Trailer Park Victory Chapter 4: Landslide

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

When Townshend Carr Lincoln awakened, around three o’clock in the morning, his bladder was crying out for relief. He had passed out on the sofa still wearing his regular clothes, work boots, and baseball cap. In a pattern typical for Ohio, the weather had become unseasonably mild. So, despite leaving the front door standing open, it was not too cold inside of his trailer. He could see lights flashing through a window behind the television. There was some sort of commotion in the street. Not an outburst of violence or protest against the park management, but instead, a joyful celebration. He could hear voices raised in a drunken chant.

 

“LANDSLIDE! LANDSLIDE! LANDSLIDE!”

 

The disabled loner felt somewhat confused. But when he went outside for a better view of the neighborhood, the context became clearer. There was a parade of pickup trucks carrying residents in their beds, and bellowing diesel smoke into the air. Cheap beer flew like a shower of raindrops. Horns honked and guns barked with a unanimous report of expended ammunition.

 

“LANDSLIDE!!!!!!”

 

Still feeling groggy and hung over from many rounds of hard liquor, he turned on the flatscreen receiver next to his recliner. An announcer from CNN appeared on the display, chattering excitedly about election results. Her breathy, befuddled demeanor betrayed a sense of complete disbelief. She looked like a storm survivor, with a wrinkled blouse, messy hair, and a gaunt expression of loss.

 

“This is Deena Dodderidge in Washington. We have to report to you that it appears our controversial, 45^th president, Donald J. Trump, has now amassed enough votes in the Electoral College to become our next chief executive. A win over the failed Democratic party candidate, Kamala Harris...”

 

Shotgun shells were exploding everywhere. Firecrackers rattled loose panes up and down the rural boulevard. Linn Speck, an organizer and agitator who lived on the corner, had his bullhorn cranked up to full volume. His angled lot was crowded with revelers. They had parked in a crazy formation that stretched from the maintenance garage, nearby, to a cluster situated along the edge of his yard. Muddy ruts were already deep in the wet grass. Empty bottles and cans were strewn around the property. Fists pumped wildly, in a vertical show of force. The Gadsden flag, and Confederate banners, waved with populist pride.

 

“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”

 

Lincoln could barely see to find his cupboard by the broken dishwasher. Yet felt his way down the row of cabinets, until reaching the spot where more bottles of bourbon and assorted whiskies were stored. He found a giant jug of Evan Williams Bottled-in-Bond, twisted at the stopper, and force-fed himself a triple shot of the spiritous delight. A fiery wash of the liquid made his eyes snap open. He coughed and spit as the burn savaged his throat. Sweat beaded on his brow. Then, he felt more able to face the reality of still being part of the Evergreen Estates continuum.

 

In a hoodie pocket half-full of crumbs and lint, his cell phone began to ring. The caller ID indicated that a second cousin from Cleveland had dialed his number. Something he guessed must have been a mistake. Yet when he answered, the tone of her voice hit his ear like an arrow’s tip.

 

Libby Raal, who wrote sometimes for the Plain Dealer newspaper, could barely contain her emotional breakdown. She was sobbing and gasping and blubbering, all at the same time. Tears dripped from both eyes, and the piercings in her nose.

 

“HE WON! HE WON! THAT ORANGE NEMESIS IS GOING BACK TO THE WHITE HOUSE! HOW IN THE WISE CRONE’S NAME COULD THAT HAPPEN? TELL ME LINK! HOW COULD THAT HAPPEN?”

 

Her distant relative had already numbed himself with the Kentucky booze. But tried to sound attentive.

 

“Sorry Cuz, you know I don’t give a shit about any of that. Ya just spent four years complaining that yer man in charge wasn’t progressive enough. Will ya miss him that much?”

 

Libby was literally shaking. Her neck tattoos were swelled from a rush of blood flow.

 

“MISS HIM? WITH HITLER JUNIOR IN COMMAND, OF COURSE I’LL MISS HIM! ARE YOU NUTS? THIS IS THE END OF OUR DEMOCRACY! THE END OF AMERICA! THE END OF EVERYTHING!”

 

Lincoln wished for a Camel shorty. But had quit smoking many years ago.

 

“Personally, I think it’s all horse dung. Bankers and lobbyists run the show. Ya never figured that out? C’mon, Cuz. It’s a matter of who gets the graft fer four years. Nobody really chooses their leadership, it’s a shell game. Look at the Cheney family, they feed on endless war and stroking the defense contractors. Who did they support? Yer candidate, right? Did that give ya the willies? Nah, it was a no-brainer fer a lot of people. They just pulled the lever anyway. The merry-go-round kept spinning...”

 

The Cuyahoga-County journalist seethed with discontent. She wanted to vomit over the phone connection.

 

“NO, NO, NO, NO! YOU CAN’T BE THAT CALLOUS! IT ISN’T POSSIBLE! DON’T TELL ME YOU VOTED LIBERTARIAN AGAIN! YOU”RE SMARTER THAN THAT, LINK! TOO SMART TO WASTE YOUR VOTE ON A PIPE DREAM FANTASY! YOU DON’T WASTE YOUR CITIZENSHIP!”

 

Her genetic counterpart yawned loudly while taking another hit of liquor.

 

“I’s all a damn puppet show. Ain’t ya sussed that out? Lots of talk and very little action. Nothing matters, nobody matters. Did ya see how that CEO of United Healthcare got snuffed? Who’s crying over that hit? Yeah it was shocking, but then again, people get shot every day in the big cities. Just not people who matter. Would there be a gawdamm riot if I took a bullet? Ya can bet it’d be on the back page of yer paper, if it got covered at all...”

 

Libby rattled her rainbow bangles, while gesturing with arms spread wide.

 

“NO, NO, NO, NO! I won’t accept that! This is a free country! We all matter! Black lives, trans lives, gay lives, poor lives, homeless lives, every life!”

 

Lincoln had taken a seat on his wooden bench. As he watched, the caravan of MAGA disciples continued to circle around their development.

 

“All I know is that the natives out here in my township are restless right now. Damn, they’re having one hell of a party! Bud Light is running in the street! There’s confetti made from shredded bulletins about our piss water and rent increases. Ya think anybody is shaking in their boots? Nah, they’re excited about getting Big Don back in the Oval Office. He’ll be ordering McDonald’s fer Vance, Elon, Vivek, RFK Jr., and the whole frigging crew. Four more years is their mantra. Four more years! Which reminds me, I lost out on that house at the junction of Sidley Road. So, I guess it’s four more years fer me too, in this garbage dump, if I live that long!”