Trailer Park Tesla, Chapter 3: Solicitation

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-25)

 

 

The midweek crawl was well underway as a warm weekend surrendered to windy conditions and changing skies, over the rural property of Evergreen Estates. A constant rattling of trailer skirting and scattering lawn furniture made the afternoon a noisy affair. But for Townshend Lincoln, this meteorological unrest barely pierced the hangover that clouded his waking consciousness. He stumbled from room to room in his mobile home, taking care not to step on the tail of a stray feline that had adopted him as a caretaker and companion. The floor shook under his bare feet. Window seals that had deteriorated over time allowed a hiss of pressured air to leak inside. This provided an odd soundtrack to his emergence from the fog, almost as if he were creeping through layered dimensions of outer space, like a time traveler. Eventually, he reconnected with his literal environment, through the caffeinated magic of black coffee, and plain toast. This minimalist meal steadied his stomach, and restored a sense of balance. But as he lounged in a vintage, waiting-room chair from a thrift store, there was a thud of tiny bootheels on his access ramp.

 

He was expecting a delivery sometime in the day, so this slight intrusion did not seem out of the ordinary. Yet upon opening the front entrance, a portal always left partially ajar due to the sagging structure of his boxcar hovel, he found that a brochure had been rolled up neatly and stuck in the handle of his storm door. He almost threw it into an empty, cardboard shell left from a 30-pack of Genesee beer, next to his shoe tray. But an image on the first page caught his attention. It was of an angular, futuristic product like the one he had seen down their street, in his neighbor’s driveway.

 

“VMS PRESENTS: THE FINANCIAL OPPORTUNITY OF A LIFETIME! GET IN ON THE GROUND FLOOR OF A MAGNIFICIENT, MULTI-LEVEL PLAN FOR WEALTH AND MOBILITY!”

 

His eyes burned with fatigue, despite having slept well overnight. So, when he returned to his seat in a corner of the living room, it was difficult to decipher what had been written, in the body of this promotional flier. With the aid of reading glasses, the hyperbolic text became more visible. But the content sharpened his headache. He did not yet have the stamina for real concentration.

 

“With permission from your park ownership here on-site, we would like to introduce Venca Motorized Solutions. Your partner for personal transportation, and investment. Did you know that Tesla vehicles are the most popular and trusted EVs marketed anywhere in the world? That reputation has been earned by providing excellence to their customers, the kind that doesn’t fade after a sale is completed! But with the recent harassment of vendors and customers across America, it has become harder to spread information about how wonderful these all-electric marvels really are! Therefore, Elon Musk, the principal host, has decided to join a home-grown cooperative, right here in the Buckeye State! VMS offers creative financing plans that make Tesla models affordable for everyone! Their rent-to-own agreements can put you at the wheel of a brand-new Tesla, with ease! Pay as you go, and go as far as you desire!”

 

Mumbling softly, he mused over the company name.

 

“Venca?  That’s looks damn familiar somehow. V-e-n-c-a. Those letters are mixed up, like kid magnets on the refrigerator. They’d spell another name, I’d bet, if somebody moved them around for fun...”

 

The alcoholic hermit rubbed his face with a hoodie sleeve, before belching loudly. His cell phone had begun to ring, though he barely noticed this irritating clanging of a virtual bell. Yet when he peered at the viewscreen, a number popped up for his neighbor to the east. Darby Stronelli, the spiky-haired, maternal wench who lived next door, was insistent on making contact.

 

“HEY BUDDY, DID YOU GET A PAPER FROM THE PARK? HOO BOY, WHAT A DEAL! WHAT A DEAL! I BEEN WANTING A GAWDAMM CYBERTRUCK! THEY’RE HOT SHIT! WE’RE GONNA GET ONE FOR ME AND ONE FOR MY HUSBAND! WOO HOO!”

 

Lincoln clutched at his belly, which had begun to churn with natural acids.

 

“That’s how Linn Speck got his new toy? The poor bastard will be in hock for the test of his miserable life! It’ll take years to pay off that chunk of hi-tech tin...”

 

Darby did not agree with this assessment. There was a telltale gnashing of yellow teeth, before she continued.

 

“NAWW, NAWW! LISTEN, LINK! HE’S A SMART DUDE, RIGHT? AND HE IS! THE PRICE HAS COME WAY DOWN ON THOSE THINGS! LINN KNEW A DEAL WHEN HE SAW IT! I GIVE HIM CREDIT FOR SHOWING SOME BALLS!”

 

The boozing loner shook his head and shrugged.

 

“You’re broke, I’m broke, he’s broke... we’re all broke! They could give ‘em away for free and I still wouldn’t be able to keep it charged. How would I plug it in anyway, with an extension cord running from my outlet on the porch? Think about it! I’d bet my disability check that this is a hook-up between Elon and our former Senator. I’ll give those guys credit, it’s a novel idea. If people here will buy gold sneakers and Bibles, and a tough-talking fish, they’ll probably go for a freaky pickup truck!”

 

His frenemy across the side yard growled with the tone of a defensive poodle.

 

“You’re a dumbass, Link! Those Cybertrucks are a boss ride! I bet my super radio will fit in the dash, or maybe it’s already got a better one included. I don’t give a fuck! I’ll run the wheels off that thing! Wake your ass up, buddy!”

 

An aroma of fried potatoes and a Tina’s burrito lingered in the air. This food pairing had been satisfying more than a dozen hours ago, but now made Lincoln feel stuffed, and sick. He needed a wash of bourbon to calm the raging juices in his gut.

 

“Dar, I never talk to you when I’m sober. This is hard for me, okay? That screech in my ear is a pisser. Could you call back later when I’ve had something to drink?”

 

His fellow resident was stunned by this bold burst of honesty. She gasped before squawking with discontent.

 

“THAT’S HOW YOU REALLY FEEL? I’M A PISSER? WELL GOOD ON YOU, LINK! KISS MY SKINNY ASS THEN! KISS IT TWO TIMES! I’M DONE TRYING TO BE A FRIEND! SEE YOU IN HELL, OLD FART! YOU’RE A LOSER!”

 

Their connection severed with a rude click of electronic woe. Something that brought relief to the isolated bum. He staggered to the cabinet by his broken dishwasher, rummaged between bags of cat food and dog treats to find a liquor bottle, and then tilted it high in the air. Brown liquid stung his throat, and made both eyes water. Then, at last, he was satisfied.

 

The Tesla advert landed in his wastebasket, after being crumpled into a wad of useless paper stock. He had spent enough time debating the purchase of a vehicle he did not need or want.

 

Now, it was time to drink.