c. 2024 Rod Ice
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(7-24)
Townshend Carr Lincoln was considered a reprobate in his rural neighborhood of manufactured homes. Which was something of an achievement in an environment where few if any held fast to the discipline of polite society, as practiced in the outside world. Still, his inglorious reputation was something which he held like a badge of honor. It made him happy to be shunned. He preferred to be left alone, and ignored. Drunkenness, however, sometimes brought on a sense of emotional weakness. He would sit on his wooden bench, outside, and ruminate about the man he had been, before life calamities and circumstances had morphed him into a pathetic creature. One which now inhabited his mirror in the guise of a pulp-fiction protagonist. A figure blurred and scarred by wages of sin, dutifully paid in full. When these moments of introspection arrived, he normally dialed a number on his cell phone, while drinking. A contact listed under an anonymous name. Yet one who still sparkled like a diamond in his thoughts.
His ex-wife lived in a county closer to Lake Erie. She had their middle-class abode, a circle of loyal friends, a loving family, and the seal of approval given by a judge in the local circuit court. Pity must have motivated her in keeping the same telephone exchange for so many years. Or perhaps, a sense of curiosity about his persistent decline.
She never answered his calls. A voicemail program always picked up after five rings and a recorded message. Then, he would unburden himself while slobbering and spitting droplets of bourbon or beer.
“Hey, I know you ain’t gonna answer. That don’t matter, it’s all good. I just wanted to let you know that I’m here thinking about old times. Remembering how it used to be, right? We had simple pleasures and not much else. But that was always enough. I hope our son is doing well with his job, and herding the chickens, so to speak. Those grandkids must be getting big by now! I’d like to see for myself. But, I’m an asshole, I understand. It’s a curse, kinda like being a vampire. I can’t go out in the daylight. That’s okay though, I keep my cupboards full of juice. There’s no reason to hit the road, anyway. Take care honey, you and the boy are still in my heart. All of you are, forever...”
A loud beeping filled his ear before he had finished with this intoxicated plea. The time limit had run out, abruptly. So, he hit the ‘end call’ icon, and sat in silence for a moment. His face and nose tingled with high-proof spirits. Finally, he reached for a notepad that had been sitting on the porch railing, by his shoulder.
Scribbled verses of song filled the page. He began to sing softly, while repeating each word, expressively. In his head, a band of brothers played along, adding melody and rhythm.
“Trailer Country, it’s a state of mind
A dropped-off-the-ledge kind of affair
A whole neighborhood full of Walmart goods
Coolers full of cheap beer, and lawn chairs
Trailer Country, it might make you ill
If you’ve come here by taking a wrong turn
But open your mind and sit a spell
Let the pallet-wood fires spark and burn
Trailer Country, they call it the heartland
The middle of America where legends rule
Out all night by a singlewide, boxcar home
Getting drunk in a kiddie pool
Trailer Country, don’t bother asking for money
People here share what little they got
When your world is no bigger than the confines
Of a stretched-out, rented lot
Trailer Country, big women in Daisy Dukes
With a halter top patterned after a Confederate flag
Strutting up and down a street made of asphalt
Carrying potato chips in a family-size bag
Trailer Country, it’s a wild ride for the newbies
If you haven’t rolled here before, look out!
Somebody with a shotgun is lighting up the evening
Clog dancing, gonna stomp and shout!
Trailer Country, they show this thing on the newscasts
And poke fun at people living like hicks
Billionaires bust out bets on who’ll survive the night
Where whiskey sours come from a store-bought mix
Trailer Country, pols and pundits couldn’t give a shit
About residents who populate these avenues
Half-dressed, hopping, and emotionally stressed
By gallons of lemonade and booze
Trailer Country, this ain’t no cartoon show
Believe me when I say it’s a way of life, indeed
Living in the hillbilly mud of Appalachia
Light years away from big-city grifters and greed
Trailer Country, it’s a hustle for truck parts and shopping carts
Leftover junk from a flea market by the county line
Take what you need, it won’t cost a quarter
Dumpster diving is the rage when you’ve got to toe the line
Trailer Country, those who live here get the inside joke
They mutter and mumble in between the walls
Of homes built on a chassis with wheels in tandem
Brought from a factory, in pieces like cattle stalls
Trailer Country, nobody ever dreamed of being here
Not a single soul spun the wheel to win this prize
But it’s a place to land when Lady Luck gives you the finger
Let her curse the fate that kept you alive
Trailer Country, now strike up the jug band
Hoot and holler until the break of dawn
Like a big rig, cruising the lonesome highway
A freightliner forever searching, on and on
Trailer Country, roll the dice and seek redemption
Will you be blessed or cursed as you play?
No one really knows where this hell-ride is headed
So hold on tight to the steering wheel, and pray
Trailer Country, the gods have abandoned this patch
A plot of ground recreated in the shadow of a hill
No fortunate sons or daughters to be found
Just a breath of life sustained by whiskey and pills
Trailer Country, bootheels and driven steel
Four-wheeling through thistles and weeds sprung from the loam
Giving thanks for a full freezer and a propane tank
The grill burns hot at this manufactured home...”
Next door, Calista Bowe had been doing dishes by her kitchen window. But the sound of a male voice gently crooning caught her attention. She rested her soapy hands on the counter ledge, while listening. Soon, her head began to bop forward and back, to the beat that was implied. She had become very familiar with her neighbor across the yard, during a half-dozen years at Evergreen Estates.
The big-haired, young woman nodded and offered messy applause, when he had finished. Lincoln drifted off into alcoholic oblivion as she smiled at his snoring, snorting display of surrender.
“Y’all are a gawdamm riddle, old man! But I sure enjoy hearing yer songs!”
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