Trailer Park Victory Chapter 20: Frozen

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln awakened early after his drunken encounter with Aimes Hefti and Linn Speck. Something that still felt like a dream episode, except for bruises and swelling that gave testimony to his rough treatment by fellow residents of the trailer community. He was sore and stiff, and needed a blast of caffeine to clear his head. But upon thumping to the linoleum floor in his kitchen, with both disability canes, suddenly, thirst overtook his willpower to be sober and alert.

 

He rummaged in the cupboard by his broken dishwasher, and found a bottle of Wild Turkey, 101 proof. With a pull of the cork stopper, and a lofting movement of his right arm, he chugged a triple-shot of the brown contents. This morning libation made him cough and growl. Yet almost immediately, his personal equilibrium had been restored.

 

Through the frosted, storm door pane, he saw that his porch thermometer registered nine degrees below zero. Cold vapors ebbing through a gap above the threshold tingled his bare toes. In a recliner by his television, the patchy, stray kitty who had adopted him as a human companion snored lazily. She was half-wrapped in a Harley-Davidson blanket. A situation much preferable to being stuck outside with her feline peers, under one of the abandoned mobile homes. For a moment, the isolated hermit pondered that he, and his new pet, were both casualties of the throwaway culture that permeated their development. Their lives mattered little, to anyone. Or even, to themselves. Their identities were a smear of anonymous history. Yet in being paired together on the same rented lot, they were better off, and more capable of surviving the severe dip in temperatures.

 

Lincoln attempted to fry eggs in an aluminum skillet, found in a box of curbside relics when one of his junkyard equals had been evicted. The dented pan had a cracked handle, repaired with some sort of epoxy binder. It would not sit level on the burner griddle, so the seared contents slid to one side. This made the duo of fowl embryos look like a sad face, frowning. It fit his mood, however, when contemplating both the winter climate, and their new era of governance. Still, his life had not been altered greatly by the changes now in effect. He was broke and beaten before, and after this calamitous shift. The woes of pundits and philosophers who dwelled in coastal enclaves of privilege were not his to share. He did not weep or mourn. He did not take to social media platforms, for the purpose of wailing about the downfall of their empire. Instead, his routine stayed true to the mark.

 

He made toast to accompany the fried eggs. Then slathered each slice with real butter. A breakfast of greasy, gritty calories, and whiskey, kept him fortified. That was enough. This feast soon settled in his belly like a mass of river stones. But it gave him enough energy to cope with being awake and alive.

 

While his furry, household companion continued to snooze, he stumbled toward the back bedroom in their prefab hovel. A power strip behind the computer offered a charging point for his cell phone, which had nearly reached the point of battery failure. Upon plugging in the rectangular device, he saw its screen light up to signify being once again in operation. But before he could sit at the desk, it began to chime with a ringtone that he dreaded.

 

The display indicated a caller attempting to make contact, from somewhere in New York. A number across the top indicated that one of his bygone allies, from over 40 years before, had inexplicably decided to reach out during the deepening chill. Something that aroused a sense of puzzlement, and disbelief.

 

Henegar Frogg was a figure he had not seen since about 1980. An artist and malcontent. A past mentor and alternately, a thorn-in-the-side.

 

“Link, you young bastard! Pick up the phone, man! What happened, did you turn into a popsicle? That’s what you get for living in a godforsaken place like Ohio!”

 

Lincoln clutched his gut, and groaned audibly. He did not want to answer.

 

“Yeah, Hennessy. I’m here...”

 

His estranged pal bristled at being teased.

 

“My name isn’t Hennessy, dammit! Get it right! I’m not a gawdamm kind of cognac!”

 

The contrarian loner replied without emotion.

 

“Yeah, okay dude, okay...”

 

The Empire State provocateur snorted and cleared his throat, dramatically. He was about two decades older, and greatly more sophisticated in cultural terms. So, humility did not infect his personal style.

 

“Link, I called because some of your pics are online, you know, from that barren piece of wasteland where you live. There are Confederate flags in some of those, and I have to say, it brings our friendship into question!”

 

The reclusive grunt laughed quietly while listening.

 

“Friendship? I never hear from you unless there’s a complaint to register...”

 

Monsieur Frogg gasped at this assertion. His wool sweater had bunched up, under the arms.

 

“That banner means slavery! It means racism! It means the old south! And it means you don’t take things seriously enough to move out of that shithole, immediately! I don’t want to be associated with anyone who has such a casual opinion of all those bad ideas!”

 

Lincoln belched at his wireless cube.

 

“It comes with the territory out here. Indiana ain’t much different. Or Illinois, south of Chicago. What am I gonna do? I can hardly walk, much less carry boxes to a moving van...”

 

His cohort from yonder days was at the point of having an epileptic fit.

 

“NO, NO, NO, NO! I WON’T ACCEPT THAT! YOU MIGHT AS WELL BE WEARING WHITE SHEETS RIGHT NOW! YOU’RE A CONSPIATOR! AN ACCOMPLICE! A COWARD AND A TRAITOR!”

 

His one-time pupil wanted to hurl. His belly made ominous noises as they conversed.

 

“Hennessy, you’re losing it, bruh...”

 

Frogg spat fire, and squeezed his phone for emphasis. His salt-and-pepper crew cut stood on edge.

 

“NO, NO, NO, NO! I’LL SAY IT AGAIN! YOU MIGHT SEE SOMETHING FAMILIAR, BUT I SEE THE KKK AND NAZIS AND EVERYTHING I HATE! IF THAT’S WHAT YOU’VE BECOME, THEN GO TO HELL! GO STRAIGHT TO HELL!”

 

Lincoln’s mouth was filling with regurgitated bile.

 

“I’ve got a black neighbor over on the next street with a yard full of Trump signs from the last campaign. His best friend is one of the guys who drives around in a pickup truck, waving the southern cross and snake flags. Go figure, right? I don’t understand, but that’s how it is here. A lady on my eastern flank has a son of urban lineage, but still flies the rebel standard from her storage barn. She’s the one who always has Country Music playing from her radio, and cold beer in the fridge...”

 

The New York innovator gnashed his teeth.

 

“NO, NO, NO, NO! I LIVE IN A RURAL NEIGHBORHOOD TOO! I KNOW WHAT IT IS LIKE! AND IT ISN’T LIKE THAT!”

 

His Midwestern correspondent shrugged and sighed while offering a final thought.

 

“You’ve said it already, Ohio is a dump. In your terms, anyway. Things here ain’t exactly like what you experience, trust me. This is a whole different mindset. People on my street don’t give a shit about pronouns or correctness, or the value of a banana duct-taped to the wall. They want to make it through the day, right? With enough cash left over for salty snacks and a drink or two...”

 

The eastern visionary howled with scorn. He was exhausted from their session of mental combat.

 

“Okay then, that’s it. Have a good life, Link. We’re finished! I won’t call you again! Never again!”

 

The line went silent after a sharp click of telephone relays. Their contest was over.

 

Lincoln palmed the liquor bottle for another drink before he surrendered to oblivion.

 

“Thank you, God. Thank you, Lord!”