Trailer Park Victory Chapter 21: Questions

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

After being physically assaulted by neighbors in his park, and then berated by a distant friend from days spent living in New York, Townshend Lincoln had reached a point of emotional exhaustion. Even before beginning his daily ritual of drinking alcohol, he was numb. Beyond staying clear of other park residents, he also found that small tasks and pleasures had suddenly lost their importance and appeal.

 

In the afternoon, a march of celebration passed his trailer abode with noisy glee, over the return of their MAGA hero to the White House. It was a spectacle that would have once caused the contrarian hermit to raise his middle finger, while sitting outside. Or perhaps, to fling his shot glass against an exterior wall. But now, he felt nothing. Only a redness of his face gave any sign that he remained aware of events transpiring in the run-down community. He could barely form words with his mouth, or stand up for long enough to curse and shake a fist with defiance.

 

A victory chant echoed throughout the property.

 

“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!”

 

In his head, stanzas of Elvis Costello music played, over and over.

 

“Turn up the TV, no one listening will suspect

Even your mother won’t detect it

So your father won’t know

They think that I’ve got no respect

But everything means less than zero...”

 

He had consumed a partial bottle of Ezra Brooks bourbon, when a notification chirped from his computer in the back bedroom. Someone had logged onto the Skype application, and was attempting to make contact. His stamina had already begun to drown in a river of beer and liquor. Yet somehow, he made it to the desk and his office chair.

 

The familiar face of Libby K. Raal, adorned with piercings and stark, gothic makeup, peered from his device screen. She looked a bit like the Australian WWE wrestling star, Rhea Ripley.

 

“Link! Thank you for answering so quickly. I’m in a funk here, struggling with a bout of writer’s block. I need more material to complete my assignment for the Plain Dealer, or Queer Conundrum, or whoever decides to run my piece...”

 

Lincoln slouched over the keyboard, with a can of Yuengling lager in his right hand. His rural vibe disappeared, almost immediately.

 

“You’re still working on that article? Shit!”

 

His journalist contact went pale with embarrassment.

 

“You have no idea how tough my editors can be! They want lots of meat on the bone, so to speak. Sorry, that’s a disgusting analogy for a Vegan to use, but it fits. I have to get more background color for my manuscript. Can’t you give me anything extra about the sitch at your trailer village?”

 

Her interview subject rolled his eyes and sat back in the wheeled seat.

 

“I told you already, this ain’t a place I’d ever call home. I’m an outlier here, a fucking pariah! So, I don’t know squat about what makes these people tick!”

 

Libby fiddled with her stainless-steel piercings.

 

“Just today, I was reading about Elon Musk throwing Nazi shade at a rally. He actually did the ‘Sieg Heil’ salute! What’s up with that kind of craziness? I wanted to barf in my oatmeal. Do you think that’s justified? Do people on your street think that’s cool?”

 

The graying hermit wiped sweat off his forehead.

 

“Look, nobody believes that propaganda, at Evergreen Estates. Is it real, or an imaginary phenomenon? Honestly, it gives me the creeps. But none of them pay attention, one way or another. My friends in the outside world are convinced that all free-thinkers will be in prison camps before the year ends. But I’ve lived here 22 years and more. It’s SS/DD, same shit, different day. These people are uneducated, broke, and basically screwed by the system. That’s why they don’t react to any invocation of better angels or a refined outlook on the world. They’re flowers in the dirt. Anything of beauty here sprang up from mounds of excrement. You can smell that stink in the air. It permeates everything and everyone...”

 

Ms. Raal grabbed one of her notebooks, and started to scribble entries.

 

“THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT! YOUR WORDS ARE GOLD, KEEP TALKING, LINK! KEEP TALKING!”

 

Her conversational subject had turned mellow from drinking so heavily. His lips opened, in sync with his inebriated mind.

 

“You know, I don’t go out much, because it’s tough to walk. When I have to buy rations to fill my cupboards, I mostly hit the little stores here in the country. When I go into town, the big town, I get looked at like a homeless bum. Cleveland citizens who have moved out here are always in a hurry. They don’t have much patience. In the sticks, the hinterland, I get treated better. They don’t turn up their noses at my camo apparel, shaggy hair, or tattered shoes. They don’t get an attitude about my muddy SUV being parked next to their BMWs or Lexus varieties...”

 

The reporter tapped her pen on the spiral-bound ream of paper.

 

“That’s how you feel? Like a social reject? Out of your natural environment?”

 

Lincoln groaned and leaned closer to the webcam on his monitor.

 

“I’m good with it, no biggie for me. But that’s the mindset of residents here in this junkyard oasis. They are outcasts. You can piss on them and throw insults, but it has no effect. Every coil of barbed wire gets turned back on itself. You think these blue-collar schlubs are stupid? Maybe they are, by the standards of coastal elites and social-justice engineers. I’d like to educate them myself, sometimes. Yet they are hard on the inside. They know how to survive. Could you wake up every morning to a diet of cigarettes and black coffee, and cans of Walmart pasta for breakfast? That’s how my neighbors live. They inhabit shacks made of plywood and steel framing, and drive cars that should’ve been scrapped decades ago. Their clothes are threadbare and stained. The men look like refugees from a mountain cave. The women are gritty and tanned, like old pieces of leather. And they give thanks to God every day, for being able to breathe in diesel exhaust and brake fluid. That’s the foundation under their work boots. How would you react to being stuck in that kind of rabbit hole?”

 

Raal flew over the notebook pages, with her fingers working furiously to document every word.

 

“YES, YES, THAT’S IT, OLD FART! YOUR ANALYSIS IS MAGIC! KEEP IT COMING! GIVE ME EVERYTHING YOU’VE GOT! I’M READY FOR MORE!”