Return Mission, Second Assignment – Part Three

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-24)

 

 

Dr. Judson Baines had kept himself busy while being isolated at the Evergreen Estates village of mobile homes. Every boxcar residence was a tomb of sorts, containing lost secrets from a century ago. So, there was much work to occupy his days as a refugee. When the cyclical storms raged, he took cover in a bunker by the abandoned maintenance garage. A crude hole dug out of the earth. Something that he reckoned must have been constructed as the Great Uprising was sweeping across North America.

 

In this dark, dank space, he found more notebooks penned by his great grandfather. Apparently, T.C. Lincoln had been appointed as a sort of archivist for the neighborhood. Scribbling notes in real time, as the society around them was collapsing. His thoughts were expressed candidly and in plain language. He did not have the artistic flair of a professional. Yet each document resonated with authenticity, as a portrait of disaster.

 

A particular entry, probably written in the dim light of a fading, electric torch, spoke about the emptiness that he felt as one of the few residents to remain in place, after the mass exodus to Mars.

 

“Maylene Jefka was taken to a military hospital by Lake Erie, yesterday. I probably won’t see her again. She is in her 80’s at least, if not older. The best neighbor I ever had here, in this junkyard oasis. A sane voice, when everyone else has been riding the political bandwagon. There are Confederate banners still flying, up and down my street. And Gadsden flags, yellow and bright and confrontational. With their illustrated snakes wriggling in the breeze. But I don’t hear much traffic, or boot leather, on the pavement. The Larman transports have been leaving from a central hub which I think is up by the shoreline. At least one of those big shuttles, every day. They are crowded and dirty. I can’t imagine spending a year flying through outer space. It must be hellish, especially with some of the people from this downtrodden community for company. I guess they are used to each other, maybe. Used to the stench of cigarettes, and weed, and stale beer. Personally, I like fresh air. That’s why I spend so much time on my front porch. My legs are shot, I can’t go for walks around the property anymore. But it still feels good to breathe in the scents of nature. Even if they tingle my nostrils with hints of gunpowder and diesel fuel...”

 

Baines had been living on ears of wild corn for several weeks. This diet made his insides gurgle and protest for a better variety. Yet he still did not have the courage to dig his ancestor’s Ithaca Model 37 shotgun out of the bedroom closet.

 

He would sometimes watch deer leaping in and out of the brush, around his sanctuary. They were playful and lively, in defiance of what had transpired with the human population. He found recipes in some of the manufactured homes, for preparing woodland dishes from their flesh. Even a manual about how to dress out a carcass, with a military knife. But pondering such a feast always made him sick, and reluctant. He had never eaten meat of any kind. It was something that the modern population of his Red Planet considered to be vulgar. A sign of depravity, which had tipped their race of beings toward an inevitable collapse. Still, hunger made him needy. He would dream of turning one of these nimble beasts on a spit, over an open flame. While savoring the aroma of their torso and limbs cooking gently. Perhaps dripping rendered fats and oils into a pan above the hot coals. These slumbering visions filled him with fear and guilt. He did not want to surrender his identity. After months alone in what used to be called Ohio, however, he had begun to question the integrity of his soul. And the purpose of his mission.

 

Were he not to be rescued ultimately, it wouldn’t matter. No one would know of his shame. Or his surrender of values instilled while coming of age, at the Mars colonies.

 

Radio signals from Roosevelt Station had disappeared after his visit, and interaction with citizens in Atlantia. Yet new bursts of satellite communication appeared on the multiple channels received by his Digger craft. They were largely unintelligible. Most offered little more than an aural diversion, as he tuned across the frequency spectrum, seeking contact. There were squawks and blips and rapid clicks, echoing from the atmosphere. He took it as a sign that someone on the continent had started investigating the vast, uninhabited region between west and east. A sprawling vacuum occupied by nothingness. Overgrown and forgotten.

 

He decided that conserving energy was more prudent than touring the landscape in his shuttle. But as the cryptic broadcasts intensified, he wondered if they offered evidence of some explorers that were approaching. Perhaps individuals who were curious, like himself, about the ruins of their old world.

 

Late in the evening hours, after filling his belly with uncultivated Maize, he received a com-link notification. The sensor array of his tiny ship had detected a swarm of electric vehicles, running overland. They were traveling slowly, along an intra-costal route left from wartime days. A paved road that still reeked of poison, death, and blood.

 

With caution in mind, he moved his wounded Digger to a spot less visible in the trailer park. Then, returned to the bunker entrance, where he could remain anonymous while observing.

 

The chatter from his onboard receiver panel had been garbled and confusing. But when heard over a device retrieved from one of the prefab dwellings, these transmissions were surprisingly sharp, and focused. He was able to listen carefully, while sitting on a wooden crate full of automobile parts, in the garage.

 

“This is the command terminal at Toqua Platte Center... Swarm away, all drones are activated... locate and retrieve the C-drive vessel... I say again, locate and retrieve...”

“Return Mission, Second Assignment – Part Two”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-24)

 

 

Prime Keeper Lotharian Gardino had assembled a meeting of the coastal governors from across Calimex to consolidate his power after being reelected. Yet from the beginning of their session at the diplomatic crossroads in Toqua Platte, a sense of uneasiness from his followers was obvious. The de facto head-of-state wore a silver blazer over his tunic, which was studded with medals that commemorated various events in the history of their isolated, western republic. Following a custom kept from the civilization that had preceded their rise by the Pacific Ocean, he had not groomed himself for several weeks. He stood tall and tanned among the other participants. With a permanent glow gifted from long hours spent meditating in the daytime sun.

 

“I ask your consent to be declared keeper of this realm, permanently. We face many challenges and do not need the distraction of voting again and again, on every move made by this congress...”

 

Snorts and sneers erupted around the XR chamber. His remark only deepened the divide between citizens who had attended, and himself.

 

Governor Guaca, from the peninsula that had been Baja California, shook his head in disgust. He was older than his superior, and more careful when speaking before the group.

 

“Keeper, I think you need to take stock of where we’ve come under your watch. Get a clue, man! The mission to Alpha One, on our moon, failed miserably. Remember that? And the attack directed at our eastern neighbors. What happened there? We blew our stash and looked impotent. Now what?”

 

Hands slapped the conference tables, in lieu of applause. This triggered the fledgling dictator and made him sweat profusely. But instead of raging vocally, he became quiet, instead. His voice dropped low, almost to the point of being inaudible.

 

“I’ve been chastened by the setbacks you mention. And after much thinking, alone on the beach, it came to me like a revelation. I had thought we needed to seek out the source of C-drive emissions, and vanquish any foe that might be waiting to take us by surprise. Then, I was enlightened. Our stumbles on the lunar surface, and here on our home planet, were blessings. Do you agree? Consider what we might have done with our resources. If spent reactivating the base at Mare Frigoris, we would’ve been tapped out for a long period. And if we found the craft emanating that power signal, and eliminated it, our one chance to make a quantum leap in technology could have been erased. We were fortunate to have failed...”

 

Silence gripped the throng of officials. With dramatic flair, their leader had stifled the intent to instigate a democratic rebellion.

 

The governor pondered this odd interpretation of their incompetence.

 

“Fortunate? To have crashed a probe ship and wasted our missiles? That’s your take?”

 

Gardino smiled with determination, while stroking his chin stubble. He wanted to win them over before anyone could move to oust him from their supreme council.

 

“It’s a blessing, or blind luck. Either way, we are better off. I’m telling you what I realized, sitting there before the vastness of our ocean waters, is that we need to capture the C-drive vessel. Not crush it like an insect. We’ve read about the magic of our ancestors. That spacefaring machine could teach us what we need to know. With the riddle of high-speed propulsion solved, we could return to a place of prominence over this entire continent. I’ve preached a gospel to you before, one of uniting the separate states. We would be stronger together. Smarter, decidedly nimble, and ultimately, more powerful. Calimex, Torontara, and Atlantia, all under one rule. Brought together for a common purpose...”

 

Guaca was bald, withered, and pale. Bent forward slightly, from years serving the communities in his district. Yet sharp intellectually. He sensed that the Prime Keeper was motivated by ambition, rather than nobility. But decided that he needed to plan before speaking this truth in an open forum.

 

“Lothi, our best scientists have worked on that equation for years. There’s a missing link, somewhere. They can’t get us moving any faster than the first settlers did, leaving for Mars. You know, the slow crawl of Larman transports. A year or more, one way! Those space trucks were slugs. The other, regional players are behind us, behind the curve. They’d be no help, right? What could we expect out of farmers still working with horses and mules? And burning felled trees for heat, or cooking?”

 

Their champion turned bold, and assertive.

 

“Look, it’s an old adage, proved over and over. There is safety in numbers. Those far-flung states could help us do things, really important things. That would free us to focus on the task of uplifting our way of living. We’d all be better off as a single, united entity. We could spread out across the middle lands, as our forebears did. Then grow and prosper, and perhaps, return to the outer worlds, again...”

 

Mumbling and murmuring buzzed throughout the grand concourse. More palms began to strike the tables. A unanimous acclamation resounded.

 

The contrarian governor trembled a bit, before acquiescing to this mood of acceptance.

 

“I will move to endorse your plan, Prime Keeper. How about that? But, with one promise made before we start. You’ll drop asking us for a lifetime seat at the head of this table. That’s too much, man! We’ve voted on everything, since our families came back together after the Great Uprising. War and famine hardened those old souls. They paid a dear price for their arrogance. This big ball of mud paid a price. It’ll never be the same. None of us will ever be the same!”

 

Gardino fingered the medals on his lapel, and pocket. He offered a liar’s pronouncement of comity to the group. One that he hoped would sound convincing.

 

“You are wise, old friend. I appreciate having your voice in my ear. All of us are in your debt...”

 

The coastal governors dispersed, after gathering notes, and embracing each other in a spirit of cooperation. For their guide and counselor, the assembly had been a success. Yet for their willful king of the realm, it had been an exercise in making moves on a virtual chessboard.

 

Their future would depend on what transpired in the days ahead.

 

 

 

 

“Return Mission, Second Assignment - Part One”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All Rights Reserved

(9-24)

 

 

When the wandering transport finally reached Mars, Kelly Strafe sighed heavily, feeling relieved. Though she never doubted her vessel’s ability to traverse the distance between Planet Earth and her own homeworld, lingering thoughts of some unexpected intervention made her anxious. She fretted over what reception might await her at the space dock. And, on the surface at New Cleveland.

 

Radio chatter echoed in her headset, as she swooped around the giant, red rock, and found an open lane toward the connecting bay. She slowed to a crawl, then let the silver spear guide itself by inertia. Clamps and seals did their work, automatically. Then, she opened the access hatch by remote control.

 

A station engineer greeted her with the professional monotone of a military conscript.

 

“Ibid-C, you are cleared to disembark. We have been expecting your return since being hailed, one month ago...”

 

Strafe gathered her few belongings in a mesh tote, and wiggled through the temporary corridor, onto a reception platform at the dock. Her longish, blonde hair had been pulled straight back, in a ponytail. She wore the tactical garb of a civilian contractor. But did her best to look properly groomed for a meeting with those in charge of the facility. She suspected that Commander Hornell Block might be the first to bid her welcome. But instead, the octagonal room was empty.

 

Admiral Corel Nauga appeared, as she was waiting. He had a severe facial expression that heightened her sense of uneasiness. When he spoke, a lilt in his voice reflected being raised on outer worlds where human contact was rare and cherished. He had the unconvincing appearance of an alien, mimicking a genuine member of their species, like an actor.

 

“Lieutenant, I am glad to see you back at this terminal. Your exit came too quickly. We never have enough skilled officers on hand. I regret that you resigned your commission...”

 

The former soldier was irritated by his diplomatic jargon.

 

“With all due respect sir, which is a quantity of zero, go screw yourself! I don’t have that rank any longer!”

 

The supreme official held his breath for a moment. Then nodded with understanding.

 

“You have been through a lot, Kelly. Bouncing back and forth between yesterday and today, in the context of human experience. That must have taken a toll on your mind. Indeed, doctors here have determined that they think your cognitive abilities were affected. Therefore, you will not be held responsible for jumping ship, and leaving for that blue ball between here and Venus...”

 

Strafe was confused by his cool demeanor, and cryptic observations.

 

“Doctors? What the hell does that mean? You did some kind of assessment after I left?”

 

Nauga smiled with feigned concern.

 

“It was unanimous among those on our medical staff that you needed treatment. I only wish it could have been done before you jetted off to find our meddling university professor, Dr. Baines. He couldn’t have helped to ease the maladies in your cerebrum...”

 

The former Space Force participant narrowed her eyes, and hissed.

 

“Maladies? What’s that horseshit? I’m not sick, you asshole! And I never got to see Judson, he’s stranded in what used to be Ohio, at the moment. That’s why I flew back here, this is my new mission. I need someone to provide a platform for his rescue. We can’t just leave him on that old world, to die!”

 

Admiral Nauga burst into a cacophonous explosion of laughter. His hands tightened, reflexively.

 

“Kelly, this wild request all but confirms your impairment. Forgive me for not noticing it before. Forgive us, we should have done better to meet your needs and offer protection...”

 

Strafe had turned oddly cold. Her mouth was dry and rough, like sandpaper.

 

“I’M NOT IMPAIRED, GAWDAMMIT! QUIT PLAYING GAMES, COREL!”

 

The military champion shrugged and bowed with a courteous gesture of surrender.

 

“Very well then, I’ll leave you on your own. Remember that I wanted to offer assistance. Remember also that those who spurn their commission still carry a stamp of service to the Mars colonies. It is in your DNA now, like a virtual tattoo. You can’t shed who and what you are, like a snake slipping out of its skin...”

 

Wall-plates situated along the corridor parted for long enough to let him leave, abruptly. Then, she was alone once more. A screeching pitch of electronic surveillance filled her ears, as she stood, silent and trembling. A pulsing cadence intensified, until the speed and volume made her temples throb. She held the sides of her face, as the synthetic din became unbearable.

 

“STOP IT YOU DICKHEAD! STOP TORTURING ME! I CAN’T TAKE ANYMORE! STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT!”

 

When Strafe awakened, she was at a clinic on the Red Planet. A team of physicians hovered around her body, which had been placed in the Velcro restraints of a Hideki Wellness Chair. Twin projectors cycled on each side of her skull.

 

A thin, balding fellow seemed to be guiding the group. He tapped at icons on a touchscreen array, which was connected to the hi-tech devices surrounding her seat. His white, laboratory coat indicated a supervisory position on the hospital crew

 

“Lieutenant, please relax. My procedures will be more successful if you do not offer resistance...”

 

She was angry and defiant, yet strangely weak and unable to move.

 

“FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU ALL! FUCK THE ADMIRAL, AND COMMANDER BLOCK!”

 

Chief Healer Askan Bowles closed his eyes briefly. He was not accustomed to such verbal outbursts, in their restricted social setting. He fiddled with a wireless probe, that monitored patient life signs in real time.

 

“You heart rate is up, and your blood pressure. Please calm down! This does not help the healing regimen to take effect. I need you to breathe deeply and evenly. Fixate on a pleasant memory. Allow your consciousness to open, as if you are meditating. You will feel a series of negligible, electric shocks, from right and left. They are the signature of this machine...”

 

Strafe pulled hard against the straps that bound her arms and legs. The forked cap that surrounded her head had begun to glow with infrared heat. She could feel an emptiness engulfing her waking self. A vast sea of nothing. Black and gray, and smothering in its intensity. An invisible veil that soon separated her from clinging to any unique, human identity. Her name, her history, everything was now forgotten.

 

She was an empty jar. No longer serving any purpose with her own existence.

 

Bowles switched off the amplified chair, after it had finished running through the electronic sequence.

 

“Well done, Ms. Strafe. Your reassignment is now complete. Rest is my prescription. Rest and heal, until tomorrow...”

Nobody Reads This Page – “Dinner Theater”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-24)

 

 

Years ago, my friend Janis was a frequent companion for eating out around our tri-county area, something that I was too embarrassed to do alone. This habit began with trips to the Hong Kong King Buffet in Geneva, for Chinese cuisine. But eventually involved visits to the original location of Mary’s Diner, also in that city. And, the Waffle House in Austinburg, along with Taco Bell in Madison, plus Mr. Hero, in Chardon. None of these spots provided much drama while we enjoyed our meals. But eventually, she agreed to go out for a quick layover at the Steak ‘n Shake in Ashtabula.

 

Unwittingly, that random choice produced a situation that lingers in memory, to this day.

 

After feasting on burgers, fries, and thick, creamy milkshakes, we went outside to relax on the side lawn. My culinary companion wanted to smoke a cigarette. Something I resisted while she was traveling in my vehicle.

 

She sat cross-legged in the green grass, watching traffic roll down the hillside, toward Walmart. I rambled on about historical facts that related to casual restaurants with a nostalgic theme. Something that she let pass from one ear to the other, without paying attention. This contrast between my own interest in vintage trappings of our culture, and her numb indifference to the outside world, was very common. Like an old, married couple, I would often pontificate about various subjects, while she ignored everything I said.

 

But suddenly, a Dodge minivan slammed on its brakes, after following a small, Japanese car with an insufficient amount of space, in between. The automobiles nearly collided, while heading for megacenter bargains. Then, both of them stopped dead in the roadway.

 

The driver in front was a young, African-American fellow. He exclaimed disbelief over the person behind.

 

“Why were you up on my tail? We almost had an accident there, bitch!”

 

A redneck woman jumped out of the soccer-mom cruiser, with her hair gathered up in a red bandana. She was missing some teeth, and had a disposition one might expect from a Pitbull hound.

 

“DUMBASS! YOU SHOULD’VE BEEN MOVIN’ FASTER, DAMMIT! I AIN’T GOT TIME TO CRAWL ALONG LIKE SOMEBODY’S GRANDMA!”

 

In a surreal show of idiocy, she dropped the dreaded word most despised by polite, educated people who respect diversity and kinship. Something that no sane person would do anywhere, particularly in the metropolitan area often referred to as Trashtabula. Her foolhardy, racist screeching literally made me gasp.

 

Janis reacted differently, however. She altered her position to obtain a better view of this ensuing conflict, and lit another Camel Crush.

 

“Dinner and a show! How about that, Rodbert? Dinner and a show!”

 

I was trembling and anxious. For a brief instant, I wondered if some sort of assault might take place. A development that made my stomach ache, despite being satisfyingly full. But instead, the motorist in front simply shook his head, snorted, and reentered his bland, Oriental rattlebox.

 

The rural queen stood still for a moment, contemplating her abandonment. I guessed that she must have wanted to conclude the impulsive argument more forcefully. But good sense finally took over the brain cells that she had not already drowned in Busch beer or Budweiser.

 

The minivan left strips of rubber from its front wheels, upon leaving. I watched the muffler bounce freely, underneath. Its rusted tailpipe nearly dragged on the ground.

 

My friend seemed disappointed with the brevity of what we had witnessed. She stubbed out her coffin nail, and stood up with a huff of regret.

 

“So much for that shit! I thought we might see some real fireworks! Like WWE wrestling, you know? Dammit, now I’m bored again. I hate being bored!”

 

My belly was still quivering. While we drove back to her home by Lake Erie, she played games on her cell phone, as a distraction. I did not interrupt. Silence seemed a better strategy than trying to convince her that we had both been lucky. As were the participants in what we had witnessed.

 

Recently, I thought about this faded memory while sitting on my porch, with a cold beverage. A Ford Explorer from the Geauga County Sheriff’s Department passed by as I was quenching my thirst. Not an uncommon sight in our rural enclave, yet still something to be noted. It reappeared shortly afterward, rolling in the opposite direction. Then, I saw another cruiser following close behind. And another. And another!

 

In yonder days, the sight of law enforcement entering my living space would have been something to cause raised eyebrows, and tightened jowls. But after so many years of living in a blue-collar neighborhood, filled with earthy and resourceful citizens. I had developed thicker skin. All of us were hardened by such frequent bouts of crime and punishment, on full display. To see someone on our streets being led away in handcuffs, or wheeled out on an ambulance gurney, has sadly become too familiar for closer inspection.

 

Vacant homes abound. Stories of mayhem and injury, persist. Yet I keep drinking my Yuengling Amber Lager, as the deputies do their work.

 

It reminded me of another past event, when seeking a new house with my first wife, in Painesville. Sometime during the 1990’s. Another more urban district, with inhabitants subjected to viewing outbursts of rage and excess. When we took a tour of a property on the market, its owner did her best to describe the residence as safe and secure. Yet her son confessed that a nearby low-income housing development, just down the boulevard, was often wracked with violent incidents.

 

“I don’t let it bother me! Hell no! I just pull out a folding chair, and sit here watching from the front yard! It’s no-cost entertainment, I figure! Like getting a bonus if you buy this place!”

 

At the time, we took this as a caveat worth many nuggets of gold. I did not follow up with the real estate agent. We dropped the idea of leaving our condominium for a fixed dwelling, at least until better options arrived.

 

In modern times, I have grown more callused to these happenings. More content simply to exist in my own corner of the universe, and keep to myself. But now and then, life provides its own variety show, free of charge.

 

My cohort Janis would be thrilled to witness this change of heart.

Trailer Park Vignettes – “UFO Encounter”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-24)

 

 

Centurion Valda Prell had been at his post on the Sontor Prime for a dozen days, without receiving a rest period. The trip from his homeworld to Planet Earth had been a long and tedious journey. One undertaken as a research mission, to explore and document life forms that his civilization had detected in faraway galaxies. At first, such work seemed thrilling. He boasted to friends about having been chosen to spearhead this effort. Yet after weeks and months of crossing the vast distance between his own star cluster, and the next, he was sour. Fatigue humbled him, with the effect of turning everything pale. He had lost interest in being a pioneer. Now, his clawlike hands were knobby and withered, as they gestured over the control panel of their vessel.

 

He barked an order to his navigator, as they neared the charted destination.

 

“GTEB FROKAE? NANA FALANOUR OLAN BEFUKEH! NO FANA KREB!”

 

His subordinate officer nodded obediently, and steered the interstellar craft toward a rendezvous with the giant blue rock, spinning in space.

 

“Ya folde kodana! Frokae gteb!”

 

The Sontor was equipped with a quad array of engines at its tail, that were powered by a rare element found on their twin moons. When bombarded with radio waves, these crystals glowed white-hot, and emitted a stream of useful energy. They made it possible to leap over great distances in a relatively short period of time. Something that their civilization had never been able to accomplish before.

 

Prell brightened a bit as the golden glow of Sol came into view. He pointed at Mercury, Venus, and then Earth, all traversing their orbital positions.

 

“Hana vek! Goldan gib frekanae! So pree! So Pree!”

 

The navigator signified his agreement. Their primary stop in the unfamiliar solar system was awe-inspiring. Proof that some great engineer had created a universe filled with diverse delights. He felt privileged to be the first to behold such beauty, directly.

 

The centurion switched on a universal translator, and opened a frequency range that was thought to be most conducive for making diplomatic contact with alien inhabitants.

 

“Attention! Attention! I am the commander of this ship. Allow me to welcome you, in the name of my people, who live on a rocky globe many light years from your own. We are voyagers in the cosmos, studying and mapping the regions that surround our system. We ask for your permission to linger here, and if possible, document our discoveries to help us plan future missions to the Earth and its neighbors...”

 

T.C. Lincoln was already drunk, despite his clock indicating that they had only reached the hour of noon at his community of mobile homes, in Ohio. His face burned in the summer heat. He felt slightly dizzy, but continued to imbibe shots of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey, while sitting on his wooden bench.

 

As he streamed vintage Country & Western music through an app on his cell phone, suddenly, static and electronic fuzz took over. When he closed the program and restarted it, this din of hi-tech noise continued. Finally, he heard a squawk of vocalization that shocked his senses.

 

“GTEB FROKAE! GTEB FROKAE!”

 

The alcoholic hermit shook his head and cursed.

 

“What the hell? Is this a Pink Floyd track I never heard before? I had the feed set on gawdamm hillbilly music! Not pot-smoking, hippie bullshit!”

 

Centurion Prell fiddled with his console. Something in the link that connected his transmitter to the planetary grid was malfunctioning. He cleared his throat, and reengaged the translator.

 

“Attention! Attention! I am the commander of this ship...”

 

Lincoln shuddered while hearing the dry rasp of this strange communication.

 

“Ship? What freaking ship? Are you coming across Lake Erie, from Canada?”

 

The foreign commander widened his eyes as the reply echoed inside of their nexus room.

 

“HELLO! HELLO! I CAN HEAR YOU, EARTHER! I CAN HEAR YOU LOUD AND CLEAR!”

 

The graybeard iconoclast peered down the neck of his liquor bottle, with disbelief.

 

“Earther? What is that supposed to mean, do I look like the hired help that does landscaping around here? Damn, I don’t think my clothes are that dirty. I swear they were fresh out of the washing machine two or three days ago. Well, maybe two or three weeks ago, to be honest.”

 

Prell waved his palm over blocks of illuminated squares on the control board.

 

“Do you comprehend my language, sir? I have set the parameters for English as it is commonly spoken across North America. We have been monitoring your audio and video broadcasts for several years...”

 

Lincoln started to feel nauseous. He belched and passed wind at the same time, a natural spew which caused the storm door to rattle in its frame. And puzzled the centurion with its raw intonations.

 

“This wordless salute you offer, is it a custom of your people? Does this signify welcome? Are we being honored as guests?”

 

The reclusive drunk laughed out loud. Then belched again, with foamy drool dripping from his facial hair.

 

“Nah man, I drank my beer too fast. Now I’m about to hurl, I think...”

 

Prell checked the levels on his contact array. He could not figure out why the translator was providing him with gibberish.

 

“Say again? You drank... beer? What is this fluid refreshment of which you speak?”

 

The cranky oldster tapped his phone against the wall. He thought that some sort of sci-fi podcast must have come up in his Spotify menu.

 

“Is this Joe Rogan, taking about a new movie release? What the fugg? Don’t bill me for this shit, if I subscribed, it was by mistake!”

 

The Sontor Prime commander pounded his claw on the illuminated panel. Frustration caused his yellow skin to turn slick and glossy.

 

“FALANOUR OLAN NOBECKI! WHAT IS THE CAUSE OF THIS DEFICIENCY? WHAT FAILURE HAVE WE CREATED WITH OUR TRANSLATION PROGRAMMING? WE COME ALL THIS WAY TO CONNECT WITH ALIEN PEOPLE, AND IT ENDS UP LIKE THIS?”

 

The navigator shrugged and tapped at his own board.

 

“Nanda fole. Sorenda pyre, fole. Fole! Fole!”

 

Prell nearly threw his optical stylus across the crew cabin. He was still connected to the transmitter and its language interpreter.

 

“NO MORE EXCUSES! I CAN’T REPORT THIS BACK TO OUR HOMEWORLD, THEY’LL SACK ME FOR CERTAIN! MY CAREER WILL BE FINISHED! TAKE US OUT OF ORBIT, IMMEDIATELY! WE’RE GOING HOME TO FIGURE OUT WHAT WENT WRONG!”

 

His junior officer crouched low, and obeyed submissively.

 

“Nanda fole! Yo krebeda ton da mechee!”

 

A trail of crystal remnants crossed the horizon as T.C. Lincoln sat on his porch, reeking of strong drink and Cheetos. His fingers were orange. And his throat had gone numb from the wash of high-proof spirits. He was near the point of passing out, and soaking his overalls with piss. But his thirst had not yet been quenched.

 

He took one more pull from the square-shouldered, glass container. Then slipped into a daze of inebriation, and seedy bliss.

 

“Rogan has some messed up people on his show! That’s why I keep the channel on old redneck tunes!”

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Hospital Humbled”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-24)

 

 

When a recent health crisis erupted in our family, for my sister, I was predictably focused on getting information about her condition and nothing else. So, after a few, brief exchanges of text messages throughout the morning, I decided to visit the University Hospitals Geauga Health Center for a first-person assessment. Something I had done many times over the past 40 years, for various reasons, after returning home to my native soil from a residential stint in New York State. Despite being aware that venturing beyond my front porch had become less common, by necessity, I did not ponder this choice for long.

 

Getting to my vehicle required little more than a few cane thumps down the access ramp, and a twist of the ignition key. In a few minutes, I had driven to the treatment depot, and found a vacant, handicapped parking space after one circle of the lot.

 

The main entrance at this particular UH campus is located up a long, slow incline. Something that I bested while using two, mismatched walking sticks for support. By the time I reached their lobby, my chest was heaving, and I had begun to pant like a stray pooch. As I stood at the reception counter, a polite clerk offered assistance with their patient registry. But before I could provide too many details, she vocalized a caveat about where I had entered.

 

“Your relative is still in the Emergency Room, which is located on the other side of our building. Are you parked out front?”

 

I hadn’t considered that my younger sibling would still be waiting in a trauma cubicle. In my haste to figure out what had happened, I simply used the first available point of access. But upon confronting this mistake, I sheepishly agreed to go back to my car, and motor around the facility for a better vantage point.

 

Once again, despite the prevailing rush of needy individuals from across the county, I was able to secure a convenient spot by the entryway. I hobbled a bit due to arthritic numbness in my legs, but took this challenge literally in stride. It was oddly familiar, after years of being disabled and retired. Not anything out of the ordinary.

 

A representative at the window was very helpful, and took me through the ward, directly to a room where my sister was being prepped for a move to their Intensive Care Unit. My niece grabbed a folding chair which matched her own, and I beheld it with a slight amount of personal trepidation. Usually, some sort of seating with arms to steady myself would have been a preferred choice. But I figured that a bit of maneuvering, with my right hip as a target over the landing site, would get me safely on my posterior.

 

Grace intervened as two nurses took hold of the hospital bed where my biological counterpart was resting. Instead of sitting, I skipped sideways, out into the hallway. There I stood attempting to catch my breath, and offer a silent prayer of gratitude at the same time.

 

Another aide offered to guide us through the maze of medical equipment and curtained spaces, so that we could get to the ICU along a visitor’s route. Yet as I positioned my aching bones to walk, it suddenly became apparent that I had already exhausted the meager reserve of stamina on hand. I was whipped.

 

My joints were stiff and uncooperative. I felt like a rubber, Stretch Armstrong toy from the 1970’s, already pulled out of shape by ornery children.

 

In an instant, I flashed back to yonder days, when my father had been kept at the J.W. Ruby Memorial Hospital, in Morgantown, West Virginia. A massive institution associated with WVU Medicine. Though this miraculous place offered all sorts of care, from an incredible team of skilled physicians, it was not by any means easy to tour on foot for seniors. A bevy of options were available, but my mother, who was a stout daughter of Appalachia and gifted with unflagging resolve, would not use any implements designed to assist those with compromised mobility.

 

She struggled and stomped and slouched, half-bent forward, as if tilting into a windstorm.

 

Those of us in her brood were gentle in suggesting that she might soften her resistance to being helped. Yet nothing seemed to change her mind. Only once, at the most desperate limit of her endurance, did she consent to being wheeled around like a street vendor’s cart of frankfurters.

 

That lone episode hurt her pride enough that it never happened again.

 

Standing in the ER, with my knees wobbling underneath, I felt pangs of guilt when choosing an opposite path. I was defeated, and yet pragmatic in my outlook. It seemed likely that long before I managed to drag my carcass across the threshold of their special care sector, I would end up sprawled on the floor.

 

I whispered an entreaty to a higher power, while making a plea for myself.

 

“Would it be possible to find a wheelchair somehow? I’ve got to confess that my legs feel like rubber. I won’t even make it to the elevators...”

 

Our slim, skilled advocate was cheerfully benevolent in responding to my query. He pointed toward another corridor that connected with the trauma center.

 

“Of course! Of course! I’ll be right back, it won’t take more than a minute!”

 

I hadn’t given enough forethought to unintentionally volunteering my niece to serve as a beast of burden. But she did not complain. When the wheeled cart arrived, our host provided a quick lesson on how to use the expandable device, safely. I found it to be surprisingly comfortable, even while holding both canes between my sore knees.

 

With purses and tote bags in her hands, the junior member of our bloodline steered my bulky frame around corners and into the visitor lift, without any difficulty. Then into a waiting room near the nursing station. And finally, into the specific room where my sister’s maladies were being analyzed. She had recently been diagnosed with diabetes, and reacted severely while adjusting to new medications. Monitors beeped and chimed, while lights flashed and numbers scrolled across monitor screens around her bed. There were even illuminated displays projected on the floor, something I had never seen being used.

 

Our day ended successfully, with a promise to return after the next sunrise.

 

In the evening, I sat at home with a cold brew, and thoughts of what had transpired lingering in my head. Yet when I spoke aloud, the words that spilled from my lips were contrite, and hesitant. I had failed to project the defiant fortitude of my mater. Something that reddened my face, and jabbed a quiver of insufficiency into my belly.

 

“Sorry, Ma, I just couldn’t do it! I’m a hillbilly kid, but not quite so tough as you!”

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “First Street Conflagration”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-24)

 

 

Hindel Sawarma had been at Evergreen Estates since coming to America as a young immigrant from India. He knew little of life in other, more developed communities. For him, the narrow streets and yards, and the curtailed social evolution of this rural community were everything. After his parents escaped to a family compound in Cleveland, he lingered in the boxcar dwelling that had been their first landing point on the continent. The manufactured hut seemed genuinely rich and stately to him, when compared to those owned by members of his brood, in their distant homeland.

 

He was grateful to have arrived in Ohio with a wad of dollar bills in his pocket, and enough common sense and discipline to survive.

 

Yet one thing nagged at his psyche throughout the years he spent as a resident. The unpredictability of inhabiting a prefab trailer, on a rented lot. Day after day, he never felt totally comfortable being in such an environment. Not because he looked foreign to his redneck, Caucasian neighbors, but because the tempo of their existence was frantic. There were always citizens coming and going, disappearing and even hiding, sometimes running from agents of law enforcement. Always willfully disconnected from the outside world. He yearned for inclusion and membership in a greater mass. To be joined with others who shared his pursuit of personal achievement. But all around, there was instead a sense that doom foreshadowed each moment with cloudy skies and the a likely fall from grace.

 

He worked almost every day of the week, at a convenience store owned by his uncle. A job that had been selected for him, as his birthright.

 

On Monday, he endured a morning shift. Stocking beverages in their beer cooler, and then more items in the short aisles of grocery products. Their crossroads depot was busy from about six o’clock in the morning, until deep in the afternoon. He prepared coffee when the pots ran dry, filled a display of Slim Jims snacks, and swept the floor in between rushes of customer traffic. Then, a dozen hours after beginning his adventure, it was time to disengage.

 

He walked outside to his motorcar, a 1990 Chrysler LeBaron Coupe, which had been refurbished in the garage of another relative from Cuyahoga County. The vehicle clattered and creaked and smoked slightly, from leaking valve-cover gaskets. Yet ran strong enough to get him around with a measure of style unknown with to most in his bloodline.

 

He traveled the short distance of about eight miles in only a few minutes. Pausing for road construction, and a mail carrier making their rounds. Then, as he arrived at the park entrance, he noted that makeshift barricades had been set up on the first street, facing left. A row of four cruisers from the local sheriff’s department had taken up spaces at the corner. One of these was a K-9 unit. A sight that filled him with dread. An ambulance headed this caravan of cars. Its lights were still flashing. Though he could not see anyone outside.

 

A gaggle of uniformed officers soon gathered by the doorway of a home at Lot 17. Radio chatter echoed from dashboard speakers, and hand-held receivers. Some of the deputies had drawn their weapons. A mood of tension permeated the air of late summer.

 

Hindel crouched low behind his steering wheel. He was very much accustomed to being interrogated because of his dark skin and puzzling accent. His spiky, black crop of hair glistened with sticky muck. He felt sick at his stomach. But upon passing the cluster of lawmen, and turning at his own boulevard, this nervous fit abated. He backed into the driveway, switched the ignition key to off, and sat silently for a moment.

 

Nosey neighbor Greedie McMahon appeared on the passenger side of his small, luxury rig. She had her flop of gray curls tied under a red bandana. Her teeth were yellow from persistently smoking menthol cigarettes. Her nails had been painted in alternating colors that clashed with each other.

 

“HINDI! YOU GOT HOME JUST IN TIME, THINGS ARE GOING CRAZY ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS DUMP! THEY’RE HANDCUFFING SOME DICKHEAD FOR NOT PAYING HIS RENT! THE MANAGER LADY SAID HE WAS GETTING EVICTED! I LOVE WATCHING THIS SHIT!”

 

The foreign prospect was afraid to exit his ride.

 

“Arrested? What does that mean, being flogged or caned? Do they chain him to the wall or something?”

 

Greedie snorted and snickered.

 

“Nah, nothing fun like that. We don’t do those things here, is that how they treat folks in your country?”

 

He was slightly offended by being named as an outsider.

 

“This is my country, I came here at seven years old...”

 

The tobacco hound clutched at her smoke pouch and lighter.

 

“Sorry bruh, I didn’t mean it as a dig on your ass, okay? Don’t get all righteous on me!”

 

They could hear the insistent bark of a bullhorn from across the row of houses on wheels.

 

“GET ON THE GROUND! GET ON THE GAWDAMM GROUND! COMPLY WITH OUR INSTRUCTIONS! COMPLY OR BE SORRY!”

 

Boots stomped and fists flew as the trailer inhabitant fought to keep his minimalist domicile. He swung a baseball bat with the force of a professional athlete. But this aggressive tactic only increased the vengeance of his arrest.

 

Sprawled on the concrete, he was kicked and cuffed and silenced, with skill.

 

Greedie smacked her lips as if enjoying a savory meal.

 

“Damnnnnn, that’s like watching an episode of Cops on the television. I wonder if they film out here in the country? We might get to be stars. How about that, Hindi? Wouldn’t it be cool?”

 

The C-store clerk wanted to hurl. But his stomach was actually empty. He had busted through 12 hours without a single break. Something that made his uncle proud enough to include an extra round of legal tender in his pay envelope.

 

He had been saving for a new hoss since the previous year. Hopefully something shiny and new, like a Toyota pickup truck. He guessed that driving a 4x4 hauler like other people in his community might make him appear to be less conspicuous. Less of a geek. Less of a... foreigner.

 

Lot 17 resonated with the din of a subdued subject howling for relief, and a completed assignment. The storm of deputies dispersed after dispensing justice. The outlaw tenant was chastened, and hauled away to court. Meanwhile, his trailer was photographed, documented, and listed in an online auction.

 

Hindel felt his belly grumbling as he finally went inside, and fell on his sofa. Zorch, a striped, orange tabby with white paws, climbed on his chest. She purred and rubbed her face over his, oozing contentment. Her fur was soft and warm.

 

Sirens echoed as the posse disappeared up a long hill that bordered their junkyard oasis. A quiet calm descended on the neighborhood.

 

“I could go for some Masala Chaas, but right now, my eyes are too heavy...”

 

He succumbed to exhaustion in short order. It was good to be at the end of another day. And better still to be back at home.

 

 

Nothing To See Here – “Pickles & Beer”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-24)

 

 

One advantage of living alone is that I don’t have to spend much time listening to bogus opinions. Tuning out socially is easy. All I have to do is shut my front door. But, moments during a productive workday do arrive, when I opt to move out of the home office, and away from my computer keyboard. Enjoying cold refreshment on the front porch helps to clear my head, and allow creative batteries to recharge.

 

If I discipline myself, these brief interludes serve to help and not hinder projects that are underway.

 

Unintended consequences do appear from so frequently employing this strategy, however. I find my attention span flagging a bit, with the numb respite of alcohol always offering temptation. Regular meals are something that have all but vanished in my household. In their stead, I prefer to snack while emptying 12-ounce containers of Yuengling or Miller High Life. This means needing to keep stores of Slim Jims, pork rinds, Doritos, and cheese crackers on hand. Plus, quick entrees like frozen burritos or Stouffer’s pizza in the freezer.

 

Yet one tasty treat has eclipsed all of these items on my menu. Namely, refrigerated or small-batch pickles such as Claussen, Nathan’s, or those offered by other regional producers.

 

Seasoned citizens like my first father-in-law used to speak about tavern culture as it was, before the advent of modernist cuisine. When pickled eggs, sausages, and such were staple items for drinkers who developed hunger pangs while emptying their mugs. These tales often brightened my spirits, and offered insight into what had gone before. But more than that, they planted a seed that would germinate over time. Eventually, I developed a yearning to revisit these old habits. And a personal tradition was born.

 

Like hillbilly ancestors who dined on frankfurters, bologna and pepperoni rolls, I became obsessed with quick bites of pickled cucumber, swimming in a garlic brine.

 

Being of middle age and disabled now, my routine has taken on a velocity more eventual than speedy. I have found that a daily ritual of invading the refrigerator, sitting on my bench, gnawing on cured smokies or salty snacks, and then interacting with neighbors, is best suited to existing in a rural, trailer community. The spatial geography of rented lots, long and narrow, keeps order well. It is impossible to languish in isolation for too long. Yet at least a measure of individuality and privilege remains.

 

In an apartment, I would be squeezed into a restrictive cubicle of living space. In my oasis of mobile homes, however, I can at least enjoy having my own driveway and laundry room. A slight compensation perhaps, for the social stigma associated with living in such a development. But damned useful, when thinking of life without those conveniences.

 

A jar of pickles in the fridge, and a case of brew, fits this paradigm.

 

My ex-wife used to urge caution when choosing foodstuffs for our daily diet. She was a proponent of low-fat, low-sodium, low-carb, gluten-free products. I often felt like a jailhouse inmate, with water and slices of stale bread for sustenance. Flavor and variety were not primary concerns. Instead, I typically received lectures about heart attacks, strokes, cancer, and diminishing capacities. All of which aroused a grumbling in my belly for meat-and-potatoes, down-home eats. The sort of satisfying feasts that I remembered from my childhood.

 

Fried chicken, pot roast, and hamburger spaghetti!

 

When filtered through the minimalist prism of dwelling in a boxcar shack, this tilt toward simple nourishment takes on a wrinkle of its own. I have found myself spending less time on preparing dishes, and more on enjoying the moment of fulfillment. In a sense, I have returned to living as a student intern. Gorging myself on Ramen, macaroni & cheese, or taco variations. Something that fits a limited budget, and offers plenty of satisfaction in a short amount of time.

 

Pickle spears, halves, or wholes always meet my needs and expectations.

 

Recently, while alternating between rations of amber lager from Pennsylvania, and brined vegetables, I remembered that my father became fond of a particular pickle variety sold at our local Kmart depot, in the Pittsburgh area. The label as I recall, was red. Crossed flags served as a masthead, those of America and Poland. A description in the middle boasted “Polski Wyrob’ which I thought sounded authentic. When opened, these jars released an aroma of old-world deliciousness. Each bite snapped crisply, offering a zesty reward of flavor.

 

While pondering this lost delight, I decided to pause my porch libation, and conduct an internet search for clues. Somewhere in the wealth of cyberspace, I reckoned that there had to be references to the item, and its purveyor. Yet after hours of scrolling and reading, little appeared to indicate that what I had seen ever really existed.

 

Disappointment drove me back to the refrigerator. And a jar of Famous Dave’s Sweet & Spicy Dill Chips, which I had found by surprise, on the shelf at a local Dollar General.

 

Feeling the need to be edified, I reached out to a contact who had retired in the ‘Burgh. I guessed that he might have some useful information about this forgotten comestible. But my query left him puzzled.

 

“Polski Wyrob? Sure, I see Polish pickles around, they are fairly common. But not exactly what you remember. They were sold in the middle 1970’s? I had left the area in those days, temporarily. Maybe someone who uses Reddit will know, or perhaps, a participant in one of the Steel City forums that I visit. I’ll keep looking! You never know what will turn up, unexpectedly!”

 

Eventually, I downed enough suds and snacks that it didn’t matter anymore. My belly was full. And my brain had been soothed into numb submission.

 

Passing cars, trucks, and motorcycles tooted their horns as I sat outside. The summer season was winding down, like a clock spring yielding its stored, mechanical energy. I felt grateful for the pleasant evening, and sparse company, while drinking.

 

But after retiring to my bedroom, slumber came with a soft curse echoing from oblivion.

 

“What about those Polskie pickles?”

Nobody Reads This Page – “Birthday”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-24)

 

 

The aging process makes us all equal, despite artificial divisions of culture, social status, and economic blessings. No one has yet found a way to escape the supreme rule of chronology. Time passes and bodies evolve. Some more rapidly than others, and with more dramatic effects. Yet this path trodden over centuries of human existence is the same. We all enter the world with innocence, and exit carrying fatigue and worries like saddlebags lashed to the midsection of a struggling horse or mule.

 

Those who die young carry a kind of immortality in our world. But it is artificial. Death preserves these individuals in the manner of a Polaroid snapshot. Frozen in time, vanquished, varnished, and unchanged forever. Worthy of enshrinement in galleries or houses of worship, where their images may be contemplated by those of us who are still connected to the continuum. For the rest of us, there is a slow drip of hourglass sand, falling. Grain by grain, until no more of this mortal reserve is left.

 

Such thoughts were active, as I sat with a cup of coffee in my favorite chair around eight o’clock this morning. The furnishing was my perch of choice simply because I could get up and out, when desired, with ease. I had been in bed dreaming about workplace gossip at a retail store where my own presence was as part of the management team. Everyone was buzzing about a potential takeover by corporate supervisors from our parent company. So, members of the upper staff had all dressed formally, to receive our guests. I wore a gray suit jacket, white shirt, and dark necktie. Apparel that was a bit overstated, but respectful. While circling our conference room, I whispered and listened and learned of the new plans about to be implemented. Our HR lead had been marked for redundancy. A step that I confessed to coworkers was logical and even necessary. She never meshed well with the rest of our team.

 

Predictably however, I awakened before reaching the conclusion of this unconscious episode.

 

For some reason, my right wrist felt oddly sore and weak. This infirmity made it difficult to palm my cane, for support in walking. Something that was a dealbreaker for maintaining my mobility.

 

After starting a BUNN brewpot in the kitchen, I heard my cell phone chirping with notifications. Something that made me slightly anxious, because I rarely had any human contact at such an early hour. But when I took the device in my hand, embarrassment made me bow my head.

 

My niece, nephew, sister, and a treasured friend from Cleveland, had all sent encouraging messages on this special day.

 

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUUUUU!”

 

My face burned a little while I tried to focus on these texts. During the previous day, I had been able to shower, drive to the nearby community of Rock Creek for food and supplies, and then finish assembling a book manuscript which I uploaded to the Amazon KDP website, for publication. All things that put me in an upbeat frame of mind. Later in the evening, a neighbor visited to share brews and conversation, until sunset arrived, and the cycle of mosquito activity became a nuisance. I had a meal of Buffalo-style chicken, used to make tacos with cheese and sour cream. Then crashed in my bed. Never once thinking that the anniversary of another trip around the sun was about to occur.

 

My mentor from Cuyahoga County candidly expressed her disbelief, when I confessed to having forgotten my own day of birth.

 

“YOU SILLY GOOSE! SILLY, SILLY GOOSE!”

 

September seemed to be a productive month for reflecting on such life anniversaries. An associate from Chardon was born on the fourth. A radio hero who I followed via the internet, had celebrated two days earlier. His daughter and on-air partner, would do the same, in another week or more. My own block on the calendar was shared by a television personality and satirist with whom I was familiar, an R & B crooner that I appreciated in past years, and a cantankerous pal from Ashtabula who had passed away suddenly.

 

My mood was contrite in view of being so disconnected. I offered a plea for understanding to those who were miffed about this egregious error.

 

“One day is pretty much like the rest, here in my rural township. I clear the cobwebs in my head with caffeine, sit at the desk, and eke out some sort of writing project to justify being alive. I feel that it is a tribute to our creator, if you believe one exists. My work for having breathed in the blessing of life. I never want to take that gift for granted. Everything is connected to everything else. The sky, earth, and spiritual harmony of those who populate this blue ball...”

 

Least impressed was my friend Janis, a nursing-facility resident who has always kept me grounded philosophically. Her unassuming outlook never wavers from a straight-and-narrow path from here to there, and beyond.

 

“GIFT OF LIFE? WHAT THE HECK, RODBERT? MY LIFE IS EATING MUSH AND LISTENING TO OLD PEOPLE SQUAWK ABOUT THEIR ACHES AND PAINS! THEY TELL ME THAT I’M TOO YOUNG TO HAVE SO MANY WORRIES! THAT DAMN SURE DOESN’T MAKE ME FEEL ANY BETTER! THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE A GIFT?”

 

Listening to her sober opinions was like a brace of cold water over my cheeks. Something that settled the moment, as I drifted toward a poetic horizon.

 

“Well, I prefer to take it as such. Though at the moment, I’m having some difficulty hiking between the countertop where my toaster sits, and the living room. I like a browned slice of bread with peanut butter, to start the day. It gives me a protein fix. And energy for tapping away at my keyboard...”

 

My medically-challenged cohort sounded off like a farm animal waiting for its trough to be filled.

 

“Don’t you do anything fun? Like watch movies or play video games, or smoke weed? Or ride four-wheelers around in the mud? Geez, Rodbert! You’re an overgrown geek! Get with the program! Quit acting like a dunce!”

 

Her assessment sounded very familiar.

 

“Yeah, I’ve been told that plenty of times by my neighbors in this rural park. It’s an interesting place though, very inspirational for creative projects. A place where people drive pickup trucks that are worth more than their living spaces...”

 

Janis must have been twisting her hair out of spite. I could hear her hot breaths surging, over the wireless connection.

 

“Okay, okay, enough already! I’m getting boooooored. Go play on your computer. I’ll call again later, when you’re drunk. That guy is more fun on the phone than you are!”

 

She hung up rudely. Only later did I realize that my birthday had escaped her notice as well. Something that made me feel less foolish for my own transgression. I guessed than such niceties were unimportant, when viewed against a backdrop of ‘Golden Girls’ reruns, walking aids, and Bingo games.

 

Her non-participation actually seemed quite appropriate. I appreciated not having to battle pangs of guilt as our interaction ended.

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Return Mission, Part Thirty”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-24)

 

 

With the Ibid carrier prepped for travel, Kelly Strafe buckled a safety harness over her ample chest, and reached for the control joysticks.  She powered up the Gibidan impeller, and set a course for Mars. A task she completed while feeling a strange sense of loss. The transit between Planet Earth and her current position on the stellar map would take approximately four weeks, at cruising velocity. That would be enough time to compose her petition to Commander Hornell Block, and his superior officers in the Space Force. Yet doubt made her feel weak. She was certain enough that her university cohort could survive in the wild environment of Evergreen Estates, by himself. But what awaited when she arrived back at the space dock, and New Cleveland or Texas City, was far less certain.

 

She would need to offer a compelling rationale for a rescue mission. Something that seemed unlikely, in view of the controversies involved.

 

At the community of mobile homes in what had once been known as Ohio, Dr. Judson Baines busied himself with chores that related to basic survival. He perched the Digger shuttle on a vacant, concrete slab that was next to the trailer where his great-grandfather lived. Then, he logged into the main computer, and started a program running to scan all available frequencies for communication. He also activated a sensor array, that would warn him if any vessels or land vehicles approached.

 

With these measures in place, he returned to the boxcar dwelling at Lot 13.

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln had been a simple fellow, who by accident rubbed elbows with those of much greater stature and accomplishments. Something that expanded his own field of vision, and made intellectual and spiritual growth a possibility. His arrival at the trailer oasis had come through bad personal decisions. These included being divorced twice, and on numerous occasions, battling the effects of alcoholism. The latter of these challenges proved to be more vexing to handle. So, in the balance he chose to accept drunkenness as a shield from the pervasive gloom of his adopted neighborhood.

 

He was not regarded highly by many individuals who shared residency in the rural development. Yet being left alone was something he took as a sign of respect. It kept him centered and happy. Only the intrusive presence of those who wanted to recruit followers in the area caused him to turn loud, and combative. He was not a joiner, by any means. Not one given to being part of social groups, clubs, or associations.

 

While boiling ears of corn over an open fire, in the evening, Baines read from a journal found in the bedroom closet of his ancestor. It had been written after the initial spark of rebellion that caused their cataclysmic, Great Uprising.

 

“I’m a damn outcast here, which is how I like it! But lately, things have turned more serious. Linn Speck on the corner was sour after his plan to organize citizens of this trash heap failed. He and his homely wife bugged out, on a Larman transport. They’ll be riding with that caravan for a whole freaking year! I can’t imagine spending so much time in a glorified garbage can. But it’s been a lot quieter without him. People are jumpy though, because the MAGA Defense has been marching around with their hero, Aimes Hefti. He’s a rockhead, I think. Stupid, but trainable. Like a breed of dog that can take commands. His instincts are good. He knows how to strategize against the sheriff, police, and FBI agents. They’ve been crawling all over this shithole since the militia activity started. I keep my cool, and try to stay out of anything political. I don’t know how long that’ll work though. Bombs have been going off all around Washington, D.C. and other big cities, east and west. I’ve heard martial law is a possibility. Who’d have thought we might have the military in control, on this continent? It’s a screwed-up proposition. The only thing that keeps me sane is Jack Daniel’s, and occasionally plucking on my flat-top, acoustic guitar...”

 

The geek scholar had to pause while stirring his campfire meal. Silently, he calculated how long it would take for his friend and former partner to cross the distance back to their red homeworld. He figured only a matter of days would need to elapse, once she had reached the colony. Either her gamble would prove to be bold and brave, or instead, it might burn up in the scorching heat of criticism. 

 

Getting a verdict would not require much waiting.

 

His feast of uncultivated maize was less than satisfying, without salt or butter for seasoning. Yet it filled his aching belly. That was enough to sustain him, physically, and emotionally. He drank a glass jar of rainwater, and swirled it around in his mouth to clear away the bland taste. Then, saw a deer leaping through the brush, behind an empty propane tank. Briefly, he pondered retrieving the Ithaca shotgun found earlier, and harvesting this wandering beast for a protein fix. But the violence of such an act made him tremble.

 

He was more likely to vomit, than to gorge himself, after making a kill.

 

With the sunset revealing twinkling stars in the sky, he found an electric torch from the Digger stash. Then sat on the porch steps, and again, began to flip through pages of his progenitor’s notebook.

 

“My estranged daughter lives on the Pacific coast. She doesn’t know me well, but I still think about her, and my grandson. I’ve heard that chaos has taken hold all along the edge of California. Some militia members were jailed, and their supporters formed a posse. Pickup trucks went rolling through downtown Los Angeles. That protest didn’t last, because diesel fuel has been scarce since the mandates for electric propulsion took effect. But the Army has its own store of crude oil. So, they keep moving while regular people have to walk. It’s got the downtrodden masses rising up angry. For a nobody like me here in Buckeye country, that might as well be happening on another planet. It doesn’t affect my daily life. Maybe though, just maybe, it will someday. I can’t be sure of anything now, with this park half empty and dwindling. Everybody wants to go to Mars. But not me! I say fuck that nonsense! I’ll die right here, on this mound of garbage. With a bottle of Tennessee whiskey in my hand! And the pledge of allegiance on my lips...”