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.
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