Trailer Park Vignettes – “Grilling Guru, Part Two”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

Jimmy and Joel Oromacki were brothers both in their heritage and on the road. They spent most days rolling around America as professional truckers on a mission. Dedicated to delivering goods for their logistics firm, as loyal employees. But when on a break, at home, the duo shed this snakeskin of obedience. During off hours, they manifested the wild lust of young men who had been denied female companionship for too long.

 

These blue-collar heroes would drink and eat and screw, until the limit of their physical endurance had been reached. Then, sapped completely of drive, and numb with pleasure, they would crash until the next assignment came from their company dispatcher.

 

Becky Bolt had an insatiable appetite for that kind of lustful energy. She grew bored easily, and sought to be pampered and entertained whenever possible. She would seek out the brothers when they blew into town, and serve them willingly. Their fantasies were her fantasies. This collision of male and female desires usually produced an orgiastic firestorm that caused the neighborhood to avoid their end of the street, altogether.

 

At Evergreen Estates, these encounters had become the stuff of legend.

 

But Francis Nathaniel Paducah paid little attention to the horseplay of his neighbors. Instead of seeking out feminine companionship, he labored in his storage barn on projects of necessity. He was tall and lean and hardened by years of strenuous work. His fingernails were always full of motor oil and grease. His uniform clothes were never clean, at least not for long. He would combine elements found in the park dumpsters, or on lots where homes had been removed. Then, a sort of magic transpired. He would visualize puzzle pieces coming together. With the sorcery of a wizard, he made that happen through masterstrokes of innovation.

 

Loud music echoed from next door. And giggling from the petite, blonde bombshell who served both as a temptation, and a thorn in his side. Yet he stayed focused on his task. The galvanized tub sat on his workbench. He had unearthed the frame and wheels of an old baby buggy, behind their community’s maintenance garage. Coffee cans from a previous version of his grill creation sat in a row, by the wooden doors.

 

He welded and riveted and fastened everything together like a mad scientist. Finally, the grate from a basement window in Painesville was positioned on top of this Frankenstein appliance. He cleaned away rust and deteriorating paint with a wire brush. And smoothed the bare, metal surfaces with a food-safe, vegetable compound.

 

“EUREKA, GAWDAMMIT! I’VE DONE IT, Y’ALL! MY CREATURE HAS COME TA LIFE!”

 

The Guru Grill looked like a rubbish bin on oversized, spindly wheels. But it was big enough to hold eight vessels for charcoal. A hood fashioned from tin sheeting offered smoker capability, if needed. He reckoned that a whole meal could be cooked without using any other culinary tools. He already had a collection of long-handled implements fashioned from car antennas and mirror housings. The sight of this accomplishment made him swell with pride.

 

But before he could bask in the glow of his own success for too long, Becky came running through the uncut grass. She was nearly naked, red-faced, and barefoot.

 

“HELP ME, DUKE! THOSE ORRY BOYS HAVE GONE NUTS, DUDE! WHAT THE FRIG? THEY MUST’VE SLAMMED A WHOLE BOTTLE OF VIAGRA! SHEESH! I JUST WANTED TO DANCE AND DRINK, YOU KNOW? IT GETS BORING AF AROUND HERE! BUT THAT SHIT JUST SCARED ME! DAMN, THEY’VE BOTH LOST THEIR MARBLES! IT’S LIKE BEING AT A BIKER BAR OR AN OUTLAW MUSIC SHOW! THEY WANTED A THREESOME WITH TOYS AND A VIDEO CAMERA!”

 

Nate spat on the ground. He did not want to surrender his attention to anything other than the squarish, storage barn he called a laboratory. Yet the pleas of his neighbor reverberated in both ears. She was crying through smeared makeup, and fell into his arms. He pushed her into a blind corner that no one could see from outside.

 

“Please, man! Please!”

 

While the young filly was sobbing, Jimmy and Joel appeared from the ratty trailer next door. Both galloping studs were draped in towels that bulged conspicuously. They were muscular and brutish. With close-cropped beards and heads shaved to a glistening sheen of baldness. Many tattoos lined their powerful arms.

 

Joel shouted an oath of defiance.

 

“WHERE’S THE BITCH? SHE GOT OUR PARTY STARTED, AND DAMN HER, WE’RE GONNA FINISH IT! I WANT SOME CHEEKS! SHE’S GOT A PRETTY LITTLE ASS, DON’T YOU THINK, DUKE FRANCIS? OR ARE YOU A FRIGGING HOMO?”

 

Nate’s mood darkened with storm clouds of resentment. His greasy locks had been pulled back into a ponytail, to avoid getting caught in his grilling contraption.

 

“I’ve been working out here all afternoon. Don’t know what ya mean, friend. Now if y’all don’t mind, I’m gonna polish up this yard stove, and try burning some steaks!”

 

Jimmy punched a hole in the barn door. His broad knuckles bled afterward. But the pain only heightened his arousal.

 

“THE BITCH! WHERE IS SHE? WHERE IS THAT STANKY PIECE OF TAIL?”

 

Becky burst out from the shadowy hiding spot, while trying to cover her exposed breasts. She wobbled and scampered to escape.

 

“You boys ain’t right! I like to have a good time, but eff that crazy shit! I don’t do handcuffs and clamps and ropes, okay? That’s some sick-ass crap!”

 

The brothers laughed out loud, in unison. Then knocked their prey off her feet. She landed in an overgrown flower garden, by the driveway. Gravel scarred her knees.

 

Joel shook his fist and cursed.

 

“GET BACK TO MY GAWDAMM TRAILER, HONEY! DON’T MAKE ME SAY IT AGAIN!”

 

Nate shuddered and spun on his heel. He turned cold and pale. Memories of serving in Afghanistan began to flood his consciousness. He picked up a prop rod made of steel, and twirled it like a police baton. His voice lowered to a whisper. He looked directly into the frightened waif’s eyes.

 

“You want no part of these men? No more fun on the couch or in the bedroom? No more drinks and doing the two-step with WKKY Country on the radio?”

 

Becky sniffled and sat up in the floral display. Her clothes had been shredded. Her face was bruised.

 

“NO I DON’T! THEY CAN GO TO HELL FOR ALL I CARE!”

 

There was a scuffle as the Orry twins battled to be first in line for throttling the mouthy femme. Each one felt superior to the other, in speed and agility. Their voices paired as a final command was given.

 

“GET BACK TO OUR TRAILER, BITCH! GET YOUR SKINNY ASS MOVING RIGHT NOW!”

 

Nate bowed his head and held the lengthy stick in his right hand.

 

“That’s yer cue, folks. Y’all have been kicked ta the curb. Have a good day...”

 

Joel struck his opponent on the jaw. This first hit rocked the lanky fellow, without causing him to soften. Then, there was a whoosh of air being displaced. The prop rod came down on his bare cranium. When Jimmy sought to enter the fray, more blows were delivered. The metal spike fanned like a propeller blade. Blood and teeth flew through the air.

 

The grillmaster and Army veteran seethed with a sort of white-hot rage no one had ever seen before, at the trailer oasis. Yet he stayed composed in his thoughts and actions.

 

“In Kabul, I watched a dozen of my platoon die when we stumbled on a field of IED carnage. That’s the kind of death y’all never forget. Comprende? Nobody should perish like that. It’s evil shit! God himself must have been weeping. But I made it back here, I got to fly stateside. With their bodies in coffins. That taught me a lesson. Don’t mess with other people, and they won’t mess with yer asses! We never should’ve gone ta liberate a desolate hellhole like that! But we did, and paid the price. They didn’t give a tinker’s damn about us! They pissed on our flag! They ran like cowards when the heat got turned up! So, there’s my story, gents. Go home and pound salt if you need to, but leave this girl alone. She’s tired of yer party. Y’all have stopped entertaining her for the evening...”

 

Jimmy and Joel licked their wounds, while crawling down the concrete. They were battered and broken. And embarrassed to have even set foot in the patchy yard.

 

Becky offered a tearful wail of gratitude.

 

“I owe you, Duke! Name it, and you’ll have it! I owe you my life!”

 

Nate frowned and folded his arms. He did not seek compensation of any kind. Only an admission of guilt, and a hint of remorse.

 

“Y’all lit the fuse, Becks! Keep that in yer mind, the next time! Think about it when ya want some Tito’s Handmade Vodka and a gawdamm cowboy to keep ya amused! Think about it when yer butt gets lonely and the nights get long. Think about it, and don’t go looking fer trouble!”

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Grilling Guru, Part One”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

Francis Nathaniel Paducah had been perennially broke since coming to Evergreen Estates. Yet he was resourceful in the tradition of his Kentucky ancestors. He knew how to split wood by hand, and use it to fuel a cast-iron stove to stay warm in the winter. He knew how to build things out of scrap lumber and construction debris. He could keep a rusty pickup truck running many miles further than its designers had ever intended. And he was an artist in his storage barn. Churning out improvised projects that were quirky and crude, but marvelous to his neighbors.

 

Yet one gap remained in his hillbilly experiences. He wanted some sort of barbecue grill for the summer. Not one purchased from a catalog or at a mega-center retailer. His idea was to design and craft some sort of unique, Appalachian appliance that would serve as a calling card for his homegrown shop. A bit of entrepreneurial advertising to dazzle doubters and convince friends that he was something of a redneck genius.

 

A first attempt at creating such a backyard cooker blossomed when he discovered a stash of discarded, metal coffee cans at an abandoned trailer in the park. He bound them together with a length of baling wire, then topped the containers with a metal grid that had once been shelving in an old refrigerator. He sat this trashy creation on towers of cinder blocks, next to his redwood deck. When filled with lumps of charcoal, the cans blazed red hot. He was able to do six steaks at once, easily. Enough to feed everyone who lived on his east side, and west. No one complained about the method used to accomplish this culinary feat. Briefly, he felt satisfied as a sort of junkyard engineer.

 

But ambition made him eager to revise the grill, and make it more sophisticated. So, he returned to his rustic barn, and went back to work.

 

A second bust of inspiration was brought to life when he found an oval washtub, made of galvanized steel. The artifact had been kept in their community garage, ostensibly brought to the property by a maintenance man who had long since retired or passed away. When he spied the gray basin during a trip to pay his monthly lot rent, a bulb of illumination lit in his head. He immediately tried to strike a bargain with their manager, Dana Alvarez. She was younger and pretty, with long, black hair and a Latin complexion.

 

“Eureka! That’s it dammit! That’s it! How much’ll ya take fer that bin? I’ve got a twenty-spot in my wallet!”

 

The professional caretaker was amused by her resident’s enthusiasm. He stood tall in his work boots, with a lanky build of settlers that had come to the Bluegrass State hundreds of years before. In Ohio, his rural twang sounded out-of-place. But it made other citizens of their mobile-home oasis smile. They called him Duke, a family reference to a forgotten performer who had once appeared on the Grand Ole Opry stage as ‘The Duke of Paducah.’

 

Dana nodded without thinking too much, and explained that the item was normally used as a vessel for crushed ice in the summer. It kept drinks cold at their holiday events. But after someone brought in a more modern cooler, it had been abandoned in a corner, along with fenders from a tractor no longer kept on the property. And the intake manifold from an Econoline van used by one of their many owners, to shuttle crews between different developments in the area.

 

“Yo, I’ll take that twenty and put it in our office safe. That’ll help pay for hot dogs and hamburgers when we celebrate Independence Day, July 4^th. It’s a deal, Duke! Drag it on outta here!”

 

Nate glowed with pride as he slid the washtub into his 1985 Chevrolet S-10. The mechanical hoss had bowed leaf springs and bald tires. Its windshield was cracked along the bottom edge. Little of the original paint remained, which had been a ubiquitous shade of red. Yet it coughed and sputtered to life with a single twist of the ignition key.

 

Upon arriving back at his own longbox hovel, he went directly to the tool shed. Sadly, only a minute elapsed before his labor was interrupted. So, frustration took hold as he wanted to unload his treasure. Becky Bolt, who lived next door, paraded across the narrow yard with cold bottles of Bud Light in her hands. She was dressed in skimpy attire that would have been appropriate for hanging out at Geneva-on-the-Lake. But made her unduly noticeable in their neighborhood of downtrodden souls.

 

Her stature was slight, an inch or two under five feet tall. But her legs were long by comparison, and had been kissed by the sun. She wore a pink headband to restrain the blonde mop of curls that sprang from her scalp. Each step had her bouncing on air, like a stray balloon.

 

“C’mon, Duke! It’s a scorcher out here today! Quit turning wrenches and have a beer with me! I’m bored AF! This place really sucks!”

 

Nate closed his eyes and struggled to maintain civility.

 

“Miss Becky, y’all know I like ta keep busy. I don’t drink too often. A clear head keeps me thinking better. I’m trying to revise my grill plan...”

 

The undersized waif giggled and stretched her arms. This outward motion caused both breasts to bulge over the neckline of her camouflage top.

 

“Work, work, work! That’s all I see you do! Get a grip, dummy! Cut loose! Have some fun for a change! Look at my boobs like a real man!”

 

Her friend leaned against the bench by a peg-wall of hardware. He had been raised in an old-fashioned environment, where women were always treated respectfully.

 

“Look Becks, I used ta chug Miller High Life all day long. With Ancient Age whiskey on the side. That made me a hero with my buddies and a fool in public. Y’all understand? I had ta grow up. Which I did after going ta jail. That’s the deal now, staying free. When my hands are busy, I don’t do stupid shit. No more Honky Tonks or line dancing for me. I make stuff and sell it and save the cash. What I get goes ta help others. The preacher at our church on the township square says that’s a better way to live than bombing my brain with alcohol...”

 

His stylish suitor drooped like a wilted rose. She turned on her heel with the bottles of Bud Light getting warm in her hands.

 

“FINE! BE THAT WAY, DUKE! A GIRL TRIES TO SHOW YOU A GOOD TIME AND WHATTA YOU DO? PISS ALL OVER MY INVITATION! WELL SCREW THAT NOISE! I’M GONNA GO HOME AND CALL MY TRUCKER FRIENDS! JIMMY AND JOEL ARE COMING HOME THIS WEEKEND! THEY’VE BEEN ON THE ROAD FOR A MONTH!”

 

Nate relished the sound of silence, once he was alone again. Gears were turning in his head. He envisioned the galvanized basin filled with cans of charcoal, and topped with the grate from a basement window, found at a demolition project in Geneva.

 

“Sorry ma’am. Yer awful pretty and all, but I’m about to make grilling history, here! Yee Haw!”

Nothing To See Here – “Beer Can Bonanza”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

“You can’t be a real country unless you have a beer and an airline. It helps if you have some kind of a football team, or some nuclear weapons, but at the very least you need a beer." - Frank Zappa

 

Interacting on social media platforms is a timewaster that occupies much of humanity in nations like America, where internet access is common. For a creative writer, it is tempting to dip into that sea of content as a method to promote projects and arouse interest from potential readers. Yet membership can yield unintended harm with such benefits. Discussions of any issue may quickly devolve into childish squabbling. Idiocy is liberated by being practically anonymous. Episodes of road rage on the information superhighway explode guidelines set in place with good intentions.

 

Yet becoming free of this phenomenon, once ensnared, is a difficult task.

 

Recently, I checked daily posts on my Facebook account, hoping for interesting tidbits of cultural trivia from fellow contributors. Many who maintain a consistent presence, such as Terry & Tiffany DuFoe from Cult Radio A-Go-Go, or Deke Dickerson, the prolific author, musician, and world traveler, make every visit an interesting experience. But while dangling a toe in the virtual water, I saw something that was unrelated. An archival photograph of a cone-top beverage can. When I clicked on this image of a dented and rusty relic, what opened was a portal into another time and place.

 

I sat and stared at my computer monitor, wholly stunned by what came into view. The group had been named with a matter-of-fact denomination, ‘Beer Can Collectors of Facebook.’ Their masthead boasted a row of four vintage collectibles from domestic brewing history. Each name made me sit up straighter, and peer with a greater lust for fulfillment. Fitger’s; Prager Bohemian; Blatz; Goebel. All were leftover artifacts of a vintage era. The third one surviving now in name only.

 

In retirement, I had given up on hoarding such trinkets. The pursuit of playing brewery-roulette, with different brands and styles entering the household every week, was something I abandoned, long ago. Yet looking through their photos rekindled the foolish and impulsive appetites of my younger self. Some members offered portraits of their own offices, basements and garages as evidence that the tradition was still very much alive.

 

While scrolling, I became oddly thirsty. Though I had just finished my breakfast routine, and a pot of coffee, now my mouth salivated for the taste of a cool refreshment.

 

When my friend Janis called from her temporary residence at a nursing home in Ashtabula, I bubbled over with 1970’s enthusiasm. Temptation made me want to ignore making contact for long enough to sneak through the kitchen, to my refrigerator. But I maintained control, and answered politely.

 

“Heyy, you won’t believe this, but I found a group online with other middle-aged guys who still collect beer cans. Ain’t that a kick? I thought the habit went away with Jimmy Carter and the Oil Embargo, and all that Malaise-Era crap! You know, like the AMC Gremlin, or Ford Pinto, and walking your Pet Rock while listening to Disco music...”

 

My younger associate snickered and snorted with amusement.

 

“Ughhh! Face it, you’re an old dude, Rodbert! Really, really old! I bet you reek like a stale cigar!”

 

I was slightly offended. Though my longish hair and gray beard definitely reflected an age that had passed.

 

“I haven’t seen some of these cans and illuminated signs in 40 years or more! That was a bug I caught in my high school days. I would buy anything related to beer. My family believed that drinking was a sinful activity, something associated with thieves and prostitutes and rascals of all sorts. So, of course that kind of danger always seemed appealing...”

 

Janis laughed and wailed like a banshee.

 

“Yikes! You sound like my grandpa! He used to get drunk on Stroh’s and pester my grandma for a ride up to the corner store by Lake Erie! That man would knock ‘em down until he passed out and pissed his overalls! It made me giggle as a little kid!”

 

I sighed loudly and rubbed my eyes.

 

“I have a powerful thirst right now. Maybe it was a bad idea to keep scrolling on Facebook for so long...”

 

She cackled in my ear, and whistled.

 

“I sit here in our activity room, and listen to these crazy hags play Bingo. You sit at home and get sloshed on your man-pop. We’re a gawdamm pair of losers, Rodbert! Look at us! We suck!”

 

Her assessment made me chill. Yet I did not want to agree.

 

“Naw, I look at it another way. This is kinda cool, the members are sharing memories with their parents and uncles and older brothers. Maybe neighborhood characters that inspired them as kids. You know? I see lots of familiar cans in this group. Somebody has a Sonny Barger brew, he was a leader in the Hell’s Angels. Another participant owns dozens of cone-top cans, those have always been desirable. You still see them at flea markets and in antique shops. There are sports varieties, or some with funny photos and designs. Lots of cans with German names and references to brewing history. It’s part of our culture!”

 

My contrarian mate made rude noises like someone passing gas.

 

“HORSESHIT, MAN! NOBODY WOULD FOLLOW A PAGE LIKE THAT, EXCEPT FOR SOME FAT, OLD GUY WHO IS BORED OUT OF HIS SKULL! WHAT DID I JUST SAY? A LOSER! LOOOOOOSER!”

 

I reddened with embarrassment. She had hit a metaphorical bullseye.

 

“Umm... yes. That would be me!”

 

Suddenly, she felt a jab of remorse. I guessed that she must have pulled her pajama top over her face. The sound of her voice became strangely muffled.

 

“Sorry, bruh. Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to step on your toes. Are you gonna cry?”

 

I slammed both hands on the desktop. This violent thump made my cell phone bounce sideways and land on the keyboard.

 

“That’s it! I’m going to the fridge. I can’t sit here any longer, with a dry throat and an empty stomach. I need a freaking drink!”

 

Janis howled and shook her head victoriously. My surrender had her cheering.

 

“THERE YOU GO, RODBERT! IT’S FIVE O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE!”

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Scoundrel”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

“The trouble with fighting for human freedom is that one spends most of one’s time defending scoundrels. For it is against scoundrels that oppressive laws are first aimed, and oppression must be stopped at the beginning if it is to be stopped at all.” – H.L. Mencken

 

Trying to provide assistance for my friend Janis Mays, while housed at a skilled care facility in Ashtabula, has become an endless pursuit. We first met nearly 15 years ago, when both of us shared the same workplace in Geneva. A common interest in Chinese food caused us to pair up for visits to a local buffet in that city. In years that followed, we helped each other with everyday tasks. Then, her health began to decline despite being younger and seemingly in better shape than myself. A heart attack and strokes followed. But her rowdy spirit was not slowed by these challenges. She continued to manifest an individualistic approach to being alive.

 

Members of the staff soon nicknamed her ‘Scoundrel’ because of this contrarian disposition.

 

Strict dietary guidelines were imposed as a safeguard against self-injury from aspirating foods, or choking. Yet this ornery, forty-something woman refused to simply accept such mealtime discipline with a submissive attitude. She continued to experiment with snacks of all kinds, acquired by a variety of clandestine means. With a trial-and-error strategy, she was able to discover which of these unapproved treats worked for her, and which ones created a messy result and lots of coughing.

 

Her reaction to these risky tests was predictably, an emotional flatline. But for me, bursts of panic and concern filled my head and made my heart beat more quickly. A recent conversation proved that point, effectively.

 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, CHICA? IS THIS LIKE A GAME, OR SOMETHING? ARE YOU TRYING TO SEE HOW FAR YOU CAN GO OVER THE LIMIT BEFORE THEY SEND YOU BACK TO THE HOSPITAL EMERGENCY ROOM?”

 

Janis took my criticism as a sign of old age and a feeble intellect.

 

“You sound like Granny, when I was a kid! Damn Rodbert, toughen up there, bruh! I’m not dead yet, so believe me, I must be hard to kill! That’s the truth!”

 

My hands shook uncontrollably while holding the cell phone.

 

“This is why they call you the S-word, right?”

 

She did not have any patience with my critique. So, our interaction over the wireless link got detoured by a plea for help via my computer.

 

“Look, I didn’t call to hear you blubber like an old lady! So, stop it! I need T-shirts. The laundry here is nuts, things get lost all the time. Or maybe other patients steal ‘em, I don’t know! Could you order some for me off of Walmart.com? Maybe something orange, or a design with Baby Yoda?”

 

I resisted shifting gears in our discussion so easily.

 

“Don’t you have a dozen orange shirts already? I suppose they all got left at your house, right?”

 

My combative comrade hissed and snorted.

 

“I LIKE ORANGE SHIRTS! OKAY? I COULD USE A HOODIE TOO!”

 

My stomach had begun to gurgle.

 

“I’m on the computer every day, trying to guess what might work. Couldn’t you download their app on your phone? It’d be easier to figure out what you like and don’t like...”

 

I heard lots of background noise. She must have been in the activity room, with plenty of company. There were hoots and grunts and peals of laughter.

 

“Such drama! You complain worse than those old biddies on ‘The Golden Girls!’ Which is damn crazy, because that’s what we’re watching right now. I love that show!”

 

I sighed heavily and tapped the desk with a ball-point pen. My coffee mug was empty.

 

“Your tastes are... umm... different. Not girly by any means. I never know what to buy!”

 

She cackled and spit words like the shells of chewed sunflower seeds.

 

“I’M NOT A DELICATE FLOWER, RODBERT! I... NEED... SHIRTS! AND... SHORTS! AND... A... HOODIE!”

 

My face felt oddly hot, though I had a fan on a corner of my workspace running at full tilt.

 

“Right, I’ll take a look this afternoon. Left me finish my coffee, I can’t get anything to focus just yet. I’ve only been awake for a few minutes...”

 

Her reaction was stiff and defiant. I imagined her sitting lazily at a dining table, with her hair frazzled and unbrushed. Probably still wearing pajamas.

 

“If you’d just take me to the store, I could figure out what I need! But nooooo! You get all nervous about me falling and shit!”

 

I had to clear my throat and find a positive frame of mind.

 

“The nurses are afraid of you taking a tumble. That’s why they want you using the walker religiously. If you hit the floor, I couldn’t help. I can barely walk, myself...”

 

She moaned with disinterest in paying attention.

 

“I SENT YOU A LIST THEN, JUST GO BY THAT WHEN YOU MAKE OUT MY ORDER! IT’S TIME FOR BREAKFAST, I GOTTA GO!”

 

The phone pic she forwarded via text messaging was a cryptic mess. Lines of scribbled ink on a sheet of notebook paper. It looked like what a preschooler might produce, while passing time under a mother’s supervision. I guessed that it was a clue to what her brain had survived.

 

“Yeahh, okay... I will figure it out. No worries. Call me again later, by then I’ll probably be out on the porch with a beer!”

 

She ended the call rudely, which I knew wasn’t on purpose. Her sense of social grace had never been polished, but was now on the level of an inmate behind bars. I didn’t need a kind word to conclude our chat. The harsh click in my ear was expected. Once the device screen cleared, I turned to my iMac. A search for novelty apparel brought up thousands of results. When I filtered them for size and color, that didn’t winnow down the number by very much. But using the tag of ‘scoundrel,’ my hunt took a turn for the better.

 

I discovered a festive tee with this pejorative term in bold letters of yellow, across the chest. Some sort of cosmic design had been stylistically placed behind the text, as if to evoke a Star Wars theme. I knew she would be thrilled to wear her new handle proudly, in front of aides at the rehabilitation center.

 

“Scoundrel it is! That’s what you are, Miss Mays!”

 

 

 

“Fall”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

An epic fall over ramparts of the kingdom

Dust from bricks and mortar, crumbled and spent

Surrendering silently to consequence

The end of a jump over the playground fence

Caught by a sleeve on an ornamental spike

A tumble into eternal night

Looking around to see if a witness might betray this failing

A one-armed dunce, foolishly flailing

Hung up like a rat in the sun

Swinging from its tail

I thought myself to be impervious and strong

But one verse of a hymn

Had me gasping and grim

With the desperate attitude of a protestant prude

Facing down a battle tank

A violent twist of the crank

Sending me forward

From where this unwelcome adventure began

Some might say that to have stepped on the cemetery grounds

Was in itself, a call for fate to intervene

Yet I did not glean

That meaning from my capricious promenade

Through the gloomy graves

It might have been enough to sit and sulk while the heat of day tanned my hide

Enough to honor those who had lived and died

Now, I will never know

Despite counting cracks in the sanctuary windows

A short jaunt up the stone path

No more than a dozen steps, perhaps

Right at the slope of a hillside

Next to the tree line

That is where I tasted grass like a bovine beast

Falling weakly, on my hands and knees

Coughing and cursing

Reflectively remembering

My wandering through histories, carefully preserved

Eerily sensing voices, long unheard

Knowing in my heart

That this episode was sired

By a lazy, lackluster complaint of feeling intellectually tired

Unengaged and never quite attached

Laughing, loafing

Boldly boasting

That though I had been laid low by this quirk of chance in effect

I took it as no more than a mother bird’s peck

On top of my skull

“Fly away, damned fowl!”

I warbled and growled

Then leveraged myself back to a vertical position

On the iron gate

Rusty and rattling from years of neglect

Howling on its hinges

And turned to look up at the sky

Humbled now with an inglorious resolve

To eschew mysteries in favor of certainty

A task not so slight in merit, or easy

That decision put me off balance in the morning dew

Slipping and sliding in my cobbled-up shoes

Not smart enough to think my way through the maze

Or patiently contemplate

Gravity holding sway

Bang on target

Lest I forget

Mortality makes me weep for the end

And celebrate in the same instant of glory

That this time

The bell did not chime

For me!

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here – “Pizza Parody”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

I was 16 years old when my family moved to Ithaca, New York in the summer of 1978. We had come from a city outside of Pittsburgh, and I was approaching my next birthday. This sort of last-minute relocation had become familiar, because my father was a minister in the non-denominational Church of Christ fellowship. We often had everything packed up in moving boxes, with no idea of our next destination. This gypsy mentality helped to shape my own psychology throughout childhood. I did not have a hometown, or an identity firmly rooted in geography. No favorite sports teams or thoughts of belonging to any defined social group. Only the traditions of our family, habits associated with education, music, creative writing, and faith bonded us together. Thankfully, those elements were sturdy enough to put down a foundation for intellectual growth.

 

And I loved to eat pizza.

 

In the Finger Lakes Region, I discovered college-town culture around Cornell University. It was in those days, still infused with leftover traces of the hippie generation. Incense and candles and marijuana were everywhere. Volkswagen Beetles and Microbuses were ubiquitous. Folk and Acid Rock could be heard on the radio. Along with Reggae and other world sounds of Jazz and ethnic variations. I soaked up this mix like a sponge. Midwestern at my core, I relished the opportunity to see and hear new things.

 

I had discovered Punk Rock while living at the Three Rivers, in Pennsylvania. A natural companion to this sometimes atonal, confrontational explosion of art came in the form of Genesee beer and fast food, inhaled at ungodly hours. But while exploring my new environs, I discovered a gastronomic temple called ‘Napoli Pizzeria.’ Apparently, this student-friendly restaurant had been open around two years.

 

From their very first slice, the product of Emilio and Leo Sposito, from Fondi, Italy won me over. It was a dish baked in the classic style. With a crust thin in body, yet bubbly around the edge. Ingredients were delivered with a generous amount of olive oil. When first pulled from the pan, a fresh serving oozed this natural cooking medium. Mozzarella cheese pulled away in long, stringy gobs. The aroma permeated everything in their dining room, which had the look of an old-fashioned banquet hall. Tablecloths were checkered red-and-white. The ovens were clearly visible, right behind their counter. A cooler of Italian brews offered Moretti and Peroni varieties. Another contained cold sodas, and had a cheap, black & white television on top. Some sort of vintage programming always seemed to be running.

 

Any excuse was reason enough to pause at this eatery. I often visited several times per week, if available funds permitted that kind of behavioral excess. Though most often, I had an empty wallet. Conning friends into covering the bill became a constant preoccupation. Thankfully, that slightly devious pursuit wasn’t difficult. Everyone loved their Paisano pies. A good value for money, delivered in a working-class setting. Fancier venues could not compare.

 

After I moved away in 1983, return trips always had to include a stop for pizza and reflection. Memories were plentiful. I would fill my belly, and wander through recollections of those yonder days, spent learning and growing in personal terms. My last taste of this Mediterranean manna came at a new location, nearby. They had moved in 2004, and a week of vacation time permitted me to land in the area, a couple of years later. That was my final spin through Tompkins County.

 

Napoli Pizzeria closed in 2019. I learned of its demise through an online article at 14850.com. The revelation struck me like a hammer blow. I had no equivalent on which to lean, for comfort. No similar meeting place to discuss bygone show ideas for Channel 13 on West State Street, where I had once been a crew member and program host. No common ground for debates over poetry and politics and the merits of European breweries.

 

I felt empty after reading this sad report. But a dream sequence filled my head, upon passing out, later that night. One rendered like a single-act play, performed in a coffeehouse setting.

 

“Enter with me if you will, for a moment, the Twilight Zone. A place that transcends normal boundaries of time and physicality. I present for you two men dining on a circular meal of baked dough, pepperoni, cheese, sausage and onions. One of these participants has slipped through cracks in the continuum, to meet himself at a point in history that defies the calendar. He will counsel his own childhood image, and offer hope. And perhaps, come to terms with what he has endured, as a product of fate and consequence...”

 

Rod Swindle wore a leather jacket, styled in the Ramones motif. His hair was a flowing mass of brown, uncut and rarely brushed. He was barely old enough to have grown a beard. Yet carried himself with a cocksure attitude that betrayed youthful ignorance. He sipped from a bottle of Italian beer, despite being underage. No one had ever checked his identification. He didn’t have a driver’s license, anyway. Walking everywhere kept him fit. Though he often bummed rides when they could be cajoled out of friends.

 

“Hey, thanks man! I love coming here. This is the best grub in our city. I didn’t get your name though. Are you attending classes, or just drifting through town to catch a show? I meet a lot of people that way, records and guitars are my thing!”

 

His benefactor was much older, and walked with a cane, and a limp of arthritic limitations. He had a similar lack of grooming excellence, but his facial hair had turned shades of white and gray. He was stooped over like a building with structural fatigue.

 

“Dean. Dean McCray. Does it matter? I’m following a caravan of concerts between here and Buffalo. My van needed a muffler, so that’s being done as we sit here. I wanted some company while waiting. You looked to be alone. That was reason enough to offer a spot at this table...”

 

The youthful miscreant nodded while chewing on a slice of steaming, savory pie.

 

“No big deal, I just wondered. I work over at the TV station, it’s a public access channel. There are all kinds of freaks and misfits on the staff. Everybody is older, and they’ve got lots of stories. I always like to hear a good yarn! One guy is a poet, he used to be on the radio. Four years of study at Cornell, and then two more in grad school. And he never got a real job! I like that, screw working a regular grind! The rat race is boring as hell!”

 

McCray shrugged and twisted the Harley-Davidson ring on his finger. Its design mirrored the one of his new contact, who was busy enjoying their feast. The rowdy kid seemed not to notice this match of blue-collar jewelry. He was more concerned with quieting his growling stomach.

 

“You’ve got plans then? An idea of what path to take, toward tomorrow? There’s an old saying, by Antione de Saint-Exupéry, ‘A goal without a plan is just a wish.’ That’s no joke, friend...”

 

Swindle spat oil and Mozz.

 

“What, you’re a damn expert at this game? I get it, you must think I’m a baby! Some of my friends treat me like that, they get their noses in the air. I tell them to piss off! Don’t worry about me getting stuck in traffic, I’m not going to turn out like chumps who spend their cash on earning degrees, to eventually don a suit and tie, and crawl around on their hands and knees. No way! I won’t be led through the tents like a circus horse or an elephant!”

 

His senior advocate laughed out loud.

 

“Calm down, I wasn’t passing judgment. I just wanted to know how seriously you’ve thought about the future...”

 

The ambitious punk snorted and twirled his own ring, with nervous agitation.

 

“Why do old people always get their boxer shorts in a bunch about that kind of shit? I’ll do what I do, don’t worry. I’m not gonna run or jump on command, like a trained animal. Eff that! I watched my father struggle for years, saying kind words, giving his support, uplifting others who were in need. And landing on his ass every time! He’s broke and doubled over, like a dog left out in the rain! The congregations he has loved all humiliated him, completely!”

 

McCray brought his fist down on the table. Plates and silverware began to bounce.

 

“YOU DON’T HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT HE WENT THROUGH! OR WHAT’S WAITING AROUND THE CORNER, WHEN YOU FINALLY GROW UP! THERE’S A REC KONING ON THE HORIZON, JUNIOR! YOU’LL EAT DIRT INSTEAD OF PIZZA, AND LIVE IN PLACES WHERE THE SUN NEVER SHINES! LIKE UNDER A BRIDGE ON GREEN STREET! AND ONCE THAT PRICE HAS BEEN PAID, YOU’LL GIVE THANKS JUST TO OPEN YOUR EYES, AND FEEL THE BREATH OF LIFE IN YOUR LUNGS. IT’S A PRIVILEGE TO WALK THE EARTH! DON’T SCREW UP YOUR LAST CHANCE TO SHINE!”

 

Swindle turned pale and cold. He looked at his left hand, and then squeezed the silver ring with emotion. A tick he had used many times over, to release stress.

 

“You’ve got the same skull band on your finger as me. And that mark in your forehead, is the same. The scar on your arm, long and rippled. Right by your elbow. And your handle is my middle name. All that is giving me the willies, right now. Why do you care so much? Why do you know so much?”

 

His shadowy compadre stood up and took out a leather wallet, with a chrome chain attached. Just like the one in his naïve guest’s pocket. He threw a wad of bills on the tablecloth.

 

“It might be weeks before you get fed again. Don’t take this for granted. Zip up that motorcycle jacket, you’ll need to stay warm. Winter is here. That guy you just spoke about is in Ohio, wondering if he’ll ever see you again. Your mother cries every night, in bed. They don’t understand you, and never will. But it doesn’t matter. Because the bloodline is intact. Believe it or not, once you’ve finished messing up your pitiful journey, things will get better. Trust me, I know. I know the whole story!”

 

The door clattered rudely as he made his exit. Despite the hot blast from pizza ovens that were busy, a frosty whisper of what lay ahead could be felt inside. And one young man, one impulsive, reckless soul, was about to fulfill his own destiny.

 

“The Twilight Zone is a place where even the humblest of fools may meet himself for a free dinner, and refreshment. And tidbits of wisdom, that perhaps, might offer a second chance at attaining redemption. It’s all a matter of choice. All a matter of courage, and meeting a time-traveler with the right perspective...”

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Sideways Sunday”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

Despite being retired for nearly eight years I still have the imprint left after a lifetime of school and workplace schedules. This worrying idea that things need to occur with the discipline of an artificial timeline remains stuck in my head. So, when the weekend arrives, it brings notions of off-duty chores being accomplished. I typically make a trip to check my post office mailbox in Chardon, something left over from newspaper days. Letters and packages do not arrive there frequently, but I still use the address in all of my books, and on related websites and blogs. Therefore, I try to keep up-to-date with new arrivals, every week or two.

 

On the way home from this lazy excursion, I stopped for a case of beer at a favored depot in Hambden Township. A convenient RediGo store, which also offers Sunoco fuels. I noted that they had removed a row of refrigerator and freezer cases, which were troubling to maintain. The product contained therein didn’t seem to move quickly enough to justify being carried, anyway. I liked the extra space on that side of their emporium. Once this limited remodel was finished, I reckoned it would improve the flow of customer traffic, and offer more opportunities for merchandising what those patrons seemed to prefer. Namely, beer, wine, and salty snacks.

 

Coming home to my residence park in Thompson, I pondered that it was Mother’s Day. Somewhere in the back of my mind were recollections of the Anna Jarvis house, in Webster, West Virginia. A notable structure because it was the birthplace of she who sanctified this special date on the calendar. I would often pass that cultural temple when traveling to see my parents, who lived in Philippi.

 

In modern times, my celebration of the moment was muted by the fact that I had no living mater to visit, or call on the occasion. Yet I took joy from wishing good cheer to those who once carried the seeds of tomorrow in their wombs. In my family, and around the neighborhood.

 

Back at my home base, I sat outside on the front porch, with a brew. Our community matron, who lived across the street, was being escorted to a festive dinner by her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. I remembered that she had reached her mid-80’s. So it seemed proper to call out a wish of good cheer, as she was climbing into her son’s vehicle. But when I delivered this ebullient vocalization, she returned the gesture by wishing me the same sentiment. Something I had not expected.

 

I had to laugh. My amusement caused beer foam to dribble everywhere.

 

While pondering the day, my cell phone began to ring. I had to rummage through a pocket to find my device. When I did, sun glare obscured its screen. But finally, I located the proper icon to click in response. My friend Janis, who had been receiving skilled care for health reasons over the past year, answered with a gasp and a gag that had me sitting up straight.

 

“Gahhhh! Hack! Hack! Hello, Rodbert! Ptooey!”

 

My right hand trembled while cradling the wireless link.

 

“Are you okay? What the heck is going on?”

 

Her explanation sounded ridiculous, but entirely believable in terms of her skewed thought processes.

 

“I tried to eat a slice of bread. That mush they feed me is disgusting! So, I managed to sneak something off of a friend’s plate. But it got stuck on the way down. I thought some chocolate milk would wash it out of my throat. Yuck! But nah, that only made it worse! Gahhhh!”

 

As she coughed and choked and spit, I started to panic.

 

“CALL FOR HELP! YOU SHOULD’VE HIT THE PATIENT ALARM! WHY THE HELL DID YOU DIAL MY NUMBER INSTEAD?”

 

She reacted with a predictable amount of sarcasm, while making noises that were troubling to hear.

 

“You’re a sissy, Rodbert! I’m okay, the bread just clogged my pipes. Gahhhh! Gahhhh! I thought something solid would taste good. That crap they send me is like bird poop! I hate it!”

 

I closed my eyes, and drooped with futility.

 

“Well now you must be a mess, right? Did you vomit all over yourself?”

 

My ornery friend cackled and continued to spit up moist crumbs of bread.

 

“Nah, I grabbed the trash can by my bed! They might have to wash it out though. Gahhhh! Ptooey!”

 

My face was burning. I had turned red with embarrassment.

 

“This is Mother’s Day! I know you don’t have any kids, but you’re a cat mom, at least! I thought maybe the nursing home would throw a little party or something...”

 

Unintentionally, my comment struck a raw nerve.

 

“MOTHER’S DAY? WHO GIVES A DAMN? I DON’T, MY MOTHER DIDN’T DO SHIT FOR ME, EXCEPT SHIP ME OFF TO GRANNY WHEN I WAS A KID! ABOUT EIGHT YEARS OLD, I THINK. THAT WAS IT FOR OUR RELATIONSHIP. WHEN SHE DIED, I FELT NOTHING. NOT A THING, RODBERT! DOES THAT MAKE ME A BAD PERSON? IF IT DOES, THEN YOU CAN KISS MY ASS! GAHHHH! GAHHHH!”

 

My belly grumbled with sorrow. I had to wipe moisture from my eyes.

 

“Yeah, I forgot. I’m sorry to have mentioned it at all! You’ve talked about your situation in the past. It had to be a hard experience to process. I don’t understand it happening that way. You’ve always been unconventional. But not worthy of being rejected by the one that carried your life forward, inside her own body. It makes no sense. Forgive me...”

 

Janis refused to deliberate over my comment. She raised a shield of defiance.

 

“DON’T GET ALL EMOTIONAL ON ME! I HATE IT WHEN YOU ACT MOODY! BOO HOO! BOO HOO! QUIT FEELING SORRY OVER IT, SCREW HER AND SCREW MY FAMILY! AND SCREW THIS STUPID PIECE OF BREAD! GAHHHH! HACK! HACK!”

 

I heard more spit bombs landing in her waste receptacle.

 

“Are you really okay? A nurse should check you out! You’ve got to quit violating those eating guidelines. They implemented them for a reason. You’ve had three strokes! There are consequences to what happened. Let them take care of you!”

 

She wheezed out the last of her ill-advised treat while gagging loudly. Then, wiped her mouth on a towel that had been left by the bedside.

 

“I don’t know why I called. It was the first thing that came to mind! Anyway, quit worrying. I’m okay, my throat is clear now. It’s a good thing, because this bucket is full! Hah! I’ll get yelled at by the staff. Oh well! Let them bitch about me, my nickname is ‘Scoundrel.’ I like it! That’s what I am, right, Rodbert?”

 

She didn’t give me a chance to reply. The line went dead before I could open my mouth. I wanted a fresh beverage to numb away the conflicted mood she had aroused. So, I fumbled for my cane, and stood up with both knees popping.

 

Sunday had gone sideways, but it didn’t matter. There was a full case of Miller Lite in my fridge.

 

 

 

“Mother’s Day”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

Note: While thinking about this special day, I got a blast from one of my friends. that offered a dark contrast. She had been rejected by her own mater around the age of eight years old. So, when this day arrived for remembrance, my cohort confessed that she felt nothing. I could not process that groove personally, but had a flash of Lou Reed or Iggy Pop to let those emotions fly free... I wrote these lyrics after our conversation ended.

 

Mother’s Day and she’s not here

Her daughter barely remembers

Got shipped up their road around the age of eight

No one speaks of it now

Mother’s Day and she’s long gone

No pictures on the mantle

My friend says, ‘Hold on, I’m playing it straight!’

She abandoned me with a kiss on the brow

Said bye, bye, bye

Said bye, bye, bye

 

Mother’s Day, not the same for all

My friend is numb to the meaning

She only remembers a few days out on the lawn

Dancing in the sprinkler spray, cool and wet

Mother’s Day, it’s a time for joy

But not when you were a jewel she wouldn’t wear

Not when she wanted to be gone

Not when she wanted to forget

She said bye, bye, bye

She said bye, bye, bye

 

Mother’s Day, I can’t hear this side

Of a story so foreign and wrong

But that’s the jingle on my telephone this morning

I get it like a poke in the ear

Mother’s Day, I want to shout and sing

Yet there’s a drag on the bumper hitch

“Don’t mention that bitch!’ she gives me a warning

It makes me well up with tears

Mom said, bye, bye, bye

Mom said bye, bye, bye

 

Mother’s Day, darkness on the horizon

That’s not the way it should be

I want my friend to feel the blessing of her birth

But that got crushed like a dried-up flower

Mother’s Day, I’m all warm inside

Remembering childhood and a touch of grace

But this wild, wandering, natural quirk

Stalls me in my finest hour

Said bye, bye, bye

Said bye, bye, bye

 

Mother’s Day, I’m so sorry friend

The gift given didn’t take

You got recycled like a party favor, unwanted

Sat in front of the boob tube, empty and blank

Mother’s Day only brings it back

That sense of being in line too long

This celebration leaves you feeling undeniably haunted

A fish stuck on the riverbank

Said bye, bye, bye

Said bye, bye, bye

 

Mother’s Day, I would hold your hand

But I’d get a slap in return

That kind of comfort ain’t your vibe, I know

You’d rather get stoned and drift away

Mother’s Day is a time to chart

A course through one life, unintended

Here and now caused to churn and explode

An echo of finality and fate

Said bye, bye, bye

Said bye, bye, bye

 

Mother’s Day, I won’t mention it again

Until hanging up the phone line

My heart aches, but I won’t confess that fact

I know she would only turn pale and grim

Mother’s Day, and that vessel of gold

Tarnished too quickly, like brass

Went from shades of lavender and pink, to black

Her patience worn too quickly thin

She said bye, bye, bye

She said bye, bye, bye

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes - “Investment Opportunity”

 

c.2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

Gretel Ronk had acquired an interest in trailers at Evergreen Estates, through an investment opportunity at her bank. One of the other tellers mentioned during a lunch break, that a depositor owned bunches of mobile residences around her home base in Geauga County, Ohio. This factual tidbit was little more than a curiosity, at first. But then, the young college intern revealed that their patron was liquidating some of these assets, while moving toward retirement. A few of the employees had decided to pool their cash, and use it to leap into the world of property ownership. This made the taste of her taco salad turn oddly bland. Her appetite for adventure had been awakened! Yet she held conservative views on anything relating to money. This kept her pondering the scheme, throughout the rest of that afternoon.

 

At first, this bold step into being a landlord seemed risky and bound to fail. But after attending a seminar by one of the financial institution’s seasoned advisers, she decided to join in the effort. It was something she had yearned to do, for a long time. Only a lack of courage to enter the market had kept her sidelined. With this venture, she would have company to share in the rewards, or comfort for any downfall, if the plan fell apart.

 

Gretel took $10,000 out of her savings, and plunked it down like a stack of chips at a casino.

 

A month later, she and three of the other ladies were invited to take a tour of the park where they had bought these singlewide trailers. The trip was planned as an excursion to inspect and assess their longboxes first hand, and choose whether to renovate them before new renters moved in, or to forego that extra expense altogether.

 

They rode in a Chrysler minivan owned by their team leader. The drive deep into a rural part of the Ohio district was pleasant enough while in motion. Everything was green and pastoral, and subdued along the way. When they arrived at the development site, a sign appeared that read ‘Welcome to Evergreen Estates. A nice place to get started, or to retire!’ This friendly greeting made her feel warm inside.

 

Donna DiCenza was at the wheel. She had worked for Federal Falcon Bank for twenty years or more. Her maternal demeanor came from having endured an extended period of homemaking, that preceded a return to workplace duties. Now, with her kids in college, she had the experience of a den mother. She always looked after her clerks with care and affection.

 

The tall, chubby, big-haired woman gestured toward streets that lay ahead, while explaining what they were about to encounter.

 

“This is a community of mobile homes, everyone! Not a housing development, per se... I would characterize it as a blue-collar cluster. You’ll see lots of things here that traditional neighborhoods frown upon. Lots of day drinking, loud music parties, banners and flags representing controversial groups, firearms being carried openly, and lots of pickup trucks. Many, many, many pickup trucks! Some of them have wooden beds and loud exhausts, and lights stuck everywhere! Others sit high in the air, and may expel clouds of black smoke, on demand! Don’t be alarmed. It’s a way of life out here! These people work with their hands, and live by their wits! You won’t find any PhD graduates, or millionaires in these prefabricated shipping containers!”

 

Gasps could be heard throughout the vehicle. Then, Gretel cleared her throat and blurted out a real-time observation.

 

“Some of these trailers look really bad! I hope we got the better ones in our portfolio. Otherwise, we’ll be spending every penny of profit on repairs!”

 

Donna was dressed in a silk blouse and mid-length skirt. She had a glossy scarf tied around her neck.

 

“The units we purchased are mostly newer. They’ve been bringing in trailers with capital sent from the former land owners in California. We have a hard time keeping up with who actually holds the deed to this space. There have been a handful of investors who kept the titles to individual homes, and offered them as rentals or on a rent-to-own basis. The previous stewards discouraged that kind of operation, so people like the man who sold us this package are slowly exiting the business. I’m not sure what course the future will take here, but our possession of assets has been approved. We will work with whatever group wins out, in the end.”

 

Becky Truant was sitting in the back row of seats. She glowed with pride over their achievement. Her bank polo shirt was purple and green. Her straight hair was long and shimmering blonde.

 

“WERE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER, SISTERS! I SAY HOORAY! HOORAY, HOORAY!”

 

Gretel started to giggle, but then covered her mouth with one hand.

 

“I suppose you can’t expect much sophistication in a place like this, right? It isn’t exactly a high-dollar part of Cleveland, or a lakefront villa!”

 

Donna nodded in agreement, while steering the minivan toward Lot 12, which was their first destination.

 

“It is what it is, ladies! It is what you make of it. These people need places to live just like anyone else. They have families to raise, they pay taxes, and they vote! Their lives matter!”

 

Gadsden flags and Confederate banners were ubiquitous, along the street. A few Trump signs were still in place, from the 2016 and 2020 elections. Oil spots dotted most of the driveways. There were junk vehicles abandoned in the overflow parking areas. Though each had a current license plate attached, as if some mechanical wizard still intended to make them roadworthy, again.

 

Their introduction to ownership came at a Schult singlewide from 1984. An obvious exception to the claim that they somehow acquired newer residences. It had been repainted so many times that the actual hue was hard to determine. It had a translucent sheen of hooker makeup, applied too heavily. The front porch had been constructed out of discarded, wooden pallets. A series of forgotten satellite dishes and television antennas lined the roof.

 

As the feminine four exited for a closer look, they quickly noted an odor of stale must oozing through the open windows. A real estate lock had been fastened over the doorknob. While their supervisor fumbled through keys in her leather purse, a noise echoed from next door. One that made the quartet grimace with embarrassment.

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln was on his bench, across the yard. Despite the early hour, he was already sloshed on beer and Tennessee whiskey. He belched so furiously that window panes began to rattle. Liquor dribbled from his beard. He farted to provide an exclamation point to this display of rude, redneck behavior.

 

“Good afternoon, everybody? Are you the new owners of this shithole? If so, then by goodness, you’ve got my sympathy!”

 

Donna shuddered and smoothed her white blouse.

 

“Not property owners, sir. We’ve just purchased some individual homes here, like this one. Through a deal with Federal Falcon Bank...”

 

The old hermit exploded with laughter. He swigged beer until it spilled down his Harley-Davidson T-shirt. Foam formed a ring around his mouth.

 

“FEDERAL FALCON? WHAT THE HELL KIND OF NAME IS THAT? NOT THAT IT MATTERS, ‘CAUSE THEY KEEP CHANGING THE FIRMS AND ADDRESSES FOR LOT RENT TO GET PAID, ANYWAY. ACTUALLY, I DON’T GIVE A DAMN WHERE IT GOES! JUST SO THEY LET ME SIT HERE AND DRINK IN PEACE!”

 

Gretel clutched her satchel of paperwork like a child’s security blanket. She had to wipe the fog off of her oversized glasses.

 

“Sit here and drink? That’s all you do all day, sir? Get drunk and pass out?”

 

Lincoln slapped his knees and bellowed with the intensity of a foghorn by the lakeshore.

 

“YES I DO! BUT DON’T LET THAT PUT YOU OFF OF CHECKING OUT YOUR NEW DIGS! I FIGURE YOU ALL MADE A WISE PICK WITH BUYING INTO THIS PARK. IT’S THE LAST STOP ON A RAILROAD TO NOWHERE! NOBODY CAN AFFORD TO LEAVE! WE’RE ALL BROKE, BUSTED, AND BEATEN! SO, THERE YOU HAVE IT! WELCOME, MA’AM AND COMPANY! WELCOME TO THE END OF THE ROAD! WELCOME, TO EVERGREEN ESTATES!”