Trailer Park Tesla, Chapter 11: Publicity

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-25)

 

 

For the protest kids in Cleveland, their metropolitan area along the Lake Erie shoreline was a safe space. A locale where the discipline of old-fashioned values had long ago been exploded. A spot where art reigned over necessity. Where self-expression took precedence over duty. Where traditional lines of thinking had been blurred into non-existence. Where it was acceptable to declare identities with the ease of a stage performer accepting dramatic roles. Where life and gender were no longer expressed in scientific terms. Where the yearning for a communal utopia had not yet been erased by wars and famine, and indifference. Sin was a lost concept. Satisfaction had replaced the idea of a living God, as a divining rod to offer guidance. All of this was thought to be part of an evolution to a higher plane of awareness.

 

But Evergreen Estates also served as a safe space for its blue-collar residents. A junkyard resort where battling over pronouns and correctness, or virtue signaling, had no meaning. Where daily bread was earned and cherished. Where family bonds, through blood or shared experiences, mattered most. Where the value of a spoken word, given as a promise, still carried the weight of consequence. Where seeking fame and fortune, or accolades, never eclipsed the worth of faith. Where even in the midst of financial poverty and social alienation, the offer of a cold beverage and good company could still bolster wounded spirits to thrive and endure.

 

This was the dichotomy that Townshend Carr Lincoln faced, every day.

 

He had been raised in an environment of higher learning and creativity. Yet with a foundation laid strong and sure, underneath. One of Appalachian traditions reinterpreted for the modern world. He often cursed the trailer community that was his home, but knew that each inhabitant was tangentially his kin. They had all fallen from grace, for a variety of reasons, and landed in the development of mobile dwellings by chance. Their survival was one metered in meager proportions. Minimal in measure, yet powerful as a whole. A testament to the unflagging ability of human beings to outlast hardships and prosper. So, he often folded his hands to pray, in reverence to an unseen deity, even as a daily ritual of boozing made him numb and groggy. Together, twin forces kept him in motion and filled with hope.

 

Jesus and Jack Daniel’s were his reasons to celebrate being alive.

 

To outsiders, being in the remote cluster of long, boxed huts represented a kind of banishment from mainstream thinking. Almost an imprisonment of sorts. But to those who marked the passage of time on those narrow lots of rented dirt, the experience was one of liberation. Freedom from the cares of careering and censorship.

 

No one at Evergreen Estates gave much thought to pleasing those who lived past the property line.

 

Perhaps this natural inclination toward dissent was a factor in the rapid acceptance of Tesla vehicles in the park. Once VMS had made their rent-to-own plan known to residents, interest in purchasing versions of the Cybertruck spread quickly. Before a full month had gone by, nearly every family had at least one of these oddball vehicles nestled in their driveway. If this occurrence had stayed truly local, a quirk of the rural township where it first took root, that might have been anonymous enough to be overlooked. Yet soon, talk-radio hosts and cable-news pundits took the story as fodder for their respective, national audiences.

 

Clay Travis and Buck Sexton, Sean Hannity, Megyn Kelly, Tucker Carlson, and even Michael Savage extolled the patriotism of regular folk who had signed on with the novel plan of ownership. Rachel Maddow, Jen Psaki, Lawrence O’Donnell and Stephen Colbert all wept openly about the surge of populist support among MAGA disciples. Bill Maher reflected on the switch in customer loyalty as a sign that the old political landscape had been fractured.

 

This national attention put a bullseye over Evergreen Estates. Suddenly, internet hits to gain information about the isolated realm exploded, exponentially.

 

For Sheriff Tom T. Rath, this gathering storm presented more than a logistical challenge to allocate resources from his county department. It gave him a headache that would not go away. On a Wednesday morning, this throb between his temples was magnified, as Governor Mark Moerlein called from Columbus. The state executive was nearly breathless when explaining his intentions in reaching out.

 

“Tom, I got a call from the FBI field office in Cleveland earlier today. They’ve heard chatter picking up from activist groups all along the east coast. Familiar actors, names we know already. There is a building sense of outrage over a sales spike for Elon Musk’s electric vehicles, here in Ohio. That tidbit of news has been put under a microscope by the media...”

 

The lawman was red-faced and cranky. He did not enjoy handling controversy, on any level.

 

“Dammit Mark, this would’ve been a nothingburger, if they’d left it alone. A few broke citizens took a chance on renting trucks that they could never afford to buy. Is that really a big deal? I see cars in that trailer park that were made 30 years ago or more. It’s like watching clips from Cuba, people do their best to patch together old wrecks because they’ve got empty pockets. That’s no headline story! I hate it when they stir the pot to get ratings!”

 

Moerlein snorted slightly, in agreement.

 

“It goes with the territory. Anyway, I wanted to warn you that the G-Men think there might be some incidents in your county. Protest incursions at that mobile-home community, you know? It goes without saying that if the park gets invaded, there’ll be consequences. You’ve had plenty of conflict there over the years...”

 

Sheriff Rath spit a mouthful of black coffee.

 

“Marching in the streets downtown is one thing. Cleveland hosts lots of events to blow off steam, and let people vent their opinions. But the gang on Pine Trail Road are a different story. Those boondockers are armed! Depending on how it shakes out, there could be more trouble than we can handle!”

 

The state leader nodded, and cradled his telephone receiver in one hand.

 

“That’s why the FBI office contacted me first. They wanted me to be aware of an imminent threat, in case the National Guard is needed...”

 

His contact in the northeastern sector groaned with obvious regret.

 

“Thanks, friend. It’s good to know you’re vigilant. Maybe this will blow over, at least we can hope for the best. But in the meantime, I’ll call the chief in Cuyahoga County. They might have some information from their people on the ground. It’s a daily grind working in law enforcement. Sometimes I’d just like to have a day off and a stiff drink!”

 

The governor held his breath before concluding their chat with a candid confession.

 

“I’ll be glad to hit my term limit, and retire. Next year it’s adios to all of this nonsense, for good!”

Trailer Park Tesla, Chapter 10: Judgement

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-25)

 

 

Lizzie Lavender had been able to survive at Evergreen Estates by being stealthy and primarily absent from the park continuum. Meanwhile, she worked to sell her grandmother’s trailer, diligently. Yet despite the shortage of affordable housing in Geauga County, and the low asking price she had advertised, finding someone who was willing to consider living in the rural development proved to be difficult. After years of poor management, bad publicity, and crumbling conditions, there were few local residents interested in securing a place at the enclave of mobile homes.

 

Merely mentioning the name of this distant oasis sent many potential buyers fleeing with disgust.

 

Yet with a shift in public perceptions regarding Tesla products, because of Elon Musk’s service in the chaotic administration of Donald Trump, things had changed drastically. Now, being present at the Queer Conundrum offices in Cleveland, and at familiar nightspots along Lake Erie, represented risk-taking of a high order. Friends and journalistic contacts that had once been in her social circle now shied away from keeping in touch. There were scrapes and dents left in her Model 3 that could not be accounted for, as part of working in a metropolitan environment. Tires were flattened, the windshield cracked, and eventually, spray-paint signatures were left behind as a reminder of the controversy about owning such a vehicle.

 

Initially, she resisted this form of pressure out of hand. Part of being someone divorced from the mainstream, with regard to dietary and lifestyle habits, was existing on a lonely fringe of reality. She networked with like-minded individuals, but stayed clear of most people. Still, her need to be an advocate for the LGBT community, and what she viewed as the cause of liberty, remained strong. No one could make her fear speaking up and speaking out, as part of this personal mission. Eventually, she reached a point of emotional exhaustion. Both the Tesla, and her inherited, longbox dwelling, needed to be sold.

 

She actually considered abandoning both of these assets. A move that would leave her in dire straits, financially.

 

While a sense of desperation clouded her thoughts, a moment of decision arrived. A text from QC Editor-in-Chief Quantra Bolden popped up on her cell phone. It was very direct, and ominous.

 

“I need you to meet with me at 11:00 Monday morning. Please be prompt, as I have a busy schedule this week. Thanks...”

 

Lizzie chose to look sharp for this meeting, in a 1970’s, green pantsuit with wedge heels, fashioned from wood soles and nautical rope. She had her long locks pulled back in a yellow scarf. The activist writer carried a mesh portfolio under one arm, full of stories written for other publications. At the main office, she found her steward and mentor dressed to an opposite standard. The print leader was in a plain, purple dress, woven from hemp fibers. Hippie apparel of a vintage sort. A necklace of jade stones and silver hung to her waist. Her mane was a cascade of gray and white.

 

“Ms. Q, I hope this is intended as a friendly gesture... perhaps a new assignment or event to attend?”

 

Quantra narrowed her eyes. She paused to breathe before answering.

 

“Liz, I’d like to be brief, okay? You know I don’t need bad vibes in this space. I already brought out the sage, this morning. And the crystals too. I even recited the Wiccan Rede! There’s been some rising up here, people feeling a downer on their minds. It’s all about your Swasticar in the employee lot. You didn’t take hints and persuasion, nooooo, you didn’t! Maybe that’s your groove, being an independent, trans, vegan, free-spirit. I’m cool with that, I can relate. But it’s affecting the mental climate for everyone. Seeing that Tesla here, every, day is hurtful. You’ve got to respect the parameters of what this place means to all of us...”

 

The professional scribe pinched her nose, as if encountering a foul odor.

 

“What I drive matters that much?”

 

Her newspaper queen nodded and smiled gently.

 

“It does. Oh girl, more than you might think! See, we live on trust here. Everybody has been wounded on the outside. We’ve all felt the pain of stepping out of line. Gay, non-binary, genderqueer, role-player, whatever the case. I’m not personally into labels, but there you go. When that Musk-mobile pulls into the lot, it makes your comrades uneasy. It raises questions, ones that don’t need to be asked. It shatters the trust we enjoyed, do you get it?”

 

Lizzie crossed her muscular legs, and sighed heavily.

 

“You know my background, Ms. Q. You know I was abused in grade school. You know I got whipped by an uncle for wearing my sister’s clothes. You know that I hitchhiked to Ohio from my hometown in Kentucky, like others here, what an awful dump that was! Being here by the waterfront, with people who love me, has made all the difference. I feel alive now. I feel safe. But then you put it all right into the toilet. Because of the EV I own. Really? Because of an electric car that is helping preserve our environment? Something that a year ago, made me a proud advocate for Mother Earth? Really, really, really?”

 

Bolden fiddled with a cup of pens and pencils on the corner of her desk.

 

“Times change, woman! Trends change. People change. Elon went over to the dark side. His friends are fascists now. He’s a Nazi, through and through! And so are you, when sitting behind the wheel of that Swasticar!”

 

The junior scribbler tightened her pinkish lips.

 

“Listen to yourself, Ms. Q! If they dug Adolf up from his grave, where do you think I’d be? Quit sounding like a prisoner of the moment! Who I am matters way more than what it says on the trunk lid of my Model 3! I didn’t change just because Elon went rogue!”

 

Her editor frowned and huffed audibly.

 

“I agree, Liz. You didn’t change, and I don’t want you to! Which is why you’ve got to dump the Hitler rig. Get rid of that rolling piece of shit! Cleanse yourself! Don’t lose track of why you came here in the first place!”

 

Lizzie was slightly miffed that the news veteran had no interest in looking over her collection of published articles. Yet the time had come for brutal honesty.

 

“Let’s do this, Ms. Q. Just say it and be done. If I don’t dump my Tesla, then what?”

 

Quantra bowed her head and whispered in response.

 

“Then your career with us is finished...”

 

The struggling reporter clenched both fists, and felt tears ebbing from her eyes.

 

“FINISHED? ARE YOU CRAZY? YOU REALLY MEAN THAT?”

 

Her sponsor and host had run out of patience. There was nothing more to discuss.

 

“When you show up here again, it had better be in a Chevy, Toyota, or a Dodge. Not that damned evil wagon made by Mr. Musk. Otherwise, keep your distance! It’s all up to you!”

Trailer Park Tesla, Chapter 9: Outlier

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-25)

 

 

Lizzie Lavender was an oddball at Evergreen Estates. An outlier among outcasts. She lived a vegan lifestyle amid brutish residents, who boasted about roasting dead animals on their propane grills. Her femme appearance was a veneer of art, carefully crafted to cover a soul with trans inclinations. Though family members who persisted in dead-naming her still used a reference of Jorgan, when interacting personally. She was quite possibly, the only registered Democrat in their trailer community. When the death of her maternal grandmother meant taking over the mobile home as a spot to live, full-time, she accepted the challenge with courage. But after an entire year on the premises, her spirit was flagging.

 

Staying anonymous had let her survive. But it was a lonely condition in which to exist.

 

Her volunteer job at a local branch of the Cleveland Food Bank brought satisfaction. She felt meaningful while living as a citizen in the rural district. And work for Queer Conundrum, an alternative publication headquartered by Lake Erie, kept her focused on goals of self-awareness and empowerment. Yet the irony of having driven a Tesla, in the conservative environment of Geauga County, had suddenly taken an unexpected turn. Her EV had been a thorn in the side, originally. Something shunned and viewed with suspicion. It made her long, daily trek to the metropolitan area difficult, and daunting. But now, the paradigm had been reversed. For the first time, neighbors at her junkyard oasis were behind the wheel of similar vehicles, by choice. And when at the QC offices, she had to take care not to fall victim to vandals or protesters.

 

This shift in perceptions had her struggling to keep up, intellectually.

 

Lizzie had few friends in the distant village of mobile homes. She was on good terms with Maylene Jefka, an octogenarian matron who held the respect of every other inhabitant. The young, counterculture activist guessed that this might have been because the old woman had long ago passed a point of judging others. Or maybe, her eyesight was simply too poor to reveal visual clues that might have indicated a difference in style and appearance from cisgender women in the development. She also seemed to interact positively with Dana Alvarez, the property manager. Something that made her stay easier to accept.

 

As a force of habit, she avoided speaking out loud, to conceal her husky, affectation of a feminine voice.

 

After work at the newspaper cooperative, on a Friday, she decided to take a drive along the lakeshore, before heading back to her prefab home base. But upon reaching the door of her Tesla Model 3, an angry mob surrounded the vehicle. Student protesters from the nearby university were agitated to see the hated brand in a familiar parking area. Water bottles and debris began to rain down forcefully.

 

“NO MORE SWASTICARS! ELON THE FOOL WON’T GET YOU FAR! GO TO HELL, ADOLF MUSK! YOU KISSED TRUMP’S ASS AND LOST OUR TRUST!”

 

Lizzie recognized one of the group as a member of the QC staff. A skinny, acne-faced kid who had recently joined their team, after moving to Ohio from an unfriendly part of Kentucky.

 

“Hey Beau, it’s me, man! Your editorial assistant! What gives with the shit shower? I thought we were pen pals, so to speak. Journalists on a spiritual journey...”

 

Beauregard Bloch sneered and wiped snot from his stubby nose. He had a blonde crop of spiky hair, with the sides of his head shaved bald.

 

“You’re the one driving a Tesla? Oh my, so sorry sister! At first, I figured maybe you were going to spray-paint this bitchwagon!”

 

The staff writer and volunteer adjusted her breastforms, and took a deep breath.

 

“You’ve been here for what, six or eight weeks? And never noticed my car before?”

 

Her junior associate bit his bottom lip, and sighed.

 

“There’s a war going on, honey! Don’t you know? These ugly, electric slugs are being set on fire, and hit with sledgehammers! It’s crunch time, ha ha! Elon made his choice, now we’re making ours! It’s a middle finger to the Orange Man, and to him! They can both eat a bag of dicks!”

 

Lizzie stomped her combat boots and shrieked.

 

“You don’t know how much I hate Herr Cheeto? C’mon boy, I’d have thought it was very obvious! But tearing up my car won’t change anything. Smashing windows at dealerships is... well... a poor way to get your point across!”

 

Beau raised an eyebrow, and huffed. For the first time, he wondered if moving to the Buckeye State had been a wise choice.

 

“You know how I got treated by the hillbillies at home? I was harassed by bigots and chased by cowboys with long rifles and shotguns. They don’t have any patience for someone who runs outside of their churchy guardrails. Up here by the lake, I figured it was going to be different. Yet here you are, with a Swasticar! Can I depend on you, sis? Can I believe in anyone at this paper?”

 

The LGBT advocate slumped in her driver’s seat, as most of the agitators began to disperse.

 

“I’m invisible in my trailer park, by choice. You know? But here, I thought it was different. Everybody knows where I stand! Everybody knows what I believe!”

 

Her keyboard cohort bowed his head and whistled.

 

“Maybe we would, if you got rid of that fucking Hitler car!”

 

The road east, to Thompson Township, was nearly empty as she headed back to her slab-sided residence in the pines. Most of the workforce had already escaped to enjoy a weekend of recreation. At Evergreen Estates, the atmosphere was surprisingly mellow. Faint echoes of Country Music and horseshoes being played, drifted on the breeze. The final turn toward Lot 12 passed with a crunching of loose gravel over the concrete apron. Then, silence took hold.

 

Lizzie exited her Model 3 to realize that someone across the yard was drinking on their outside porch. A shaggy, sweaty fellow with a Santa Claus profile, and a bottle of bourbon in his right hand. She had never encountered the contrarian loner, despite being in the park for a dozen months.

 

“Hello! I don’t think we’ve met before. I volunteer up at the food bank, and work in Cleveland, full-time. So, maybe that’s not unusual. But it’s good to see someone enjoying a warm evening in April...”

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln was very drunk. Yet the deep timbre of his neighbor’s voice still resonated. He noted that she was unusually tall and leggy, with broad shoulders. Her garment seemed to be a dress fashioned from hemp stock, colored in rainbow hues. With black, fishnet tights, underneath. None of these details caused any concern, because he had consumed half the container of bourbon, already. He was content to languish in a haze of high-proof liquor.

 

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am! Just so you know, I’m an asshole! Ask around, it’ll be confirmed! Anyway, have a nice day!”

 

 

 

Trailer Park Tesla, Chapter 8: Collapse

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-25)

 

 

Naylon Pugh was young, lanky, willfully geeked-out, and covered with gaming tattoos. His yellow hair stood on end, while sitting at a computer in the Tesla dealership, located by Lake Erie. When this brand first arrived in northeastern Ohio, it had been welcomed by progressive thinkers who were mindful of having electric vehicles with zero tailpipe emissions, available in their market. But now, the connection between Elon Musk and President Donald J. Trump had stalled this trend, and soured fans. He shivered while watching a YouTube clip posted by ABC News, regarding the sales collapse.

 

“Tesla’s profits fell 71% over the first three months of this year, a company earnings release on Tuesday showed. The company’s performance fell short of analysts’ expectations. Total revenue decreased by 9% from one year earlier, to $19.3 billion, while revenue derived from car sales plunged 20% over the first three months of 2025 compared to a year ago, the earnings showed. The new financial details arrive as some shareholders have called on Musk – whose temporary status as a government employee expires next month – to step down from his White House role and return full-time to the helm of Tesla...”

 

The professional nerd and sales representative nearly toppled his tumbler of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, after hearing this negative report.

 

“Sole, did you catch any of that? We’re a sinking ship! Get out the life jackets!”

 

Solomon Fortuna was in his corner office with the door standing ajar. He had sorted through virtual files throughout the morning, looking for evidence to counter their woeful predicament. But upon being distracted, he turned in his chair, and gestured toward the hallway between both workspaces.

 

“Nay, come here dude! Check this shit out! Our sales in Geauga County are up 1000% YTD!”

 

His tattooed cohort frowned and whined while leaving his own desk.

 

“Didn’t you hear me? We’re going under water! Elon has sunk our business!”

 

His company partner signified disagreement, while adjusting the iMac monitor for a better view.

 

“You’re a nervous nebbish, bruh! We’re golden right now, trust me! It’s a shift in sales trends, that’s all. One group is getting off the wagon, and another is hopping on, to ride. No biggie! Either way we’ll clean up at the bank...”

 

Naylon scratched wisps of beard stubble on his pointed chin.

 

“How can you take such bad news with a smile? C’mon man, pay attention! We’re screwed!”

 

Solomon made a rude noise that mimicked flatulence. He was better groomed than his partner, and more at ease with day-to-day operations.

 

“This is a temporary fluctuation. Call it a strategic adjustment. Do you care who buys our products? Of course you don’t. See, at first we were catering to the big thinkers, people concerned with climate change and all of that lofty stuff. But actually, Elon was right on target with the Cybertruck, for Midwestern customers. They stand out from the crowd, but also give owners a sense of having bigger balls. That’s why they buy those things, anyway! If you drive an F-150 or Silverado or Ram, maybe even a Toyota Tundra, it’s just like having no face. You’re anonymous. Bland and boring. And having nothing in your pants! But in the rig from Tesla, it’s stones-out all the way! Big and bold, and brassy! All we have to do is change our sales pitch!”

 

His pale friend was shocked by this use of colorful terminology.

 

“What about women who want a Tesla? How does that get their attention?”

 

The dealership manager snorted and shook his head.

 

“You’re always trying to find an argument to make! Look, the ladies out here are cowgirls at heart, they like to line dance and smoke cigarettes, or drink vodka, and stir up trouble sometimes. Sitting at the wheel of a Cybertruck means empowerment. It means freedom. It means... more selling for us and money in the till!”

 

Naylon realized that his small, square eyeglasses had fogged. He had to wipe them with a Taco Bell napkin.

 

“Sole, you’re chill as fuck about this! Damn, I wish that I had your confidence.”

 

Solomon shrugged and laughed out loud.

 

“Ride the wave, bruh! That’s how you stay on top of the water. When one side is in charge, we play the correctness game and count our money. When the other side takes over, we benefit from the pseudo-patriotic fervor. It’s all good! Whatever gets us paid!”

 

His inked-up pal scrolled through stories on the computer screen.

 

“But check these out, they’re all real incidents. Cars set on fire, protests, windows smashed, spray-paint graffiti, it’s turned crazy since Elon started messing with the DOGE project! People are pissed off! We’ve been lucky not to get hit!”

 

His tag-team opposite nodded and placed both hands flat on the desktop.

 

“There’s a storm brewing, you nailed it. But folks here in Ohio interpret that differently from New York or California. I never saw a Confederate flag on a Cybertruck, until we started delivering purchases to that trailer park in Thompson Township. It’s a different lifestyle from the college crowd here in Cleveland. None of them could afford a Tesla before the VMS plan. But now, they’ve gotten hooked up! They’re plugged in and ready to ride! They’ve been liberated from bad-credit hell!”

 

Naylon slumped over his workspace. He felt slightly nauseous.

 

“Kids from Cleveland State are calling them ‘Swasticars.’ That just rattles me, dude! I don’t want to sell something with a nickname like that! It’s evil!”

 

Solomon brushed lint from his uniform polo shirt.

 

“You know what’s evil, man? Being a broke-ass loser is evil! Having your bank account empty is evil! Having to go on unemployment is evil. I like winning at the game! That means selling cars to whoever wants to buy! I don’t give a damn if they are gay, straight, left, right, up, down, or totally indifferent! Get them financed and out the door! We’ve got a company to save! And bonuses to earn! Like Stone Cold Steve Austin used to say, ‘That’s the bottom line!’”

 

His junior partner had heard enough. He switched off the iMac and leaned backward in the office chair.

 

“I give up. You win, Sole! I’m on the team. Wherever this goes, I’ll be there!”

Trailer Park Tesla, Chapter 7: Rodeo

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-25)

 

 

Townshend Lincoln had fallen asleep with the Cleveland PBS channel on his television. An error brought on with inebriation clouding his vision, as he searched for a replay of the WWE Wrestlemania exhibition that had just been held. Through a filter of liquor and fatigue, his brain was teased with verbal combat between media figures. Then, he emerged from this persistent haze slowly, piecing levels of consciousness one at a time. Daybreak had arrived at Evergreen Estates. A mood of calm followed the first hint of sunrise. A glow of an awakening day streamed from his front entrance, with the door standing fully ajar. He had tipped into oblivion while on his couch. Drool and alcohol permeated his shaggy beard. Crumbs from a sack of fried chicken dotted his Harley-Davidson T-shirt.

 

He felt woozy when trying to stand.

 

At first, a merciful tone of quiet nature soothed his ears. But then, synthetic squawks of car horns and Country Music intruded on this peaceful reserve. An electric whooshing of Cybertrucks in action buzzed through his trailer walls, as a pace outing began.

 

The first annual Tesla Rodeo & 50-Lap Qualifier was almost underway, at his isolated property in the pines.

 

He cursed weakly, while rubbing his eyes. In the street outside, a rowdy herd of electric beasts was busy circling the neighborhood, like professional drivers getting the feel of a NASCAR oval. So many residents had taken the VMS rent-to-own deal, that now, nearly every driveway provided shelter for one of Elon Musk’s futuristic vehicles. While the outside world was busy castigating owners of these cutting-edge rigs, those at the distant community of mobile homes had taken a different view of supporting the wealthy oligarch. They adorned the sleek, metallic mules with Confederate banners and Gadsden flags. Or had them painted olive drab, with military insignia on that green background.

 

Swooning with his stomach empty and blood-sugar level flagging, the old hermit slurred out a brief commentary that no one else could hear.

 

“It looks like a running of the bulls, in Spain!”

 

Pastor Cabe Forester from their township’s Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven, stood at a makeshift pulpit that had been erected in a parking area next to the maintenance garage and office. He was dressed casually for the event, but wore a gold cross pendant on a chain around his jacket collar.

 

“Neighbors and friends, I’m here to offer a blessing of this first rodeo for charity, in your residential development. Let me thank our esteemed brother in Christ, Linn Speck, for bringing it all together. The air at Evergreen Estates is cleaner today, because of your efforts to buy EVs. And our conscience is clear, because we’ve all pooled our resources to support a godly man and his administration, in Washington! We’ve made a difference in Ohio and America, there can be no doubt! If you agree, then shout it to the sky. Amen!”

 

There was a thunderous response from parishioners and inhabitants of the boxcar village.

 

“AMEN! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

 

Aimes Hefti had assembled his amateur militia to serve as an honor guard for the event. They were fully armed with pistols, rifles, and police tasers. To signify a beginning for the competition, blasts of live rounds were sent toward the azure blue.

 

On a folding table sat the gold trophy to be awarded, plus a copy of the Trump Bible. Money from entry fees was slated to go into a benevolence fund, at the church. So, the happening would benefit those in need, in Geauga County and beyond.

 

Forester folded his hands and bowed. His voice deepened with emption as he prayed over the reverent flock.

 

“Holy God, we are in a time when our enemies have never been more ruthless. Power has slipped from their grasp, and they are hungry to reclaim supremacy. They are devious and crafty in doing Satan’s work. Your people must be vigilant, always. Therefore, let us pray for protection. Shield us from the wrath of wounded and unrepentant sinners! Make us safe as we exalt your name before the world! And also, bless the name of your champion, who is once again in the White House!”

 

Another burst of zeal resounded from the blue-collar assembly.

 

“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”

 

Kimber Kronski, a recent immigrant to the junkyard oasis, lifted a Pine Tree standard to signify an official start for the contest. She was a waitress and dancer at clubs along the festive, waterfront strip, at Geneva-on-the-Lake. Her straight, blonde mane and long legs traced an unmistakable profile amid older, grizzled and gritty citizens who had lived on the grounds for many years.

 

With the banner spread wide, its motto could be read by everyone: ‘An Appeal To Heaven.’

 

The limber, GOTL waif called out forcefully, to begin their contest.

 

“PUNCH UP THOSE BATTERIES, EVERYBODY! LET’S GOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Lincoln pondered his coffeemaker for a moment, then swore at the glass carafe. His taste for a morning beverage had dissipated.

 

“Screw making a pot of black, I need a fucking drink instead!”

 

One oversized bottle of Evan Williams Bottled-in-Bond remained in his liquor cupboard. He rummaged past bags of dog treats and cat chow, to find the container. Then, twisted the neck wrap until this sheath of plastic came loose. He took a long, fiery pull of 100-proof liquid, until the wash of brown juice made him cough and stagger around the kitchen.

 

“That hits the bullseye! Damn, what a rush!”

 

A warning had been issued for the entire park, to keep children and pets sheltered-in-place as the Tesla Qualifier commenced. Yet some had seemed to ignore this advisory, with reckless indifference. So, as the group rolled past Lincoln’s prefabricated hovel, stray kids and animals scattered. A motorized whirring of electric engines made his ears tingle. Loose stones skipped and bounced in every direction.

 

Then, one of the angular transports hit a pothole near the mail shed. It swerved and flipped into the empty field that fronted their park on the southern edge. Landing on its left side.  Inside, an anonymous pilot pounded his fist on the dashboard.

 

Bottles of Bud Light had been stationed all along the race course, in galvanized tubs full of crushed ice. This availability of refreshments soon had the crowd turning mellow and giddy. They cheered at each speedy pass of the competitors.

 

Townshend Lincoln raised his middle finger in defiance. Yet no one seemed to notice this gesture of dissent. Everyone was in a mood to celebrate.

 

The second casualty came as Linn spun out while trying to navigate his own corner at speed. Something that he thought would impress his beloved spouse and confidant, Haki. This sent the new Cybertruck sliding into a storage barn by his ratty trailer. Plywood sheeting and trim pieces filled the air. His yard became a muddy, furrowed plot of debris. The final impact left him sitting upside-down, facing in the wrong direction. Suddenly, the inertia of other participants stalled. The improvised race course turned into a parking lot.

 

Mrs. Speck wailed tearfully upon witnessing this early finish.

 

“Honey, are you okayyy? Those other drivers were dogging your tail I think! Stupid, stupid people! I hate stupid peeeeeeeople!”

 

Lincoln chortled while watching from the crest of his disability ramp. His face was red, and burning, from multiple shots of bourbon. Down the street, a commotion started as entrants debated the cause of this accidental interruption, vociferously. Blows between residents quickly began to fly.

 

Aimes Hefti laid the blame on a lack of skill at the wheel, and too much exuberance.

 

“Y’all can’t hack keeping yer ass on the pavement, I see! There’s more to steering one of these tanks than just rolling around like a kid on a tricycle! Go sit in yer lawn chair, dude! Let us real men have our fun!”

 

Linn was indignant, and offended. His jowls swelled and turned sweaty.

 

“You’ve got a big mouth, like that drunk at Lot 13! Shut up, commando!”

 

Aimes took great exception at being compared to the contrarian loner who was a pariah in their park. He righteously stomped his bootheel, and leaned forward for a better angle of attack. A clenched fist caught his opponent square in the jaw. This sent the erstwhile, community organizer backward, on his butt. His trousers were visibly scuffed and torn.

 

“OOOOOOOOFFF!”

 

Haki wrung her hands and trembled. Her chubby knees knocked together, under a long skirt patterned with summer flowers.

 

“Honey, I think he’s right! Let someone else get the gold trophy! It’s time to call it a day!”

 

Trailer Park Tesla, Chapter 6: Spotlight

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-25)

The Location: WVIZ studios, Cleveland, Ohio

 

The Players: Nolte Khandarian, program moderator; Freda Fronk, freelance commentator and activist; Dort Munder, columnist from the Plain Dealer newspaper; Shale Seagrave, token conservative participant

 

NOLTE KHANDARIAN: “Welcome to the weekly broadcast of ‘PBS Rising Up Roundtable!’ We’ve got quite a bit of ground to cover, so let’s begin immediately...”

 

FREDA FRONK: “I can’t think of anything more important than the rise of sales for Elon Musk’s Swasticars! May we begin there, Madam Moderator?”

 

DORT MUNDER: “I agree, that is the most important story of this news cycle! What a horrific turn of events!”

 

SHALE SEAGRAVE: “I’m the oddball here, quite honestly, this story means almost nothing to me...”

 

(Gasps resound across the panel)

 

N. KHANDARIAN: (Straightening a Ukrainian flag pin on her lapel) “I think we all expect some people to miss the importance of this continuing saga. But we will unpack it, anyway. After many incidents of public shaming, setting fires at dealerships, and vandalizing cars, some owners have been dumping their Tesla vehicles. But one county here in Ohio has bucked that trend. Geauga has posted the greatest rise in Cybertruck sales we’ve seen anywhere in the United States! Apparently, it is because of a single neighborhood in a rural township, where a community of mobile homes is located...”

 

F. FRONK: (Looking sick at her stomach) “I am literally shaking! What could possibly justify such a development?”

 

D. MUNDER: “I’d rather have a stout, European brew than talk about this nonsense. But there you have it, I think we all know the history of that particular garbage pit!”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: (Wrinkling her pointed nose) “You’ve just insulted a whole group of voters, doesn’t that matter at all?”

 

N. KHANDARIAN: (Peering through thick, oversized glasses) “I think that reasonable people are concerned with the connection of Elon Musk to Tesla vehicles. His bold use of a Nazi salute at a recent rally was shocking, to say the least!”

 

F. FRONK: (Thumping her folder of printed articles) “Yes! He’s a Nazi! A Nazi! A Nazi!”

 

D. MUNDER: (Nodding in agreement) “A Nazi, indeed! Nazi, Nazi, Nazi!”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: (Shrugging with her eyes closed) “See, members of the intelligentsia and mainstream press often like to toss that word around, like playing volleyball. But when real Nazis speak out, to harass Jewish students, deny the Holocaust, and urge us to eradicate their people from the earth, you often have little or nothing to say...”

 

(More gasps echo around the room)

 

N. KHANDARIAN: (Clearly shocked) “I can’t let that comment go, Shale! It’s false, false, false, so false!”

 

F. FRONK: (Raising her fist in the air) “False! As an independent woman, I am offended!”

 

D. MUNDER: (Shouting defiantly) “False!”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: (Grinding her teeth) “Is there really a point in having me on this show? Your minds are already made up, I think.”

 

N. KHANDARIAN: (Shaking her head) “It is important to consider a variety of viewpoints. With that in mind, let’s move on to our next subject...”

 

F. FRONK: (Interrupting her program host) “No, actually, I think we ought to dig deeper, Nolte! The residents of that trailer park are not poised to spend large sums of money on modes of transportation. It’s a working-class neighborhood. So, where are they getting the cash for a down payment? Or funds to satisfy an installment plan?”

 

D. MUNDER: (Brightening at this suggestion) “It’s pertinent to our discussion! How can poor people who live in repurposed shipping containers afford something like a Cybertruck?”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: (Finally hitting her groove) “While the rest of you have been out canvassing supporters of Bernie Sanders, AOC, and Elizabeth Warren, I looked into the purchase plan. It’s actually a novel idea, based on the Rent-A-Center paradigm. You know, rent for now, and eventually own, if you choose. There are financiers that have been marketing trailers with that option for many years...”

 

N. KHANDARIAN: (Manifesting disbelief) “Rent to own? My goodness, how many payments does that take?”

 

F. FRONK: “It sounds like legalized loan sharking to me!”

 

D. MUNDER: (Sneering) “A stupid plan for stupid people!”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: “You have to understand the mindset of those who live in longbox homes. They don’t have a lot to work with, most families exist on a small fraction of what any of us earn from our employers. They work with their hands. They don’t have good credit ratings. They innovate and survive as best they can...”

 

D. MUNDER: (Condescendingly) “I work with my hands! Typing at a keyboard, that is!”

 

F. FRONK: (With indignation) “Oh yes! I’m no elitest, just because I have my own office, and a university endowment! Call me working class, to the core! As a proud warrior for justice, I’ve earned everything I have!”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: (Sighing loudly) “You’re missing the point, friends. Such citizens don’t have many alternatives. They fall prey to schemes like these, easily. But the other side of that coin is now, they have new vehicles to get around. Something few of them could afford any other way...”

 

F. FRONK: “You couldn’t pay me to drive a Swasticar! Elon Musk is a disgusting piece of filth! A Nazi!”

 

D. MUNDER: “A Nazi!”

 

N. KHANDARIAN: “I agree, sadly. A Nazi!”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: (Speaking with frustration) “See, you’re all doing it again. Going back to playing intellectual volleyball. When the Governor of Pennsylvania was put in danger, by an arsonist intruder, did you call his assailant by that name?”

 

N. KHANDARIAN: (Looking confused) “Umm... I haven’t read anything that says he was a Nazi like Elon Musk!”

 

F. FRONK: (Stiffening slightly) “No, not a Nazi that I know of!”

 

D. MUNDER: (Tapping his pen on the conference table) “No one has called him a Nazi!”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: “This criminal attacked a Jewish governor and his family on the first day of Passover, and you have no comments to offer?”

 

N. KHANDARIAN: (Looking confused) “I haven’t seen anything that says he was a Nazi like Elon!”

 

F. FRONK: “No, not a Nazi that I know of, honestly!”

 

D. MUNDER: “No one has called him a Nazi!”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: (Gaining confidence) “See, that’s it right there. You wouldn’t think of jumping to that conclusion in this instance. Your response is measured...”

 

N. KHANDARIAN: “What is your point, Shale? You’ve lost me completely!”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: (Folding her hands like a lawyer doing their summation) “When you hear certain people say things that are anti-Semitic, and extreme, hesitation keeps you from clapping back. You want to parse words and use care in passing judgment. But then you are clumsy with the terminology involved, when it comes to addressing your opponents...”

 

F. FRONK: (Reddening) “Not at all! I speak truth to power!”

 

D. MUNDER: (Beginning to sweat) “I am proud to traffic in the truth!’

 

N. KHANDARIAN: “The truth, and nothing but the truth!”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: “The real story here is about VMS, an unknown dealer and loan provider making this possible. Do you know who is involved? Have you investigated that company? Have you asked any questions? Have you wondered about any of the details?”

 

N. KHANDARIAN: (With a blank expression) “Honestly, no!”

 

F. FRONK: “Umm... no!”

 

D. MUNDER: (Frowning) “Of course not! No!”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: “Venca Motorized Solutions is rumored to be connected with our former Senator, and current Vice President. Did you know anything about that?”

 

Jaws dropped around the table.

 

N. KHANDARIAN: (Turning pale) “Honestly, no!”

 

F. FRONK: “Umm... no, no, no!”

 

D. MUNDER: (Frowning) “Well, honestly, no!”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: (Taking a deep breath) “There you go, that’s the storyline. I would suggest that instead of throwing stones, you need to start turning them over, and looking for clues!”

 

N. KHANDARIAN: (Waving to the camera for a quick exit) “Annnnnnnd, that’s all the time we have! Thank you everyone! Tune in next week for another episode of the PBS Rising Up Roundtable! Thank you very much! Stay vigilant! And stay informed!”

Trailer Park Tesla, Chapter 5: Sheriff

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-25)

 

 

Townshend Lincoln dozed off some time in the afternoon, following his confrontation with Linn Speck, who lived on the front corner of their street. He snored loudly and sputtered saliva and bourbon. This offensive mixture dribbled into his shaggy beard, and left telltale signs of inebriation and vanquished stamina. But as evening approached, he floated back toward consciousness. A slow process retrieved him from the grasp of oblivion. When he had finally managed to open his eyes, a dark figure appeared from the cerebral shadows. It stood at the crest of his long, wooden ramp. Peering intently at his ruddy face and dirty clothes.

 

Sheriff Tom T. Rath displayed a mood of serious concern.

 

“Link? Are you still alive? We got a call that you had passed out in full view of the neighborhood. I decided to visit myself. Mark it as a courtesy call, because I’ve been out here so many times with my deputies. Evergreen Estates never seems to quiet down for long!”

 

The weary hermit cocked his head to one side, and yawned.

 

“Big Tom? What the hell, I’m out here drinking every day. Even in the winter months...”

 

The county lawman relaxed his stance, and leaned against the porch railing.

 

“I know that of course, everybody in this development has seen you here, at one time or another. But you had some sort of altercation with another resident, earlier today. Is that right?”

 

Lincoln smiled broadly.

 

“Yes I did. He won’t be back again, I figure...”

 

The enforcement chief nodded and sighed.

 

“My concern was that maybe you suffered some injury during the dispute. Are you feeling okay, old man?”

 

The contrarian loner shrugged and straightened his debilitated legs.

 

“Yeah, no more aches and pains than usual. I think that irritating fuck down the street might’ve come out of it worse than me, honestly. He could need some dental work...”

 

Sheriff Rath frowned and stiffened. He did not find the comment to be amusing.

 

“Mr. Speck wants us to press charges, Link! But from what he admitted, it was his intrusion that started the fight. Is that correct?”

 

His host at Lot 13 slammed a fist on the side wall, cracking a piece of vinyl siding.

 

“DAMN RIGHT HE STARTED OUR LITTLE BRAWL! I WARNED HIM ONCE BEFORE NOT TO COME ON MY PROPERTY. WE’RE OIL AND WATER, NO MIXING BETWEEN US...”

 

The safety captain nodded again.

 

“He said it was a friendly visit to tell you about an offer for tenants of this park. Some kind of promotional deal on Tesla vehicles?”

 

Lincoln gestured with his arms spread wide.

 

“Something like that, I didn’t listen long enough to figure it out. He’s not welcome here, so I let him know that danger was about to strike...”

 

The sheriff bowed his head. He appeared to be tired of settling conflicts at the trailer community.

 

“I heard from the Chamber of Commerce that our county has set a record for Cybertruck sales. It’s been in the headlines all week. I don’t quite get it, with chaotic tariffs from Washington driving all the bankers and builders crazy. But whatever the case, that business spike registered with people on the coasts. I have a daughter in college, and she sent me a copy of the New York Times. They had the story on their front page, along with a picture of your official welcome sign by Pine Trail Road. I don’t care for publicity, Link. I like things quiet and peaceful. That’s what I want you to keep in mind!”

 

The target of questioning shrugged and coughed before responding.

 

“So, am I going to jail? I would’ve bought extra booze if I knew you had a free vacation in mind...”

 

Rath was furious at this cavalier attitude. He snorted like a bull.

 

“DAMMIT LINK, YOU’RE NOT BEING ARRESTED! SO, SETTLE DOWN! I JUST WANT YOU TO TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY! EITHER ONE OF YOU IDIOTS COULD’VE BEEN HURT. YOU’RE BOTH GROWN MEN, YOU KNOW BETTER! NOW, THERE’LL BE REPORTERS AND GAWKERS PEEKING OVER THE FENCE OUT FRONT, TO FIND A STORY. YOU NEED TO BE VIGILANT. KEEP YOUR COOL! DON’T LET MR. SPECK GET UNDER YOUR SKIN!”

 

The hairy hobo grinned proudly.

 

“If he stays out of my yard, there’ll be no worries, Tom! I don’t walk around the neighborhood. Shit, I don’t really go anywhere, except to see the doctor and buy more refreshments...”

 

The lawman stifled a guffaw. He was very much aware of the details.

 

“I know your routine. And so long as you don’t bother anybody, that’s good enough for me. We’ve had a ton of complaints about this mobile village, but nothing ever led us to you. It’s not your thing to fly flags or wave guns. Or to bark through a bullhorn about political ideas...”

 

Lincoln felt his knees aching. He had been on the bench for too long.

 

“That’s gospel truth right there, Big Tom! I keep to myself. Truth is, I don’t like too many people. They make noise, leave trash in the grass, and go by with their noses in the air. Screw ‘em all! I got no use for most of the human race!”

 

Sheriff Rath brushed lint from his uniform shirt, then straightened his duty belt.

 

“I’m going to mark your incident with Mr. Speck closed. Have a good day, sir!”

 

Loose gravel and dust scattered as the county SUV disappeared, quickly. A first hint of sunset lingered above the treetops. Despite the warm relief of their day, now, inhabitants of Evergreen Estates felt chilly conditions returning.

 

The cranky outcast had only a single swallow of liquor left in his bottle. He twirled the container for a moment, letting the fading light penetrate this meager reserve. Then, he was distracted by the scratching paws of his adoptive, stray feline. A house guest that had invited herself onto the premises, almost one year ago.

 

He addressed the animal interloper with a wink of satire in mind.

 

“What, you want to critique my drink? Is that a temperance lecture, in kitty language? Trust me, you ain’t the first one to give me grief for getting blitzed every day, if that’s your vibe. Piss off, Miss Fur Face!”

 

The wandering Calico rolled on her back, and flexed her limbs.

 

“Mrowwwwww!”

 

Nightfall descended at last, with a sense of calm settling over the junkyard oasis. Tomorrow, there would be other questions to consider, and challenges to meet. But for the moment, Townshend Lincoln was sleepy and content, to share the company of an independent creature who was also lost in a prevailing vortex of social alienation and regrets.