“Last Day”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

The last day of this year has arrived

And with it, a repentance, new goals revived

Bearing witness to a journey, completed

On the field of play, rightly ceded

To the victor go spoils and accolades

While hopeful hearts swell, and glow with faith

There is no tearful grief to bear

There’ll soon be a reset with the sunrise, somewhere

Somewhere...

 

A billion years of cosmic change

Have not dimmed the sheen of fates, rearranged

There remains a turn, wisely taken

A roll of the dice, once they are shaken

Held in hand, for a momentary pause

Before being loosed upon the world from those clutching claws

Let them rattle, fall and slip

Their dotted sides predicting a trip

Predicting a trip...

 

Into the next round of calendar pages

Another binder of blocks, printed for the ages

Will be hung smartly on the homestead wall

By sounders and seekers who take stock of it all

Though the round-robin spin propels this ride

There is no injustice in swimming with the tide

The creator put this orb in place

And now our part is to watch and wait

Watch and wait...

 

On this day, we drink and dance

Celebrating our delivery from circumstance

A final review of what occurred

Sung to a melody with the written word

Sparkling wine and treats galore

All procured with purpose, from the corner store

They’ll keep us tickled and teased tonight

Until we go to bed, long after midnight

After midnight...

 

Some choose to reflect on friends farewelled

While others stand before the wishing well

But as for me, I’ll remain the same

Nothing lost, and nothing gained

I could easily put a pen to the ledger

And jot down entries from the edge of forever

But that task is one I’ve decided to shirk

It is not my assignment, to accept this work

To accept this work...

 

Among the stars that crest dark skies

Are faces of friends who have hollowed, inside

Their memories are sharp on a night, cold and crisp

When we bid our adieu, at the rim of this cliff

But once the New Year is rung into life

There’ll be a joyful swing to the coming of daylight

No ending may rise, without a beginning

It is written that a new earth will be gifted and giving

Gifted and giving...

 

Don’t think me a fool, for accepting this tale

Just because I was taught by those wiser, yet frail

Their gray heads carry a kind of revelation

That serves well as a chart for thought and speculation

A rube might consider himself to be smart

An untalented painter, a master of art

But my take as a whole is founded on time

What the heavens reveal, will be infinitely fine

Infinitely fine...

 

With the turning of a rock at this point in our space

We thrive on breaths, begotten by grace

It is our prize, if we see it as such

This flickering flame, this ebullient rush

It is customary to mark our changing of guards

With fireworks and champagne, and a reading of cards

But most important, among every decree

Is a moment of silence, in honor of eternity

In honor of eternity...

 

Last day of the year, an echo begun

When this segment of chronology was yearning and young

We’ve glanced at our wrists, to see the display

Of hands pointing out, what led us astray

Yet now, at this final flip of the hour to zero

We will behold the birth of another tomorrow

Swaddled in frost and garnished with white

A whisper of wonder, by candlelight

By candlelight...

 

Auld Lang Syne, we lift up this prayer

To ghosts of goners who vanished into nowhere

In memories they linger, cherished and kept

An essence of meaning that we may protect

Each peal of thunder represents a cheer

Like the exit of a number from the name of a year

Out with the old, this is the prescription

In with the new, we welcome juxtaposition

Welcome...

 

Never again will this 12-month ellipse

Live in entirety, it has been erased and eclipsed

We surrender the knowledge that made us feel safe

And move forward to confront a revision of the race

Running with the stamina of wolves on the hunt

Fleeing the pursuit of wild waves along the lakefront

Our cause is just, in it we believe

A full restoration, is what we’ll receive

What we’ll receive...

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 25: Minefield

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

Even on a good day at Evergreen Estates, there were always causes for concern. The very nature of those living within its borders was defined by existing under conditions that most citizens of the outside world would find to be primitive, at best. Additionally, over a chaotic progression from one ownership group to the next, certain habits had been maintained. There was always a bullying attitude from supervisors. And from contractors linked to the rural property, such as the metering service that tracked water usage to generate extra income. Whether at home or away, residents were never treated with the measure of respect that was common elsewhere. They were presumed to be naïve, unsophisticated, boorish, crude, and dumb. Cheating them, in the eyes of those who inhabited better levels of the social order, seemed proper. Perhaps, even deserved. This prevailing paradigm had hardened the mindset of leaseholders, over many years. Therefore, they were not only suspicious of strangers, but also lacking in trust for institutions normally thought to be stable and secure. Only one advocate dependably held sway within the park. The 45^th and 47^th President of our United States.

 

I had lived at Lot 13 for so long that none of this felt odd or unusual. My senses had been dulled over the past 20 years and more, as a spectator to this sad parade. So, while staying somewhat isolated from others in my development, I had still been stained by association. Marked forever as someone who had fallen from the gracious realm of greater humanity. Though I did not think or behave as neighbors did, or yearn to be one of them, my identity was now erased. I could not hope to find absolution, again. Damnation of an everlasting sort was my inheritance. Goodness and light, and the tingle of joy upon waking each morning, had all vanished from my slab of rented concrete.

 

I was persistently drunk, and forever drowning in a vast sea of excrement. Anything else was a fantasy that I could no longer imagine. Yet this perspective was relatively calm when compared to the outlook held by members of our local militia. Their seething rage was perpetually set on a boil, despite being isolated and relatively anonymous. Firearms and regimentation gave them a momentary taste of being powerful, within the community perimeter. But this surge never lasted for long. It was not unlike gambling at a grand casino. The house, as it has been said, always wins. And my compatriots in the pines were losers of a lamentable sort. Yielding their money, relationships, freedom, and dignity, on demand. While serving as the butt of jokes for wealthy and privileged individuals, who never had to endure living in a longbox home.

 

The Proletariat Property Co-op carried intentions that were arguably noble, and just. Yet by entering the bubble of our trailer village, they had provided something else. Specifically, a target, for those who needed to vent their anger. These unfamiliar invaders were freakish and fallible. Unwisely wedded to a mode of thinking that was unwelcome in places such as the heartland. Their tilt toward the fringe did not resonate on our cracked and crumbling streets. Their embrace of a new order challenged the old one, still very much in effect.

 

I thought about these things, while huddled in my living room. A cramped space full of moving boxes, useless furnishings, and collected items that no longer held any sentimental value. The outside temperature had turned inhospitable, once again. Strong winds made this meteorological shift even harder to survive. I sat with the interior door standing ajar, and watched as icy crystals obscured the outside panes of glass, on its twin.

 

Plodding footsteps thudded in the snow, atop my access ramp. Then, a knock on the exterior wall made me jump in my seat.

 

“MR. LINCOLN? THIS IS THE SHERIFF! MAY I COME INSIDE, SIR?”

 

I was flustered and clumsy. Both arms of the vintage, waiting-room chair creaked as I tried to stand. Then, I surrendered and fell back into my spot.

 

“Yeah, it’s all good. I never lock up at night anymore. Especially in the winter, that door swells and gets jammed...”

 

Tom T. Rath was a big fellow. Gregarious and gifted with a generous girth. He kept his appearance neat and professional. Except for a wiry mustache that seemed to harken backward to earlier generations. After removing his Stetson, he bowed slightly, and held it by the brim.

 

“Old man, there’s a storm brewing here. And I don’t mean the lake-effect precip we’re getting, right now. I’ve been receiving calls from your on-site manager almost every day. She’s up in arms about an illegal rent strike. Her solution is what you might imagine, namely, me and my deputies running the instigators out of this park. That alone would be a tall order, because her number of violations is over 100 at the present. But when I contacted the owners at their offices in New York, I heard them sing a different tune. Nobody there wants a mass eviction. It’s a standoff like I’ve never seen before. But more than that, I’ve been hearing rumors about a different kind of takeover. One that would involve breaking-and-entering at the office, kidnapping, and a little revolution right here in this township. This development is at the point of being turned into a minefield! What I want to learn is, how much do you know about it, and what would you advise me to do in response?”

 

I sat my bourbon tumbler aside. His candid query was completely unexpected.

 

“You want to hear my opinion, sheriff?”

 

Rath nodded and fiddled with his uniform accessory.

 

“Link, we’ve both been in this area for a long time. You more than me, but each of us knows how things roll around here, this is a special kind of neighborhood. I’ve always done my best to handle events on this patch of dirt with care. But what is about to happen turns my stomach. There’ll be a dogfight between residents and my men, and the crew running this place. Meanwhile, we’ll have the press snooping with cameras and microphones. I don’t need that nonsense, you don’t need it, and the owners don’t need it! So, what can I do?”

 

I had to take a deep breath before answering. Then, my face turned pale.

 

“You want the truth, sheriff? The hard-core, God’s honest truth?”

 

He bowed more dramatically, and nodded again.

 

“Yes I do. Give it to me straight!”

 

I rubbed my eyes and then closed them in a gesture of contemplation.

 

“Call Wells Fargo. They effed up selling this place to a bunch of university kids. I’ll bet none of them have ever been to a district like Geauga County. They need a reality check. And more than that, they need to sign this dump back over to the bankers, and then get the hell out of Ohio! Out, out, out!”

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 24: Publicity

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

At Evergreen Estates, I had always been an outcast. Which, in a community populated by those who were unable or unwilling to live according to the mores of regular society, was a noteworthy achievement. I had no place to exist in comfort, even among those shunned and banished from everywhere else. It meant that I regularly went days or weeks without directly encountering another human being. Though in truth, granting that charitable designation to anyone in my rural neighborhood was something that most outsiders would never do as a matter of course.

 

We were not considered to be human by any mainstream mode of thinking.

 

Reading daily issues of the Cleveland Plain Dealer kept me connected, in a sense. But as I perused this journal for reports about crime and construction projects, and sports scores, a bold headline caught my attention. One that was obviously intended to attract interest from those still attached to the vintage habit of digesting print material from a newspaper. It made me sit up straight, at the kitchen table. And adjust my reading glasses for a more perfect view.

 

“NEW YORK ENTREPRENEURS SAY THAT THE TAG OF SOCIALISM HAS HURT THEIR CAUSE – THEY HAVE NOT BEEN WELCOMED BY THE GENTLE POPULATION OF GEAUGA COUNTY.”

 

My coffee had begun to cool while thumbing through pages of material. Yet now, my head had cleared. I crouched over the article, and frowned slightly. Its author was someone I did not recognize. But immediately, quotes included in her piece resonated with authenticity.

 

“Thompson Township – Pastor Cabriel Forester of a respected, local institution called ‘Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven’ says that he and his flock have long prayed for help, on behalf of underprivileged residents at a trailer park down the hill from his parish. Yet now, when assistance has arrived, he finds that many among his followers refuse to accept the terms involved. They fear being corrupted by outsiders who do not share their Christian faith, or conservative values. This has meant that a chance to join in an alternative credit union, and have their properties protected, seems not so much like a blessing, but instead, a temptation to embrace the ruinous rot of a 1960s revolution, still in existence...”

 

The byline was for a staff member named Kelli Ann Psenka. I could not recall seeing any of her work in the paper, before. But knew that the entire industry was in flux. Corporate supervision for such publications was changing rapidly, just as in the realm of mobile-home villages. I reckoned that the woman might actually be at a desk in Chicago, or Indianapolis, Buffalo, or Pittsburgh. Still, her slant on the story held my interest. So, I continued to scan the feature for enlightenment.

 

“The Proletariat Property Co-op is a firm founded in 1969 by students at Cornell University. Their stated mission is to empower owners of manufactured homes, on rented lots, to achieve goals that were once thought to be virtually impossible for people at a lower income level. They are a cooperative with unique guidelines, not the sort found anywhere else among bankers or other lending institutions...”

 

I had to rub my eyes. The caffeine intake had failed to erase leftover fatigue that still dogged my consciousness. I yawned slightly while tracing down through the column of text with my index finger. The tone used to depict our new owners seemed oddly charitable. Yet I guessed that at least some of those in charge at the paper must have sympathized with the PPC founders.

 

“Pastor Forester says that when the origin of those instigating this takeover was discussed with his congregation, many were outraged that the group originally responsible had been active in pursuing social reforms during the era of our involvement in Vietnam. Praise for Karl Marx and Friederich Engels was common among those enrolled at universities across America, at the time. This populist outlook was translated into a plan where all shareholders in the student co-op were and are considered equal. Those who lack financial wealth or other assets are able to contribute their labor hours to the collaboration. This gives everyone a stake in their success. It also means that instead of legal actions and evictions, those facing hardship are offered solutions that preserve their homes and their rights. It is a novel idea that has never caught on with a majority in the industry. But now that Mayor Zohran Mamdani has been elected in New York City, and other progressive officeholders are coming to the fore, one can rightly observe that there may be more interest in looking at this resident-friendly business plan, going forward...”

 

I knew that there had to be some sort of a contrarian viewpoint, included for perspective and a sense of balance. In the last paragraph, I found that note of dissent.

 

“Local citizens are not happy about the new owners, however. A rent strike at the trailer development in Thompson has stalled the implementation of new procedures, while things are sorted out on-site. Manager Dana Alvarez indicated that only three people, out of over 170 individuals and families, have paid their monthly bill. This has raised eyebrows at Wells Fargo, where much joy had been expressed over getting Evergreen Estates off their books. There is some concern that Governor Mark Moerlein may have to take action, to prevent chaos at the park. But for at least one, long-term inhabitant, there is no cause for alarm. Widow Maylene Jefka, who has lived in the area for over 70 years, says it does not affect her outlook on being in the community. ‘All of my friends are here! My children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren! Why would I go anywhere else?”

 

I could hear some sort of a disturbance outside, after finishing the article. Upon going to the front porch, with some difficulty, I saw that Aimes Hefti and a small mob of militia members had gathered around the longbox dwelling of my esteemed neighbor. One of the rowdy bunch had painted graffiti on her empty driveway. A crude rendition of the hammer & sickle logo used by sympathizers for neo-communist organizations, worldwide.

 

My stance was wobbly even with both canes on the ground. But I raised one of my implements in a show of force. The occasions when I was vocal on my street were rare. I never liked to attract attention to myself. Yet now, I had to stand and be heard.

 

“HEY COMMANDO! GRANNY MAY IS OFF LIMITS, YOU DUMB SON-OF-A-BITCH! NOBODY MESSES WITH HER! YOU WANT SHERIFF RATH OUT HERE, CHEWING ON YOUR ASS? THAT’LL DO IT! TAKE YOUR GANG OF HILLBILLY THUGS AND GO HOME! DON’T MAKE ME DIALL 911, I’M NOT IN A MOOD FOR YOUR BULLSHIT! GET THE EFF OUT OF HERE, PRONTO!”

“Fishtail”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

Trying to remember

Trying diligently, to recall

A character from my own antiquity

A cartoonish chuffer

Drawn from nothing at all

A magazine creation

Written for California consumption

For bikers on the west coast, who I hoped would receive

My imaginary protagonist, gratefully

I called him Fishtail Redman

A fellow of generous stature and girth

A burly bomber, like no other

Known to spit and curse

Indigenous in the blood

A vagabond, dipped in motor oil, and mud

Riding a greasy motorcycle, built from castoff, garage spares

Barbed wire and bare bolts, everywhere

And he of a humble birth

Cherished its meager worth

A kickstart, upstart

Whom I fashioned from the ether

A potent, literary vapor

Leftover, after reading tales penned by seasoned sots

Who imagined themselves to be what they were not

Hemingway, reincarnated

The pages of my youth, populated

By such wild prose

Naked and blunt, and rendered like pork fat from a roasted pig

Dripping into the fire

Each word charred with authenticity and purpose

As it met the nubile flesh of my brain

I was too young to bear witness

A low-riding loser, of few miles and fewer inhibitions

Daring to imagine

Traveling lonely, two-lane routes between one city and the next

A phantom in the flesh

I chalked up this image on the side of a barn

Drunk on Wild Irish Rose

Bought with dollar bills found along the sidewalk in Collegetown

A chance inheritance

A gift gotten from an unknown god

The cloudy, clairvoyant essence of that chemical fruit

Seeped into the crevices

Where my creation was lacking fullness

It gave me the talent

I did not possess

Stumbling sideways, down the hill from Cornell

A stain on the concrete, where I fell

I lay exposed and numb

Bruised and bleeding

Yet no longer needing

To study the existence of a misanthropic bum

This is what I had become

For only a moment, in the mind, of course

Long enough to scribble the outline

To wire up my leather-clad Frankenstein

And set him off on an adventure

Shaggy, gray sideburns

Wafting in the wind

No family, no friends, no fear of sin

Nicotine flecks and bug bits in his teeth

Coughing up broken relationships

And jailhouse trips

With a severity delivered, first-hand

This was my primal experiment in portraying a man

Unlike myself in every way

I sat at the typewriter for several weeks

Stubbing my fingers on the manual keys

Tore through an ink ribbon spooled

From a mismatched donor in the stationery section

Of a local store stocked with writing tools

Holding my breath in between lines

Sentences spaced evenly wide

On the carriage spline

My manuscript corrected with a ballpoint quill

Notes in the margin

Until every blank space was filled

Ink-white and tape

A crude form of cut-and-paste

My parchment reeked of Camel cigarettes and black coffee

The envelope bulged when complete

I found an address listing in classified ads

Thousands of miles into the postal doo-dads

For a magazine publisher with whom I had no connection

Except as a newsstand hitchhiker

A teenaged piker

Plunking down my coins for the latest issue

With nothing better to do

Than to stay up late, swooning on the rotgut fermentation of an inglorious vintner

And the mashup of seedy journalists and amateur writers

Cruising toward the destination of a headache

And perhaps

An epiphany in red juice

My instigator, in engineer boots

No-fail Fishtail

Appealing by the virtue of his tattoos and scars

Pierced and pockmarked

Gnarled fingers clutching wrenches of various kinds

Chapped skin and a sentence of hard time

Fed on redeye gravy and grits

My manufactured monster, raised from the repair-shop tar pits

Unalive, yet a real reflection in the looking glass

I reckoned he would charm the hardest heart of an editor

Into giving me a pass

I waited by the mailbox every day

Watching and wondering

Until this gambit had been played

My rejection letter arrived on a Tuesday in the fall

I took a deep breath

And put my fist through the drywall

"Going Away"

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

Stubbed my toe on a stone stuck in the way

A metaphorical block, that I could not escape

I went down

In a fit of wailing worries

I went out

Leaving too late, and in a hurry

I might have known the end result would disappoint

But the sacrificial lamb was mine to anoint

All good

Hey, hey

 

Now there has often been a measure of regret

When looking over events that I want to forget

I turn pale

With the flat tones of a jealous rube

I turn away

With that stone still in my shoe

It does not matter to be cursed and kicked

I’m better off for having survived such tricks

This I believe

Hey, hey

 

Now I know some will read this tome and be untouched

Fully immune to the tap of an emotional crutch

But that’s the breaks

I’ve been there many times

That’s what it takes

To pop a cork from the wine

With that celebration taken fully in hand

I have the option to call myself a better man

I believe

Hey, hey

 

There is often a voice carried on the wind

A resonant sound that tingles my ears and chin

I know it well

This diversion from the plan

I know it true

Though it might have been banned

I learned a lesson from shivers in the cold

More meaningful than taking a gamble, bright and bold

Nothing gained

Hey, hey

 

Somewhere among the clouds of morning, displayed

There is the hope that my black heart might be saved

It burns down

To a coal of memories

It burns hot

Until judgment brings a reprieve

I might have guessed that the battle was won

When I counted out, this meager sum

Of myself in the lurch

Hey, hey

 

Tell me truly, teacher, if you rightly recall

What happens to the dead, when they scale those prison walls

I know not

What the eventual will yield

I know nothing

About meeting God for an appeal

The only guess I have to fake is a grin

Alive and well, and then born again

That is the chance

Hey, hey

 

I won’t tarry among the losers and lame

I have no interest in bouncing, on a board game

I fall down

Right to my knees

I fall out

Like dropping, dry leaves

If someone thinks that glory guards my descent

Then let them prattle on about my intent

With no clues

Hey, hey

 

Years beyond a final tick of the clock

Crowing loudly, this barnyard cock

Beak held high

Like a king, pecking seed

Held strong

Never bowing to need

I would have liked to be so majestic in my stance

But there’s a dribble of consequences, in my pants

I feel it now

Hey, hey

 

Warning, warning, this is the call

Of a jester jumping into a dimension, held in thrall

I am the one

Can you identify my face?

I am done

Transported to outer space

With a yearning for the scenes of a yonder yesterday

I meld with blue, with the azure haze

Going away

Hey, hey

 

I’m going away

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 23: Standoff

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

Thanks to swift action by our park manager, Dana Alvarez, I learned officially that only three residents of Evergreen Estates had paid their lot rent at the appointed time. I was the first, followed shortly by our local matron, Maylene Jefka, who lived across the street. And Miss Poindexter, the nearsighted, gamer-girl on my western flank, came in third. We were singled out and shamed, as part of an association newsletter that got mailed to every other person in the development. Written by Linn & Haki Speck. A badge of honor that I took as an amusing measure of negative esteem. Yet with what appeared to be the impending doom of a mass eviction at hand, nothing happened.

 

A philosophical and practical standoff between opposing factions had been sired by this citizen protest.

 

Our on-site supervisor rightly believed that if funds were left uncollected, the community could not survive. Her logic was rooted in the sturdy habit of commerce. An exchange of money for goods or services. But Sheriff Tom T. Rath balked at the notion of dumping so many leaseholders in a single expulsion. The resulting chaos would be something he and his deputies were unprepared to handle. Public opinion was likely to side with families left out in the cold. He had no appetite to be painted as Ebeneezer Scrooge, with Christmas close at hand.

 

Nakano Volca had been raised on the populist dogma of his mother and her fellow students at Cornell University. The thought of running inhabitants out of their homes, into the harsh climate of winter, disgusted him completely. He could not abide throwing in his lot with bankers and their legal partners. Though the board at his firm clearly recognized that the outlaw strike was illegitimate, and unwarranted, none of them sought to punish those involved. Negotiation had always been their tool of choice. Building bridges and seeking partnerships for future growth.

 

The result of this conflicted stance was that for the moment, nothing happened. Life at the rural village of mobile homes continued on, as before.

 

My own predisposition toward drunkenness and isolation meant that in personal terms, this momentary calm was welcome. A brief thaw in temperatures allowed me to spend longer periods outside, on my wooden bench. There, I felt present in the neighborhood without being too exposed. Anyone who passed my singlewide dwelling did so at a safe and comfortable distance. I liked having this buffer zone in effect.

 

My pleasant detachment from the park continuum lasted late into the afternoon. But then, I noted that a caravan of jacked-up, smoke-belching trucks had begun to circle the area. My own pre-fab hovel, and those of the two others who had kept their bargain with our ownership, were situated in a triangle that straddled the crumbling boulevard. Attention seemed to be focused only on our specific residences. And finally, the intention of this odd parade became clear. A barrage of rubber bullets was fired, as if to make a statement about our cooperation. Afterward, two of the big-wheeled behemoths split off, and took aim at my lot, and that of the contrarian geek, next door.

 

Aimes Hefti rolled down his window, and lifted a bullhorn until it was nearly pointed at the sky. The militia leader had donned a tactical uniform, and carried an assault rifle at his side.

 

“ALIGHTY THEN, LINK, HERE’S THE DEAL! GRANNY MAY GETS A PASS, ‘CAUSE SHE’S OLD AS DIRT, AND STUCK ON LIVIN’ RIGHT! BUT YOU ‘N THAT LESBO BITCH ARE RIGHT IN MY CROSSHAIRS! FER THIS IDEA TO WORK, EVERYBODY HAS TO PITCH IN! THAT MEANS 100% OF US HOLDIN’ BACK OUR LOT RENT, EVEN IF THE GAWDAMN COURTS WON’T APPROVE ESCROW ACCOUNTS! DO YA GET IT? 100% OF US! THAT MEANS NO SLACKERS, NO TRAITORS! BUT SOMEHOW, Y’ALL TWO DIDN’T GET THE MESSAGE! SO, GET READY FER A SHOWER OF REAL LEAD! MAYBE A LITTLE BIT OF VENTILATION IN THAT SHITBOX OF YERS WILL MAKE A DIFFERENCE!”

 

Expended ammunition flew wildly. As a reflex action, I ducked my head. Though of course, this would make little difference if I had been targeted.

 

“Commando, you’re cutting into my drinking time! That’s a sin, neighbor! Go pester somebody else, I am in the zone and just getting started on a bottle of whiskey!”

 

The enraged militant was not impressed by my complaint. He locked the transfer case of his Chevy Silverado into 4-wheel low, and tore up a long strip beside my driveway.

 

“THIS AIN’T NO GAME, OLD MAN! YOU ‘N THAT QUEER CHICK ARE GONNA GET IT, GOOD! THIS TAKEOVER IS GROUNDS FER A REVOLT! I’LL BET WHEN THOSE STUDENT KIDS FROM NEW YORK SEE WHAT WE’VE GOT PLANNED, THEY’LL BEG WELLS FARGO TO TAKE BACK THE DEED! WE DON’T WANT THEM HERE, OR THEIR WEIRD-ASS IDEAS! THIS IS NO PLACE FER FREAKS AND HIPPIES AND WHATEVER-THE-FRIG THEY ARE! SCREW ‘EM! THEY CAN GO TO HELL!”

 

I was still too sober for listening to his redneck banter. I needed to drown my senses in alcohol.

 

“You’d be scary if I took this place seriously. But figure it out, we’ve been here for years and never yet been kicked to the curb. The township trustees don’t want us here, but they damn well can’t send us anywhere else. We’d be like undocumented migrants getting bussed to Martha’s Vineyard, they’d hustle us out of town, pronto! People who live out in the wealthy suburbs wouldn’t have us nearby! We’re trash, to put it politely. Offal, in their eyes. Worse than horse manure on the streets of Middlefield!”

 

Aimes peppered the wall next to my seat with gunfire. Shards of vinyl siding scattered across my porch. The kitchen window cracked along its base.

 

“GIVE UP, ASSHOLE! Y’ALL HAVE BEEN OUTSMARTED AND OUTMATCHED! ADMIT THAT YA MADE A MISTAKE PAYIN’ THOSE MOTHER-EFFERS, AND SWEAR THAT IT’S ONE Y’ALL WON’T MAKE AGAIN! SAY IT QUICK, BEFORE I GOT TIME TO RELOAD WITH ANOTHER CLIP!”

 

I slammed a double-shot of Evan Williams Bottled-in-Bond. The burn tingled my nose. I shivered just a bit, as the liquor settled in my belly. But a pervasive numbness took hold, at last.

 

“Look, you can’t kill me today. I’ve been dead inside for years, since coming to this junkyard wasteland. We’re all dead to the world. Some of us just haven’t figured it out yet. Take a hard look in the mirror, dude. One of those poor bastards is you...”

“Holiday Surprise”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

Somebody led a caravan up my street

Hey, what a surprise

They came bearing gifts of holiday treats

What a surprise

I did not expect to see

Anyone crossing, so gallantly

But here they came like a winter breeze

What a surprise

 

Somebody had the courage to check

Hey, what a surprise

On this old bag ‘o bones, a physical wreck

What a surprise

I sat there puzzled and unsure of myself

But these visitors had stories to tell

Of Christmas cheer and Santa’s elves

What a surprise

 

Somebody came to get in touch

Hey, what a surprise

I was bundled up in flannel and such

What a surprise

A frosty day that had me gloved and capped

Thinking St. Nick had missed my spot on the map

But at the door there was a gentle rap

What a surprise

 

Somebody came in a chorus of chance

Hey, what a surprise

Me sitting here in my pajama pants

What a surprise

They started talking and I wanted to run

My mood was something to overcome

Not used to being a favorite son

What a surprise

 

Somebody seemed to know that I was awake

Hey, what a surprise

They brought candies and a slab of fruitcake

What a surprise

A dinner plate for my holiday reprieve

And conversation, long into the eve

Festive chatter that I could not believe

What a surprise

 

Somebody rightly had their trip arranged

Hey, what a surprise

To warm the holder of a heart, unchanged

What a surprise

Across the yards, buried in white

Lingering in the glow of Yuletide delight

It took a moment to get my head right

What a surprise

 

Somebody offered eggnog, spicy and thick

Hey, what a surprise

As the cuckoo clock continued to tick

What a surprise

Then it was time to continue this dare

To greet others who were also unaware

After they left, I sat in my chair

Saying, “What a surprise!”

 

Somebody might have thought this was a gleam

Hey, what a surprise

A vision vaulted from a literary scheme

What a surprise

But I can promise the encounter was cool

Not a fantasy, composed by an old fool

I prospered, as a keeper of the golden rule

What a surprise

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 22: Payoff

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

With the rent strike in effect, I did not anticipate encountering a line at the door of Dana Alvarez, our park manager. In fact, I suspected that no one else in the community was likely to pay their monthly bill on time. Except perhaps for my neighbor across the street, Maylene Jefka. She was a matronly old widow with a strong sense of duty and honor. For her, shirking the responsibility of a leaseholder might represent a slide into sin. That was something too distasteful to imagine her embracing. Yet for anyone else, the notion of evading contractual obligations would be welcome. There had already been plenty of grousing about the rise in our regular fee, of $75.00.

 

On my way to our village office, I had to pass the corner home of Linn and Haki Speck. I could see that one of them had hidden behind tattered drapes in their front window. The reflected glare of binocular lenses flashed briefly, as I hobbled along. This telltale sign almost made me want to raise a one-fingered salute while in motion. Yet I restrained myself, and kept silent. Standing guard at the maintenance garage was Aimes Hefti, who had positioned himself so as to be out-of-sight from the personnel who were present. I expected some sort of confrontation to occur, and while dragging my canes across the tarmac, he stepped into my path with the boldness of an instigator.

 

“WHERE YA GOIN’ LINK? Y’ALL GONNA HAND YER CHECK OVER TA THAT BIG-EYED BITCH, IN PERSON? I FIGURED THIS SITUATION MIGHT’VE WOKEN YER ASS UP! BUT NO, YA DON’T DESERVE THAT MUCH CREDIT! GO AHEAD AND KISS HER ROUND BUTT, DO IT LIKE A GOOD LITTLE DICKHEAD! Y’ALL MAKE ME SICK!”

 

I paused to catch my breath. His challenge stiffened my resolve. As a visceral reaction, I wanted to swing one of my canes toward his teeth. But I could see that he was carrying his sidearm in a holster. It hung from his belt as an open invitation for chaos. Something I did not need or want.

 

“Commando, you’re a damn nuisance. Let me pay my tribute and go home, okay? I don’t need the sheriff calling when Christmas is so near. My plan is to get drunk and pass out, so Santa Claus can leave me a lump of coal by the garbage bin, like last year...”

 

Aimes adjusted his stance, and grunted with a growl of disgust.

“OLD MAN, YA GOT NO EFFIN’ BALLS! I THINK THIS SHITHOLE HAS SCREWED UP YER HEAD! AIN’T YA BEEN FRIGGED ENOUGH OVER THE YEARS? THESE CROOKS ARE DONE ROBBIN’ US, THEY’LL GET NO MORE MONEY FROM ME OR ANYBODY! THEY CAN CALL OUT THE LAWMEN, I DON’T GIVE A DAMN! LET ‘EM STAMPEDE IN HERE LIKE A HERD OF BULLS! WE’RE UP FER SOME ACTION! THE PARK MILITIA IS ARMED AND READY!”

 

I knew his attitude would be different with deputies on our streets. But arguing the point was useless. I let him chatter away while turning toward the office door.

 

Upon entering, I could hear Dana Alvarez pleading with a distant representative, over her cell phone. There were still swaths of spray paint on the outside walls, and bags of rubbish sitting around its perimeter.

 

“Ayyyyy, you gotta do something, boss! These people have gone loco, you get me? They tore up my little spot here, and I don’t have one check in the drop box! No dinero, compadre! We are broke for this month, totally, flat-ass broke! You gotta do something! Call the big guy, Sheriff Rath, at the county’s safety center!”

 

 The voice of Nakano Volca buzzed in her ear, from his own workspace in Ithaca, New York. He did not sound pleased.

 

“Ms. A, I thought we had made some progress with the takeover by my credit cooperative. Don’t these people understand that we are trying to help improve their station in life? Every owner that has worked with Wells Fargo seems to have exploited their ignorance. We want to give them a measure of dignity, and a fair shake! Why isn’t that good enough?”

 

The on-site supervisor shrugged while tapping at her computer keyboard.

 

“Hey, I don‘t know! This is nothing like managing apartments, the people here are dirty and dumb. They want everything for free! I’ve seen dozens of ‘em come and go already, and I ain’t been here too long. Ay caramba! But it’s a job, you know?”

 

He sighed regretfully while making notes about the unpaid bills.

 

“Our strategy as a collective is to work with those in debt. We don’t like dealing with police officers, of any kind. It is against our philosophy. This is a refuge from traditional bankers and their enforcement partners...”

 

Alvarez snorted cigarette smoke. She wanted to end the call and lock her door.

 

“Okay, okay, I get you. You ain’t gonna do nothin’ about this, right? So, what happens next month? And the month after that? And the next month, after that? How are you payin’ the bills here, señor?”

 

Her comrade from the Proletariat Property Co-op was stymied by this logical appeal. Yet unwilling to surrender his viewpoint without analysis and discussion.

 

“There’ll be a way to negotiate, let me have a conversation with the governing board at my company. A hasty decision would not be wise. Trust me on this, we have been in business for a long time...”

 

The park caretaker slammed her device on the desk. Then, she stubbed out her smoke.

 

“I’m done with that imbécil. He can beso my culo grande! I’ll call Mister Tom myself. That guy will get things done, he has some big cojones! He knows how to handle this redneck dump!”

 

Stacey Perk, a young secretary at the safety center, took this desperate call as a polite gesture. But did not forward the request for contact until a superior was available. The morning had been busy with meetings and press inquiries. But finally, her petition to be heard was granted.

 

Sheriff Tom T. Rath was at his desk in the department facility. He wanted to enjoy a coffee break before sorting through postal mail and handling disputes left from the previous day. But his underling insisted on being acknowledged.

 

“Sir, I got a call from the manager at Evergreen Estates. I’m sure you are very familiar with that location, it is the development of mobile homes in our northeastern township. She said you need to serve eviction orders for some of their residents, immediately! The court filings have already been made. She has called three times, today!”

 

The law professional bowed his head in reflection. He had been glad not to deal with issues in the park for several months. Something that seemed like a miracle.

 

“Alright, alright, I hear you! We never have good luck in that place, it’s always a headache. But it comes with the territory. How many notices has the judge signed? How many families do we have to chase out of their homes?”

 

Stacey shuffled a stack of official, faxed documents they had received. There were more than she could count, quickly.

 

“Umm, to be honest sir, it looks like... almost all of them!”

“Death Isn’t Funny Anymore”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

As a youngster, I thought that seniors were slow

Their worries seemed oddly burdened with woe

I didn‘t understand what they came here for

But death isn’t funny anymore

With the artful lament of a bullying boss

I learned about God, and Christ on the cross

And that rote revelation opened the door

Death wasn’t funny anymore

 

Once I as a child, without a reserve

Of images and concepts, templates and words

I struggled just to speak about family folklore

But death isn’t funny anymore

At that primal point, I was too young

To perceive the finality of a firing gun

But in older years, I learned so much more

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

Barnabas in his coffin, hiding from Angelique

Rednecks with longnecks, running up and down my street

Football contests without any scores

And death Isn’t funny anymore

Waiting for coffee at the crest of a day

Pondering the penance that I must pay

For waiting too long to admit being bored

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

Last in line at the pearly gates

An outcast by nature, destined to wait

Ernest Tubb, walking the floor

But death isn’t funny anymore

Fresh eyes see what the soul denies

The palest blue of unclouded skies

But under this garment of sin that I wore

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

I read and studied, until almost blind

Right to the limit of my classroom time

Hoping that there might be a reward

But death isn’t funny anymore

When I saw it fall upon a friend

And my sister who journeyed to a bitter end

That was a moment that chilled to the core

Death wasn’t funny anymore

 

Compliments offered left me feeling numb

I was no wiser to inherit that sum

Though saying it aloud made me a son to abhor

Yes, death isn’t funny anymore

I paddled in circles on a frozen lake

Headed in a direction that was my mistake

I could have used a wider oar

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

John Wayne riding in cowboy chaps

Evel Knievel two-wheeling ‘cross the map

All of these heroes from days of yore

Knew that death isn’t funny anymore

I held them close, in high esteem

Fully in awe of their glamourous gleam

But the yield of fandom was a curse to implore

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

Now I am old and bent to the turf

Wondering about what this life is worth

In the breach, there’s a treasure I adore

But death isn’t funny anymore

It comes after dark, when I am weak

Breathing the ether of otherworldly mystique

A vapor that vanishes into my pores

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

As an innocent cub, examples were enough

To fortify a child, yearning to be tough

But when I took my battle to the fore

Death wasn’t funny anymore

Captain Kirk and aliens from afar

Flying through the cosmos, from star to star

They seemed to inspire like a lion’s roar

Death isn’t funny, anymore

 

In this age of rheumatism and rot

I find myself stuck in the crevice of a mail slot

Unable to move as I did, before

Death isn’t funny anymore

A keeper of junk without a clue

No special attraction, earmark, or value

A narrow passage constrained at the bore

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

Hair turns gray and sights will fade

This is the promise of a clockwork parade

Marching stiffly, as if off to war

But death isn’t funny anymore

I know the glory of which men sing

A chase of trophies, and the bright, brass ring

But in the fullness, there’s a potion to pour

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

When I at last lie down and sleep

And the kiss of oblivion is mine to meet

There’ll be a lingering, love metaphor

Because death isn’t funny anymore

The first in line went long ago

And then the second, summoned below

My turn will come, a legacy to restore

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

No one may protest, at the appointed hour

When lonely regrets bud up, and flower

Yet perhaps I will purse my lips and deplore

That death isn’t funny anymore

Unseen and invisible, run out of luck

Drowning in consequences, dredged from the muck

That is the target at which I aimed, heretofore

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

Listless and lost in the vastness of time

An outlier still hobbled by a purpose, sublime

No credit for the badges that generals wore

Death isn’t funny anymore

Lincoln and Kennedy, both rightly revered

A dazzling duo, too soon taken by fear

And I am simply a stumbling matador

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

Through the halls of history, wisely recorded

Scribblers do their best to keep news, reported

While I am humbled, to be a soldier in the corps

Death isn’t funny anymore

I once aspired to be grand and great

To dine with delicacies on my dinner plate

But now, a bricklayer has made my decor

Death isn’t funny anymore

 

To tread on stones, worn smooth by the saints

Is a privilege of commoners, in puddles of paint

Stained with the mark of a precious ore

Death isn’t funny anymore

I should be grateful for this epiphany of gold

And feel blessed, to grow both feeble and old

The final lesson, is ‘caveat emptor’

Death isn’t funny anymore