Trailer Park Victory Chapter 22: Rejection

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

Once Libby K. Raal completed her newspaper manuscript, a sense of accomplishment took hold. She had wrestled with the subject matter for weeks, and used every trick of the trade in her repertoire, to produce a finished product worthy of being offered in print. It would be, she thought, a career-saving feat. Something that future scribes might look upon as having provided inspiration for their own journalistic adventures.

 

Yet when the time came to meet with Editor-in-Chief Magda Poleski, at the Cleveland Plain Dealer, she realized that there was an emotional disconnect between her own view of the future, and that of the seasoned, publishing veteran.

 

After waiting for more than an hour, the supervisor opened her door with a frown of obvious embarrassment.

 

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting so long. Please have a seat! This has been a busy, busy morning. Our advertising budget has gotten reduced by half. The younger demographic doesn’t tilt in our favor, you know? It’s a brave new world...”

 

Libby tugged at a row of piercings in her left ear. She still bubbled with enthusiasm.

 

“You’ve got to look at my piece, Maggie! It’s pure dynamite, I think! Just what readers need right now to straighten out their perceptions. Everyone is so divided and confrontational. I’ve got neighbors in Lakewood that want to declare this county part of Canada! They’ve had it with being American!”

 

Poleski raised an eyebrow while scanning the document placed on her desk. She looked her age, but still had a measure of style that made her appealing as a leader in the company. Wrinkles formed around her mouth as she read aloud from the first page.

 

“THOMPSON, OHIO - T.C. Lincoln lives on a rural parcel of land divided into narrow lots for mobile homes. His knowledge of the area is considerable, after more than 20 years as a resident. And though he is not a member of the MAGA platoon that controls their property, he says that dealing with the extremist habits of those who are has become very familiar, over time. It is, he believes, a miracle that someone like himself has not set his trailer on fire, and gone running for the exits. He stays drunk, every day, to blot out the reality that his life consists of listening to neighbors bleat obediently, about their orange hero...”

 

The newspaper chief sighed and folded her hands. Gold rings on her fingers sparkled in the fluorescent light, from overhead.

 

“Your article is written well, I’ll give you praise for that. But... I have to take a hard pass. We’ve all been instructed to stay focused on driving up circulation numbers for this daily. A large chunk of the next issue, and those that follow, will be taken up by coverage of the next Guardians baseball season. And also, stories about what the Cleveland Browns intend to do for a new stadium. It’s all a matter of attracting eyes to our work. Controversy is something we want to sidestep, at this moment.”

 

Ms. Raal choked on saliva that was stuck in her throat. Her skin turned decidedly pale, which signified a mood of disbelief and surprise.

 

“A HARD PASS? YOU’RE GOING WITH SPORTS REPORTING, INSTEAD??”

 

Editor Magda lowered her gaze and whispered with regret.

 

“It’s a boardroom decision. We’re at a crossroads of some kind. The titans of social media have all lined up with our old-new president. I don’t get it, nobody gets it...”

 

Her suitor and former employee coughed angrily. Her purple hair stood on end.

 

“A COUPLE OF MONTHS AGO, THEY WERE CALLING HIM A FASCIST DESTROYER! ONE OF THE BOYS FROM BRAZIL! A TERRIBLE, TEST-TUBE BABY WITH SMALL HANDS AND NO BRAINS! AND QUITE FRANKLY, NO BALLS! IS THAT WHERE YOU WANT TO STAND, MAGGIE? ON THE SIDE OF A REALITY TV STAR WITH A DYED COIF AND A PENCHANT FOR GRUBBING OUT ON PATTIES OF MC DONALD’S GREASE, AND DIET COKE?”

 

Poleski hunched over the cluttered desktop. Her eyes were wet and red.

 

“I’m sorry Lib. I’m really sorry...”

 

When the wandering reporter left her media contact, she was nearly blind with rage. Yet discipline kept her wild thoughts in check. She puttered impatiently over urban streets in her Toyota Prius, until reaching the weathered, brick structure where offices for staffers at the Queer Conundrum, and other volunteer groups, were located. There, her ritual of trying to sell the story she had written was repeated. This time, with a more informal approach.

 

Community mother, editor, and activist Quantra Bolden had taken a break in the room they used as a cafeteria. The crowded space was stocked with Vegan treats and organic teas and coffees. She was surrounded by a small cloister of student devotees. Her long skirt was made from hemp and boasted rainbow colors.

 

“Libbers! I didn’t expect to see you again, so soon! Have you been busy working on that tale about people out in Trump country? It’s all we talk about here, especially since the transfer of power on Inauguration Day.”

 

The professional writer nodded and fell into a mismatched chair by her mentor.

 

“I got blown off by the Pee Dee! Isn’t that a hoot? Anyway, you and I are much more in sync, intellectually. All they want to do is sell newspapers. I know you care more about effecting change. That is what really matters! Moneymaking is a soulless hustle!”

 

Mama Q rolled her eyes and smiled.

 

“We’re retread hippies here. Money is shit to us. Which is a good thing, because we don’t have much funding to keep this little safehouse going...”

 

Libby handed over a copy of the feature she had composed. Pride made her glow in reflection.

 

“You’ll be cheering when this gets into your head! Read it, and see what you think! I dare say, it’s the best work I’ve ever done!”

 

Bolden brushed the gray locks away from her tired eyes. She scanned the text briefly, then cleared her throat.

 

“Libbers, I’m sorry to say that the upcoming installment of our weekly is already full of good material. We got an interview with Right Reverend Mariann Budde, the Episcopal bishop of Washington. She really... to use a common metaphor... knocked it out of the ballpark!”

 

The room became very quiet after her confession. Then, there was a chime from the intercom system. Someone paged that a telephone call was waiting, on an outside line.

 

Ms. Raal returned her manuscript and notes to their satchel. She sniffled a bit, before extending her hand, with gratitude.

 

“Thank you. I understand. Everything has turned into a game now. It’s all about winning. And I am, to be blunt, a loser. So be it. Have a good day, Mama Q!”