Nothing To See Here – “Reality Checked”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

I have always had a scattergun strategy to achieve goals as a professional writer. Said in plain language, I write continuously, on various and often unrelated topics, and then utilize the content in a variety of ways. Sometimes this has meant penning articles and columns for a traditional newspaper, or magazine. Or a newsletter relating to a group in which I am a member. Recent years have seen me shift my focus to posting and managing online content. And the publishing of books and Kindle volumes that are available through Amazon. As a salesman, my skills generally have proved to be lacking. Authorship is my forte, not hawking goods for a financial benefit. Yet I have stayed vigilant in contacting potential subjects that might be interested in what I have produced, and in soliciting allies for my quest to be recognized. But on a recent afternoon, while partaking of adult refreshments here at my rural homestead, a realization zapped my consciousness with the force of a bullet.

 

None of this really matters, at all. The act of creating art is its own justification, and reward.

 

Even with my palate drowning in Yuengling lager, this weighty revelation hit hard. In the past week, I had managed to make contact with a magazine editor from the music field. A fellow who was at the helm of a revived version of a favored monthly I used to follow in the 1970’s and 80’s. Contact pages in a modern context rarely offer postal addresses to submit copies of a physical manuscript. So, I have been mostly limited to sending out e-mail queries. This kind of connection often gets ignored due to a lack of real-time administration, or the mass quantities of garbage that always seems to float through internet sites.

 

But thankfully, a response to one of my random attempts came from a figure in the area of New York City. A person of interest with responsibilities for managing both print media product, and web-borne resources. His cyber-blast caught me completely by surprise, as I was about to depart for an appointment with my general physician.

 

I scrambled to package up a copy of my ‘Channel 13’ memoir, something that I thought would hold his interest. There was only 15 minutes available to accomplish this task, and include a personal note. But I did it at a frenzied pace. Then mailed the envelope after my medical visit.

 

Throughout the rest of that morning, I felt light-hearted and confident. To have such an opportunity fall into my lap was invigorating. It had me feeling giddy and anxious about discovering more strategies to advance my career as a hired scribbler. But with a cold brew in hand, sitting on my square porch in rural Ohio, a different mood took hold. One that was oddly sober for thinking with brain cells that were slightly inebriated.

 

I ticked off a personal list of things that would change if I won a chance to jumpstart sales of my titles, and move forward as an author. But instead of imagining all sorts of gratuities and accolades that might appear, this exercise left me feeling cold.

 

The reality came in like a rocket. I would still be a disabled, unemployed man in his 60’s. Someone who had fallen into early retirement, at the age of 55. I would still be socially shy and isolated, still a contrarian voice in a Midwestern wilderness of mainstream habits, and still happiest when pecking away at the keyboard in my home office.

 

In other words, I would be a generational extension of my late sire and mentor, Rhoderick D. Ice.

 

My father was someone who prized education and reading. His university degrees told only part of the tale of a life spent preaching the Christian gospel, and helping others who were impoverished or afflicted with life challenges. He wrote constantly, from his youthful days until just before he entered a nursing home, and gathered himself for the end of a long and productive journey. His offerings were many in number and diverse in subject matter. He wrote on religious themes, but also reflected on personal memories of growing up in Columbus. Even science fiction and fantasy flowed from his fingertips, when inspiration appeared. He had a vast intellect. And a curiosity for others who had traditions and beliefs that were outside of his own experience. When he gained assets along the way, they were always dispersed to help his family, and others in need. He did not hold onto wealth or earthly treasures. What he valued were souls, and expressions of fellowship and faith.

 

 With the Pennsylvania brew as a catalyst, had now I tapped into that vibe on my own terms.

 

Gaining an advantage in the marketplace would of course make it easier to get along, day-to-day. A few dollars here or there would cover expenses and mean less pinching of pennies to reach the end of each month. But otherwise, that kind of victory would be fleeting in nature. A boost to my ego, if I had one. A flickering candle lit by circumstance. A pat on the back, before returning to my desk and reviving the pursuit of a writer’s craft.

 

A theory in the back of my mind has always been that there is no past or future. Only the moment in which we live, the here and now. Everything else is a product of imagination. Or perhaps, the perspective of a seer, actively perceiving their surroundings. That moment has always been my refuge.

 

Johnathan Larson, the composer and playwright, said it more eloquently in his noted musical, ‘Rent.’ A favorite of my niece who has a theater background.

 

“There is no future, there is no past. I live in this moment as my last. There’s only us. There’s only this. Forget regret, or life is yours to miss. No other road. No other way. No day but today.”

 

R.D. always lived in the moment. He did not dwell on old battles or inequities, or injuries. Instead, his focus was to remain active and relevant. He certainly looked forward as a believer in redemption, and hope. Yet his mindset remained rooted in maintaining a purposeful harmony with the planet and its many inhabitants. When blessed, he returned that good fortune to others. Rather than allowing himself to be changed by wealth or privilege. The yield that was he died poor and exhausted. But riches of family and friendship made him exalted as an example of one who squeezed every drop of joy out of his mortal journey. He never strayed from the chosen path. Silver and gold meant nothing. He wanted to work!

 

Sitting alone with my container of Yuengling, I hoped to eventually echo that philosophical achievement. And continue the legacy of a true believer, and a wordsmith.

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Island Exile, Part Two”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

Lulu McCann did not give much forethought to having a house guest at her trailer in Evergreen Estates. She simply wanted to help someone who was stranded so far from home. Yet it did not take long for her neighbors to become nosey and suspicious. Outsiders in the rural park were few in number and always stood out immediately. They never stayed anonymous for long. This was a characteristic of living in a community that was isolated and distant from any other population center in the county. Visitors and immigrants were always the subject of gossip. But as the temporary resident in her spare bedroom planned his return to Hawaii, a crescendo of scat-chatting burst onto social media sites that linked people in the park. After a 12-hour shift at the Cleveland Clinic, her cell phone buzzed and chirped while she was headed back to the trashy village of mobile dwellings.

 

“HEY, LOO! WHAT THE HELL R YA DOING, GIRL? U GOT A MAN IN YER CRIB? DOGGONE, HE LOOKS CHINESE OR MALAYSIAN OR SOMETHING FREAKY! WTF? NO COWBOYS WANNA TAKE YA OUT FOR A BEER? ARE YA REALLY THAT LONELY?”

 

She was used to her redneck environment, so these zingers did not upset her at first. Her own skin and background matched everyone else in the area perfectly. But when horseplay began to rattle around her singlewide longbox, this attitude against foreigners became distressing. She noted that 4x4 rigs were squealing their oversized tires in the street. And rolling coal, leaving clouds of black, diesel exhaust that drifted through her windows. Horns blared with the melody of ‘Dixie.’ And finally, gunshots drew nearer. Though no one threatened her, or her guest, with harm.

 

Late in the evening, she was relaxing with a bottle of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Suddenly, a sound of thundering, mechanical clatter shook the thin walls of her home. A pair of accessory-laden, custom motorcycles rolled onto the driveway apron, by her front yard. And a pair of brothers called out for her attention. Both shook their gloved fists in the air.

 

Dante and Dominic Klatka shared lots that were side-by-side, at the back end of her street. The siblings had moved to Ohio from the Pittsburgh area, following relatives from a past generation. Their shacks had been expanded and remodeled over time. A woodworking miracle that made each living space look like an outpost from frontier days. They were known to display signs and banners with various forms of extreme prose, and imagery. Yet neither had been so bold inside the confines of their development, until now.

 

“LOO, WHAT THE HELL? YINZ GOT A GUY IN THAT TRAILER? HE LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING OUT OF A CHARLIE CHAN MOVIE, GAWDAMM! IS THAT A FETISH OR SOMETHING?”

 

The young nurse patted a derringer that was secured in her pants pocket. She went out to confront the rowdy pair while still holding her beverage. The wind toyed with her curly mop of straw-hued hair, as this march brought her face-to-face with the brothers. She still wore a scrubs top from her workplace, dotted with cartoon renderings of medical tools.

 

“Look boys, what I’ve got behind this door is none of yer damn business. Y’all need to hike on out of here, okay? Turn those scooters around and say goodbye!”

 

Dante was slightly taller, and more sturdy in his build. But carried the strong features and chiseled jaw of his bloodline. He had a shaved head and a black goatee. Jailhouse tattoos covered his skull.

 

He laughed out loud at the candid response.

 

“DAMNNNNN! YINZ SURE KNOW HOW TO STIR UP THE POOP THERE, GIRLIE! NOW I DON’T CARE ABOUT YER BEDROOM SCENE, THAT’S ALL GOOD, BUT IF BEING LONELY WAS THE PROBLEM, WHY NOT GIVE A LOCAL BRO A TRY? WHY NOT JUST WALK UP THE STREET TO MY STEELERS DEN, THERE’S PLENTY OF COLD, IRON CITY BEER AND MUSIC! WHY WASTE THAT FINE, LITTLE COOCH ON SOME BORDER-JUMPER FROM GOD KNOWS WHERE?”

 

Dominic echoed the sentiment of his twin. He had chrome rings on every finger, with various designs that related to incarceration, and outlaw culture.

 

“HE’S TALKING TRUTH THERE, LITTLE BITCH! YOU WANT TO CATCH SOMETHING FROM THAT BUG-EYED DRIFTER? EFF THAT SHIT! WE’LL BE GLAD TO GIVE YINZ A HOOKUP! BELIEVE ME, IT’LL BE SOMETHING TO BEG FOR, AGAIN AND AGAIN!”

 

The stealthy duo had been moving closer, step by step, as their conversation ensued. But Lulu reacted to this incursion on her property with a stealthy sleight-of-hand. She pointed the small firearm with determination, and ordered the men to halt their advance.

 

“That’s enough, y’all! Back on up, I’m not feeling like either one of ya belong on my porch!”

 

Dante snorted a guffaw of disbelief. He slapped his sides and kicked the concrete.

 

“THAT’S ALL YINZ GOT? ONE PIDDLY LITTLE SHOOTER? HELL, THAT’D BE LIKE GETTING A BEE STING! C’MON NOW, QUIT FOOLING AROUND AND GIVE ME A DAMN KISS!”

 

His scrawnier brother batted the derringer away easily. It took only a careless flip of his greasy paw. The weapon fell in a thatch of crabgrass, by the front steps.

 

“I’M GETTING EXCITED NOW, YINZ ARE A WILD FILLY! I LIKE THAT SHIT! WILD IS GOOD, I FIGURE! BRING IT ON, HONEY!”

 

Lulu knew how to fight from wrestling with her older cousins, who also grew up in Thompson Township. Yet she was no match for the Klatka clan. They pinned her against a railing by the steps, and took turns smacking her posterior and pulling her messy mane. This game made both men aroused and sweaty. Before long, their target had run out of energy to fight. She weakened and fell limp and exhausted, on the deck.

 

From inside, a violent rage of furniture crashing resounded. Anakoni Aka had dozed off on the couch, after several rounds of Bud Light and Tito’s Handmade Vodka. But unexpected pleas for mercy by his new friend cut through the lingering brain fog. He stammered and stumbled out of the doorway, barefoot and red-faced.

 

“What the hell, brah? This is kapu, right? You don’t mess with people on their own turf, that’s a no-no. You don’t know the rules? How’d that happen? Say a hui hou, goodbye! Good freaking bye!”

 

Dante grabbed his arm in a move to topple him like a tree. Yet the muscular, island exile turned his grasp into a leverage point. He bent the limb backwards, until his attacker howled in pain. The stocky, former inmate ended up tipping over the railing, and fell into a side yard by the storage barn, next door.

 

Dominic fumbled for a pistol in his blue jeans. But a karate kick set him on his rump, in a corner of the porch. The Hawaiian guest had little interest in being victimized. Especially so many miles from his native soil. He manifested skills of martial arts learned during childhood days. Timbers began to fly as he chopped and stomped and pummeled the brothers, viciously. Then stood over their crumpled bodies, and savored his superiority.

 

“Okay, that’s enough of a workout. Time to say aloha, jalike? Get out of here before I catch my second wind! Opala got taken out already! This is trash day, for sure!”

 

The pair of Keystone-State rebels crawled to their two-wheelers while groaning and licking their wounds. They had endured enough punishment.

 

Lulu was still disoriented. Yet her gratitude gushed freely.

 

“I owe y’all dammit! That’s the worst those boys have ever acted. So, let me make it up to ya, I’ve got a few bucks put away. We’ll get a plane ticket and I’ll play taxi driver. Cleveland-Hopkins International Airport ain’t that far from here. I’m obliged for the favor...”

 

Anakoni nodded and smiled. He made the shaka hand gesture, that represented a friendly sentiment, to ‘hang loose.’

 

“No offense girl, but I’m ready! Time to hele, I’m juiced to get in the sky!”

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Island Exile, Part One”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

Anakoni Aka was completely out of place at Evergreen Estates. He had come to Ohio a year earlier, to visit the Cleveland Clinic in search of treatment for a rare heart defect. A journey that was long and tedious. His miraculous recovery thrilled everyone, both in Hawaii where he had been born, and in his new sanctuary by Lake Erie. But once the challenge of his health crisis had been overcome, he realized that money for a return trip did not exist. This predicament left him stranded temporarily in a climate where winters could be severe and bone-chillingly harsh. He did not know anyone other than members of the hospital staff. But a sympathetic nurse named Lulu McCann offered to help him find lodging in the Buckeye State. She was petite and pretty and had hair like cotton candy, tied in a red bandana. Her voice soothed him and brought a sense of calm that he desperately needed.

 

When she spoke about living in an eastern county known as Geauga, it did not register. He knew almost nothing about local townships, villages, or cities. So, her offer of help in finding a place to stay while he sorted out his personal life was welcome. He hitched a ride in her Chevy Colorado pickup, which was painted maroon, with a Confederate flag on the front. The emblem seemed unfamiliar to him, an oddity that he thought must have been a reference to ‘The Dukes of Hazard.’ He recalled seeing reruns on YouTube, while recovering from his cardiac procedures.

 

Their trek through the suburbs, and into rural lands outside of the metropolitan area went quickly. Lulu had a lead foot on the road. She whooped and yelped to Country tunes on her in-dash stereo. And cheered when they reached Pine Trail Road, in Thompson Township.

 

It was then that Anakoni realized where his adopted companion from the clinic actually lived. Her residence was a singlewide boxcar, situated in a dusty, dirty mobile-home oasis called Evergreen Estates. A community that looked forlorn and forgotten. The sort of place where modern mores and habits meant little to anyone.

 

When they pulled into her narrow driveway, feral cats scattered off the porch. A fence constructed from pallet wood marked the borders of her rented lot. She had a flower garden growing inside of a truck tire, in her front yard. And various sets of wind chimes and spinners made from two-liter pop bottles hanging along her outside roof.

 

“This ain’t no mansion, buddy! But it’s where I grew up. Going to college got me hooked on medical assisting. Then I continued my education, and found a gig in the city. The pay is good, and I like helping people. Y’all know my roots are out here though, both parents came over the river from Kentucky. They moved out of Cincinnati to Cleveland when Dad got hired at a steel mill. All those jobs are gone now, and so are my folks. But I’m still here! And by God, I’m going to stay here!”

 

Her Hawaiian pal rubbed his eyes and groaned out loud.

 

“That’s lolo, brah! I’ve seen pictures of neighborhoods like this... shantytowns in Hati or Jamaica or places like that...”

 

Lulu shrieked and cackled at his candid remark.

 

“SHANTYTOWN? WELL HECK, I NEVER THOUGHT OF MY TRAILER PARK LIKE THAT! BUT I GUESS YER RIGHT, DUDE! THIS DEFINITELY AIN’T AN EXCLUSIVE NEIGHBORHOOD! EVERYBODY KNOWS EVERYBODY ELSE! BUT WE DON’T SCREW WITH EACH OTHER! CAMPFIRES GO ON ALL SUMMER, AND THERE’S ALWAYS COLD BEER IF Y’ALL WANT ONE OR NEED ONE!”

 

Anakoni shook his head in disbelief.

 

“Shoots, this looks a hillbilly hale! Kind of cozy though, quieter than living downtown, by the clinic...”

 

He had barely finished making his observation when gunfire began to echo across the development. Shotgun and rifle blasts split the silence. The violent noise made him flinch and then jump behind her pickup truck, defensively.

 

Lulu stood, hands on her hips, and let out a squeal of wild amusement.

 

“DANG BUSTER, Y’ALL ARE SKITTISH AS HELL! DON’T GET YER SHORTS IN A BUNCH, SOME OF OUR RESIDENTS ARE OUT HUNTING IN THE WOODS! IT’S WHAT WE DO OUT HERE FOR FUN, RIGHT? UNLESS THERE’S NASCAR OR WRASSLIN’ ON THE TV! IT KEEPS US FROM GETTING BORED!”

 

Her exiled friend seemed lost between worlds. Yet he was good natured about being so far away from home.

 

“Howzit feel living with all these guns around though? Don’t you worry about your keiki running the streets? You know, little kids?”

 

The clinic nurse shook her head and frowned.

 

“I’m a lot more worried about folks carrying heat in the city, man. Out here, people protect their shit. That’s like an unwritten law with citizens of our park. We don’t have much crime, anybody who trespasses is likely to get popped! Might be a warning, just a kick in the teeth. If things go further, then anything can happen!”

 

Anakoni gulped hard. He really wanted to get a plane ticket back to his island paradise. But he trusted the feminine wisdom of his benefactor.

 

“That sounds like opala to me, wahine! Trash talk, girl! Somehow though, I figure you aren’t exaggerating...”

 

Lulu opened her refrigerator, which was stocked with bottles of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, and Bud Light. She had already managed to peel off her uniform shirt.

 

“Hey, y’all wanna drink? I need to relax, dude! That was a long-ass day at the hospital. Tomorrow, I’ll look on the computer, maybe there’s a deal on airline tickets. I’ll do my best. Yer homies on the islands must be freaking out. I’m an only child but my fam still keeps in touch. Blood matters, right? It matters to me, anyway!”

 

The Hawaiian refugee glowed with gratitude. He twisted the cap on a bottle of brew, and began to drink. The cool refreshment eased his mood, immediately.

 

“For a haloe chick, you are a godsend. I’m in your debt. You took kuleana for me, you know, responsibility. I was screwed! Thanks, sistah! Maybe someday you’ll come visit the islands, I’ll show you around! It’ll be a good time. I promise!”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Orphan Phone”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

Shelton Swanson had been at Evergreen Estates since his days as a student at Ledgemont Elementary School. A time in the not-too-distant past when he still carried obvious traits of a childish, developing intellect. Someone learning about life by experiencing situations in his rural neighborhood on a first-hand basis. He did not question the paradigms of his environment, or the circumstances that found him deposited in such a remote and isolated community. Instead, to follow an old maxim often quoted by his maternal grandmother, he grew where he was planted.

 

This strategy was steeped in wisdom and care inspired by generations that went before.

 

Days in his young life were occupied with securing gainful employment. He worked for Giant Eagle, the supermarket chain, and also Sheetz, a convenience depot. He did odd jobs around the park, fixing skirting that had come loose, and handled plumbing issues that were not too serious. He never charged much money for these errands. It was his mission to help others as needed. He reckoned that being present and available would boost his own personal karma, and pay dividends in the future.

 

But in the evenings, when his slate of duties ran dry, he felt strangely alone.

 

On a Wednesday in June, he lingered outside as a light rain began to fall. This seasonal blessing caused his lawn to green up with a verdant hue of vitality. It swelled the wooden timbers of his deck. And streaked the concrete walkway that bordered his lot with long lines of damp gray. He breathed in this sporadic visitation of moisture with gratitude. It invigorated him, and revived his soul. Yet as he tilted sideways, against a railing by his seat, and began to reach out to friends over his cellular device, a mood of desolation began to take hold.

 

No one answered his calls. Not Helena, the veteran deli clerk he knew from Geneva, or Magda, the hotel service matron who led a staff in Ashtabula. Not Farken Rye, his manager and mentor at the IGA in Perry Township. Not even Rolf DeVere, his teacher at the high school which had now been closed down after a district reorganization.

 

He was alone in every sense. Disconnected and exiled in the moment.

 

This odd condition of feeling unplugged caused him to turn pale and go numb. He stared straight ahead, while breathing with a mechanical rhythm. In and out and in and out, repeatedly, in rapid succession. His eyes saw spots that were not literally in his field of vision. He grew tense and nervous. His hands trembled. Over and over, he repeated the dialing sequence through a contact app on his device. Then pleaded to be heard.

 

“Hello? Hello? Pick up the line, will you? Pick up already, I want to talk. I need to talk! This loneliness is crushing me, seriously! Please! Recognize me, and answer!”

 

The emptiness seemed to echo for an eternity. No reply of any sort came in response. He began to wilt like a thirsty flower. Going dry and desiccated and brittle, as the heat stole his life force. He jabbed at the phone screen with his index finger. Wanting and hoping for a reprieve of some sort. Desperate and damned. But still eager to be redeemed.

 

“Somebody answer me, please! Somebody, anybody! I can’t be the only one connected here, there must be a hundred names and numbers in my group of contacts! A hundred numbers, at least! I’m waiting to make contact!”

 

As he teetered on the brink of irrelevance, a ring sounded in his ear. Sorghum Klieg appeared on the display of his wireless link. She had the slim, lengthy profile of a marathon runner. With large, deep eyes colored light brown. They hadn’t had a conversation in months, or even years. Yet her response caused his insides to tingle. She spoke with a lilt in her voice, a characteristic of the bloodline from which she had sprung. A family rooted in the woods of central Pennsylvania, far from the confines of their trailer village.

 

“Sheltie! What’s wrong, buddy? You sound frantic, that isn’t your usual vibe. Tell me your story, you know I’m always glad to listen...”

 

He brushed the shaggy, brown mess out of his eyes. A ruddy flush of embarrassment made him turn pink.

 

“I’m here on the porch with a ginger ale, it’s so hot outside today. Really, really hot!”

 

Sorghum giggled and whistled. Her head nodded to a silent beat of musical energy.

 

“Anybody else would be drinking something stronger! Maybe beer or whiskey or vodka. But not you, buddy! Not you, no, no, no! I always thought that made you charming. An overgrown boy in a man’s body, right? I get it, you wouldn’t want to offend your mama...”

 

Shelton tingled from her half-baked insult.

 

“What, are you saying I’m a mama’s boy? Because if that’s your take, then I think you ought to stick that opinion where the sun don’t shine!”

 

His female opposite roared with amusement.

 

“Please dude, quit trying to sound like a hardass! You’re hilarious! I know it’s no fun when you’ve had a soft drink and you feel like the world has disappeared. It sucks! Pour some liquor in that glass! Just drink your mash and let the alcohol sink in! It’s okay, I’m here for you! I’m right here on the other side of this park!”

 

Her cohort felt emasculated and weak. But he remembered that a bottle of Yukon Jack was still in his cupboard, a leftover prize from their neighborhood Christmas party. He grew bold when pondering that it had never been opened. With a leap off of his folding chair, and a quick dive to the kitchen, he retrieved the container. Then, a hard twist of the cap loosed its contents.

 

He poured the Canadian liqueur into his vessel of sweet ale. And tilted his head backward, to enjoy a full swig of the mixture, with no inhibitions.

 

The wash of sugary spice and strong spirits soon had him panting like a dog.

 

“GAWDAMM, SORGIE! GAWDAMM! THAT’S JUST WHAT I NEEDED!”

 

Sorghum huffed knowingly, and cleared her narrow throat.

 

“Of course it is! Now sit there and let the juice settle your mood! I’ll be right over with a pizza and a deck of Uno cards! Quit feeling sorry for yourself! All you had to do was call a friend! You’re not a telephone orphan after all!”

 

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Heat Index, Part Four”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

Linn Speck had planned an intervention, for the moment when Darcy Trelane and her father arrived to take possession of the mobile home at Lot 109. Yet as he arrived on a blistering, Monday morning, his concentration was immediately broken. A festive group of protest kids from Cleveland had already surrounded the singlewide trailer, in a human chain. They were attired in rainbow colors and tie-dye garments of all sorts.

 

In a demonstration of performance art, a makeshift prison cage had been set up in the front yard. There, one of the group was dressed in an orange jumpsuit and a short, scruffy, blonde wig. He scowled at those passing by the spot, with mock indignation and scorn. A thick coat of bronzer made his face look like a citrus peel. As part of the act, he was pelted with Taco Bell wrappers, and empty water bottles. Then, he grabbed the bars of his cell and began to howl.

 

“Let me out of here! I’ve got to make America great again!”

 

Members of the student troupe jeered and laughed and answered his plea with a ribald chant.

 

“CONVICTED FELON, NOW YOU SEE! PUT HIM IN JAIL FOR ETERNITY!”

 

Those who had come to stage a MAGA uprising were horrified by this spectacle. The rebel band had prepared themselves for some kind of incident, by carrying police gear and riot shields. Yet no one thought far enough ahead to be ready for a video event.

 

Cameras from Fox 8 News were on-site, and rolling. A live feed for Facebook was being beamed out of the park via a satellite link.

 

Linn chewed his bottom lip, and cursed. He had the rosy complexion of a butchered swine, waiting to be sold for a roast.

 

“WHAT IS THIS? THAT WOMAN WE HAVE FOR A MANAGER LET ALL THESE FREAKS INTO THE PARK? WHY WOULD SHE DO SOMETHING SO FOOLISH? WHY, DAMMIT? WHY?”

 

Confederate banners and Gadsden flags were flying from pickup trucks that circled the rural property. But the mob of local residents had been stymied by this creative burst of guerilla theater. Their battle plan had been one founded on force and superior strength. They had no answer for non-violent, intellectual combat.

 

Mama Molene Gant, a longtime LGBT activist and patron of progressive outcasts, stood in the home doorway. Her gray locks blew gently in the breeze, as she twirled in place. This made her long, broomstick skirt flutter and sparkle.

 

“Hmm! Sho’ got a problem now don’t ya? I figure yer looking fo’ trouble here, but there’s no messing with success. Ya done won yer battle and lost tha war, bruh! My girl from tha ‘hood by Lake Erie changed her mind. She ain’t moving back to this graveyard. I convinced her to stay put in Cuyahoga County. We love her and need her! But we done picked up the tab fo’ this boxy little shack here. It’s gonna be our playhouse, we’ll be staging shows every weekend!”

 

Linn felt urine soaking his boxer shorts.

 

“THE HELL YOU WILL! I’LL PUT A STOP TO THIS HORSE HOCKEY, RIGHT NOW! GOD’S ARMY IS READY TO ROLL! LOOK OUT, HERE WE COME!”

 

He gestured like a military general, sweeping his right hand across the horizon. On cue, residents who were standing by with diesel rigs and four-wheelers began to plow into the yard. Their aggressive treads tore at the grass and dirt. Deep ruts were left in the earth. Then, chunks of cinder blocks and concrete smashed the front windows.

 

Mama Gee and her college urchins were unarmed, except for a few nunchucks and padlocks draped from lengths of bicycle chain. They were scrawny and skinny, and untrained. The vigilante, trailer horde was an enemy they could not overwhelm, in numbers or with physical prowess.

 

Haki Speck bellowed through a megaphone, in support of her husband. She boasted a recycled, olive-drab uniform from an Army-Navy store, in Ashtabula. And an attitude that matched this look.

 

“LISTEN TO MY HUBBY! YOU’VE GOT ONE CHANCE TO ESCAPE WITH YOUR LIVES! AFTER THAT, ALL HELL IS GOING TO BREAK LOOSE! I CAN’T CONTROL OUR NEIGHBORS AND FRIENDS! THESE ARE PEOPLE WHO REALLY CARE ABOUT THIS NEIGHBORHOOD! HOW MUCH DO YOU CARE? ENOUGH TO STICK AROUND TO SEE BLOODSHED AND TEARS? GET OUT WHILE YOU CAN!”

 

The faux Trump flipped his makeshift cell, and started to run for cover. Kids piled into various Toyota and Honda sedans that had crowded into the driveway. A clattering of tiny motors filled the air. Undersized wheels spun and slipped. Then, their benefactor bowed her head in sorrow.

 

“Ya won this round, fo’ sho! We gonna step aside, and let ya run tha table. But just remember, fat boy, what comes around goes around. Yeah, it’s true as true can be. Ya just bit tha hand of destiny, and she ain’t pleased with yer shit! Gonna be a day of reckoning, I believe! I believe it with all my heart!”

 

The exodus of street performers, painters, and puppeteers happened quickly. Before anyone could react in force, the interlopers from Cleveland had escaped.

 

Linn massaged his flabby jowls, and hooted with victory.

 

“Look at them run, everybody! They’re cowards of the worst kind! A fair fight is something they didn’t want! How about that? I can’t say that it comes as a surprise!”

 

Haki bubbled over with porcine enthusiasm.

 

“He’s right, everybody! We sent them scurrying right back to the lakeshore! Good riddance to bad garbage! Good riddance to them all!”

 

As the exhaust fumes cleared, and tempers abated, Dana Alvarez appeared in a golf cart owned by the park. Her authority as manager of the isolated property was unquestioned. But now, what she had to say sent a chill through the lingering crowd.

 

“Well, you tonterìas really had a party today, right? Now you can sit on your duffs and drink your cat-piss beer. Good deal! You better give some thought to what comes next though, the paperwork for this trailer was already signed and sealed. That hippie chica from the city covered a deposit on lot rent that was due before anybody moved in to stay. So, guess what? Miss Poindexter still owns this longbox. Ay, caramba! Now she can take you all to court. That judge has had an earful from the Po-Po already. You want trouble? You got it in spades!”

 

Suddenly, Linn felt that his Army trousers were sopping wet. He had pissed himself, in plain view of everyone.

 

“I DON’T GET IT! WHEN WE DO GOOD, IT TURNS OUT BAD! WHEN WE’RE RIGHT, WE STILL COME OUT WRONG! I DON’T GET IT! I JUST DON’T GET IT AT ALL!”

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Heat Index, Part Three”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

The afternoon was unbearably hot for Townshend Carr Lincoln, despite being inebriated and soaked to the skin with spilled beer and dribbles of Tennessee whiskey. His rural trailer enclave had reached a temperature of 100 degrees, something out of the ordinary for June in Ohio. Yet he refused to surrender the liberty of sitting outside, on his wooden bench. Something he had done every day of the year, since January. He persisted in becoming drunk and disorderly, though there were no spectators to take offense at this rowdy behavior.

 

Then, a notification popped up on his cell phone.

 

“Attention, all Evergreen Estates residents – don’t forget that we have a meeting of the community association today, at our public library right off of the township square! We’ll be discussing important information about conditions in the park, coming increases in lot rent and water bills, and also the ‘open borders’ policy for our ownership group, which is allowing undesirable outsiders to purchase homes on the property. Come and make your voices heard! Come and join our citizen army!”

 

The alcoholic hobo was far too tipsy to drive his pickup truck. But as he sipped brown liquor straight from the bottle, a second notification appeared on the screen of his device. A message from Darby Stronelli, who lived on his eastern flank.

 

“HEY LINK! I KNOW YOU’RE PROBABLY BLITZED BY NOW, BUDDY! BUT THERE’S A GET-TOGETHER UP THE HILL AT FIVE O’CLOCK. YOU WANNA RIDE WITH ME? TERI JANE BACKED OUT, SHE’S GOTTA DO SOMETHING WITH HER HUSBAND AT THE HOSPITAL. AND FAWN KERN IS WORKING THE WHOLE WEEKEND AT HER PIZZA JOINT. C’MON DUDE, DON’T MAKE ME SIT THERE BY MYSELF! RIDE WITH ME!”

 

Lincoln was weak and acquiescent, because of the high-proof fog that filled his brain.

 

“Yeah sure, I’ll go with you. This has been a boring day so far. I could use some entertainment...”

 

The spiky-haired female was pleased and excited.

 

“YOU NEVER GO ANYWHERE, OR DO ANYTHING! THIS IS GREAT, LINK! MAYBE WE CAN HAVE A DRINK AFTERWARD, AT THE CROSSROADS TAVERN? THEIR JUKEBOX HAS ALL THE LATEST COUNTRY TUNES!”

 

Her contrarian cohort across the yard laughed and squeezed beer foam out of his whiskers.

 

“Hey Darby, I’m already loaded! I’ll probably fall asleep at the library. Especially if that jackass on the corner starts preaching about his political horseshit! I couldn’t give a rat turd about his committees or petitions or righteous protests...”

 

Darby tingled with a feeling of regret. Suddenly, she realized that inviting her cranky friend to the gathering had been a tactical mistake.

 

“LINK, YOU’RE GOING TO KEEP COOL IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM, RIGHT? THERE’LL BE A LOT OF PEOPLE SITTING AROUND US, PEOPLE WHO KNOW YOUR REP IN THE PARK. DON’T MAKE THINGS WORSE, OLD FART! JUST GO WITH THE FLOW! WE’RE TRYING TO MAKE THIS SPOT BETTER!”

 

Lincoln grumbled four-letter words. He was not sober enough to restrain his tongue.

 

“Look, do you want me to go or not? I can’t sit on my hands and listen to speeches about goodness and light, and cleaning up our little junkyard village. This place is a dunghole, everybody knows it! We all live here because we’re flat broke! So, screw the smoke and mirrors, just tell the truth and let it be known. Okay?”

 

When they arrived at the library, there were already more than two dozen vehicles in the parking lot. Rusty, jacked-up 4x4 rigs, rotted-out minivans and SUVs, and an assortment of economy cars never intended to still be in service after 30 years on the road. There was a line waiting at the front entrance. Guests were being processed one at a time. Each participant had to show identification that proved they lived at the isolated development, and then sign paperwork to document their presence.

 

Once everyone had found a seat in the shared space, Linn Speck called the group to order. Instead of dressing formally to signify his position as the head of operations, and legal liaison, he wore apparel for the bygone Cleveland Indians. A franchise of Major League Baseball now known by a newer, more politically acceptable handle.

 

“I’d like to begin our meeting with the Pledge of Allegiance. Will you all stand please, and put your right hands over your heart?”

 

Lincoln had just managed to sit down, and find a resting spot for his mismatched canes. He was shaggy, disabled, and not in a cooperative mood.

 

“Dammit Linn, I just plopped my ass on this stacking chair! Don’t make me wiggle off my spot! My legs are still throbbing from the walk into this place!”

 

The rotund organizer shuddered slightly, and coughed.

 

“Alright then, you’re excused! Quit making a fuss about it already! Now everybody else, repeat after me... I pledge allegiance to the flag...”

 

The facility’s HVAC system had been cranked full-on, in view of the steamy conditions. So, everyone in attendance was comfortable enough. Yet their banter soon turned caustic, as residents began to impulsively debate costs of living in the park that were being willfully inflated by their owners. Many voiced echoed these sentiments, without inhibitions.

 

“WHAT ABOUT THE WATER & SEWER BILLS? WHAT ABOUT THE LOT RENT? WHAT ABOUT THE FINES FOR STRAY DOGS AND CATS, AND WEEDS, AND LOOSE SKIRTING?”

 

Linn had a gavel carved from a chunk of lumber left from a scrapped trailer. He hammered it to gain attention from the unruly mob.

 

“Order! Everybody, come to order! I’ve got a proposal to read, before we discuss regular business. This is something that Haki and I wrote last night, at our kitchen table. I think you’ll all agree that it makes a lot of sense. My wife has a good grasp of what will stand the test of legal challenges. Ahem! Read it, will you honey?”

 

His spouse stood tall on her gold, platform sandals. She wore a floral sundress that billowed and swayed as she spoke. But her voice cracked as she tried to project a tone of authority.

 

“Resolution One: We the people of Evergreen Estates believe that our community should be self-governed and responsive to the input of residents. We ask that Jonovic Holdings, LLC create a board composed of their representatives, and members chosen by this park to look after the needs of our neighborhood, and to maintain the standards associated with living on this property. So help us, God!”

 

Lincoln belched and scratched his facial hair. He reeked of perspiration and booze.

 

“We need God’s help living in our dump! I won’t argue your point, lady! But it’s a damn campground for losers, not a governed entity. Not a city with officeholders or elected wonks. We’re pigeonholed like birds in a chicken coop!”

 

Linn swung his crude gavel again.

 

“That’s the point, Link! We want to form a real government here. Right now, anybody and everybody can sign a lease and move in, we’re at the mercy of the thugs that run this place! That’s how people like Darcy Trelane and her father can get away with being booted out, and then crawling back inside, under the fence! It’s time to put a stop to this lunacy! Once and for all!”

 

His opponent from up the street chortled and brushed away pork-rind crumbs before responding. His Harley-Davidson tee was damp and sticky.

 

“They weren’t booted out of here, man! They freaking left on their own! Who gives a shit if they come back again? It don’t matter to me! That’s one less empty home on the list. It means the owner’s revenue goes up a little, and maybe we don’t get socked with increases so quickly...”

 

The community potentate huffed and nearly broke his gavel in half.

 

“IT MATTERS TO ME, YOU KNUCKLEHEAD! IT MATTERS WHEN SHE’S WAVING HER PRIDE FLAG OR EVEN WORSE, THE PALESTINIAN COLORS! IT MATTERS WHEN HER FREAK FRIENDS COME CALLING FROM CLEVELAND! IT MATTERS WHEN THEY SMOKE DOPE AND CACKLE AT REGULAR FOLKS LIKE US WHO BELIEVE IN GOD AND AMERICA AND THE CONSTITUTION! IT MATTERS TO EVERYONE WHO LIVES AT OUR PARK!”

 

Lincoln leveraged himself to a vertical position, with difficulty. This maneuver moved the conference table sideways. Then he grabbed his walking implements, and bowed gracefully, before turning to the exit door. A flask protruded from a hip pocket in his athletic pants.

 

He was going outside, to have another nip of strong spirits.

 

“Enough of this childish shit already, I’m outta here! Darby, I’ll be waiting by your car!”

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Heat Index, Part Two”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

Dana Alvarez finished filing paperwork for the sale of their trailer at Lot 109, just before noon. She lit a cigarette, and reclined in her roller chair. The vintage, Schult singlewide was in reasonably good condition, yet needed a few repairs that a handyman could accomplish easily. Her employer, the park ownership, had instructed that it be put on the market at a bargain price, with one stipulation – that the residence be fixed up within six months, with no payments missed in that time to rent the space. Darcy Trelane and her father seemed like ideal buyers. Because they had already lived on the rural property, and were familiar with the ins-and-outs of living at such an isolated oasis.

 

Evergreen Estates was not a place for the faint of heart to enter, innocently.

 

But as she savored her tobacco and menthol, suddenly, there was a clattering on the concrete patio by her office door. Fists began to pound the outside walls for attention. Her ashtray rattled on the desktop. Structural fatigue made the ceiling tiles overhead scatter dust on her workspace.

 

“OPEN UP, MS. A! WE’RE HERE TO LODGE A FORMAL PROTEST! THE PEOPLE OF THIS BUCKEYE NEIGHBORHOOD NEED TO BE HEARD! WE WON’T STAND BY AND LET YOU DESTROY OUR QUIET, CHRISTIAN COMMUNITY! OPEN UP AND LET US SAY OUR PIECE! OPEN UP, RIGHT NOW!”

 

The park manager cursed in Spanish. She stubbed out a half-burned smoke, and pulled her long, black hair back in a spandex tie.

 

“The door isn’t locked, come inside already! Dios mío, what has you so agitated?”

 

Linn Speck barged through the entryway with a group of angry residents following his lead. The rotund, blustering organizer was attired in a thin T-shirt, and cargo shorts. Because of the summer blast that Ohio was experiencing, he couldn’t bear to be dressed formally. His casual apparel was already sopping wet and soaked from the heat.

 

“YOU LET THAT DYKE AND HER STONER DAD BACK IN HERE? REALLY? WE’VE BEEN SINGING PRAISES TO JESUS THAT SHE FINALLY WENT HOME TO HER FREAK VILLAGE, IN CLEVELAND! NOW YOU’VE MESSED THAT UP AGAIN! ARE YOU JUST STUPID, OR DESPERATE TO GET THIS COMMUNITY FULLY OCCUPIED?”

 

Dana had never liked the loudmouth whiner, personally. Yet he was someone who dependably had his rent checks in her office, on the first of every month.

 

“Look, I couldn’t give a pile of mierda de caballo for what you think about my decision. Comprende? But I didn’t choose them. The owners said it was cool to sell that trailer to a fix-it guy. It has bad floors here and there, some drafty windows, and needs painted. You don’t like Miss Poindexter or her dad? Okay, I get it, all those piercings and tats, and whatever turn you off. It’s not my style either. Chica loca! But they had cash down on the sale. I know how they live, that’s good enough. You want to make trouble? Just remember the new lease, we put in a clause about harassment. Don’t start no mess, won’t be no mess. Right?”

 

Linn felt his overfed belly creeping out from under the plain, white tee. He stomped in place like a kid who was about to soak his underwear.

 

“I’VE GOT A PETITION SIGNED BY DOZENS OF PEOPLE! SHE AND HER LAZY PAPA NEED TO HAVE THE BILL OF SALE TORN UP AND THROWN IN THEIR FACES! SEND THEM RIGHT OUT TO PINE TRAIL ROAD, AND GIVE THANKS TO SEE THEIR ASSES GOING BACK UP SIDLEY’S HILL!”

 

The park supervisor frowned, and growled with her teeth bared.

 

“What did I just tell you, crazy graso? The owners decided, not me. Darcy signed the papers, and gave me a wad of dinero. It’s done! Sobre! Terminado! Your petition ain’t worth crap to me! This circus runs according to the executive board, not an elefante and his clown crew! Now get the hell out of my office!”

 

Her opponent slouched and grumbled, before turning on his heel. Defeat made him redden with anger and resentment. He had failed as a leader, and as a moral icon for their boxcar community.

 

“There’ll be more chapters to this story, I promise you, Ms. A! Pastor Forester from our church on the township square will be here every Sunday, to hold a gospel meeting. And I’ll be selling the Trump Bible and his gold shoes, after each service! God’s people won’t be quiet! You can’t silence the voice of his parishioners! You’ll see that miracles can still happen!”

 

Members of his MAGA horde loudly echoed their endorsement.

 

“MAKE THESE ESTATES GREAT AGAIN! MAKE THEM GREAT! MAKE THEM GREAT!”

 

Dana sighed and folded her hands. She wanted the agitator and his supporters to disappear.

 

“Dios santo! You want to be in charge here? I’d be glad to give up this job. It don’t pay enough, believe me. But you couldn’t handle this responsibility for five minutes. These crybabies would hurt your ears with their wailing. Complain, complain, complain! That’s all I hear, every day. You don’t have the bolas to handle it! Eres un eunuco! No balls at all!”

 

Linn rolled his eyes at her sprinkling of native dialect in their conversation.

 

“I’ll be back... you can count on it!”

 

The park manager snorted and laughed out loud.

 

“Yeah you will, Arnold Schwarzenegger, on the first of next month. With your rent check, big boy! Now cállate y vete a casa! Shut up and go home!”

 

The pudgy prude loafed back to his ramshackle trailer while nursing psychological wounds. He ended up in the driveway with a cooler of Milwaukee’s Best beer, and lawn chairs arranged in a circle. Yet other than Haki, his spouse of a dozen years, no one else had anything to say. His loss in the verbal battle had been a damning sin.

 

He squeezed a can of the golden brew until foam splashed in his face.

 

“I don’t care what that stupid woman says, this isn’t over yet! It’s not over! Tell me it’s not over!”

 

His loving bride nodded her head and sipped from a glass of vodka and raspberry Kool-Aid.

 

“It’s not over, honey! Keep fighting for what you know matters. I’ll be right here by your side!”

 

The few friends who were still present chanted in agreement. Their voices drifted up the street in a crescendo of faith. All the way to the inset porch of Townshend Carr Lincoln, his most hated enemy in the entire neighborhood.

 

“AMEN, MRS. SPECK! AMEN, AMEN, AMEN!”

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Heat Index” (Part One)

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln was a man very much set in his ways. Someone who followed the same routine at his village of mobile homes, every day of the year. In winter months, he would sit outside drinking while bundled up in layers of cloth and leather. In summer conditions, he accelerated the pace of his libations accordingly, to stay cool. But in every case, he continued to get blitzed on beverage alcohol. Bourbon whiskey, beer, and spicy snacks kept him going. And numbed him enough to survive in a climate of desperation and social decline that permeated the rural community.

 

But with Ohio receiving a rare blast of temperatures above 100 degrees, suddenly, this regular habit became a burden he struggled to bear. While chugging cans of Yuengling lager, he grew dizzy on the outside porch of his singlewide trailer. His eyes refused to focus. The harsh glare of solar light streamed through his 1980’s, wraparound sunglasses.

 

He was lost in a fantasy of Heavy Metal tunes, streaming from his cell phone.

 

Finally, the pulsing pressure of blood pumping in his chest shook him to his core. He belched like a foghorn on the coast of Lake Erie. This rude noise rattled the glass of his storm door, and a small window above the kitchen sink. It could be heard up and down the street, above the din of diesel trucks and hunters who were busy in the woods.

 

“HRAGGGGGG! BRAPPPPPPPPPP! BORRRRCH!”

 

 He desperately wanted to pee off the end of his redwood deck. But steadied himself with a cane, instead. He knew that such miscreant behavior might offend Maylene Jefka, their neighborhood matron. A gray-haired octogenarian who lived right across from his boxcar residence. Though he cared little about the sensibilities or opinions of anyone else nearby, the grand dame of Thompson held him in check. She was someone he loved and respected.

 

Stumbling inside for bathroom relief and another brew, he paused in front of an air conditioner that sat in a wall space behind his dinner table. The machine was dialed-in at 73 degrees. A temperature not terribly frosty, yet lower by enough from what he had experienced on his exposed, wooden bench to be welcome.

 

He crushed an empty container in his hand, and threw it into a double-sized bag hanging on a doorknob by the laundry room.

 

“Good thing I got more drinks! The damn refrigerator was almost empty!”

 

When he returned to the blast of seasonal warming outside, there was a pea-green, Honda Fit sedan at the end of his gravel driveway. He noted a familiar face through the windshield, someone he remembered living next door.

 

In only a moment, Darcy Trelane appeared at the end of his access ramp, with her orange hair standing on end. She wore the thick-framed spectacles that had earned her the tag of ‘Miss Poindexter’ from residents of their rural park. Her pajama attire boasted illustrations of Pokemon characters, and bug-eyed alien figures. The number of piercings in her ears, eyebrows, and nose had doubled since moving back to Cleveland. A sign that she had been reinvigorated by returning to friendly haunts in Cuyahoga County.

 

“Hey old mannn! How’ve you been, buddy? I came back here to give you a gift!”

 

Lincoln was puzzled by her cheerful mood. The young woman appeared to have gained a more breezy outlook on life, after her return to the shoreline of Lake Erie. And the comfort of like-minded students from a college environment.

 

“Gift? Damn, I hope it’s a bottle of whiskey!”

 

Miss Dex giggled and shook her head like a poodle.

 

“Nah, sorry bruh! Nothing quite that strong. But it’s something I found in a file folder with my notes from school. A newspaper article about me interviewing you for a class project, ten years ago. I don’t think you ever saw it the first time around. One of the kids I know framed the sheet and made it into a collage...”

 

The groggy hermit saw an image of himself surrounded by gold stars and purple glitter.

 

“What the fugg? Who would make art out of an old grunt like me?”

 

Darcy covered her eyes and whistled.

 

“Yeah, it’s crazy, right? But I thought you should have the article. I got an A on the project, that helped my grade score for the entire year! My professor thought you looked like a caveman that came out from under his rock! She laughed and laughed!”

 

Lincoln reddened slightly. Yet tried to project an air of gratitude.

 

“So, you came all the way out here just for that? A damn newspaper story?”

 

Dex bowed her head and began to whisper.

 

“Well, not exactly. My dad was pissed about selling our trailer. He had to move in with my uncle and his wife, it’s crowded in their apartment. He wants me to plunk down some cash on another... umm... home in this dump. Can you believe that? I think the idea is nuts. But I made an appointment with Dana Alvarez, the property manager. I’m meeting her in a few minutes. Actually, I just wanted to say hello. You were the only person I could stand in this shithole!”

 

The drunken hobo scratched his beard and belched again.

 

“I’ve dreamed about escaping this junkyard for years. Who would come back after they jumped the fence? Not me, that’s for sure. I think you should tell your papa to kiss off! You don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. As a matter of fact, nobody really wants to be here!”

 

The lesbian exile nodded to signify her agreement.

 

“Yeah, it’s true. But family matters, right? I can’t just dump my father. He’s almost your age! The guy has nowhere to go. I wouldn’t either, if it wasn’t for my homies at the college. It’s a tough choice, old fart! But not everybody can live on their own like you do!”

 

Lincoln brought a fist down on the railing by his bench.

 

“I LIKE BEING ALONE, DAMMIT! ALONE MEANS I CAN DRINK WHEN I WANT, DO WHAT I WANT, AND LIVE LIKE I WANT! ALONE MEANS I DON’T OWE ANYBODY A THING! SCREW ‘EM ALL! THEY CAN KISS MY FAT ASS!”

 

Darcy adjusted her glasses, which had begun to fog up in the heat. Her fingertips were sweaty.

 

“Okay, I gotta go, Link. That lady will be waiting at the office. I’ll let you know how it rolls for me. Peace, out, dude! Take it easy!”

Nobody Reads This Page – “Songwriter Solo”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

By Wednesday afternoon, the humidity outside had reached a sticky, stifling peak of meteorological woe. Something that had been predicted with expert skill by weather forecasters on local television. But I barely noticed while sitting at my desk in the Icehouse home office. I had been busy since the morning, doing research for a writing project that was dragging along at a frustrating pace. Something that I had been trying to finish since late, last year, without a positive result.

 

But as often happens, my cellular link rang in the midst of a creative surge. The synthetic tone made me jump as if someone had poked me with a woodworker’s awl. The device screen indicated that it was my friend Janis, who still lived at a skilled-care facility in Ashtabula.

 

When I answered, she began coughing in my ear.

 

“It’s too hot to smoke outside, Rodbert! So, I came back to the activity room. That new phone you ordered got delivered over the weekend. I like it! One of the nurses here figured out how to switch my number from the broken one I used before. I had to put in an e-mail account.”

 

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. Suddenly, my enthusiasm for brainstorming had evaporated.

 

“E-mail? I thought you didn’t know your password! That’s why I made up a different account to use with your memberships at Walmart and Etsy...”

 

My scatterbrained cohort laughed as if I had spoken gibberish.

 

“Nooooo, dude, she figured it out. It worked, so I was happy. No worries, right?”

 

I felt slightly confused. Maybe the aide had been able to set up a new code, or perhaps used my clandestine strategy, and bypassed the unusable link altogether.

 

“You’re right. If it works, then hooray for that!”

 

Janis coughed more cigarette residue out of her windpipe.

 

“So, what have you been doing all day, watching foosball? That is boring, boring, boring! Why do you sit there watching people chase a brown ball up and down the field?”

 

I smiled and offered some correction. My beard had begun to itch.

“It’s the beginning of summer, woman! This isn’t the season for NFL competition. I’ve been lugging files around in the back bedroom here, trying to get inspired. Not making much progress on a storyline, but I found lyrics to a Country ballad that I penned during the winter...”

 

She reacted with a snort and a giggle.

 

“COUNTRY MUSIC? THAT SUCKS, RODBERT! ONLY HICKS AND OLD PEOPLE LISTEN TO THAT KIND OF SHIT! MY GRANNY WAS A HICK!”

 

Her harsh observation made my ears tingle.

 

“Show some respect to her memory, she raised you!”

 

My contrarian pal whistled like a teakettle.

 

“Okay, okay. Don’t get your boxers in a bunch. So, what song did you find in those moldy-oldie file cabinets? I always wondered why you keep all that stuff. You’re more of a pack rat than my roomie at the house by Lake Erie!”

 

Her curiosity revived my interest in accomplishing something productive with the day. So, I grabbed my acoustic guitar, which was propped against a corner of the desk. I cleared my throat, strummed an opening chord, and started to croon.

 

“Now I’ve heard this tale for years

Spoken in a thousand tongues

That freewill is a curse for those

Who don’t know what should be done

And the way through life is narrow

You’ve got to crouch low between the rocks

But when I took a pledge not to follow

I found myself picking locks

Now I’ve learned a few things on the way

Evidence scraped from the stones

Like a blueprint for a flying machine

That’ll get me way back home

And yes, I’ve heard the wisdom

Of those who disagree

But everyone has a chance to jump

From here to eternity

 

So, I’ll sidestep the glory

And ride into the setting sun

Before anyone will tell me

What I should have done

 

Now I’ve seen the sights that sparkle

And some really blew my mind

But others left me feeling

Like a traveler, left behind

One seat short of a spot on the bus

So, I had to walk that mile

Hot and dirty on the street

Grumbling, all the while

Now it taught me how to last

When the hourglass has run out

How to strike a match in the dark

When duped by the din of doubt

That got me to this place in time

A spot on which I stand

I’ll plant my flag and say a prayer

An oath as I raise my hand

 

Yes, I’ll sidestep the glory

And ride into the setting sun

Before anyone will tell me

What I should have done

 

Now I hope these rowdy words I speak

Won’t separate us as friends

I think it’s all a matter of choice

Which way you turn will depend

On what the glowing in your heart

Illuminates inside

Whether you go ‘round the face of a clock

Is up to you to decide

Now I’ve found that the path I take

Is usually wrong at first

And sometimes I double back with hope

That it won’t get any worse

But in the end, I often know

The peace of a seeker, set free

Gold and silver can’t compare

To the taste of liberty

 

So yes, I’ll sidestep the glory

And ride into the setting sun

Before anyone will tell me

What I should have done...”

 

After I had finished singing, Janis was unusually quiet. Then, she yelped and cackled a sarcastic critique of my performance.

 

“Jeez, Rodbert! That sounded like the hillbilly crap that Granny used to play on her 8-track stereo system. Ugh, ugh, ugh! She liked Slim Whitman and Freddy Fender, who the eff are those people? Gawdamm! The only one I could stand was Dolly Parton, she’s cool, I guess. You must be a fan because she has big boobs!”

 

I went completely red with embarrassment.

 

“Give me some credit! My music tastes run deeper than that!”

 

My distant, ornery companion purred like a kitten after a saucer of milk.

 

“Righhhht, you’re a damn man though. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all. I never needed a man to keep me in line, screw that shit! I like living on my own. No wifey life for me!”

 

My head hurt from thinking of snappy retorts to her assertion. But I didn’t want to instigate an argument. So, I let it drop instead.

 

“Maybe I’ll work on it a little bit. We’ll see how it turns out...”

 

Janis manifested her usual ability to throw a curve when least expected.

 

“Anyway, the lady who helped me said I need a phone case, so this new one doesn’t get broken. You can find one of those, right? Go back to the Walmart page and have a look!”

 

Her knowledge of computer hacks was limited. But I guessed that if I could remember the model number for her device, then accessories could be located.

 

“Alright, just give me a little time to snoop around...”

 

She became indignant and kicked the wall behind her lunchroom table.

 

“YOU’VE BEEN SITTING AT YOUR KEYBOARD ALL DAY, RODBERT! QUIT WASTING TIME ON WRITING STUPID COWBOY SONGS AND GET BUSY! GET OFF YOUR OLD ASS, AND FIND ME A SAMSUNG CASE!”