the 1960’s a ‘Fender Cropduster.’ He inspired me to lust after that kind of no-frills, playing experience. So, finding myself uncomfortable with one of the breed made me confused and disheartened.

 

While snoozing in bed, later that night, I remembered some of the other electrified jammers in my collection. Some force of reason guided me to ponder a black, Gibson Les Paul that had languished in a closet for several years, with boxes of forgotten junk.

 

I wondered and wandered through the dreamscape aimlessly, while counting sheep. What about that guitar? What about trying something totallydifferent?

 

Late in the morning that followed, I finished a pot of coffee and then moved to my desk in the back office. I had managed to retrieve the Gibbo from its exile, and found a cable to plug it into my low-buck amp. With the guitar sitting across my right knee, I clutched at the fretboard. And began to hammer out a simple, Blues riff.

 

This time, my hands were not so numb.

 

I started with a setting of high gain on the Ibanez soundbox, something associated with Punk pioneers who used their Les Paul models to thrash out power chords. Like Steve Jones of the Sex Pistols. But soon, I twisted up a more modest level on the dials. This cleaner tone fit the groove where I had settled. A new sense of confidence bolstered my spirit.

 

Quickly, I crouched over my computer keyboard, and typed out three verses of lyrics. Then, reached for the iPhone in my pocket, and decided to record a first take of what had come to mind.

 

The humiliation of yesterday morphed into a gentler flush of accomplishment, and satisfaction.

 

“Black Les Paul No. 1”

 

Here’s a word to the wise

Peering into the dark abyss

With bloodshot eyes

Here’s a word to the fool

Baited too many times

Into breaking the rules

I know what to say

To dispel demons

On judgment day

I know what to reveal

When the soldiers go slipping

On banana peels

 

Here’s a word to the meek

Flailing without a paddle

Up on Cripple Creek

Here’s a word to the fine

Who have gone up the ladder, lazy

Paying it no mind

I know where to turn

In a forest of trouble trees

That bend, break, and burn

I know how to laugh

When lost and languishing

With my Esso roadmap

 

Here’s a word to the strong

Those who hear this tale of woe

And sing along

Here’s a word to the jester

Leaping around the throne

Of Mister Mister

I know what begins

When the daylight dips deep

And night holds all the pins

I know what to think

When sober days grow heavy

And my soul thirsts for drink.”

 

My recorded work was pedestrian compared to some of the wild fantasies of yonder days. Yet it resonated with worth. After such a long episode of alienation from my creative self, I took heart in being able to play, once again. Having saved the audio file, I attached it to a series of e-mail messages, and shared it with friends. This act rendered a more immediate sense of gratification than compiling cassette volumes of my demos, and mailing them at the post office. Something I used to do when my studio was a basement room, filled with vinyl records and collectible trinkets.

 

After finishing this musical endeavor, I sat with a brew on my front porch. A reflective mood made me consider that after a lifetime of beholding the Telecaster as a sort of holy grail, I had now reached a point where that axe no longer felt good in my hands. Murmuring a silent prayer, I asked my late cohort from Corning, New York for forgiveness.

 

Then, I recalled that my first truly competent guitar was a Kent, crafted in tribute to Gibson’s most iconic model. That sunburst, humbuckered, note-harvester was buried in a closet, next to the bathroom. I hadn’t taken it out to play in years.

 

Unwittingly, I had traced a circle from that day in my youth, to the here and now. From the first moment when I slung the LP copy over my shoulder, to the point of being stooped and slowed by age.

 

My journey came with the flip of a power switch, and the stroke of a pick. And my own ‘Cropduster’ sitting in a corner by the file cabinet.

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Undefeated”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

There is a saying among sports pundits and fans that ‘Father Time is undefeated.’ This pearl of wisdom seems to suit the progression of athletes from their prodigious beginnings, to heights of mastery, and finally the arrival of physical decline. Such visitations of the mortal cycle happen to everyone. Even those outside the competitive realm of notable figures we celebrate on the field, as heroes.

 

But for this writer, knowledge of how the calendar can chart a tumble from yesterday into tomorrow came unexpectedly. It jolted me with humility, while sitting at my desk in the home office.

 

I wrote here in recent days about winning an Ibanez practice amp on the auction website eBay. One evening, while sipping products of the Miller Brewing Company, I threw out a lowball offer on the device. It had been listed by a seller who represented some kind of thrift emporium. So, I figured that they might be motivated to negotiate a price that was even below their minimum bid. My attempt came with little forethought. Though I had been pondering a return to active duty as a songwriter for many months. All of my full-size audio equipment had been stashed in a closet, years before. Now, that reserve was hopelessly buried under boxes, plectrum relics, and clothes that no longer fit. So, ordering something more suited to sitting on a corner of my desk felt right. It was an easier choice than trying to balance on my cane and dig through the pile, while sweating and cursing.

 

But when the soundbox arrived, I couldn’t find a cable to connect it with my guitar. A search of instrument cases and drawers yielded nothing. I was certain that several of those cords were packed away in my collection. Yet none could be found. Eventually, I surrendered to futility and simply ordered a replacement, online. A desperate act associated with fatigue and disability.

 

I had finally reached the point of living like my father. He had a house full of treasures, shared with my mom. But couldn’t access too much due to his own impairments. The computer became his savior. He bought more of whatever wasn’t already on top of the heap, to rescue himself. Pride kept him in motion.

 

When I finally had a suitable connector for my six-string twanger, I got everything plugged in and readied myself for the creative process to start. I guessed that improvised lyrics and experimental chord changes would carry me forward, as in yonder days. But this bravado faded quickly. I kept tuning and re-tuning my Fender Telecaster, with varying results. None of these tonalities hit the mark, however. I couldn’t seem to make the proper adjustments. Finally, the Garage Band app on my iPhone provided a useful template. I tweaked the pitch of each string repeatedly, strumming and stroking. After half-an-hour of doodling, I hit the bullseye.

 

“THAT’S IT! THAT’S THE WAY I USED TO DO IT AS A KID!”

 

I remembered an off-color composition by my New York compadre, Paul Race. A friend who had passed away in 2014, nearing the age of 70. This salacious anthem wasn’t one I would have chosen to share in public. Yet it came to mind from having been performed on many occasions, in driveway sessions at his home outside of Corning.

 

My hands had been suffering from circulation issues, after retirement. So, it did not take long before every finger went numb. They were stiff and uncooperative. I felt like someone trying to pick out a melody with a bunch of tiny, summer sausages. But persistence kept me moving up and down the fretboard. I recorded a Blues jam of sorts, with words taken out of the ether. This vocal document was rough, and rendered in low-fidelity. Still, it set a benchmark in place. After a long period of neglect, I had finally revisited a cherished tradition.

 

My hands were sore. But my heart swelled with satisfaction.

 

“Well, it’s been a long time

Been a very long time

I can hardly remember

What I used to play

Hey, hey

Well, it’s been a long time

Been a long, long time

I can hardly remember

Back to the month of September

Hey!

Yeah, I used to pick on the guitar quite a bit

I played almost every day

But over time, with responsibilities taking hold

All that went away

Now my fingers are numb

And I’m a disabled bum

(Laughter)

Hey, hey

A disabled bum, that’s what I am!

Kind of hard to accept

I’m sitting here in the retirement Jet Set

How about that?

Hey, hey

Pride and self-confidence are gone

But I keep on a-traveling on

Traveling on...

Traveling on

Traveling on...

Hey, traveling on!”

 

I felt somewhat embarrassed in the aftermath. Another bygone sports adage, about ‘diminishing skills,’ came to mind. One that had been tossed at our beloved Cleveland Browns quarterback, Bernie Kosar, late in his NFL career.

 

Writing had always been my focus. Any real lust for the stage, or a life of performing, had been jettisoned with childish thoughts of traveling the globe, or winning a lottery prize. Like most adults, I shifted to rationalism as a methodology for survival. But the glow of this holy commission had not dimmed. Even with my own failings so nakedly evident.

 

The 11^th volume of my ‘Trailer Park Militia’ series had been about a reclusive figure from Ohio, who posted demo recordings of Country ballads and Blues improvisations on his YouTube channel. It was a reflection of the yearning I still carried for musical expression. When this fictional character found discovery and the spotlight, it sent him reeling into regret and remorse. I reckoned that the harsh glare of public attention would be something too foreign to embrace for a middle-aged, hobbling dude. I felt more comfortable in the shadows, A place I inhabited out of necessity.

 

Anonymity had become my cloak, and I wore it proudly. But the writing adventure was certain to continue.

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “No Fun Allowed”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

My time in the traditional newspaper business was a learning experience like no other. This journey began in New York State where I had befriended an editor with one of our local weekly publications. She was a fan of the television show I hosted on a public access channel, as a result of an apprenticeship through a program affiliated with Cornell University. I eventually submitted written material for her approval, and one of these items ended up on the front page of the journal she helped to supervise.

 

I was hooked forever. Seeing my own words in print felt truly rewarding. I wanted more of that thrilling experience. A lot more!

 

Eventually, I wrote for a motorcycle magazine in California, via long-distance submissions. This also offered an opportunity to practice the craft and grow, as a professional wordsmith. But when I stumbled into an opportunity to labor for a local gazette in my native Ohio, the yield was much greater than simply being educated on how to create manuscripts and edit them properly. I witnessed directly how the opinion of one person, or a small cadre of individuals, could shape the editorial content of a respected icon. And steer that paper through the business of providing news with humbling authority.

 

After a regular column I had penned became quite popular for readers, my editor-in-chief gave it a prominent placement within our esteemed pages. This achievement made me glow with pride. I had worked for years to hone my skills, and develop a sense of what would be interesting to those who bought each issue. Yet when we had a meeting to discuss the official terms of payment, his response made me sit slouched in my chair, with glazed eyes. Disbelief took hold as I heard him intone a mantra that had never before tickled my ears.

 

He was a tall fellow, with a background in the military, and higher education. So his observations had the gravitas of tablets handed down from heaven.

 

“You see Rodney, writing features like those you provide is fun. We don’t pay for fun in this business. We pay for work! Having fun is an activity for leisure hours. It rests the mind and body. Like playing golf, going to the movies, swimming, or eating ice cream. If you want to earn an income, you’ve got to give us some kind of meaningful product! Go sit at the courthouse and take notes during a trial, for example. Investigate an accident. Track down details of a scandal in politics or business. Or maybe a dust-up with elements of both! Even follow high school sports teams, our readers love to hear about their children and other kids in the neighborhood competing for trophies!”

 

I felt a burst of sarcasm welling up in my gut.

 

“So, if I enjoy following athletics, would that disqualify me from covering those events for a paycheck? How would you know? What if I watched a losing team all season? Wouldn’t that absolve me of having any fun? Like watching our Cleveland Browns during an 0-16 campaign?”

 

My commander-in-print was not amused by such wild speculation.

 

“Look, I didn’t make these rules. You’ll find it’s the same at every outpost in this business. Hard content wins the gold. You have to get your hands dirty, like a mechanic or a bricklayer, or a construction worker. The breezy, lazy, easy-reading articles you hammer out on the typewriter are fun. Fun to author, fun to stick in a blank space when we need filler, and fun for subscribers to chew over when they are bored with the daily grind. But don’t expect to get rich stroking your intellect. That’s not what this business is about! We pass along facts, in between advertising and promotional flash. That’s how this institution makes a return on the owner’s investments. It’s how I get paid. It's how the staff gets paid. It’s how... umm... you would get paid if you did anything useful!”

 

My face stung with the realization that although I had helped sell our newspaper on numerous occasions, throughout the community, my contribution remained a footnote in his eyes.

 

“That is the rule? No fun allowed? I can’t crack a smile while sitting at a desk in this building? What comes next, a parking ticket or a corrective notice, like clerks get at Walmart?”

 

My keyboard boss drummed his stubby fingers on the desktop.

 

“Rodney, don’t be difficult about this situation! You’ve earned a rep with our customers as a lighthearted scholar of grand nonsense. I read your columns, and enjoy them, most of the time. You’ve got a unique perspective on things. Still, there is no market for what you do, in creative terms. It can’t be quantified in circulation numbers. I need real evidence to include you on a paysheet! Give me solid ground to stand on, and I’ll meet you there!”

 

I had difficulty breathing. My mouth turned oddly dry, and stale.

 

“No fun allowed. That’s the prime directive? I used to have a blast, sneaking sessions on my father’s Underwood portable. It sat in his home office, in our basement. I would plunk away at that message-machine, it was fully manual. My little fingers would become sore and numb. I spun all sorts of tales, usually just to file them away under my mattress. Nobody read them, ever. Except for him, if he found my bundle. He knew a lot about writing, from contributing to religious monthlies, printing church bulletins, and even having two books published.”

 

My editor smiled with the insincerity of a used-car hack.

 

“I appreciate all of that, believe me! But you’ve just proved my point. He was having fun. You were having fun. Now, you want to have fun here, with us and this weekly. I’m on board with that, you’ve already got my blessing! Don’t expect to get rich though, it won’t happen! If you came here for glory and jewels, you came for the wrong reason!”

 

I could not restrain my tongue. Words that needed to be said were ready to find release.

 

“So, what you do here isn’t fun? You don’t get a jolt out of showing up every day, and being master of this domain? You don’t feel lucky? You don’t feel privileged to live in a nation where the free press matters? And regular folk look to you as an arbiter of truth?”

 

The text titan rolled his eyes and stifled a guffaw.

 

“Rodney, you sound like a character in a college play! This is a for-profit enterprise. Everything I do, everything everybody does here, is about maximizing that potential. I am a journalist, pure and simple. But I’m also captain of a ship. I have to sail around the icebergs and keep away from the rocks on shore! It’s a job. It is work! Not fun, not a hoot, not a party. Work! That’s how I earn my keep! I would suggest that you follow my example!”

 

I left our encounter feeling strangely dubious about this career path, for the first time. But the jones for creative output was already part of my personal DNA. I could not shake it, or shirk it as a duty.

 

The adventure had to continue. Even if I was just having fun.

Nobody Reads This Page – “Scoundrel”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

I have written here before about my friend Janis, who has been either hospitalized or in a skilled-care facility for almost an entire year. Her odyssey began with a stroke, which caused her to be placed under the care of doctors at our noted and renowned Cleveland Clinic. A place of healing, celebrated around the globe and cited proudly by residents of Ohio as a jewel on the north coast. I am certain that her survival, with numerous health concerns over the span of a young life, is due in part to the knowledge of their physicians and nurses.

 

Though after three such events, and a heart attack, I also credit divine intervention as a factor.

 

We interact almost every day, through telephone conversations. These episodes are completely unpredictable and follow no regular pattern. So, I try to be near my cellular device when called. My rowdy cohort has done well to socialize in her new environment, yet still has some standing as a rogue of sorts among the residents. She is cheerful, but defiant. Never aggressive or combative, but always bending the rules just a tad. Each person at the home has a lockbox for their private use. A secure space to store valuable items or documents. She uses that privilege to hide candy bars and snacks, along with bottles of soda. Treats that have not been approved as part of her dietary regimen.

 

Swallowing is a concern always top-of-mind for her caregivers. They worry that she might have a choking episode with too many transgressions having been committed. Somehow though, none of these cheating episodes have caused a problem, so far.

 

Again, I figure that she is being protected by a power higher than medical science can provide.

 

During our most recent chat, she confessed to receiving a nickname from one of her favorite members of the staff. Someone with whom she seemed to have a great rapport. The woman humorously dubbed her ‘Scoundrel’ for manifesting secretive habits, despite repeated warnings. She appealed for understanding about the kitchen discipline being promoted.

 

“I would be sad if you were not here, one day! I mean that sincerely! I would give you a kiss on the forehead, before they wheeled you out of this room! Please listen to me, and behave!”

 

Harvard Professor Laurel Thatcher Ulrich apparently wrote in 1976, ‘Well-behaved women seldom make history.’ That observation might also ring true of my friend from near the Lake Erie shoreline. It is doubtful that anything in her in her personal timeline will ever be considered historic. But her restless spirit has endured so many challenges, that I reckon it must help to keep her strong.

 

She trumpeted this air of self-confidence, as we exchanged words on a Wednesday afternoon.

 

“I’m a scoundrel, Rodbert! Hah hah! How about that? I’ve been called a lot of things before, but that’s a new one. Hell, I’ve even been going to church with a lady I met here, at a spot somewhere in downtown Ashtabula. I sit there with dressed-up grandmas and Jesus freaks! But I’m still a scoundrel? Do you think the name fits me?”

 

I had to clear my throat before answering. It felt prudent to be diplomatic.

 

“Well, honestly, yes. I’d say that hit the bullseye...”

 

She must have wrinkled her nose, because the tone of her voice became narrow and sharp.

 

“SCOUNDREL! SCOUNDREL! THAT’S A GOOD ONE, I’M A SCOUNDREL! WELL, I CAN’T HELP IT, ALL THESE MONTHS EATING PUREED MUSH HAVE REALLY SUCKED! I WOULDN’T FEED THAT SHIT TO MY CATS! YUCK! EVEN MY CARETAKER AT HOME NEVER CALLED ME A SCOUNDREL!”

 

I rolled my eyes while nodding.

 

“Yeah, I get it. No fun allowed, that’s probably what it says on your chart. Look, they’ve got your best interests at heart. It’s their job, okay?”

 

My estranged companion cackled and sneezed.

 

“DOG BARF! THAT’S WHAT THEY FEED ME HERE! I WANT SOME TACO BELL! AND A POLAR POP FROM CIRCLE K!”

 

I covered my face with both hands. There was a noise over the connection like bedsheets rustling. I wondered if she was still listening.

 

“You’re fortunate to be alive, honey. Don’t you get that? Luck has been with you, or the blessing of a loving creator, however you choose to see it...”

 

Her answer buzzed in my ear like a honeybee.

 

“CRAPPPP! YOU’RE FULL OF CRAP, RODBERT! I WANT TO BREAK OUT OF THIS JAIL, THEY CAN’T JUST KEEP ME HERE, RIGHT? WHAT IF I SIGN MYSELF OUT? THEN WHAT?”

 

My stomach had started to ache. I scratched my gray beard and tried to think of a comforting reply.

 

“If you go back to that old house by the lake right now, how will you live? You can’t see to drive. The furnace is worn out and its oil tank is probably empty. You don’t even know if the electric bill got paid for certain, with you and your caretaker both out of commission. Think about it, right now, you need to be where you are...”

 

Janis whistled and played with her hair. The noise sounded like static.

 

“Okay then, I’ll come to live with you! I get around okay with my walker, I can help with household chores!”

 

Her ridiculous proposal rattled my nerves. I took a deep breath to clear my head.

 

“Look Jay, I’m disabled myself. You know that! I barely get along here, running solo. There’s no room, my hovel is full of boxes and books and vinyl records. Things are broken all around the trailer, I don’t have the income to keep making repairs. Benevolence from Community Action got me a ramp outside, I was grateful for that help. My nephew cuts the grass every couple of weeks. Neighbors keep watch, in case I fall or get stuck in bed. But adding another tenant here would be a no-no. Seriously, I think your roomie at the house was on target with the idea of assisted living. You need that kind of supervision and care...”

 

She did not like the tone of my retort.

 

“WHAT I NEED IS A CRUNCHWRAP SUPREME! AND MAYBE A CHALUPA ON THE SIDE! YOU CAN FORGET GIVING ME ADVICE, RODBERT! I DON’T WANT TO BE STUCK IN ANOTHER HOLE LIKE THIS ONE! I WANT OUT OF HERE! OUT! OUT! OUT!”

 

I folded my arms and rocked in the roller chair. My phone indicated a low-charge condition. It needed to be plugged in before our connection was severed.

 

“I see it’s almost time for your soap opera. And my device is flashing a warning about running out of juice. Call me later when I’m out on the porch having a brew...”

 

Janis sneered and snorted like a petulant child.

 

“CALL ME LATER! CALL ME LATER! OKAY, BUDDY! THIS IS THE SCOUNDREL, SIGNING OFF! OVER AND OUT!”

 

The screen went blank, except for a bubble that read ‘Call Ended.’ Then, a text message appeared. When I opened the app, a photo had been attached. It was of a religious tract from the church she had attended on Sunday. She wrote a plea underneath the pic.

 

“What does this say? I can’t read anything until they get me new glasses!”

 

Her photographic skills were lacking. The image looked blurry. But I read the page to myself, one word at a time. While peering through reading spectacles bought at a Giant Eagle pharmacy.

 

“Exodus 20:8-10, ‘Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God. On it you shall not do any work, neither you, nor your son or daughter, nor your male or female servant, nor your animals, nor any foreigner residing in your towns.’”

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Broadsided”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln was known for two things around his neighborhood at Evergreen Estates, a community of manufactured homes in rural Ohio. Being perpetually drunk, and lacking any sort of social grace when interacting with other residents of the park. Therefore, he normally kept a safe distance from anyone else, while pursuing his daily routine. After rising early, and consuming a pot of black coffee with dry toast, he would typically adjourn to the comfort of an outside bench on his front porch. There, with the gusto of someone who had reached his 60’s in a disabled and shaggy condition, he would begin to swig rations of bourbon and beer. One after the other, in a repetitive cycle that quickly numbed him enough to tolerate the angst of having inhabited his narrow lot for over two decades.

 

This was his existence. A sort of life few would envy and no one would behold with reverence.

 

But up their street past other boxcar dwellings, and a cul-de-sac that veered off to the right, someone was watching. A woman of middle age, with a remarkable personality, and fully-developed, feminine curves.

 

Chessie Mae Preen had lived on the distant property for about two years. Her husband was a doting figure, a good provider and loyal in a strict sense of taking household responsibilities seriously. Yet despite being fit for his age, and athletic enough to participate in pickup games with young kids who played basketball next door, he had little interest in any romance with his spouse. Somehow, the fire had gone out between them, long ago. His drive to project manliness seemed to have evaporated into oblivion. Though gifted by nature, he had no interest in putting these physical blessings to work. This meant that his busty, long-legged spouse spent most days sipping vodka mixed with Kool-Aid. And pondering the weight of her boredom.

 

She would sometimes walk around the neighborhood, with their faithful puppy on a leash. The mutt was cheerful and friendly to everyone. A Poodle mix with an energetic disposition. But when passing by Lot 13, where Lincoln spent his days drowning in liquor, a sense of canine confusion took hold.

 

The puffy pooch would cock his head to one side and stare, as if some odd creature had emerged from the brush. This behavior reflected how everyone else viewed the old hermit, as someone who inspired a sense of wonder and perhaps, disbelief.

 

Chessie felt something else while her dog would linger, however. A reckless desire to experience the danger of an interlude with this mysterious figure. A phantom of sorts, with a gray beard and deep eyes.

 

Late on a Monday morning, after her hubby had exited on a journey for auto parts, in their county capital, she dressed in a tight blouse hued in screaming pink. And cutoff, denim shorts trimmed with strips of western fringe. Her stride was naturally lengthy and bold. Yet for dramatic effect, she performed a high-kick with each step. At the end of her target’s driveway, she did a pirouette while taking care not to stumble over her fuzzy companion. Then, called out with a greeting that resonated like the chirping of a songbird celebrating a glow of sunrise.

 

“Howdy, neighbor! Y’all are out here every day, I see! Rain or shine! That makes me smile, I got to confess. I’m glad to see yer doing good!”

 

The quiet hobo was still fairly sober. So, shyness kept a bridle on his tongue. He lifted his hand in a gesture of comity.

 

“Good morning, miss...”

 

The eager woman tied her pet at the end of a railing that ran out to the street. Then, she turned toward a long access ramp that bordered the weathered trailer.

 

“Maybe I can join ya for a spell? It’s a long hike to go all the way ‘round our property. My gams are aching! I’ve made the circle twice already!”

 

Lincoln could not help noticing the gentle sag of her generous bosom. Her mounds stretched the brilliant fabric she wore to its limit of elasticity.

 

“Umm, sure, I suppose. There’s a guest chair by my trash bin. That’s what I call it anyway. People use it when they pay a visit, which ain’t very often...”

 

She sat down with a plop and a jiggle. Then, began to confess her loneliness and hunger for adventure.

 

“I been here for a short time, me ‘n the big man moved up from eastern Kentucky. He had a job prospect in Cleveland. We were looking around for something affordable, ya know? But shit, it’s gotten damn expensive to live anywhere near the city. This dump was our last hope. The park manager said she’d hook us up with a nice spot for a couple, but what we bought was a hole-in-the-wall. With a leaky roof and a cracked-up slab underneath. It gets chilly in the winter! There are gaps around the windows! That bitch sold us a crock of shit!”

 

Her host nodded and shrugged, sympathetically.

 

“Yeah, that describes most of these longbox shanties. Mine ain’t much better...”

 

Chessie adjusted her top while speaking. Both nipples had turned inexplicably hard.

 

“My ol’ boy is good with his hands. Larden Preen can fix anything, or build anything! So, he got our place in shape before too long. But I don’t know what happened. Between his job and living in this damn burn pit, life just dragged him down. Y’all understand? I used to get kissed and squeezed, every morning. Now I could dress up like Dolly Parton, and he wouldn’t notice. It’s a gawdamm shame!”

 

Lincoln had started to feel uncomfortable. Sweat dotted his forehead.

 

“I’ve been running solo for 15 years. My wife bailed out when money got tight. So maybe you should’ve gone somewhere else for the Dr. Phil treatment. I don’t know much about wedded bliss...”

 

They locked eyes for a brief instant. Then, there was a yowling from the street.

 

Chessie howled in protest. Her long nails tapped the porch railing as she stood up and scowled.

 

“Just a minute, Percy! I’ve hardly been here long enough to say hello!”

 

Poodle yips and yaps echoed across the yard. Then, the tipsy iconoclast held out his bourbon bottle. This reflexive move came without a proper amount of forethought.

 

“One for the road, ma’am? Maybe that’ll calm your mood a bit...”

 

She swiped the container from his hand and chugged its contents until her throat burned.

 

“Hell yeah, cowboy! Y’all are a good dude! Thank ya so much!”

 

Her boots did a click-clack dance on the floorboards, as she stood up to leave. But then, a twirl threw her off balance. She fell into Lincoln’s lap, and began to stroke his wiry facial hair. This made him flinch with shock and surprise.

 

“Hey now, you’ve got to be careful with that joy juice. I’m a professional drinker, so maybe you need a warning. ‘Don’t try this at home,’ like they say on TV...”

 

Chessie reached between his beefy legs, and let her fingers wander. This made her newfound friend sit up, uncomfortably straight. Her eyes met his, once again.

 

“Every morning I see y’all are out here. Every damn morning! And today, I don’t know what got into me. I just figured maybe it was time to break the ice. What else might get into me, I wonder. What else, do ya think?”

 

Lincoln was out of breath, and thirsty. He wanted to get drunk, and be alone.

 

“I don’t do much thinking, miss. It makes my head hurt. Have yourself a good rest of the day...”

 

Her four-legged bodyguard growled and pulled at his leash. He knew instinctively that something salacious was about to transpire. It made him stand at attention, and hop on his paws with naked aggression.

 

“Yip yip, yap yap! Yip yap yip!”

 

Chessie pressed her lips against the loner’s mouth, adding a dart of tongue as an exclamation point. Then, she clattered down the wooden ramp on her high-heeled Dingos. Frustration made her want to kick the scruffy dog like a football.

 

“I’ll be out walking around here, tomorrow. Hope to see y’all again real soon! Yippee-Ki-Yay, Mofo!”

Trailer Park Vignettes – "Air Guitar"

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

Holden Bryce had lived by himself in a singlewide trailer, in Thompson Township, since the breakup of his Heavy Metal band in 1989. He still lingered in that lost decade, mentally. Though since those exciting days after his high school graduation, he had lost dexterity in both hands. His prowess with riffs of Eddie Van Halen or Ritchie Blackmore had been diminished by age and fatigue. Now, he was more comfortable playing lazy, cowboy ballads. Something that made him feel slightly frustrated whenever picking up a fretted instrument. Years had passed since he attempted to do any serious gigging around the county. But his muse kept speaking in whispers, with ideas for compositions that bounced around inside of his skull.

 

Though his fingers were no longer nimble, every brain cell was still plugged into the creative continuum.

 

Late on a Monday evening, he sat in front of the household computer. Scrolling aimlessly through listings on the eBay website, for amusement. He looked at Gibson, Fender, and other axes that were available for purchase. Though most were priced far out of his comfort zone. Amplifiers and accessories had been sprinkled throughout this varied mix of entries. Their presence made him remember that his own stable of relics was buried in a walk-in closet. Far at the back of his boxcar dwelling. Boxes of junk had been stashed everywhere, over the years. Shelves of records lined what had originally been a bedroom. Cases of cassette tapes were stacked almost to the ceiling. He had managed to fill the space left when his wife of a dozen years exited, after an argument over buying a Rickenbacker guitar. Something he did impulsively, because it was an oddball model, offered at a tempting price. A collector’s prize!

 

He won the online auction, but lost his spouse. In Rock & Roll terms, it was a trade-off worthy of being written into bold lyrics of an anthem for the stage. Something he did later, with the gusto of a fan living on high-octane dreams. Yet he still missed his opposite half.

 

Now, he could only get to two of his plectrum trophies. A pristine, fender Stratocaster, which he had stored in a G & G reproduction case. And a Gibson Les Paul Special. Both were in a corner behind his file cabinet. He had wanted to pluck away at the pair, for many years. But could no longer get to any of his related audio equipment.

 

Then, an item appeared in his feed over the eBay site. It was a curiosity that caught his eye, an affordable, Ibanez practice amp. Described as having 14 watts of total output. Comparable combos he saw were all going for a hundred dollars or more. In truth, he lusted for a vintage, Pignose tone-booster, which had more mojo and street credibility. But he figured that this alternate device would sit by the corner of his desk, anonymously. Perhaps he could once again bash out power chords, and rattle the windows of his manufactured home, with joy.

 

The idea caused him to put in a lowball offer. Something he did while drinking Miller High Life, and Evan Williams bourbon. Days passed with other chores and responsibilities taking hold. Then, he happened to be checking e-mail messages in his account. And there was a notice that made him sit up straight in his roller chair, and howl like Ozzy Osbourne, onstage.

 

“You have won your item! Click here to complete this transaction through PayPal, and take delivery via USPS! Our website awards you a gold star for being a Power Purchaser! Congratulations!”

 

Thoughts of the score dogged him throughout the days that followed. He was already writing lyrics on the backs of junk-mail envelopes and paper grocery bags. But now, he strummed on a guitar while brainstorming through a series of random ideas. These musical underpinnings sounded hollow without any sort of amplification. Yet he had been electrified by the blessing of chance. Finally, he revisited his ode to separation, and divorce. Feeling undeniably blitzed, he vocalized the words from memory, while nearly toppling over in his leather chair.

 

“A black-n-gold Ric hanging low on my shoulder strap

Kicking out the jams, just for a laugh

She said ‘I don’t know that damn song at all!’

Then packed her bags, and went to live in a hostel hall

That’s a down-low kick

A ballbust on the bricks

But I took it like a fan

Rock & Roll is always my plan!”

 

When the jam box arrived, it ended up on his stoop by the front steps. The packaging was remarkable for someone selling on a bidding site. Lots of packing material inside of a repurposed Amazon box, with plastic wrap used to shield the contents. This sheath was surprisingly difficult to pierce. So, he spent several minutes, working carefully with a pair of scissors from the kitchen. Each poke made him nervous about ruining something inadvertently. But eventually, he had managed to shuck the device like an ear of corn, and had it sitting on an end table by his sofa.

 

A brew and shot of liquor consummated his celebration. Afterward, he returned to the home studio in his old, master bedroom. And started rummaging through desk drawers and dusty cases, for a cable to hook up his guitar. A pounding in his chest quickly signaled that this fruitless search had elevated his pulse. There were camera cords, printer cables, and spools of speaker wire, everywhere. But nothing of the kind that he was seeking. Not a single ¼ inch, end-to-end conduit for his passionate expressions.

 

“WHAT THE FRIG? I THOUGHT THERE HAD TO BE A HOOKUP AROUND HERE SOMEWHERE! I JUST USED IT THE OTHER DAY! WELL, MAYBE 14 OR 15 YEARS AGO... RIGHT AFTER STACIE BUSTED ME WITH THE BARGAIN BASEMENT ELDORADO 250! THOSE ARE GOING FOR A COUPLE GRAND NOW! THAT WAS A KILLER DEAL!”

 

He looked in the cases of all his tuneful plucksters. And in every drawer, even where spoons and spatulas were stored, by the stove. Not a single connector could be found, anywhere.

 

His dream of revisiting the land of jukebox heroes had been derailed.

 

“DAMMIT, I JUST HAD ONE HERE! I JUST HAD ONE! I DID!”

 

A red light on the amplifier panel indicated that it was powered and ready. Yet that status of technological willingness did him no good at all. He traced the EQ controls and master volume knob, which seemed to have rearranged themselves into the arc of a grin. It was as if the silent machine had decided to mock him for being inept and unprepared.

 

“I’M NOT THAT DRUNK! SHEESH, HOW MANY NIGHTS DID I GIG WITH THE BAND WHEN ALL OF US WERE HIGH AND EFFED UP AND FLYING THROUGH OUTER SPACE? AND SURROUNDED BY HOT CHICKS IN LEATHER AND LACE?”

 

Gulping down shame and resentment, he fell into the roller chair. It slid backwards and slammed into a bookshelf full of limited-release, boxed sets of vinyl records and compact discs. Crowded into the tower furnishing with books, and VHS tapes.

 

His head rang like a bell. It reverberated with the stinging cackle of his ex-wife, passing judgment.

 

 “YOU’RE NOT THAT DRUNK? HAH! NO, NOT AT ALL! I GET IT, LOSER! NOTHING IS EVER YOUR FAULT! SO, SIT THERE AND CRY IN YOUR BOOZE! YOU’RE A ROCK STAR WITH NOTHING BUT AN AIR GUITAR!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Old Gray Lady, Part Four”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

S. Gordon Finkel had the look of a military sergeant after retirement from the service. His crew-cut and sharp sense of style projected an air of authority, everywhere in the New York Times offices. He was courteous to members of the staff, yet blunt when assessing their output. While sitting behind his desk, or roaming the complex, he was always a formidable figure.

 

As editor-in-chief of the newspaper, his word was never questioned.

 

Yet for Nacelle Breech, a measure of conflict had entered this equation. She sat before her superior in a side chair, hunched over slightly, and totally consumed with a satchel of notepads accumulated during her stay in Ohio. After conducting interviews at Evergreen Estates, a trailer enclave situated east of Cleveland, she had gained new insight into the thought processes of Midwestern people. But now, a great challenge was at hand, one which perplexed her with its difficulty in being justified and executed. How to communicate the value of understanding that cultural divergence in the prevailing context of work done for the ‘Old Gray Lady.’

 

She read aloud from her notes, quoting Townshend Carr Lincoln, while flipping through the long, ruled pages.

 

“I didn’t vote for the man, myself. (Donald Trump.) I’m a Libertarian, to be honest. That rattles some of the other residents here, it gets me tagged as a weirdo. But to your point, yes, DJT is very popular in this state. You can walk around our streets and see his banners flying, with Gadsden flags and Confederate standards, and such. Maybe even the green arbor that hangs in my front window. That’s a historical reference, from 1772. Have you read about the ‘Pine Tree Riot’ from Weare, New Hampshire? Their spirit is still alive today, in communities such as ours. You see, nobody here has much love for the government, in any form. It’s a different mindset. A different lifestyle from living in an urban setting... We handle our own maintenance, watch over our own families and friends, and settle our own disputes... If there’s a beef between citizens, it gets thrashed out in person. With no cops or lawyers, or media bullshit!”

 

Finkel frowned and growled like a cranky bear.

 

“YOU ACTUALLY WASTED TIME TALKING WITH A DRUNKEN IDIOT IN A CLUSTER OF MANUFACTURED BOXES? C’MON NOW, WE PAY OUR REPORTERS FOR QUALITY WORK! NOT THE KIND OF DIDDLING MUSH THAT COLLEGE KIDS WRITE FOR A GRADE!”

 

His underling wrinkled her nose and kept running through the mass of notes.

 

“This material is golden! Trust me, Stan! I could pen an essay about the culture of middle America from this, and maybe do a series on how our views differ according to geography...”

 

Her leader-in-print shook his head angrily.

 

“GOLDEN? I’D SAY IT IS MORE LIKE SOLID WASTE, DANK AND DIRTY!”

 

Nacelle ignored his opposition and read more from her scribbled records.

 

“I know the talking heads on network newscasts think we’re all stupid out here. Naïve, uncivilized, easy to fool, that kind of thing... If you want to get the vibe of Ohio and other states in ‘flyover country,’ then consider where we are as a nation. Many folks don’t trust institutions anymore. They have figured out that the games are rigged, just like fun activities at a county fair. Or a claw machine in a supermarket lobby. Bankers and insurers and investment barons run the show. They channel corporate money to elected officials that do their bidding. Loyal subjects stand in line at the ballot box, and vote for the two parties, over and over again. Even though they feel as if the system has screwed them for participating... You get shamed and canceled for thinking along divergent lines. For asking questions like the kid in the story of ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes.’ Do you understand how that feels? It’s a sense of hopelessness that can’t be erased. Only one act makes it all seem worthwhile – defiance! That’s the tradition set by colonists who had gotten tired of British rule. Their faith flows through the inhabitants of this trailer village, and beyond.”

 

The media chief shuddered and cursed under his breath.

 

“YOU WANT ME TO PUT THAT KIND OF MORONIC NONSENSE IN OUR TIMELINE? PLEASE! COME TO YOUR SENSES, WOMAN! YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE HAD A CHAT WITH AN APE AT THE ZOO!”

 

His keyboard servant snorted and tapped her pen on the desktop.

 

“Stan, listen to yourself! Don’t you get it? This is why we can’t reason with each other. We’ve all become so factionalized. Each side retreats into its own bunker. I don’t agree with that shaggy misanthrope, personally. But it felt refreshing to hear him speak openly and honestly. Isn’t that the principle that made a foundation for what we do? A free flow of words? We can’t reach one another unless someone takes the time to listen, and learn!”

 

Editor Finkel wanted to vomit. His teeth and fists were clenched.

 

“NO! NO! NO! NO! THAT BUM NEEDS TO EARN A DEGREE IN LIFE! THEN MAYBE WE CAN CONVERSE WITH EACH OTHER, INTELLIGENTLY! I WON’T GIVE HIM ONE COLUMN-INCH IN THIS PUBLICATION! NOT ONE!”

 

The hired scribe turned pale with remorse.

 

“See, there it is, Stan! That’s the arrogance we carry like a shield, into battle. Our self-importance. Our veneer of enlightenment. We presume that anyone who does not share our perceptions must be oafish and clueless. That condescension keeps us isolated. We feel pity for those on the outside. But would never consider breaking through the bubble. What does that say about us? What has it done to our mission, to share all the news that’s fit to print?”

 

Her designated steward pounded his desk until tools of their trade began to scatter.

 

“I’M NOT GOING TO LISTEN ANY LONGER! GET OUT OF HERE WITH YOUR NOTEBOOKS AND CRAZY THEORIES, PLUS YOUR HIGH-AND-MIGHTY ATTITUDE! I’M CANCELING THIS ASSIGNMENT! THERE’LL BE NOTHING IN YOUR PAY PACKET FOR THE TIME SPENT IN OHIO! I CALL IT A WASH-OUT! A HANDLE-PULL, AND A COMPLETE FLUSH OF RESOURCES! EVERYTHING STRAIGHT DOWN THE DRAIN!”

 

Nacelle attempted to sidestep this harsh decision by raising a white flag of surrender.

 

“I’ll rewrite my feature, it’s okay. I can make it work for you, believe me! A second chance is all I need! I’m a pro at this game, remember?”

 

The head of their staff was unmoved by her capitulation.

 

“I AM DONE DEBATING THIS ISSUE, MS. BREECH! CLEAN OUT YOUR CUBICLE. YOUR BYLINE WILL NO LONGER APPEAR IN THE TIMES. PLEASE LEAVE THIS BUILDING, PRONTO! GOOD DAY TO YOU, WOMAN! GOOD DAY!”