c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(4-24)
Nacelle Breech had only been standing at Lot 13 in Evergreen Estates for about two minutes. Yet her mood was dramatically different, being on the inside. A drastic shift from mild curiosity and wonderment, to a sense that she had come to a foreign land, which was very much unlike her own world in the metropolitan grandeur of New York City.
“Sir, I’m working on a story for my newspaper. Could we talk casually for a few minutes?”
Her host gestured toward a discarded shower chair that was half-hidden behind his trash bin. The offer he made sounded surreal, as if it had been written in a novel about traveling through Appalachia in search of cultural roots.
“People around here call me Link, okay? Have a seat if you want, it’s for guests when they stop to share a brew. Everybody has had a turn sitting on that plastic furnishing. I found it driving home from a trip up Sidley’s Hill to our township post office. Someone had abandoned a unit on the first street, going left. There were mattresses in the driveway, a leather recliner that looked brand new, and that bath appliance from Walmart. I didn’t bother with the bedding, but the other two items looked to be in good condition. We have a tradition here, it’s sort of how they handled things on episodes of ‘The Walking Dead.’ Castaway treasures in this park get harvested and repurposed. You can’t be sure who’s had them before, and maybe it’s better not to know...”
The eastern reporter shrugged and accepted his invitation without arguing.
“How odd! That sounds like curbside shopping on municipal cleanup days!”
Lincoln had just finished his breakfast, but was already chugging righteous swallows of Tennessee whiskey. His eyes wouldn’t focus clearly.
“Care for a drink, ma’am? I’ve got bottles of Miller High Life in the fridge. Excuse me for not saying anything right away. I’m normally more hospitable...”
Nacelle shuddered when pondering such a pedestrian beverage.
“Macro Beer? Oh please! I haven’t had anything so common since my high school days. We used to sneak cans of Rheingold at football games. You sit here drinking that swill by choice? Really? Ugh!”
Her host stiffened, and put down his liquor bottle.
“Friend, this ain’t Manhattan. If you find any wine in this neighborhood, it’s probably in a box, or a screw-top jug. I might be able to coax the lady next door to share her stash of Tito’s Handmade Vodka, but it’d be easier just to drink what I’ve got in the kitchen. You’d be welcome to do a shot of Jack Daniel’s of course...”
The professional scribe broke out in a nervous sweat.
“I’m sorry... did that sound pretentious on my part? Forgive me. Of course I’ll take a cold brew! Thanks, Link. I’d like to get some of your opinions for a feature on regional differences across America. This is something my editor thought was important for our readers.”
The reclusive iconoclast stumbled to his refrigerator, and back again, with a cane carved from a tree trunk. He carried two rounds of the golden refreshment. He and his guest clicked their bottles together as a salute, and show of comity. Then, the old man made a verbal toast.
“They say it’s the champagne of beers! So here you go, ma’am! Welcome to Ohio!”
Nacelle balanced her notebook on one knee. The sudsy offering tingled her taste buds. She decided to try a nip of southern sour mash, and the distilled concoction went straight to her head.
“Where I live, people are befuddled by Midwestern habits. Like eating fried bologna, driving pickup trucks, and hunting deer. You wear camouflage attire to weddings and baptisms. You collect firearms like souvenir cards for athletes. You take football loyalties seriously, often more than memberships in any political party. And you can build almost anything out of pallets or shipping crates. Your people know how to work with their hands, and survive hardships and calamities. But honestly, there is one thing that sets you apart beyond any other... love for the Orange Man... the MAGA King!”
Lincoln bowed his head after a deliberate blast of brown liquor.
“I didn’t vote for the man, myself. 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. I wouldn’t say better or worse, just independent out of necessity. We handle our own maintenance, watch over our own families and friends, and settle our own disputes. Thanks to neglect by the property owners and managers, we even end up filling potholes in the roads, and providing our own security lights around the perimeter. We share information, door-to-door. We make sure nobody gets left behind. And if there’s a beef between citizens, it gets thrashed out in person. With no cops or lawyers, or media bullshit!”
The Times employee was slightly embarrassed.
“Sorry, Link. I’m part of that media fertilizer you describe. But maybe with your help, I can give a fresh slant to my readers back in New York!”
The shaggy hobo nodded and grinned.
“I don’t watch much television, unless the Browns or Guardians are playing. Maybe a Cavaliers game now and then. I know the talking heads on network newscasts think we’re all stupid out here. Naïve, uncivilized, easy to fool, that kind of thing. Maybe those words describe some in my own bloodline. But 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. Lobbyists run free! When a splinter group veers away from that herd, outrage fills the air. 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. It’s why some pull the lever for a bombastic dude like the guy at Mar-a-Lago...”
Nacelle felt tipsy and only half-conscious. Her pen fell on the floorboards. She slouched on the shower chair and mumbled with surrender.
“I can’t jot down notes anymore, Link. My fingers are going numb!”
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