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.
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