c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(4-24)
Nordy Montclair had never attracted much attention at the trailer village of Evergreen Estates. He was thought to be a kind, young fellow with good intentions, and a grandfather that everyone respected. But otherwise, the junior resident remained invisible to most people within the development’s borders. Occasional projects helping senior and disabled folk made him popular among shut-in citizens. And he regularly attended services at their township chapel, a worship center called ‘Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven.’ There, he was a faithful volunteer, helping to distribute boxes of edible goods from the food pantry.
His 1981 VW Rabbit pickup became a familiar sight to those who were needy.
Yet the social climate of this rural community, filled with mobile homes, was set in stone. Trucks were considered worthy if they carried names like Chevrolet, GMC, Ford, or Ram. Even Toyota or Nissan products were looked upon with a measure of suspicion. The Honda Ridgeline was thought to be an inside joke, perpetrated by engineers from Japan for a laugh. But anything made by Volkswagen was such an oddity that it immediately evoked jeers and insults.
Many inhabitants of the boxcar oasis had no idea that the German automaker had ever offered such a curious workhorse as part of their American lineup.
After a song service on Sunday afternoon, Nordy had been chosen to take meals to destitute families around the county. The very existence of disadvantaged people in a place like their prosperous district of Ohio was something often denied or overlooked. So, he took to this task naturally, as a way to fulfill the promise made to his adoptive benefactor.
“I won’t forget you taking me in Grandpap! That good deed will be repeated, a hundred times over. I’ll do anything I can to help others, just as you have helped me! That’s the way of a real cowboy!”
Jodi Mae, his slender, ebullient girlfriend, often rode along to help with these deliveries. But on that particular day, she had been sidetracked with family obligations in Ashtabula. So, the young buck drove by himself with a full load of canned goods, boxed dinners, and fresh produce, loaded into the long bed of his Volkswagen.
He made two stops on the way to Parkman. First, at a big house in Burton, where several struggling individuals shared a living space, and utilities. Then in Middlefield, where Amish friends cooperated in this noble effort to feed the hungry. After his last stop on the road, he had completely emptied the Rabbit hauler, and completed his mission. Yet after fueling up with a full tank of diesel, on the way back to his own neighborhood, the tone of this day spent serving others changed completely.
Someone had put spikes into his tires, as he went to the station office, to pay with cash. Crude slurs were spray-painted across the windshield. The radio antenna had been snapped off, and used to scrape away swaths of peeling, beige paint. His cell phone had been confiscated from the glove box, and shattered into many pieces on the pavement.
Nordy sat on a bench across from the pumps. His wallet was empty. And now, his heart was broken.
Graybeard senior Zedekiah was quick to respond when his grandchild finally called, from a payphone at the filling station. He contacted another oldster in the trailer park, who still owned a towing rig. Together, the weathered, shaggy pair wrestled their rescue into place, on the slide-back deck. Then winched it into position.
Garter Boyle scratched his hairy chin after they had lifted the VW to a horizontal position. He wore the tattered garb of a grease monkey, work clothes first issued before he retired from having a regular job.
“Who crossed paths with that kid, Zeddy? They really went to some trouble to mess up his little beast. He’s always been golden to me, and everyone at Evergreen Estates. I don’t get why they’d want to screw up his life! It just ain’t right!”
The craggy veteran rolled his shirtsleeves, as they stood in the hot sun.
“I don’t rightly know, buddy. But someone has earned themselves an ass kicking! It’s guaranteed! When I find out, they’ll be getting busted in the chops!”
Weeks passed while Nordy saved more money to get his vintage Rabbit back on the road. An uneasy quiet had fallen over their junkyard of manufactured dwellings. No one would say much about the incident of sabotage, or its aftermath. But finally, at a bonfire fueled with Jagermeister and cheap suds, the secret was liberated.
Farner Mack, a cranky individual with bulging eyes, and the build of a whiskey barrel on legs, let his tongue hang loose, long after midnight.
“SCREW THAT GAWDAMM KID! I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT HIM, OR HIS PRISSY-ASS PICKUP TRUCK! I NEVER LIKED HIM, OR HIS GRANDSTOOGE! TO HELL WITH THEM BOTH! ‘HAMMER BOY’ IS NOTHING BUT A FREAK! I’M GLAD HE GOT A COMEUPPANCE! HELL YEAH! I DID IT RIGHT!”
Shortly after this drunken confession, he toppled forward, into the flames. Hot cinders flew everywhere, and revelers who were still present scattered. They left him rolling around in ashes and dirt. In the morning, he awakened still prone, and singed. Scars had ruined the designs of his intricate, arm tattoos.
He sat on a milk crate, rubbing the burn sores with aloe lotion. And soothing his embarrassment with cans of Milwaukee’s Best Premium. Daylight revealed the extent of his accidental injuries. Yet no one came to his aid. With an empty cooler in his shed, and no salty snacks on hand, there was no reason to be his friend.
Zedekiah crept up silently as this self-care regimen transpired, with a knotted walking stick at the ready. He had learned of the meatball muckraker having blurted out details while drinking. Now, a measure of vengeance would be had. Something restrained enough to keep him out of jail, yet harsh enough to make his point. He only hoped that lingering symptoms of PTSD, acquired in Vietnam, would not cause him to lose control while administering this dose of frontier justice.
Farner was too crafty to be caught out in the open. So as his pursuer arrived, the troublemaker brandished a small-caliber pistol. But this show of force only made the old hobo laugh out loud. He spun like a child’s top, set loose. Swinging the rod in his hand with skill. Until it met the flaccid line of his victim’s jaw. A boot dance ensued, with steel-capped toes doing their worst. Bloody teeth sprinkled the concrete driveway.
“That boy is a piece of shit, dammit! He don’t deserve your righteous protection!”
The raging grandfather had lost his cool, amid stormy emotions having their way with his brain. He lowered the pain pole again and again. Until sounds of cracking bones and yelps for mercy filled his ears.
“PIECE OF SHIT, YOU SAY? WELL, YOU’RE AN EXPERT ON SHIT, I RECKON! YOU’VE GOT A PHD IN BEING A DIRTBAG PILE OF DUNG! HERE’S MY TRIBUTE, ASSHOLE! HERE’S MY FREAKING TRIBUTE!”
A deadly point of no return had nearly been reached, when Zedekiah heard the steady voice of his adoptee, from behind. It instantly stilled his hand, and any wild thoughts of retribution.
“Grandpap, listen to me! This isn’t what I want. We don’t live under ‘an eye for an eye’ anymore. Do you believe me? I heard the preacher on Sunday, he quoted a scripture in his sermon. Romans 12:19. ‘Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.’ I know deep down at heart, you’re a man of God. That’s how you raised my dad, and he raised me...”
The weathered hermit dropped his weapon, and knelt down as if saying a prayer.
“This is how you want it, boy? To have me spare this lug, despite running his trap about what he did to you and your Rabbit truck?”
Nordy swallowed hard, which made his Adam’s apple even more prominent. He stood tall and lean, with a feeling of confidence that had never before been summoned.
“Yes it is, sir. Because it’s the right thing. That’s what you taught me, right and wrong matter. You can’t do wrong and expect to be treated right by others...”
Zedekiah bowed his head. The gangly, awkward geek had finally proven himself to be a man.
“AMEN, BOY! I SAY, AMEN!”
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