c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(1-25)
Townshend Carr Lincoln had started drinking early on the Monday before Christmas. While others in his rural neighborhood were feeling festive, and full of the holiday spirit, he had tumbled into a funk of social alienation. There were no Yuletide emblems around his trailer household. No authentic trees erected for the occasion, only a single string of lights purchased on eBay, and wrapped around a broom handle that stood in a dark corner of his living room. He did not sing carols or quote Bible scriptures to commemorate the season. Instead, he dived deep into the liquor cabinet, by his broken dishwasher. After all of the Jack Daniel’s had been consumed, he turned to less expensive brands, like Evan Williams, Old Grandad, and even a stray bottle of Ancient Age, left on his doorstep by a resident who had been evicted for delinquent lot-rent bills. This wash of high-proof booze made him comfortably numb, and tipsy. Yet when the sound of tiny footsteps echoed up his access ramp, immediately, he snapped to attention.
Visitors at his prefab hovel were rare. Most people in the park knew better than to approach him while in the midst of an alcohol binge. Or when sobriety made him speak forcefully and to the point, on any issue. Generally, he was left alone, other than when absolutely necessary. A passing wave while driving by was the safest gesture. Knowing that any contact made was brief in duration seemed to give him comfort. He did not seek out the company of fellow residents. Only Maylene Jefka, a matron in their community who lived directly across the street, could approach the contrarian loner with daily greetings. She had the kind demeanor of someone who had raised generations of family members. Her heart was pure. And her keen sense of timing always matched his prevailing mood.
Libby Raal could feel tension in the air, as she pulled up to Lincoln’s driveway. Something that grew stronger with each minute she spent in the mobile-home development. According to online research, Evergreen Estates had originally been built on swampland in a northeastern quadrant of Geauga County. Over acreage fortified with construction scraps and landfill. A persistent odor of junkyard waste permeated the environment. The property was unclean in every sense. A dirty, ramshackle cluster of boxcar dwellings. Its inhabitants were no better. Though they proved to be resourceful in carving a life out of the thick, Buckeye mud. They made living under such harsh conditions possible through grit and determination.
It was that tradition of blue-collar defiance that caused the veteran reporter to tremble slightly, as she approached the target for her next interview.
“Hello sir, I’m here talking to people who voted in the recent election, for a newspaper assignment. Would you have a moment to chat about that historic day?”
The reclusive hermit was inebriated, and very confused.
“WHAT DID YA SAY? NEWSPAPER? SHIT, MOST OF THESE LOCAL YOKELS CAN’T EVEN READ, MA’AM...”
Libby shuddered at this declaration. She zipped up her Cleveland State hoodie, feeling a chill.
“I’ve been told your nickname in the park is Link. May I address you so casually? And perhaps pause here for a moment? I’d just like to get some thoughts about the coming year, and what we might expect to see as Americans, from our leadership in Washington...”
The crusty contrarian scratched his gray beard, and belched with a spew of saliva dripping in the aftermath.
“MY THOUGHTS? NOBODY EVER GAVE A RAT’S ASS ABOUT MY THOUGHTS, BEFORE!”
The snow had melted a bit, since temperatures were on an upswing, momentarily. More of winter’s bluster lingered in the forecast, however. Yet with solar rays peeking through the clouds, it was not uncomfortable on the wooden deck and inset porch.
Ms. Raal instinctively reached for a Walmart shower chair, that had been hidden behind a Waste Management trash receptacle, in the corner. She sat down, and took out her notebook, and pen.
“The data I found about vote totals shows that this area went overwhelmingly for the MAGA option, in November. Was that your choice, sir? Are you a fan of Donald J. Trump?”
Lincoln coughed phlegm until his face turned red.
“FAN OF THE ORANGE FUCK? NAH, NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT...”
This reaction made the professional writer brighten with hope. She scribbled excitedly while sitting up straight.
“Aha! Very good, Link! Very good! So, how did it feel voting for a progressive candidate, when your neighbors were cheering about a second tour of duty for the man from Mar-a-Lago?”
Her subject spat droplets of whiskey and beer.
“VOTE FOR WHO? WHAT THE HELL DID YA SAY? GET REAL, SISTER! I’M A GAWDAMM LIBERTARIAN!”
Libby sputtered like a flat tire deflating.
“Oh... oh... oh my! I got that wrong, completely. Sorry, sir! Well then, you chose to flush your vote because neither party offered you a strong chance of seeing real change? I get it! You must’ve been furious!”
Lincoln clenched his fists and howled like a wolf.
“FLUSH MY VOTE? SCREW THAT NOISE, LADY! DID YA COME OUT HERE JUST TO INSULT MY INTELLIGENCE? I’VE GONE INDEPENDENT MY WHOLE, MISERABLE LIFE, STARTING WITH ROGER MAC BRIDE IN 1976...”
The Lake Erie journalist was puzzled by his reference.
“Who? Is that an actual person? Was he on the ballot for real?”
Her host thumped the weathered railing next to his bench.
“GOOGLE IT, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! I THOUGHT YA WERE A FREAKING NEWSHOUND!”
Ms. Raal realized that her line of questioning had been run off the rails. She leaned forward, folded both hands, and lowered her tone to a squeak.
“Look, I’m sorry, really sorry. This isn’t what I had in mind. I’m working on a feature about how people in this region of Ohio made their choices at the polls, a few weeks ago. So far, everyone I’ve encountered in this township stood with the Republican alternative. On the way here in my car, I saw a few yard signs for Harris & Walz, but not many. Your perspective is unique, to say the least. Give me a chance to convey that to my readers!”
The shaggy drunk slumped over his knees, feeling more compliant at last. He gestured with a half-empty bottle of brown juice. Suddenly, his hillbilly brogue vanished in favor of a more professorial accent.
“The system is broken. I’ve believed that since my teenage years, long before it became stylish to express such sentiments. That vibration is in the air. But most folks can’t make the leap to voting third-party. Money matters. Political power matters. They get stuck in a groove. Those of us who jump the curb get mocked for being intellectually strange. That’s where I live. That’s where I have lived, for the past 50 years...”
Libby opened her notebook once again. She jotted down entries at a furious pace.
“But that streak of thinking critically didn’t translate into a pull of the lever for that real estate tycoon and TV star? What made you different from all the rest in this trailer park? Was it having a better education, more life experiences, a bigger brain, or something else? Tell me, so I can explain it to subscribers of my paper!”
Lincoln growled a bit before answering. He did not consider himself to be better than anyone in his isolated community.
“I’ve got no ego, none at all. Don’t think that my nose is in the air. I detest that kind of attitude. These people are a lot like members of my own family. Having disagreements doesn’t keep us from sharing hope for a better tomorrow. Do you recall Michael Moore saying in 2016 that stumping for the Orange Man would be like throwing a Molotov Cocktail in the voting booth? That’s how they felt, apparently. With chaos abroad, inflation spiraling out of control at home, and porous borders, the choice seemed obvious, I guess. Not to me, and not to many friends who I knew during days spent living in the Empire State. But here in Ohio, that’s how the rivers flow. God help us, when the new year arrives. One side is rejoicing, and the other is weeping and gnashing their teeth, in despair. I just figure it’ll be more of the same. More lobbyists, more bureaucrats, more bullshit. More of the power structure grinding every good initiative to a halt. I hope that I’m wrong, though. Believe me, I want to be wrong...”
The wandering scribe put away her pad and writing instrument. She extended her hand with a smile, and a nod of gratitude.
“Thank you, Link. Your outlook is one I’ll remember for a long time! Be well!”
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