c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(4-24)
Nacelle Breech had been a reporter with the venerable New York Times for over a dozen years, when she first realized that her work as a journalist for this most exalted publication had become a staple of internet reposts. Acclaimed prognosticators and pundits quoted her output regularly, when engaged in analysis and critical thinking. She had begun at the nadir of her profession, penning essays in a college newsletter with few readers and little notice off-campus. Yet the journey she had undertaken soon whisked her to greater fame and fortune than she could have ever imagined.
Her position as a princess-in-print was now safe, and beyond reproach.
So, when her editor-in-chief offered an assignment to delve into the murky habits of Midwestern folk, particularly how they behave and opine socially and politically, she was somewhat standoffish.
The celebrated wordsmith sat at her desk, fidgeting with a microwaved cup of Ramen noodles. She was attired in a peach blouse and long skirt, purchased from a thrift store.
“’Midwestern Mores?’ That’s the working title you’ve got in mind, Stan? Isn’t that just a bit presumptuous, to guess that we can decide what people in another part of America use as their yardstick, for sizing up situations, logically?”
S. Gordon Finkel laughed gently, and tapped his stubby fingers on her desk. He was a man who earned a living from reviewing language, every day. But had few words to offer, in face-to-face conversations.
“Don’t we do that always? I can’t think that it presumes anything...”
Nacelle adjusted her wire-rimmed, octagon spectacles.
“Look, I haven’t been to that part of the country in years. Wouldn’t it be a better chore for one of the young cubs we’ve hired lately, from colleges and universities? They could get a feel for working out in the open. Get their hands dirty, so to speak! I’ve already paid my dues, don’t you agree?”
Editor Finkel became stoic, and unemotional.
“The boardroom has a feeling that this paper no longer excites subscribers by being on the cutting edge. We’ve rested on our laurels for years. Everybody knows the ‘Old Gray Lady.’ Everybody knows our reputation as an icon of the media. Any newshound worth their salt wants to be on our team. That begs the question, ‘Where do we go from here?’ Well, I’ll tell you where! You my friend, are going to Ohio...”
The professional correspondent tilted backward in her office chair. A look of befuddlement swelled her eyes. She nearly fell over.
“OHIO? ARE YOU KIDDING? NOTHING INTERESTING EVER HAPPENS IN THAT STATE! THEY ARE A BUNCH OF TRUCK-DRIVING, KNUCKLE-DRAGGING, HIGHSCHOOL DROPOUTS, WHO BATHE IN KETCHUP, AND LIVE ON FAST-FOOD HAMBURGERS AND LIGHT BEER!”
Her boss was unconvinced. He sat on a corner of the desk where she had been busy with upcoming projects.
“I got this directive straight from the publisher. We need to jazz up our content. So, I’ve already purchased a ticket for you, to Cleveland. There’ll be a rental car waiting. I want you out in the field. It’s time to earn your keep, like the old days! You doing well means I’ll be doing well. Get it? Write a series if you can, press the flesh. Interview real people, not other hacks who already work in this business.”
Nacelle gagged on his command. She could barely squeak out an intelligible response.
“But... but... but... what if I decline this task, on principle?”
Finkel narrowed his gaze. He whispered with serious deliberation.
“The board has a plan for staff reductions in the offing. Let’s make sure your name isn’t on their list. Let’s make sure mine isn’t either! Have a good time by Lake Erie! I’ll see you in a week!”
Her flight to Cuyahoga County, on the north edge of Buckeye territory, was uneventful. Once she had found a Chevrolet Equinox reserved in her name, the seasoned scribbler decided to head away from this encampment of urban sprawl. She wandered to Route 6, through unfamiliar townships that became more distant with every mile. Then, missed a jog in the road and ended up on 166 instead, headed due east. Her cellular reception in the area was spotty. So, Google Maps had become temporarily unavailable. Cruising along with the radio at full tilt, she passed rows of corn and soybeans. And homes that had been seemingly built by Amish craftsmen or blue-collar laborers with little more than their wits to combat the changing moods of Mother Nature.
Suddenly, the broad outline of a mobile village appeared, to her left. A property filled with manufactured homes of varying ages. In front of this odd oasis, a sign with peeling paint and faded letters boasted of what lay inside.
“Evergreen Estates – A Great Place to get started, or retire!”
Nacelle swung her little Chevy into the park entrance, and had a closer look before proceeding. She beheld a pastoral development with a main boulevard that linked other streets where prefab dwellings had been placed in neat rows. Organized smartly, to use each space to its fullest potential. She circled the perimeter, and received little notice from any of the residents. But at a longbox with a lengthy disability ramp, and an inset porch that provided shade and comfort for its occupant, she spied a shaggy fellow drinking Tennessee whiskey.
Courage puffed out her chest. She stopped at the end of his driveway, and reached for her reporter’s notebook and pen. A basic exercise almost forgotten as her career arc had gained such incredible heights.
“Excuse me sir, may I pause here and ask you some questions? I love the pine tree banner in your front window, with that cryptic motto underneath. ‘An Appeal to Heaven.’ Would you explain the significance, please? I must admit to being lost. My phone dumped its connection after I veered off the freeway...”
Townshend Carr Lincoln was already buzzed and mellow. After weeks of snow and rain and indecisive weather patterns across the region, he finally enjoyed being outside. Temperatures had remained in the mid-60’s since that week began.
“Lost? Where the hell are you coming from, miss? Painesville? Mentor? Willoughby?”
She smiled with the obvious cluelessness of his query.
“No, not any of those places. I came here today from... New York City!”
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