c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(7-24)
Notebook: It is July 4th, 186th day of this year.
“Some neighbors on my street will be flying the Confederate battle flag today. The irony of that kind of display being made as we embark on a national celebration of our independence hangs thick in the air, like the musty vapor of a mausoleum opened for public view. It makes me want to be drunk, already. Yet that condition will arrive soon enough. I can’t stay sober for long in a place like this, a point on the map long ago exorcised from polite society. It would be easy to mark myself as a transitory figure in this mouse kingdom. To excuse my presence among these downtrodden refugees and rascals. But that kind of absolution wouldn’t remove the stain of over 20 years spent wallowing in the mud of rural Ohio. It is in my blood now, this reeking of rust and decay and rebellion. I am no longer the person of my birth. Like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster, I have been buried, unearthed, dissected, reassembled, and reborn. Somewhere in the sum of my pale tissues are remnants of what I used to be, when the sunlight was a faithful companion. Now, I can only think of such things in the past tense. They are gone from me, and I am dead to them. Dead inside, dead to the world. But when revived by a miraculous taste of Tennessee whiskey, for a moment, lively and alive as I ever was...”
The morning at Evergreen Estates was cloudy, but comfortable. Townshend Lincoln sat on his outside bench with a cup of black coffee. A gentle breeze stirred the wind chimes hanging from a hook above his bench. He was still groggy after a restless night of dreams that were wild and choppy, and out-of-sync. Like bits of a video stream, interrupted by connectivity buffering.
In his hand was a journal entry. Something he had written just before daybreak, when he finally collapsed. The short, stoic manuscript whispered a betrayal of the man he had been before crashing on this rented lot at Evergreen Estates. In those yonder times, he was usually attired in business apparel, and kept himself groomed and scented with expensive cologne. He drove a vehicle that was nearly new, and spent most of his waking hours hobnobbing with executives and business contacts, as part of his career. Nothing could seemingly derail that chuffing train, plowing forward. He felt strong and confident and smart.
But Mother Nature put a wrench across the tracks.
He had been tagged as a ladies’ man even during childhood. Someone who appreciated the pure artistry of feminine folk, and enjoyed charming them with compliments and adoration. He was kind and caring instead of being self-centered and interested only in getting a sufficient return for his affections. He also enjoyed dabbling in professions that related to using the written word as a tool to educate and inspire.
Yet when his marriage ran upon the rocks, and temptation intervened in a moment of weakness, suddenly, his core values were turned aside. His creative energy was hijacked. He sinned and fell from grace, and eventually, flamed out as a budding star of commerce. Old friends and allies rebuked him as a fool. He was scorned and shunned. Because he had learned to fight in the public arena, as a competitor and manager, he lashed out at those who seemed to have betrayed his confidences. But then, his high perch in the job market crumbled. He languished in loneliness and despair. He went bankrupt after having scaled the pinnacle.
His final exit from the outside world occurred with a trip to the trailer park most reviled in their county. A disreputable piece of property that had changed hands many times. A development that had humbled supervisors, representatives, and residents. Yet somehow, endured since the 1950’s. More out of need than because of any plan or purpose. It existed as the last stop for those who had lost everything. Not just in financial terms, but also physically and emotionally. Their remote community of mobile homes was a junkyard, filled with rubbish and human wreckage. And he had become part of that scene, by chance.
He couldn’t look in a mirror anymore. Seeing himself so clearly defined and depicted in detail was shocking. It caused him to tremble. And if he thought about it for long enough, to weep. Happily, his remedy was never far away. He only needed to find the narrow cupboard by his broken dishwasher. And reach for a bottle of high-proof spirits.
Alcohol made him more than drunk. It was his communion, a token of worship amid the ruined landscape of this island of exile. When he entered the netherworld of inebriation, it brought him closer to God. Closer to the god of bonfires and pickup trucks belching diesel exhaust, at least. Closer to accepting the sting of fate. Closer to being sanctified as a scoundrel and rogue, with no hope of ever returning to the civilized world, again.
Lincoln felt slightly dizzy as the sunset drew near. Fireworks filled the sky, from the dragstrip which was near to their rustic village, and also shot out of makeshift cannons in yards around the neighborhood. His throat burned from consuming liquid fire. But it made him feel oddly vital. Liberated and free. Free of guilt over knowing that his identity had been indelibly soiled, forever.
While he swooned in his seat, a ringtone sounded from nearby. He had left his cell phone on top of a Weber grill sitting under the kitchen window. It was a summer appliance that he hadn’t used in about five years. When he answered, the voice of his sister cooed like a dove.
“Hey brother, you didn’t come over today! We were all expecting you, there were plenty of hamburgers and hot dogs, and a big bowl of potato salad. What happened? Are you feeling okay?”
The shaggy hermit was blitzed. Yet he tried to fake sobriety for long enough to explain his absence.
“I’m good, no worries, Rhubarb! Maybe it’s me getting older, I don’t know. I’ve learned to be content as a homebody. I don’t roam around anymore. People and places don’t interest me so much. I’m like a hollow tree now, sometimes forest creatures come to visit. They stare at me with pity, which I understand, but hate, all the same. I’d rather just be here and enjoy the moment. Not being picked on by agitators, or prodded by doctors, or preached to as a backslider. This is it, I’ve reached the last stop on my train ride...”
His sibling sighed and frowned with a note of futility on her lips.
“You’re loaded again! You always get poetic when you get bombed! Couldn’t you have gone one day without a drink, and come over to spend time with us? We all wanted to see you!”
Lincoln clutched his bottle in one hand, while thinking deeply. He wanted to use an economy of words in expressing himself. Without being rude.
“No, no I couldn’t. Thanks for calling. Goodnight, sister...”
No comments:
Post a Comment