c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(4-25)
T. C. Lincoln pivoted early on Sunday morning, from drinking coffee during his wakeup routine, to sitting outdoors, with a bottle of bourbon whiskey in hand. It was only about eleven o’clock. Yet grogginess and fatigue made him eager to wash away the cares of disability. He felt no shame over his dependency. Instead, it gave him confidence. The blessed ability to face life in a rural community of mobile homes, without fear. Though his status was unenviable, and humble, he was in a mood to celebrate. With two close friends and a younger brother all trapped in the surreal environment of skilled-care facilities, he had escaped such an unhappy plight. His stiff, arthritic limbs, declining eyesight, and disappearing stamina had not precipitated that kind of collapse. Freedom, for him, remained in effect.
Quietly, he raised a middle finger in tribute to this bout of good fortune.
“Fuck it, I’m gonna drink while the sun is shining!”
The day of rest had turned pleasantly mild, after an extended period of temperatures below the norm. Daffodils were in bloom, atop a flower bed in the front yard. But a persistent breeze made them flinch with anticipation. A nod to the uncertain passage of March into April, as Ohio waited for better days to come.
After two or three shots of the brown liquor, he felt fortified enough to pay attention as traffic passed the end of his gravel driveway. A familiar parade of junk cars and rusted pickup varieties rolled by, with some drivers waving, while others rudely clenched cigarettes and cheap cigars in their teeth, staring straight ahead. The din of shot mufflers and exhaust systems wired up with coat-hangers buzzed in his ears. Then, an odd silence split the noisy stream of mechanical clatter into separate halves.
A Tesla Cybertruck appeared, moving with the stealthy pace of an electric prowler on duty.
The old boozer sat up straight on his wooden bench, while coughing phlegm and alcohol. He cursed loudly, spitting droplets of salivated muck.
“What the hell? One of Elon Musk’s rigs out here, in the gawdamm boonies? I don’t frigging believe it! There’s no way I’ve had that much to drink!”
He could barely manage to focus on the screen of his cell phone. But scrolled through online photos, just to confirm that the sleek profile he had witnessed was indeed that of a new-age hauler. One preferred by those at an income level never seen among residents of their dirty, junkyard oasis.
“I’ll be dipped in shit! That thing is a real, honest-to-goodness Tesla! Out here in the wilderness! What the hell, did that poor bastard get lost or something? Or did this park get sold again? Maybe its our next owner, having a look around! I pity anyone who’d waste their cash on this dump!”
The unusual, roadgoing vessel circled a couple of times, then parked down the street, at a corner lot where Linn and Haki Speck made their home. There were cheers from inside the trailer. Then, a dealership representative exited the virgin vehicle, and dangled a set of key cards. He was youngish, lanky, geeked-out, and covered with gaming tattoos. His yellow hair stood on end.
“Hello, my name is Naylon Pugh. Here’s your new ride, sir! Congratulations! I’ve been told you’re the first person in this township to own one of these amazing trucks!”
Linn pondered the aging, Japanese sedan by his front steps for a moment, with the wrinkled nose of someone encountering a dog turd. Then, he brightened with thoughts of sending it to a local scrapyard, to make room for this better acquisition.
Haki, his chubby, effusive spouse, giggled with glee while running her hands over the Cybertruck.
“Honey, this is so exciting! It’s like Christmas came early! Like we had another Election Day miracle! Like we’re on the guest list to see Kid Rock, at the White House!”
The balding, neighborhood captain shook his jowls and grinned.
“With the rent-to-own deal, we got this for a few dollars per week! It’s one heck of a bargain! I’m going to leave business cards at the mail barn. You’ll be seeing more of these things running around our streets. I guarantee it!”
The dealership rep pumped his undersized fist in the air.
“VMS has the exclusive rights to sell Tesla trucks in this part of our state. Mr. Musk has decided to move his resources around, since the harassment against owners began to happen, nationally. He feels this is the right spot to plant new seeds of loyalty and consumer interest...”
Linn sputtered as his multiple chins wobbled in unison.
“WE’RE MAKING AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! ONE SALE AT A TIME!”
His wife tugged at her apron, and gestured toward the futuristic transport.
“Honey, can we go for a ride? I want everybody in the neighborhood to see our new car! They’ll be so jealous, I swear! I can’t wait to see their jaws drop!”
Her sweaty spouse clicked his heels together, and danced across the concrete.
“Of course! Of course! But our first loop will be past the hovel of that inebriated dummy at Lot 13! I want him to choke on this! Choke, choke, choke!”
Lincoln sat in astonishment as the silver Tesla swooped across their cracked-up run of tarmac with ease. It seemed to hover above each deformity, with little effort. The angular mule circled once, twice, and again. Pop Country warbled from speakers, inside. The synthetic music boomed from one end of their development, to the other.
Suddenly, his reserve of Kentucky spirits tasted somewhat stale. He began to crave something more potent, like a swig of Everclear grain alcohol.
“I don’t get it, that fat fuck is broke! He’s living in a longbox worth maybe five grand? How could that guy afford one of Elon’s adult toys? It makes no sense! No damn sense at all!”
The reclusive iconoclast belched beer and crumbled pork rinds. His gray beard dripped foam.
From across the rustic boulevard, octogenarian Maylene Jefka stood on her roofed deck, still dressed in a floral muumuu. She was bouncy and spry for someone who had lived so many years in their neighborhood.
“Happy Sunday, Townshend! This is the day that the Lord hath made! We will rejoice and be glad in it!”
Lincoln lifted his bottle in a wordless tribute. He had no praise to offer, or prayers of gratitude. Yet with the seasonal thaw finally in effect, he was glad to be alive.
At Evergreen Estates, that alone was enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment