Trailer Park Victory - Chapter 1: Stuck

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln had woefully marked 22 years at the Evergreen Estates mobile village, as summer approached in Thompson Township. He was grizzled and gray and socially non-compliant. Someone who preferred to be numb when considering that two decades had passed since his arrival. After reaching that milestone, he began to work even harder on escaping the junkyard pit of gloom, forever. A goal that had been unreachable for so long that it seemed he would take his final breath amid the rusted pickup trucks and prefab shacks of his adopted neighborhood. He scanned real estate listings, and kept watch for any signs of movement in local markets. Yet as fall arrived and then slid toward the seasonal isolation of winter, hope for better days evaporated.

 

With lake-effect snow bombarding the rural development, he crouched on his porch, with layers of clothing, gloves, and Tennessee whiskey providing comfort. Bouts of sunshine lit up the frosty terrain, as a mocking tribute to temperatures that were below the point of freezing. It did little to warm his insides. But he was grateful for the scent of fresh air in his nostrils. Stuck inside, he had only the musty odor of dirty carpet and sheets of wood paneling, long past their prime. Opening the front door was a ritual he cherished. A small step toward fleeing the trashy oasis, forever.

 

With droplets of brown nectar dripping lazily from his beard, he heard a notification chirp. Then another, and another. All vibrating in his shirt pocket, under a Red Kap overcoat, and Realtree camouflage hoodie. When he checked the device, there was a message left by his adviser and sales contact, Judi Yonrak. Her voice squeaked from a voicemail recording, with a lilt of excitement making him sit up straight.

 

“Link! I know you’ve been house hunting for months and years. These times are tough, my friend. There is a place on Sidley Road though, maybe a third bigger than your current trailer. It sits on an acre or two of land. I’ll have to check the official report. My sister had an early Christmas party in Geneva, and I was driving home. Road work forced me to make a detour, up a gravel road and across to Route 166! That was fortuitous though, I spied the manufactured home by accident. It’s not much different than what you’ve got now, but has a lot more privacy. There’d be no more booming, Pop Country tunes coming through your walls. Or residents wandering around, day and night, looking for something to steal...”

 

Even with the chilly air, the cranky hermit felt his cheeks flush red, immediately.

 

“GAWDAMM! THAT SOUNDS A WHOLE LOT BETTER THAN SITTING HERE IN PLYWOOD HELL!”

 

Lincoln had not held a job in eight years, at least. Though his credit score was still decent. He had a savings account that was nearly depleted. And not much else to boast about. A disability award kept him from being hungry, and homeless.

 

After finishing the liquor bottle, and adjusting his trucker hat, he dialed the number for Geauga Realty, Incorporated. Hot breaths made the screen of his cellphone go opaque with fog.

 

“Hey lady, this is yer drunk pal in the boxcar shithole, down by the border with Ashtabula County. Are ya sure this place is still available? Every time I get a bite on the line, somebody else snags it before I can hobble over ta take a look! Don’t bust my balls again, please! I need a ticket out of this black hole, pronto!”

 

His contact had more than two decades of experience as a professional representative. She was polite, well-groomed, and attractive for someone who avoided the spotlight of selling via social media accounts. Her perky, charming nature kept clients attentive.

 

“The monthly payment is probably about what you’re spending right now, to rent that strip of grass and concrete. It’d be a better deal in every way. The only hitch is financing. They are selling it on their own. They don’t have the home listed with me or anyone. I’d guess it will go conventional, you’d need a down payment of some kind...”

 

The reclusive iconoclast had begun to salivate.

 

“FUCK IT! I DON’T CARE WHAT IT TAKES, I’LL GIVE ‘EM MY RIGHT TESTICLE TO GET OUT OF HERE! IT’S A DAMN WONDER I’VE LASTED THIS LONG! BY GOD, THERE’S A VISIT FROM THE SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT ALMOST EVERY OTHER DAY! WE’VE GOT METH-HEADS, STONERS, MILITIA TYPES, AND A HANDFUL OF RELIGIOUS ZEALOTS WHO WANT TA REFORM EVERYBODY! I’M NOT IN ANY OF THOSE GROUPS. I JUST WANT TA GET DRUNK IN PEACE!”

 

Judi snorted and laughed at his honest plea. She scribbled on a notepad, sitting atop paperwork at her office desk.

 

“I’ll do you a favor and drive over there this afternoon. Keep in mind that with no agreement, I don’t make any money. Yet we’ve known each other for a long, long time. I understand how much it would mean to move out of your hovel. Which makes me think, your hillbilly roots are showing! I’ve never heard your vocal twang resound so convincingly...”

 

Lincoln bowed his head, with bubbles of whiskey lingering in the air.

 

“I’d be obliged to ya, ma’am!”

 

When the selling agent revisited her potential score, it looked a bit less appealing than when seen from the roadway. There were blemishes and issues of all sorts. But the basic structure stood strong. It had been maintained by the owner himself, and family members with carpentry skills. The yard was flat and unimproved. A space that had lots of potential. Other than dusty conditions, being situated on an unpaved route, the environment seemed appealing.

 

As she had suspected, a conventional loan was specified. Her alcoholic friend living in a shipping container would need to plunk down $13,000 for the transaction to be completed. Not a ridiculous sum of cash, particularly with market conditions so unfavorable. But she wondered if he would be able to scrape together that many dollars, without some sort of assistance.

 

After meeting with the owner, she sat in her sparkling, Cadillac SUV, parked on the gravel driveway. Her cellular reception was poor, being down the hillside from town, and east of the nearest tower. She could not get a call to go through. So finally, desperation made her embrace an impulsive change of plans.

 

She turned the shiny beast around, and decided to gamble on a face-to-face visit with the cranky oldster. Evergreen Estates was only about a mile around the corner. If she hurried, they could discuss the terms of sale over lunch, at a restaurant on the square. Or, if her buyer was too inebriated, while sitting in the snow, on his rustic porch.

 

Either alternative was bound to produce some kind of fireworks. She hoped that in the end, they could reach an agreement that would pay dividends for everyone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Guitar Man”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

 

In yonder days, when I was a teenager living in New York State, the pursuit of Rock & Roll dreams occupied my thoughts with an obsessive hold that was literally inescapable. Every moment of the day somehow tangentially related to the idea that I would find success as a music poet. The foundation for such projects always involved a guitar of some sort. Most often, out-of-reach plucksters hung up for sale at stores around my home, in the city of Ithaca. I would visit and drool, and ask about payment plans. Which of course mattered little, because I had no regular income, or any desire to submit myself to punching a time clock. This disparity meant that my only tool in the game was a battered, three-quarter scale, no-name Japanese axe. A tonal mess that I originally thought must have been a Teisco, but later identified as an even more pedestrian Kawai product. Made by the company that acquired their name and designs in 1967. My soundpole was tinny, prone to breaking strings, and the subject of much teasing from friends who had ‘real’ guitars made by companies like Fender and Gibson, or better copycats from the Orient. Yet when patched through a homemade amplifier fashioned from a cassette player and a Philco, cathedral radio that had belonged to my great-grandfather, it produced a considerable growl. I had wired an input jack directly to a connection for the tape head, so the mismatch in signals produced a wall of feedback when potted up to full blast.

 

Sadly, nothing I had after that primitive, experimental period ever reproduced the yield of my desperate creativity.

 

Associates in the Empire State who shared my appetite for the public stage owned a variety of their own instruments, all better than my personal prize. One named Judah had a sunburst, Ibanez Les Paul copy, which I borrowed on occasion. The counterfeit Gibbo was solid and played well enough to inspire lawsuits later, over copyright infringement. I enjoyed sessions with that plectrum player in my hands. Another six-string slinger of the same brand was a black, Deluxe 59er, used by my pal David who was a cohort at the local Channel 13 public-access studio. Girlfriend Suze had a red, Fender Bullet, a budget, bottom-end twanger with a thumping resonance. But most notable in that era was our chum Invisible Dick, who possessed a booming, Hagstrom 8-string bass, made in Sweden. An oddball piece to behold, even at that time.

 

I was humbled to be stuck with a music machine of such unremarkable quality. So, when better days arrived and I had the financial foundation to support a bigger stable, I began to buy guitars whenever they appeared. First, this included a blue, Crescendo copy of a teardrop Vox, then a Supro arch-top, in an orange hue, and finally, a Harmony Stratotone H45, because it reminded me of the woody mule used by Brian Jones, in his early period with the Rolling Stones.

 

I bought and bought and bought, until my closets and crawlspaces and knick-knack nooks were all jammed with guitars. But then, came a realization that over time, my chops had diminished. I had arthritis in both hands, and poor circulation. My fingers swelled when trying to hammer out riffs. I could barely manage to compose verses of power-chord glee. Though my writing abilities remained unaffected.

 

If I were more practical, this epiphany would’ve stalled my quest. But instead, despite sober moments of reflection and remorse, I once again started to peruse listings on eBay and other online sites.

 

It was a habit that I could seemingly not unlearn.

 

“Well I quit my job down at the car wash

Left my mama a goodbye note

By sundown I’d left Kingston

With my guitar under my coat

I hitchhiked all the way down to Memphis

Got a room at the YMCA

For the next three weeks I went a hauntin’ them nightclubs

Just lookin’ for a place to play

Well, I thought my pickin’ would set ‘em on fire

But nobody wanted to hire

A guitar man...”

 

Despite being surrounded by these talismans of a bygone self, I hadn’t really practiced in years. Life had taken me on a detour adventure, one fraught with all sorts of challenges and pitfalls. Job losses, divorces, relocations, and disability. In the fray, I had lost touch with this once-important habit. When I did attempt to revisit the craft, a struggle ensued. Though in my head, there were still visions of fantasy. I could hear stanzas of Rock anthems, echoing from those yonder times.

 

The spirit was alive, somewhere. Inspired by masters like Chuck Berry, Link Wray, Keith Richards, Roy Buchanan, and the rest.

 

“Well, I nearly ‘bout starved to death down in Memphis

I run outta money and luck

So I bummed me a ride down to Macon, Georgia

On a overloaded poultry truck

I thumbed on down to Panama City

Started checkin’ out some o’ them all night bars

Hopin’ I could make myself a dollar

Makin’ music on my guitar

I got the same old story at them all night piers

There ain’t no room around here

For a guitar man...”

 

Scrolling through entries on my computer, I saw an assortment of familiar targets. Telecasters, Stratocasters, Mosrite versions, Guilds and Gretsch beauties, and such. Cobbled-together relics from the United Kingdom, Europe, and the old Soviet Bloc. One-off specials, handcrafted, luthier creations, and trashy outliers with wild dimensions, materials, and colors.

 

My search was indefensible, in terms of a meager budget, and plodding performing ability. Yet the vibe once identified as ‘Guitar Acquisition Syndrome’ by author and contact Jay Wright persisted. I could not completely let go of my hunger to have at least one more steed in my stable.

 

“So I slept in the hobo jungles

Roamed a thousand miles of track

Till I found myself in Mobile Alabama

At a club they call Big Jack’s

A little four-piece band was jammin’

So I took my guitar and sat in

I showed ‘em what a band would sound like

With a swingin’ little

Guitar man

Show ‘em son...”

 

Everything I saw was in questionable condition, or overpriced, or both. Several of the Gibson models had cracked necks at the headstock, a familiar malady. Others were missing pickups, tuners, wiring, or guards. But the proliferation of Teisco’s May Queen versions made me pant with lust, a peculiar offering shaped like an artist’s palette. I remembered seeing one at Arrowhead Music, in nearby Mentor, many years ago. Something that at the time, I considered to be a sighting of a holy grail. Now, having been reproduced by the Eastwood company, they were more plentiful. And cheap!

 

I had to log off with my hands shaking. Even in the confined space of a 21^st Century existence, cowered by empty pockets and failing fingers, it was still difficult not to think like a guitar man.

 

Note: Lyrics for ‘Guitar Man’ c. 1967, Jerry Reed

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here - “Frozen Pipes Serenade”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

 

Living in a community of mobile homes is humbling for many reasons. Not the least of which is the stigma attached to such properties by those who dwell in more proper living spaces. Amazingly, friends who exist with a meager amount of support, and others who are more refined culturally and blessed with greater sums of financial wealth, prefer to be stuck in a shoebox somewhere. An apartment or condominium, or perhaps, a luxury high-rise. Many others plant their flag in the suburban soil of a home tract, as part of a neighborhood neatly arranged by developers. They extol the virtues of a real house with a yard and garage. But those of us who live outside of such comfortable, social bubbles, do so in a world charted by sacrifice.

 

I often liken my trailer to having the confined characteristics of a shipping container. And indeed, though it is portable in a literal sense, moving this longbox is not something accomplished so easily as parking a motor vehicle. Wheels would have to be reattached, axles positioned and checked, and a yoke bolted to the front frame section.

 

A neighbor who thought that this chore was none too daunting moved his own domicile, last year during the winter. The result was tragic for him and his brood. Multiple breakdowns along the way to a new site, and finally, a roadgoing flip and structural collapse. This dramatic event made me sad, to see a fellow adventurer suffering. Yet it amused others along my crumbling street, who did not embrace such risky plans with the zeal of a naïve explorer.

 

While I have no particular appetite for such a gamble in my own life, being able to survive frosty months in my prefab structure has proven to be challenging enough. With every dip of the thermometer causing hand-wringing and concern. The worry over icy pipes and a slippery access ramp is persistent. Moreover, being huddled inside, with snow piling up in prodigious quantities, only deepens the misery.

 

Still, none of this represents the frightening prospect of living without water.

 

A recent episode followed the usual curve of weather in northeastern Ohio. We had enjoyed spectacular conditions throughout the fall, long into November. But immediately after Thanksgiving, meteorological experts predicted a drop in the numbers that would have our teeth chattering, and Lake Erie cranking up the ski machine. This pattern manifested itself over a week, with more than five feet of snow being rudely deposited along the northcoast.

 

As a disabled retiree, I knew well to stock up ahead of time. I loaded the kitchen cupboards and stacked cases of water and beer in my living room. Beef smokies were bagged and in the refrigerator. I had bread and pretzels and plenty of canned foods at the ready.

 

A couple of neighbors checked in, to make sure that I was safe and steady throughout this pelting of winter white. One was a young fellow from up the street, a retail worker with a cheerful disposition, and lots of patience for listening to my stories about the world before he was born. The other was a chum who had also battled his way through many years as a decent, honest soul. A person I did not know well, and yet, connected with easily, through respect and shared experiences. In our blue-collar environment.

 

After surviving this brief interlude of isolation, I felt confident about getting through the latter days of our year, and into the pristine pages of a new calendar. But an unexpected wrecking ball shattered that mood of calm, before I could catch my breath.

 

Our water supply at the park, always a subject of much debate because of its unpredictable nature and poor quality, failed around four o’clock in the morning.

 

Temperatures were already in the teens when this dreaded event occurred. I had prepared by leaving a faucet partially open in my bathtub. A trick learned some 22 years earlier, from a veteran of the development. But with the flow of crystal liquid interrupted, suddenly, I was powerless to defend my home. Excuses multiplied before any corrective action was taken. Our park manager was sidelined by some undetermined ailment. We did not have anyone on the staff with enough knowledge to work at the wellhouse. Manned hours at the office were already cut short, due to hiring issues.

 

It took more than a dozen hours before anything happened. Though the sound of bitching and moaning must have been audible, all the way to Canada.

 

When our service was restored, I still had no water. At least four of us shared that delay. While sitting idle, the in-ground hydrants had frozen. Some, even with a liberal amount of heat tape wrapping the mechanisms up, like a counterculture Christmas present.

 

Lots of cursing followed. And many posts in our online, Facebook groups.

 

“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS! EVERY YEAR IT HAPPENS! EVERY DAMNED YEAR!”

 

I did not vocalize my woes, having long ago learned that spouting off verbally usually made no difference. But I did connect with fellow residents, to stay informed. And, while dryly swaddled in extra blankets, indoors, I pondered that my paternal grandparents had lived in an old farmhouse, southeast of Columbus, which never had plumbing or pipes, or a heating system installed. They used a kerosene heater, and wore their coats throughout the blustery months. Such sturdy folk were able to brave harsh conditions with a grin and a nod to circumstance. But for me, the yield was different. Four or five days without this familiar convenience turned me into a quivering mass of jelly.

 

I could barely eat or sleep or even sit at my desk. Every thought turned to my plight. While feeling stalled and surly, cranky and crabby. Knocked off the rails by having to live like my progenitors.

 

Amid the uncertainty of being denied this comfort, I ordered pizza delivery and drank Miller beer. A stray feline that had adopted my homestead as her own waystation kept me occupied and amused. I tried to watch shows on my flatscreen display, yet couldn’t stay interested for long. My concentration skills had been busted.

 

In a sense, I was actually living off-the-grid. Something that a sturdier individual might boast about, in a tell-all memoir, or a novel. I should have met my fate more graciously. But many aluminum cylinders of High Life brew tipped me into a chasm of oblivion. I fell asleep in sweaty, soiled clothes, with laundry and dished piled everywhere. Then, near the hour of midnight, I had to visit my bathroom. On the way, teetering with both canes, I heard the spray of an open valve.

 

The hooked faucet on my tub was alive again, with a streaming bounty of purified rain!

 

Oddly, in the aftermath of such memorable happenings, everything seems very quiet. And it did indeed, as I started a load in my automatic washer, cleaned dishes at the sink, and then sat with the stray kitty, in a chair by my sofa.

 

Quiet, quiet, quiet.

 

Eventually, my temporary companion had filled her belly with Meow Mix from a Gibson bowl, and lingered in front of the door. She wanted to go on a hunt, after hours. Her emotional support had ended. So, just as I might have done for one of my dogs, I let her out, to wander. I would not see her again until later, the next morning.

 

I checked and rechecked the tub, to make sure that it was still bubbling away. A weather report indicated that our state would find itself back in the 50’s, once the new day had blossomed. Finally, I had pushed my endurance far enough.

 

I fell asleep in my camo hoodie, around two o’clock in the morning. But not before putting my hands together, and whispering a prayer of thanks, for modernity.

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page - "Healthcare Conundrum”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

 

“Assassination: Murder by sudden or secret attack often for political reasons; the act or an instance of assassinating someone (such as a prominent political leader) or public figure. Also, a treacherous destruction of a person’s reputation.”

 

In my rural neighborhood south of the Lake Erie shoreline, no one would ever be said to have fallen to the nefarious act of an assassination. None of my neighbors are notable enough to carry that specific term to the grave. If any of them were to suffer mortal wounds and drop in their tracks, it would be with a description markedly simpler in nature. One that denotes a moment of finality and loss. Perhaps an exit from the realm of living souls over a gambling debt, or a tryst with a married spouse. Even a loud debate over philosophical differences, a drunken episode of misadventure, or the canon of a religious dogma. But certainly not as a toppled celebrity or captain of industry. On the crumbling streets in my community of mobile homes, there are no icons. No gilded citizens dripping with fame and fortune. No world travelers. No egghead scholars or influence peddlers.

 

Those of us on this patch of swampy, Ohio soil are geographically and socially invisible. Not valued by anyone except our kin.

 

Yet when I first heard that the CEO of United Healthcare had been shot down, I felt a personal connection that rattled my senses. Brian Thompson, a man of 50 years who held the status of a controller over this familiar company, was in effect, my provider for health insurance.

 

Like many Americans, I struggled to receive necessary procedures while using benefits provided by my employer. As a salaried manager for an independent Giant Eagle location, my coverage came through the UFCW, known formally the United Food & Commercial Workers International Union. Generally, this protection served my needs well. And made sure that employees under my supervision were represented fairly. But when my family doctor deemed a colonoscopy procedure necessary, due to chronological age and others in my bloodline who had been affected, they balked. The hospital visit was denied. When I called a claims administrator in Cleveland to discuss this refusal directly, a woman on the line literally laughed out loud.

 

“Don’t lie to us about bleeding or anything of the sort. It won’t matter! We aren’t going to pay!”

 

I was stunned by the futility of our conversation. But my uneasiness could not be matched by the silent rage that manifested when I related the incident at my next visit to a clinic in Madison. My regular physician went wide-eyed, and red.

 

“This is so common! I took years of schooling to become a medical professional, and in the end, decisions about care get made by an insurance adjuster, instead!”

 

I tried to ease this dilemma by positing that use of a basic procedure to check for cancer would be less expensive by far than treating the actual affliction. Yet this obvious bit of logic fell flat in the exam room. My healer explained that ultimately, it all came down to numbers on a balance sheet.

 

“Statistically, they figure you are more likely to be clean and clear. That provides a foundation for their reluctance to authorize tests. It is a game of probabilities!”

 

When I became unemployed after a business sale in 2016, the available options through COBRA and the Affordable Care Act were muddled. I ended up being unable to afford coverage, but also coming into the crosshairs of a government fine for not purchasing a plan. The result sent me into a tailspin. I burned through retirement funds, with a penalty being paid for that withdrawal, just to keep a roof over my head. Eventually, I landed on Social Security Disability, and through that status, became eligible for Medicare.

 

When it came time to choose a Part C supplement plan, I had little knowledge about the decision. Friends and members of our brood had varying opinions that offered little insight. So, I finally chose United Healthcare, the provider used by my parents who lived out of state. They were a large firm, known well and familiar to all of the professionals on my treatment team. The colonoscopy that had been treated as controversial and unnecessary, suddenly became routine. I had the procedure and was told that my visit came at a fortuitous moment.

 

I was literally on the brink of developing colon cancer, with 21 polyps that needed to be removed.

 

Accepting a form of government-run healthcare, with a corporate partner, was satisfying in practical terms. Yet it made me experience intellectual vertigo, in view of my own Libertarian bent. I could not escape the thought that I had joined the ranks of socialism. When I posed this rowdy thought to a conservative friend and adviser, she squawked like a soaked hen.

 

“NOT TRUE! NOT TRUE! I WOULD NEVER LET MYSELF BE USED IN A SCHEME LIKE THAT! BITE YOUR TONGUE, MISTER!”

 

After this initial foray into public care, I became numb to the methodology of my own support. Making a small copay every month, and occasionally spending a bit more for special needs along the way, seemed like a fair trade-off for being covered. I paid little attention to the voices of Senator Bernie Sanders or Elizabeth Warren, when they advocated for a detour from private insurance. The mantra of ‘Medicare for all’ did not resonate in my brain. I figured, perhaps with a bit of laziness, that my own condition was unique. Not something that most residents of the nation would seek out for themselves.

 

The assassination of Brian Thompson immediately shattered my mood of willful ignorance, however. As I watched some openly profess sympathy for the alleged shooter, in a language of desperation and vengeance, I turned cold. Many on social media feeds where I was present expressed an open desire to see our entire system of coverage shredded in favor of a national health paradigm. One based on the uniformity of government edicts already used around the civilized world. Some boasted that all of the ills associated with insurance would disappear when the hand of federal authority intervened on their behalf. A claim that sounded optimistic and hopeful, though not necessarily supported by the prevailing evidence. Controlling costs in any environment means rationing care and adjusting guidelines. Those are stubborn facts. I would need more convincing to cement my faith.

 

Still, I was undeniably one who had benefitted from the existence of such a plan. Medicare was medically and metaphorically, my savior. Without it, I would have succumbed to the disease that felled both my father, and a cousin who was on that side of our family.

 

Pondering that the CEO of my health insurer perished in such a violent way has left a yield of raw and befuddling emotions. It will take time to process this event, and the aftermath. But for now, I will simply be grateful for the coverage I have. Something I attribute to the embrace of a loving creator.

 

However flawed, my United Healthcare membership is eminently preferable to cancer.

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Snow Beer”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

 "There's no beer like snow beer!" - T.C.L.

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln had been a resident of Evergreen Estates for so long that most of his neighbors considered him to be a fixture in the community. Someone who, even if socially detached and reclusive, was on friendly terms with almost everyone. Even the religious zealot and agitator Linn Speck begrudgingly gave him a nod when passing, at the wheel of his ratty Japanese sedan. Their intense dislike for each other was founded on having dissimilar outlooks upon the experience of being awake and alive. One thought that each breath came only through obedience and servitude to proscribed moral discipline. The other simply drank beer and whiskey on his porch, while giving thanks in tones of humility.

 

The boozing retiree was simple in expressing his gratitude.

 

“Here’s a toast to whatever! I’m just glad to have the fridge and cupboard stocked up!”

 

They had not actually spoken to each other in several years. Yet each accepted the other as part of the trailer-park continuum. It was the sort of détente that once kept America and the old Soviet Union from blasting each other into cosmic bits with nuclear weapons. Not noble or grounded in goodwill, perhaps, but practical and effective.

 

Lincoln had long ago established a household routine that was shaped by his dependence on beverage alcohol. He would rise early in the morning, relieve himself quickly due to having fallen asleep drunk, and then make coffee. Morning news from a Cleveland TV station usually accompanied this routine, or if in season, reports about the local NFL franchise provided by a sports-radio outlet. Then, he would putter through household chores, and attempt to type out some sort of creative document, through an evocation of keyboard magic.

 

The result, positive or negative, typically set his mood for the rest of the day.

 

Somewhere in the afternoon, dictated by the season and length of daytime hours, he would adjourn to his front porch. This inset cubicle was about eight-feet, square. An open side that faced the street made his presence visible to other residents of the park. Many waved cheerfully while passing. Others simply averted their eyes in a show of disinterest. Yet everyone contributed emotional energy in some fashion.

 

For the old hermit, it was a daily affirmation. One which he needed to stay centered and on balance.

 

The only note of discord in this experience would come during winter months. As Lincoln pursued his regimen of revitalization, he would inevitably post photographs on social media. Stupid and innocuous images of his progressing inebriation, with mounds of snow piled around an improvised throne, a wooden bench made from scrap lumber. He took particular pride in positioning cans and bottles of beer in this white wealth of frostiness. And that defiant act would unleash comments that were sometimes abrasive and always confrontational.

 

Bertrand Biel, an associate from decades earlier who lived in the Finger Lakes Region of New York, would ping his cell phone with jabs of a barbed nature.

 

“What the hell, Link? Anybody with common sense has a mug of hot cocoa when in temperatures like we are feeling, right now. Maybe even coffee, tea or a carry-out, restaurant bowl of soup! But not you! Shit, your insides must be quivering! Swilling down cold suds while out in the elements? What’s wrong with your brain? Has your gray matter turned to a pulpy mush, like cornmeal? You’re a dumbass, dude! A complete dumbass!”

 

The arthritic loner hadn’t kept in touch with Bertrand for decades. So, his messages always had a particular amount of impact. He would shake off the vibe though, like a dog shedding rainwater. And then reply with a photo of Miller High Life or some other working-class brew snuggled in a blanket of nasty precipitation.

 

“I like to guzzle and watch the snow come down! That’s the good side of retirement, I got nothing to do and nowhere to go!”

 

His Empire State contact would typically become enraged by this reaction of indifference.

 

“It just ain’t natural, Link! C’mon now, you know I’m right! Your brittle bones must be aching. What is it, about 20 degrees out there right now? I’d rather be inside with a hot toddy and a fire in my wood stove! You’re a nut! No wonder you don’t have any friends! They must snicker when passing the end of your driveway. It’s a gawdamm shame!”

 

Eventually, Lincoln would grow tired of being pilloried. Yet his fatigue never spilled over into anger or resentment. When he reacted, it was with a metaphorical shrug.

 

His current defense rested on sharing kinship with others along their truncated, rural boulevard.

 

“Maybe they do, who knows? But this week, two different neighbors helped shovel me out. I got down to the corner store in between bursts of the white dread. That let me stack up a few 30-racks of High Life, and some beef smokies. I was grateful...”

 

Bertrand must have been hopping up and down in front of his sofa. The tone of his texts sharpened considerably.

 

“What did I say before? You’re a dumbass! And those hicks must be pretty dumb as well, to help you out just so you can sit there and freeze! I’ll bet you piss your pants! And probably get the flu or COVID or something worse! What an idiot! I can’t believe we were ever friends! You actually went to college in Pittsburgh? Fuck, how was that possible? You’re amazing dude, just amazing!”

 

The quiet iconoclast had reached a personal limit of endurance. He switched his cellular device to silent mode. Notifications continued to register in a noiseless stream of indignation.

 

“Have a good one, Buddy Biel. I’m about to get blitzed. It’s time for some lubrication!”

 

A half-bottle of Jack Daniel’s was waiting, just inside of the front door. He procured it from a shelf in his entertainment center. Then, twisted off the cap and tilted the container upright until its brown contents set his throat on fire. His eyes watered slightly, in the aftermath.

 

“Thanks be to you, Tennessee Jack! I needed that burn!”

 

Now, the world surrounding his mobile home appeared blurry, and pale. A bleak landscape of washed-out colors and dormant nature. Soon, he would fall asleep in his spot. So, with effort, he crawled back inside the prefabricated hovel. In passing, he placed the phone on an arm of his recliner before heading off to bed. Sentences offered in capital letters still crowded the rectangular screen. But he couldn’t see them clearly. By feeling his way along the hall, he reached the front bedroom. And his worn mattress, layered with threadbare comforters. Then, oblivion engulfed him mercifully.

 

Another solar cycle at the junkyard oasis had come to an end. Now, he was ready to find absolution, and rest.

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Friendly Flannel”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

 

The holiday season typically evokes gentle memories from past years. Most often, of Christmas celebrations or other family gatherings where a spirit of kinship made me feel emotionally warm and included. But most recently, as snow began to fall in my rural neighborhood and Thanksgiving arrived, I flashed on a personal recollection that did not involve such familiar rituals, directly. Instead, this historical footnote was connected to a gift given benevolently by friends, as I was sorting out my life in the Finger Lakes community of Ithaca, New York.

 

I had lived in that lively burgh for five years, because my father’s ministry brought him to the Church of Christ on North Cayuga Street. After serving an apprenticeship at the local cable television provider, through Cornell University, I drifted both emotionally and philosophically. Parishioners and members of the family tried to offer guidance and encouragement as I languished in futility. Yet with a teenaged perspective on reality, I did not think clearly or with much conviction. I went to concerts, drank with cohorts from Channel 13, drew illustrations and wrote lyrics, while eschewing any actual forward motion.

 

I had a jones for Rock stardom, which was both ridiculous and common among my peers.

 

Eventually, the clock ran out on this unsustainable lifestyle. I recorded a vinyl single with bandmates from Corning and Elmira, including a brother of designer Tommy Hilfiger, but it failed to produce a lasting artistic partnership. Or a dependable income. Chums from that failed project continued to keep me focused on irrational dreams of grandeur. And I willingly slipped into that vast sea of self-delusion. When by chance, one of my motorcycle stories was published in the summer of 1983, by a national magazine based in California, it came as a bonus prize. I still thought that with enough time invested, there would be a rollicking reward for my efforts to develop a persona worthy of taking to the stage.

 

Around May, my father announced that our brood was being relocated, to a new faith community in northeastern Ohio. A place with which I was totally unfamiliar, despite being a native of Columbus. This unexpected report sent me reeling. When my younger brother pilfered and ruined a studio cassette of live takes, which had been recorded as I was working on the 45-RPM offering with Absolute Zero, that provided the spark for my exit.

 

I was 21 years old by then, unemployed, broke, and socially awkward. But somehow, I found mature friends outside of the city who were willing to give me temporary status as a household guest. I had no means of support, and was unskilled at navigating the world beyond my own ecosystem. Moreover, I had begun to flirt with the idea of stardom and death as a noble concept. To negate the child I was, a product of Appalachian culture and religious dogma, seemed oddly appealing. I wanted to find myself, somewhere, anywhere. This notion that I could escape the image in my mirror was of course, a fool’s errand. But I scribbled out versions of my future self. Punk, New Wave, even Country. Biker, Boozer, or any sort of imaginary creation. I wanted to die and be reborn as something better than a bumbling novice with a Japanese guitar. Playing roles, like an actor, piqued my interest.

 

I used to tell people who would listen that, “It is so boring to only be one person!”

 

As the season changed to fall and then winter, I sometimes lived with a friend-of-a-girlfriend, while alternately staying under a bridge in our community. Someone who indulged my art and naïve perceptions. As we grew closer, I spoke of marriage and pooling our fortunes. She was a decade older, had a young son, and was more skilled at enduring the pitfalls of an urban existence. We drank gallons of wine, smoked weed, and babbled about Andy Warhol and his flock of like-minded malcontents. At some point, she had known members of the 70’s group, Orleans. And even seen Janis Joplin perform a show. Meanwhile, our neighbors downstairs seemed to be selling drugs. I saw expensive cars of all sorts pull up to the curb, exchange greetings through gapped windows, and then disappear with no obvious cause in effect.

 

It was a reckless streak of gambling that could not last. And it didn’t. She eventually hopped on a plane with her kid, headed back to the Pacific coast.

 

At some point in that heady experience, my primary benefactors had noticed that I had little in the way of clothes. A few T-shirts, two pairs of blue jeans, and a leather jacket. They must have guessed that wandering the streets of town with temperatures falling precipitously would be a challenging experience. Their remedy was simple, and welcome. From a closet in their farmhouse, a flannel garment of uncertain vintage appeared. It had a few moth holes, and was missing a button or two, along the front. Yet this frayed artifact kept me insulated, as I bounced from one venue to another, chasing ghosts.

 

When the end of my experiment finally arrived, during a frosty week in December, I wore it all the way back to Geauga County, near Lake Erie. My co-host from the TV crew provided transportation. I drank Jack Daniel’s and burned through Camel cigarettes, all the way to my origin point, the Midwestern land of Buckeye heritage. A place that I never, ever, wanted to see again. The flannel shirt was still draped over my angular shoulders as I went to work at a wholesale warehouse, in Cleveland. I wore it every day. Even on weekends when I was free from this gainful routine.

 

In modern times, I cannot name any of the Christmas presents offered during that healing moment of resurrection. I remember little, day-to-day. Other than a cold-turkey withdrawal from my whiskey habit, and puffing on smokes to stay vigilant in rebuilding the existence that I had so cheerfully destroyed. Eventually, I was discharged during a probationary period, by the employer where I first landed. A subsequent stop involved joining a remodel crew at a department store near my home. This swap meant I earned less money, but also used less fuel every day, and was able to interact with fellow employees from where I lived. A reasonable exchange, in the long run.

 

Around two years later I stopped wearing the gifted item, in favor of a sweatshirt colored with a bold swath of orange. One that showed pride in the local NFL franchise, founded by Coach Paul Brown. The flannel garment was relegated to hanging in a free-standing, metal enclosure. A movable clothes-press, bought at Sears & Roebuck many years before.

 

In a sense, it had come full-circle. Just as I had also returned to the purer self of yonder days.

 

Now, with winds whipping across the lake, and winter wrath providing a blustery retort to the campfire celebrations that went before, I find myself huddled at the keyboard. Memories are strong when distractions are few. But the mood inspired by my keepsake from New York will linger, for an eternity, to come.

 

That gift of love, in principle, still endures.