c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(1-25)
After speaking with Linn and Haki Speck, and the obliterated loner, T.C. Lincoln, Libby Raal retreated to her Toyota Prius. She had a notepad and other tools of the trade in a belly bag which was quickly cast aside. Behind the steering wheel, she sent a text to the Queer Conundrum office in Cleveland, before getting underway. Just to announce the completion of her task. No one else at Evergreen Estates had been eager, or willing, to participate in an interview session. So, the visit ended abruptly without any great revelation about why residents of the trailer community were so confrontational in their social and political views. Only the reclusive hermit at Lot 13 had offered any insight. Though his brain had been soaked in strong drink, he spoke with a sober view of life at the isolated park.
Once the tiny vehicle puttered to life, its operator turned toward the property entrance, and Pine Trail Road. She had almost made her exit, when a line of lifted, diesel pickup trucks blocked the tarmac. Gadsden flags and Confederate banners waved from poles in all of the beds. Country music blared from speakers, inside of the cabs. Then, a figure dressed in military garb stood at the roadway edge. He brandished a shotgun with impunity.
“Y’ALL BEEN SNEAKING AROUND HERE ALL DAY! WHAT’S YER GAME, MISS?”
Libby lost all of the color in her cheeks. Her piercings seemed to sting.
“Umm... I was on my way out actually!”
Aimes Hefti had been an unofficial leader at the development, ever since the suicide of Esmeralda Jonovic, years before. The militia queen had nearly been captured by agents from the FBI field office, near Lake Erie. Yet her rebel spirit could not abide the thought of imprisonment, and debriefing by government officials. So, she chose to die as a martyr. Her name was still revered, all across the region.
“I CAN SEE THAT! BUT WHAT THE FUCK WERE Y’ALL DOING HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE?”
The frightened reporter pondered her options, while offering an explanation.
“I’m with a couple of newspapers in Cuyahoga County. The umm... Plain Dealer is one you might know. All I’ve done is ask a few questions. I don’t suppose you’d like to contribute any extra content to my story?”
The extremist soldier chortled and lowered his weapon.
“CONTRIBUTE? HELL NO I DON’T WANT TO SAY ANYTHING ON THE RECORD! EXCEPT THAT WE NEED TO SEARCH YER LITTLE SHITBOX BEFORE LETTING Y’ALL GO!”
Ms. Raal stiffened while clutching the steering wheel.
“Search? For what??”
Aimes bared his teeth like an angry mutt.
“WHAT KIND OF CRAP ARE Y’ALL GONNA WRITE? SOMETHING TA MAKE US LOOK BAD WITH YER READERS? WE’VE BEEN SLAMMED FER YEARS BY THE GAWDAMM MEDIA TYPES! BUT THAT’LL END RIGHT HERE, AND RIGHT NOW. GIVE UP YER PURSE, LADY!”
The professional writer bristled at his dominant tone. Perspiration had begun to fog her thick-rimmed glasses.
“Sorry man, my car is off limits. Clear the driveway so I can get out of your hair. Okay?”
A red, Chevy Silverado on huge tires backed into her vehicle. It’s bumper almost touched the windshield. Exhaust made her cough. And the group that surrounded her automobile remained defiant.
“ONE MORE TIME, DAMMIT! OPEN YER DOOR AND GET OUT! WE’RE GONNA HAVE A LOOK-SEE UNDER YER SEATS AND IN THE BACK!”
Libby stroked her arm tattoos. Specifically, one with an emblem for peace.
“Go for it, big dude! Pull me through the window. There’s a Go-Pro on my dash, didn’t you notice? I’ve got contacts at WJW Channel 8. They’d love to run the video...”
One of the platoon members swung a baseball bat, and cracked the forward glass, easily. He took great amusement at humiliating the counterculture waif.
“OUT OF THE FUCKING CAR! OUT! OUT! OUT! I’LL SMASH YER SHITTY CAMERA!”
From up the street, a click-clack grinding of Grande Dame Maylene Jefka resounded, as she moved along slowly with her walker. The afternoon had been sunny enough that she felt impulsively brave. Having been stuck inside for a week or more, the brief thaw offered a chance to get her mail. She savored the fresh air like a fine perfume.
“Boys, what’s all the shouting about? It’s a glorious day for late December, don’t you think? God gives us blessings, when we need them most!”
Aimes and his armed patrol went limp upon seeing the gray-headed matron. She had lived in the neighborhood longer than anyone else. Some said, since the late 1950’s, when mobile homes were first brought to the distant township.
“GRANNY, IT AIN’T SAFER FER Y’ALL TO BE OUT HERE ALONE! WHERE’S YER KIDS? OR GRANDKIDS? OR GREAT-GRANDKIDS?”
The Sunday-School teacher and church icon smiled with feigned ignorance. Silver curls of hair bounced in the wind, from under her wool beret.
“I just wanted to check my box at the postal shed. There might be a catalog from Lane Bryant, or a letter from my sister in Florida. Something to help me pass the time. I get so bored watching the television, all the good programs are reruns!”
Finally, the militia horde had lost their courage. No one wanted to appear aggressive, while being scolded by an octogenarian woman that everyone loved and respected.
“GRANNY, WE’D BE GLAD TO HELP IF Y’ALL WANT! ONE OF US COULD RUN OVER AND GET YER MAIL, AND THEN GIVE YA AN ESCORT BACK HOME!”
Maylene tilted her head backward, and glared confidently.
“I don’t need to be babied, son! You can run along, and let this poor lady go about her business. She doesn’t need your help, and neither do I, trust me! These old bones can still get motivated when the sun is shining! It’s the love of Jesus that keeps me going! Didn’t I teach you that up the hill at our sanctuary? Amen, I say! Amen! Amen! Amen!”
Everyone in the militia brigade lowered their heads. Any thought of being argumentative had evaporated.
Aimes smoothed his buzz cut, and reddened with bashful regret. He had been neutered as an authority figure by the stooped-over marm, in her out-of-style winter coat from Fisher’s Big Wheel.
“Yes ma’am, that’s it! We’ll be going now, y’all stay safe, alright? Don’t hesitate to call if yer in need. Any one of us will come running! Yes we will!”
Libby nodded with gratitude, while shifting her plain Toyota into gear. The undersized, hybrid motor left a trail of sanitized vapor in its wake. She would be glad to see the lakeshore, again. And grateful to have escaped the rural, boxcar settlement, alive.
With a bit of luck, she would never see the junkyard paradise, again.
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