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.
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