Trailer Park Efficiency, Chapter 11: Eruption

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-25)

 

 

As the month of May drew to a close at Evergreen Estates, a pattern of cool weather had everyone in a funk. Despite being eager for the arrival of summer, and outdoor activities, residents of the trailer village were confronted with lower-than-normal temperatures, and rainy days. Combined with arbitrary cuts in services and a massive increase in lot rent, this potpourri of woes had the level of angst pegging an imaginary meter.

 

Catty, verbal altercations could be heard up and down every street. No one was in a good mood.

 

For Townshend Lincoln, this spike in discontent was undetectable. He stayed drunk and aloof as a matter of course. So, the cresting waves of anger did not reach his longbox hovel. He never visited anyone in the neighborhood, or attempted to socialize with those who sought his friendship. Disability only increased the sharpness of this habitual routine. He took pleasure in days when there was zero interaction with anyone. Though in an odd gesture toward comity, he would wave in response, when well-meaning citizens passed his ramshackle abode, and offered some form of greeting. Perhaps it was a leftover vibe from earlier days, when he had felt more like a genuine, human entity. Somewhere deep in his psychology was that kernel of awareness, lingering in defiance of what he and his life had become.

 

For most inhabitants of the rural park, it was obvious that staying distant from this outlier with shaggy hair and dirty clothes made good sense. Thus, they acted accordingly.

 

Yet Darby Stronelli and Linn Speck were two residents that operated outside of this logical bubble. The former was hyperactive, outgoing, and constantly on the prowl for scrap wood, flea-market tools, or discarded furnishings. The latter had styled himself as a savior appointed to lead those who lacked moral clarity, and sought guidance. His residential association provided an organized stewardship of the property. Both individuals were important components in the daily life of their community. Unlike the impaired, uncooperative bum with Kentucky spirits as his main source of refreshment.

 

Predictably, Lincoln had no interest in entertaining either person at his Lot 13 venue.

 

With the pace of outdoor work lagging, and hours of bright sunshine nearly non-existent, Darby took it upon herself to be an agent for peacemaking. She knew that her religious, cousin-at-the-corner had a longstanding beef with the reclusive alcoholic next door. So, on a mid-week afternoon, the spiky-haired, former urbanite marched across a vacant space that separated her own dwelling from the one of her neighbor, and mounted the long access ramp.

 

Her gritty voice echoed along with shoe leather slapping the wooden planks.

 

“HEY BUDDY! I GOT SOMETHING TO SAY! AND I DO! YOU NEED TO GET ALONG BETTER IN THIS PLACE, FOR A CHANGE. QUIT ACTING LIKE YOU GOT A STICK UP YOUR ASS! SIT DOWN AND HAVE A DRINK WITH LINN AND HIS WIFE, SOMETIME!”

 

The boozing loner was stunned by her appearance. At first, he wondered if it could be an illusion sired by the bourbon in his bottle. His hillbilly twang resounded forcefully.

 

“You ain’t welcome here. Turn yer tail around, and get lost! Alright?”

 

Darby grimaced and clenched her teeth.

 

“LOOK, I’M JUST TRYING TO SAY THAT YOU NEED TO PARTY WITH THE REST OF US, INSTEAD OF SITTING HERE BY YOURSELF! OKAY? IT’S KINDA WEIRD!”

 

Her fellow member of the junkyard oasis did not acquiesce to this petition, willingly.

 

“No, not okay! Yer not welcome here, did I say that loud enough? Get out with your dignity. Get off of my lot! I’m not inclined to argue the point!”

 

For most other residents, that caveat would have been enough. A warning to heed before the atmosphere became supercharged with acrimony and anger. But instead, the unwelcome visitor took two steps forward, and began to howl like a frenzied, feral cat.

 

“I’M TRYING TO TALK TO YOU, LINK! AND I AM! LISTEN TO ME FOR A DAMN MINUTE! JUST LISTEN, WILL YOU? GET SOME SENSE INTO THAT THICK HEAD!”

 

The contrarian iconoclast had used up his minimal reserve of civility. He pointed one of his mismatched canes with the immediacy of a spear.

 

“I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! YOU AIN’T WELCOME, GAWDAMM IT! GET THE FUCK OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT! GETTTTT OUUUUUUT!”

 

Lincoln had a booming voice which carried well when speaking. Therefore, the entire street was soon aware that some sort of disagreement had erupted between him and the woman on his eastern flank. Front doors and windows opened impulsively. Cars stopped moving. Random individuals and young children who were outside, began to seek cover.

 

Darby was visibly shaken. She had become accustomed to being emotionally accommodated by nearly everyone in the park. Even those who were not fond of her grating demeanor and hustling skills, normally surrendered to maintain a level of decorum.

 

She took another forward step, coming even closer to a moment of Armageddon.

 

“I’M TRYING TO TALK SENSE, YOU OLD ASSHOLE! WILL YOU LISTEN FOR FIVE SECONDS? LISTEN TO ME DAMMIT! YOU’RE HARD-HEADED AS FUCK!”

 

The swooning hermit had already lost his composure, completely. A fact that was apparent to every observer, at trailer homes along their crumbling boulevard. Heads were bowed with regret, and a desire to turn deaf and blind. No one wanted to witness this spectacle, or ponder what it meant, in broader terms.

 

He stood up reflexively after a pause, and gestured with his walking implement.

 

“GET THE FUCK OUT! DO YA HEAR ME? GET THE FUCK OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT!”

 

At last, the uninvited guest turned on her heel. She was almost in tears. Yet too offended for a public breakdown. Her shouts and oaths echoed long into the distance.

 

“CRUSTY OLD ASSHOLE! DUMB MOTHERFUCKER! YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE! ASSHOLE! ASSHOLE!”

 

Once the pair of combatants had separated, an uneasy calm settled over the landscape. Suddenly it was oddly quiet.

 

Teetering on the edge of a high-proof stupor, Townshend Lincoln realized that he had just drawn attention to himself in an extremely unflattering way. A sin that he would never have wished to commit, for any reason. His anonymity among the pines was everything. Living in silent shadows made him safe, and secure. Only the intrusion of others brought a possibility of chaos and harm. He cherished being unseen, unheard, and unknown.

 

His mouth fell open while pondering this reckless twist of fate.

 

“Danggg... what did I just do?”

 

 

Trailer Park Efficiency, Chapter 10: Outage

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-25)

 

 

Living at Evergreen Estates was something that provided residents with daily lessons in enduring hardships and challenges. The on-site conditions were poorly maintained and managed. The location was distant from any population center in the tri-county area, so it did not offer convenience in any form. Water quality was a thorny issue, one that regularly involved receiving an intermittent supply of contaminated, undrinkable hydration. But perhaps most vexing from a modern standpoint was the difficulty in getting connected to cyberspace. There were only two providers for the park, one that used a cable conduit, and the other plugged-in via a telephone line. Neither were cheap or reliable. Though both used a strategy of low introductory prices, to lure naïve customers into choosing their service.

 

After years of complaints and grousing about dropped connections, the phone company decided to rewire their network in the oasis of mobile homes, with a series of poles positioned around the remote property. These lengthy, wooden spikes seemed to follow a random pattern, which then were joined in a fiber-optic pathway. The noise and chaos of digging lasted for days and weeks, with any visible progress coming at a snail’s pace. Meanwhile, bills continued to rise for subscribers already in the fold.

 

Vance Jefka had been living at the rural development since losing his job with a firm in Painesville. A career that lasted for decades, and paid him well. Crash-landing at the junkyard village was a drastic change in lifestyle that he did not appreciate, at first. But being close to his mother, who was matron of their community, proved to be a positive step. He made friends easily. And his tall stature, generous girth, and blue-collar skills were assets that matched the requirements for thriving in this new environment. Particularly because it was a place where cigarettes, junk food, and beer were the currency of daily existence. Any repairs had to be done by the residents, themselves.

 

He had just returned from a trip up Sidley’s Hill, to the local Dollar General store, when something struck him between the eyes, like a vertical arrow plunked into the earth. A new pole had been erected in the swampy yard behind his longbox hovel. It leaned a bit to one side, owing to the damp soil which never seemed to shed a bounty of moisture. But stood high enough to support the taut stretch of a hi-tech cable, from its own pinnacle, to the next.

 

Upon entering his trailer, he noted that an uneasy silence had settled in the kitchen. There was no mechanical song from his refrigerator. No hood-light burning over the stove. No whirring of a fan left on to circulate air. This made him drop both fistfuls of yellow bags, and curse.

 

“WHAT THE HELL, OUR POWER IS OUT AGAIN? MA NEVER SAID ANYTHING ABOUT THAT!”

 

He left the sacks of canned goods sitting on his living-room floor. Then, jumped behind the wheel of his ratty, Dodge sedan. And spun its tires in a circle, until pointed in the opposite direction. When he rolled back down the rustic boulevard, everyone seemed to have disappeared. But one, lone neighbor was visible outside.

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln was drunk and drooling on his inset porch. The automotive cacophony shook him from a pleasant embrace of inebriation. Something for which he was unprepared.

 

“Hey, what’s the matter, friend? I’ve never seen you getting so agitated about anything...”

 

This younger member of the Jefka clan was overheated, sweaty and disheveled. He leaned out of the open window, with one hand still on his steering wheel.

 

“HEY LINK, YOU GOT POWER IN THERE? IT’S DARK AS HELL AT MY PLACE!”

 

The old hermit shrugged and spit a mouthful of bourbon. His shaggy, tangled beard was soaked.

 

“Umm... I don’t know, really? I mean, it was on before I think! Actually, I wasn’t paying attention...”

 

Vance snorted and hit the brake pedal forcefully enough to cause a slide on loose gravel.

 

“COULD YOU CHECK, MAYBE? I GOT NO JUICE AT HOME!”

 

Lincoln struggled to find both disability canes. He rocked forward until on his feet, but was bent in half, facing the storm door. Then slowly straightened his back, until it was possible to look through a window in the side wall.

 

“Yeah, there’s a light on in the kitchen. I got electricity right now...”

 

His neighbor cursed again, and thumped the wheel with aggravation.

 

“IT’S THEM GAWDAMM PEOPLE FROM THE PHONE COMPANY, THEY’VE BEEN DIGGING AROUND THIS PLACE FOR TWO SOLID WEEKS! I BET THEY HIT SOMETHING IN THE GROUND! THE DUMB BASTARDS! NOW I GOTTA CALL SOMEBODY ABOUT GETTING RECONNECTED!”

 

More rough language echoed as he parked in his mother’s driveway. About an hour later, a ladder truck from the Illuminating Company appeared, to offer relief. But only a short while later, it made a U-turn, and exited quickly.

 

The alcoholic loner was perplexed and confused. He shouted across the street when his afflicted counterpart appeared once again, in his mater’s yard.

 

“Any luck around the corner? Did they get you hooked up?”

 

Vance sputtered with the desperation of a drowning sailor.

 

“THEY SAID THAT THEIR PART OF THE CONNECTION IS GOOD! WHATEVER GOT CUT IS THE PARK’S RESPONSIBILITY! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GET IN TOUCH WITH THOSE SHITHEADS? WE GOT NO PROPERTY MANAGER, ANYMORE!”

 

Lincoln wiped a drizzle of brown liquor from his mouth. His hillbilly accent hardened with regret.

 

“Dude, I don’t have a damn clue. Darby next door says when ya call the line fer help, it just goes to voicemail. Screw that, I don’t know if they ever call anyone back...”

 

The middle-aged retiree slammed his weathered Dodge into its drive gear. Then steered toward the maintenance garage, which was at the front end of their isolated avenue.

 

“THIS IS IT, I’M GOING FOR BROKE! NO MORE CRAP FROM CALIFORNIA! WE’LL SEE HOW THEY LIKE GETTING KICKED RIGHT IN THE TEETH! HOOOOOOO BOY!”

 

The sound of his vintage MOPAR, furiously accelerating, could be heard as it faded into the distance. Then, an awful explosion of metal impacting structural timbers shattered the calm. A curious stillness followed. Rage had met the day, and won.

 

When the Jefka offspring returned, it was on foot. His forehead was bleeding. Yet he grinned with satisfaction.

 

“There’s some efficiency for you! I rammed that rig right into the manager’s office! It’s a fair trade for letting them mess up my power!”

 

 

Trailer Park Efficiency, Chapter 9: Laughter

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-25)

 

 

Linn Speck had lived at Evergreen Estates for long enough that he knew most of the other inhabitants, at least on his side of the trailer enclave. He was popular among those who went to services up the hill, at Thompson’s Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven. But despite being a veteran of the National Guard, and someone known for having summer parties at his lot, acceptance of the residential association he founded remained spotty. This dichotomy kept him feeling puzzled. He wanted to bolster his position as a leader in the community of mobile homes. Yet that goal always seemed elusive. Particularly whenever he was confronted by the combative, drunken hermit who lived further up his street.

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln presented a roadblock to his ascension that could not be removed.

 

With the mimicking of DOGE minimalism in full effect at their development, the balding, conservative organizer was a willing cheerleader for any effort to streamline the day-to-day operation of their property. But he also fretted over growing pains that affected everyone. There were necessary difficulties with reshaping how the park was managed. Yet for the moment, they were isolated from the very owners that controlled so much of their lives. He was hesitant to criticize anything about this metamorphosis, because of his fealty to the current president. He wanted to project an air of totality in supporting everything being done to erase the legacy of woke ideology, and its supporters. Still, accepting temporary hardships for the hope of an eventual gain was not easy.

 

Having these dual targets kept him aiming in different directions at the same time. To achieve efficiency while also being better served as a resident. Something that put him off balance. He did not appreciate feeling abandoned, but wanted to stay firmly on the side of his hero in the White House.

 

At Lot 13, there was no such disparity of goals in effect, however.

 

Lincoln had a basic routine for survival which kept him on track and able to cope. He stayed drunk and distant. Anyone or anything that entered his bubble was likely to feel the wrath of a cane swing, or a flying whiskey bottle. He did not embrace social habits, or welcome visitors. The parade of poor souls past his gravel driveway did offer a sort of entertainment, however. He would sit outside, sipping bourbon, and watch as if attending a theatrical premiere. The sight of unemployed neighbors treading on foot, stray animals wandering freely, broken vehicles shedding parts as they passed, or contract workers cutting weeds and filling crevices in the tarmac with loose stones, kept him grinning. There was a marked futility to life in the rural development. Yet in defiance of this predicament, each day brought a new attempt to endure and thrive.

 

Linn had scheduled a gathering of participants in his own space, to discuss the ongoing battle with bad conditions on their streets. Something that had worsened noticeably after the efficiency drive began. But it did not take long for the portly, red-faced fellow to realize that his initiative was an idea doomed to fail.

 

Darby Stronelli, his most active defender at the park, yowled in between swallows of Bud Light, while sitting on a pilfered crate from Dean’s Dairy. She did not make any attempt to sound diplomatic in her demand for change.

 

“THE POTHOLES ARE FUCKING HUGE, BUDDY! AND THEY ARE! I SAW A JEEP LOSE ITS MUFFLER LAST WEEK! AND SOMEBODY FELL OFF THEIR HARLEY! HOW LONG ARE WE GONNA PUT UP WITH THIS SHIT? WE OUGHTTA DO SOMETHING! LIKE MAYBE ANOTHER EX-CROW! GO WITH THE CROW! GO WITH THE CROW!”

 

Her distant cousin by proxy nodded, mimicking a bobblehead figurine. With his flabby jowls quivering.

 

“You mean, umm... escrow? I have to agree, it’s time for rent money to go into those accounts! Screw these California people! They’ve got to learn a lesson!”

 

Rottie, who once faced an eviction from his own longbox hovel, laughed and sneered, while smoking a twisted-up doobie. He had returned to participate, while being stealthy as a visitor.

 

“Good luck with that, they don’t give a shit about us in court! I got completely jobbed by the judge! He thought I was nothing but trash!”

 

Linn shook violently, with disagreement.

 

“That’s not true, friend! I heard an order was just issued, to make the company cough up details about their scheme. We’re really close to winning a victory here! They’ll have to fix things, it’s just a matter of time!”

 

Haki, his chubby spouse, was dressed in a pink sweatsuit. She cheered her husband’s determination.

 

“That’s it! They will have to make everything right! Right, right, right!”

 

Lincoln could hear the loud conversation echoing from yard to yard. He dribbled liquor down his Gildan T-shirt, while grumbling to himself. His hillbilly brogue was in full effect.

 

“Hah! Good luck with that shit, dude! You’ll have to wait fer months or years. They love to fight over turf, one judge overrules another! It’s like a shell game!”

 

Becoming bored with the meeting, Darby scratched her spiky head of hair, and coughed nervously. She wanted to go home for more light beer.

 

“DON’T THEY GOTTA OBEY WHATEVER THE COURT SAYS? HOW LONG WILL IT TAKE? C’MON NOW! THIS SHIT IS REALLY GETTING OLD!”

 

Linn patted his overfed belly, which protruded with a naked strip of skin showing.

 

“Well, I don’t know really. I was told there is one lawyer here in Ohio for the asset managers. We aren’t completely certain who represents the owners now, or even who they are...”

 

Rottie flicked the butt of his joint on the ground.

 

“Not sure? I thought you were doing all the leg work, man! What the eff? Are you slacking?”

 

Their association leader mopped his face with an old towel.

 

“I’m busy, okay? Collecting beverage cans for charity, getting signatures, contacting our local representatives, it’s a big job being in charge! I doubt any of you could handle so much responsibility!”

 

Haki agreed, enthusiastically.

 

“That’s right honey! Preach it! Preach it!”

 

Safely removed from the citizen interaction, Lincoln slouched on his wooden bench. He felt glad to be out of the communications loop.

 

“None of ya know a damn thing, and don’t really want to know! That’s how it works here in this dump. We take it high and hard, like a rookie playing baseball. But the damn game keeps going on! On and on and on!”

Trailer Park Efficiency, Chapter 8: Blackout

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-25)

 

 

Regular meetings of the Geauga County Commissioners often involved business that was routine in character and straightforward to consider. Things of a mundane sort, details about prospective projects, and concerns raised by residents of the district. But as Gretel Hahn brought their official interaction to order, she struggled to maintain the quiet confidence that had made her a distinguished leader, respected by those of all political stripes. She shuffled through a folder of paperwork, looking for a document with contact information for Evergreen Estates, the rural community of mobile homes. Staying in touch with out-of-state owners had been a priority for years. But with the efficiency drive instituted by Pemmican Asset Management, suddenly, that line of communication was no longer available.

 

“Regarding our trailer community, south of Sidley’s Hill, I have to confess being unable to reach anyone in California. Or at any of the satellite offices that supposedly exist. None of the telephone numbers we’ve used in the past seem to be working now. There has been a complete cutoff of information. A literal blackout! This is perplexing, to say the least...”

 

Portnoy Fleck unbuttoned his shirt collar, after loosening a necktie patterned with logos of various Cleveland sports franchises. He was younger and less patient than his commissioner matron. But no less skilled at being an administrator for county affairs.

 

“Gretty, with respect, I just don’t get how that could happen. Who’s collecting the lot rent? And paying park utilities? Somebody has to be in charge of that dump! You can’t run a business without someone in control!”

 

Dan Dulnikowski groaned, and tapped his pale fingers on the conference table. He had the look of a young accountant who was bored with crunching numbers, professionally.

 

“I agree with that statement! C’mon, Mrs. Hahn, you’ve been around the block more than a time or two. Can’t you figure this out?”

 

The lead commissioner felt her pulse rising. She flipped through pages, with each entry crossed out, in pencil.

 

“I’ve had staffers try every line we ever used. There is no answer at any of these numbers. Tenants are paying rent through an online portal, except for a few that are not computer savvy. They send old-fashioned checks to a post office box somewhere on the west coast. Evictions have been ordered through a judge here, there appears to be one lawyer retained by the owners to represent their company, in Ohio...”

 

Danny D. was blunt in his reaction. He had run out of patience. His tone shocked the other commissioners.

 

“SO, GET IN TOUCH WITH THAT LAWYER, AND MAKE THE BASTARD DO HIS JOB!”

 

Mrs. Hahn had to catch her breath before reacting. Her cheeks had turned ruddy, and tingled slightly.

 

“Yes... you are right of course. If he is our only contact here with Pemmican Asset Management, then so be it, we’ve got to make a connection somehow!”

 

Once a summons had been issued, the county stewards were eager to see if an arrest warrant would be necessary to flush out this legal representative. But one week later, the unusual sight of a black, Mercedes sedan broke their mood of speculation. After circling the courthouse, it parked nearby, and a tall, anonymous figure exited, carrying a briefcase stuffed with documents.

 

Fortrell Koch had the appearance of someone who made a living lingering in the shadows. An expert on the law, and an adviser who took care to never be in the spotlight, himself. As he stood before the adjudicator who had ordered him to appear, a hint of disinterest betrayed honest emotions that were buried under layers of professional conduct.

 

“Your Honor, I think this call to your bench is highly unusual, to say the least. Nevertheless, here I am, on behalf of the PAM group of investors...”

 

Judge Alten Sleeman was curt and quick in his demeanor. He had little time to coddle anyone, specifically a contact that had been reluctant to appear, until an official instruction was issued. After smoothing his robe, he peered over the top of his half-frame, reading glasses.

 

“Sir, you are employed by the Pemmican group from California?”

 

The attorney nodded and gestured as if signaling obedience.

 

“Yes indeed. I have been contracted to oversee their business here in our state...”

 

The seasoned justice sorted through documents that were on his bench.

 

“You are the only person directly involved in day-to-day operations at the trailer park on Pine Trail Road? There is no property manager, no maintenance crew, no office staff? No chain of communication for keeping in touch with the residents?”

 

Koch unbuttoned his blazer, with the room temperature seeming to rise.

 

“The PAM group has found some novel ways to increase efficiency within their operation. I would point out that they are based on the ingenious strategies being used by Elon Musk, right now. Ohio voted overwhelmingly to endorse President Trump, and the DOGE initiative. I think that gives the owners cover for what they are doing to cut waste, fraud, and abuse...”

 

The judge nearly spit over his gavel while flailing, wildly.

 

“NONSENSE! YOU CAN’T JUSTIFY BAD BUSINESS PRACTICES WITH A DEMOCRATIC ELECTION, MISTER KOCH! THIS IS AN OUTRAGE! BILLS HAVE GONE UNPAID, ISSUES REMAIN UNADDRESSED, AND RESIDENTS ARE BEING IGNORED!”

 

The legal representative averted his eyes, to avoid appearing cocky or indifferent.

 

“Your Honor, I would humbly submit that things haven’t changed greatly at Evergreen Estates. A sober assessment of the situation would reveal that conditions at the development are much as they ever were...”

 

Sleeman pounded his gavel on the ceremonial desktop.

 

“ARE YOU TRYING TO MOCK THIS COURT? WE’VE HAD DOZENS AND DOZENS OF COMPLAINTS HERE, ABOUT EPA WATER VIOLATIONS, CRUMBLING STREETS, UNREPAIRED LIGHTS, UNSAFE PLAYGROUND EQUIPMENT, ABSENTEE SUPERVISION... A WHOLE HOST OF PROBLEMS! THERE HAVE BEEN ESCROW ACCOUNTS SET UP, LAWSUITS FILED, AND A RESIDENTIAL ASSOCIATION CREATED! DOES THAT MAKE YOU WANT TO CELEBRATE KNOWING THAT THINGS HAVEN’T CHANGED?”

 

Attorney Koch bowed his head, and grimaced. But did not withdraw his argument.

 

“Sir, this county and state voted enthusiastically to endorse the MAGA movement, and DOGE. It is a matter of public record now. If my employers in California want to emulate those procedures, which are being used as we speak, in Washington, then I would think that is logical and undertaken with sound reasoning...”

 

The circuit arbiter clenched his teeth and shook visibly, before answering. He hissed with the breathiness of a deflated balloon. He swung his gavel angrily enough that the benchtop split down its middle seam.

 

“Mr. Koch, you are hereby directed to bring me a report stating your efforts to address the numerous complaints against the village of mobile homes in Thompson Township. I will allow 30 days before taking formal action. My decree will also be shared with the Ohio Attorney General, in Columbus!”

 

The lawyer swooned on his wingtip shoes. He was stunned and stymied.

 

Judge Sleeman barked with finality, to end the proceeding.

 

“On this day, by my hand, let it be so ordered! I’ll wait 30 days for you, and not a minute more!”

 

 

Trailer Park Efficiency, Chapter 7: Debate

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-25)

 

 

After an entire bottle of Evan Williams bourbon, Townshend Carr Lincoln dozed off in front of his wide-screen television. Somehow, he had tuned to the local public station, instead of ESPN. As he drifted toward unconsciousness, a live program began on the channel...

 

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, lone conservative analyst

 

NOLTE KHANDARIAN: “Welcome to the weekly broadcast of ‘PBS Rising Up Roundtable!’ Once again, 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 President Trump trying to force companies like Apple to manufacture their products in America. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

 

DORT MUNDER: “I agree, we live in a global economy. I am perfectly happy buying products from China, Vietnam, India, Pakistan, or wherever! Walmart has all the best deals!”

 

SHALE SEAGRAVE: “Okay, I’m the oddball here, apparently. Wasn’t the value of American manufacturing once a philosophical cornerstone for those who claim to be progressive thinkers?”

 

(Gasps resound across the panel)

 

N. KHANDARIAN: (Straightening the lapel of her blazer) “I think we all want lower prices for what we buy, isn’t that correct? Who wants to spend more at the supermarket or department store? Not me! Not me! Our president is tone deaf on that subject!”

 

F. FRONK: (Looking sick at her stomach) “I am literally shaking! The Orange Man is living in a time warp! Nobody makes electronics or clothing, or much of anything in this nation, anymore!”

 

D. MUNDER: “I’d rather have a stout, European brew than talk about any of this nonsense. But there you have it, I think we all know the history of that particular moron! He’s a convicted felon and a bully! He ought to be in prison instead of the White House!”

 

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

 

N. KHANDARIAN: (Peering through thick, oversized glasses) “I think that reasonable people are concerned with the trade war being instigated. I know it truly matters to me!”

 

F. FRONK: (Thumping her chair, lightly) “The Donald is a Nazi! He’s a Nazi! A Nazi! A Nazi!”

 

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

 

S. SEAGRAVE: (Sitting 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. For example, in the current news cycle, when staffers at the Israeli Embassy in Washington were gunned down. The assailant chanted ‘Free Free Palestine’ while being taken into custody. I did not hear a single report that labeled him as a Nazi...”

 

(More gasps echo around the room)

 

N. KHANDARIAN: (Clearly incredulous) “I can’t let that comment go, Shale! You’ve run off the rails here!”

 

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

 

D. MUNDER: (Shouting defiantly) “I am very, very offended!”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: (Holding her breath) “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! I think we all have been very strong in opposing Nazis wherever they appear! Nazis like Elon Musk! Nazis like Donald J. Trump! Nazi groups like the Republican Party!”

 

D. MUNDER: (Brightening at this suggestion) “I agree! Agree, agree, agree!”

 

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 some statistics. Despite the habit of protesters on college campuses and elsewhere to adopt rhetoric used by Hamas and other violent groups, not once has any mainstream, domestic news outlet identified such people as being Nazis...”

 

N. KHANDARIAN: (Manifesting disbelief) “Please! Your argument has no basis in fact!”

 

F. FRONK: “It sounds like poppycock to me!”

 

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

 

S. SEAGRAVE: “You have to understand the mindset of those who live in fear, every day. They are well aware of the history involved, of the Holocaust and such evil deeds perpetrated upon their people. They may vary in political views, and opinions on the government of Israel. But none of them deserve to be targeted for who they are...”

 

D. MUNDER: (Condescendingly) “That just isn’t happening!”

 

F. FRONK: (With indignation) “Look, I’m no bigot. As a proud warrior for justice, I’ve earned everything I have! And I stand with those who share my beliefs! End of story!”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: (Sighing loudly) “You’re missing the point, friends. People here on our own soil have become radicalized in a way never seen before. They chant slogans that are dangerous and incendiary. The end result is what we have seen with this tragic incident...”

 

F. FRONK: “Elon Musk is a disgusting piece of filth! A Nazi! That’s where you find a real disciple of Hitler! I refuse to retract what I know is true!”

 

D. MUNDER: “A Nazi!”

 

N. KHANDARIAN: “I agree! A Nazi!”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: (Speaking with frustration) “See, you’re all doing it again. Going back to playing word games with your terminology. When the Governor of Pennsylvania was attacked, at his official residence, did you call the perpetrator by that name?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

S. SEAGRAVE: “In both cases, Jewish individuals were targeted because of who and what they are, and you have no comments to offer?”

 

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

 

F. FRONK: “No, not a Nazi that I know of, honestly! Not Nazis like the Fox News gang!”

 

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

 

S. SEAGRAVE: I can’t believe that this is hard to understand...”

 

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

 

S. SEAGRAVE: (Folding her hands) “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. Bold when calling out those with whom you have a partisan disagreement...”

 

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 how protests in the United States are being fueled by outside activists and agitators. Haven’t 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: “The use of extreme language here in our own country is only making it more difficult to bring about peaceful change. This is how the Holocaust sprouted from seeds planted by the genuine Nazis, in Germany during the 1930’s. 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! I think you’re making things up!”

 

S. SEAGRAVE: (Taking a deep breath) “I would suggest that instead of throwing stones at the opposition, you need to start looking for clues about how to solve this awful conundrum!!”

 

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! Stay strong against fascism! And stay informed!”

 

Trailer Park Efficiency, Chapter 6: Evictions

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-25)

 

 

Sheriff Tom T. Rath started his morning at the Geauga County Safety Center with hope for a new week brightening his mood. He had managed to steer the department into a position that put it at the very top of all such organizations within Ohio. Something that made him both proud and satisfied with his work. But as he entered his personal office, a stack of documents was waiting on his desk. Upon sorting through the pile, he realized that eviction orders requested by the owners of Evergreen Estates were now in his possession. This meant that he would need to visit the isolated, rural enclave, and begin a tedious process of confronting residents, one by one. Something that he did not enjoy.

 

He slapped his broad palm on the desk, and called for a secretary, who was in an outer room.

 

“Francine! When did this dreadful heap of paperwork arrive?”

 

The young woman had her hair pulled back with a plain, plastic clip. She wore no makeup.

 

“Sir, these came by courier about a half-hour ago...”

 

The chief lawman felt irritated at receiving a delivery so early in the day.

 

“How the hell did they get a judge to sign off so quickly? I don’t get it!”

 

His assistant tweaked her nose and grimaced.

 

“There are a dozen forms in the stack, sir. I was told by the courier that more will be arriving tomorrow...”

 

Rath burst into a fit of vocal disbelief.

 

“MORE? WHAT’RE THEY GOING TO DO, KICK OUT EVERYBODY IN THE PARK??”

 

Francine Betts shrugged sadly. She did not seem eager to discuss the court orders.

 

“The lot rent was increased $75.00 per month, sir, with no prior notice. That’s got everyone in the park riled up. I have a cousin who bought a trailer there for his wife and new baby. It has them worried about being able to afford food, and gasoline for getting to work...”

 

The sheriff gasped, and clenched both of his burly fists.

 

“DAMNNNNN! SEVENTY-FIVE BUCKS? THAT’S A FORTUNE FOR WORKING STIFFS! HECK, EVEN FOR ME!”

 

His secretary nodded in agreement. Her eyes had begun to weep tears.

 

“I don’t know the situation for everyone, but my cousin said they are actually thinking of abandoning the home. That’s drastic, but they are out of options...”

 

Rath growled with the tone of a wild bear.

 

“AND WE GET TO DO THE DIRTY WORK? WE GET TO RUN PEOPLE OUT OF A PLACE TO LIVE? WHAT KIND OF JUSTICE IS THAT? THERE’S NO MIDDLE GROUND ON THIS? NO WAY FOR THE JUDGE TO ENFORCE A GRACE PERIOD, OR ANYTHING?”

 

Francine shook her head. She was actually shocked to hear her boss speak so candidly.

 

“Apparently not, sir. Apparently not.”

 

The law officer reached for his uniform hat, and got up from the roller chair.

 

“I’ll have a confab with the park manager about this. There’s got to be a way to figure something out, maybe. If I kick a dozen families to the curb on the same day, there’ll be reporters and TV cameras all over the place. I hate bad publicity! And I hate being in the spotlight! Maybe we can string out the visits, do a couple at a time or something...”

 

Upon arriving at the park office, Rath stood outside with a contingent of deputies, and knocked several times. But there was no answer. A search of the premises made him realize that the property headquarters and maintenance garage were unoccupied. This had him puzzled about the legal orders being arranged.

 

Deputy Oren Pronk pivoted to face the entrance road, while fiddling with his duty belt.

 

“Who’s running the show, sir? This place looks abandoned!”

 

The law chieftain did not disagree. He had turned grim about being an enforcer of legal actions with no local involvement by company supervisors.

 

“There’s always been somebody here. I’ve come to this spot for years, even as a raw recruit. Someone is always drunk and disorderly, having a domestic dispute, playing their music too loud, or arguing with a neighbor. Things never settle down!”

 

They were debating where to begin with their eviction process, when the noise of an overloaded golf cart sounded from across the trailer community’s parking area. Buckets of gravel were bouncing freely, on improvised floorboards, and in the back. The driver whistled to himself, while battling cracked-up asphalt with the determination of an Army engineer.

 

Pronk gestured toward the laborer boldly, and shouted for his attention.

 

“You there! Is there a manager on-site? We need to speak with someone in charge!”

 

Rahm Stocker was bald, narrow-eyed, and dressed in an orange, Gildan work tee. He had been out filling potholes with crushed aggregate, since the morning.

 

“Somebody in charge? Nah, not for a month at least...”

 

Sheriff Rath frowned and grunted.

 

“So, who do you work for?”

 

The contract employee grinned with teeth yellowed from smoking and drinking black coffee.

 

“I get jobs through Home Depot. They send me out to do work like this, it keeps me busy in retirement, you know?”

 

Whispers sounded from the group of safety officers. Then, their heads lowered in unison.

 

Finally, Pronk spoke for the team.

 

“Sir, if he’s being honest, then there’s no official caretaker for this park. All we see are surveillance cameras on the power poles!”

 

Stocker wiped his sweaty face with a shop rag. He wanted to be done for the day.

 

“They keep an eye on this dump with an internet connection. That’s what I was told in my orientation. A monitoring company in California is supposed to look at the streaming video. It all sounds like hi-tech stuff, I don’t know whether to believe it or not!”

 

Rath felt his blood pressure rising.

 

“I don’t give a damn about California! Who do they have running this operation, in our state?”

 

The assigned employee shrugged and spread his arms wide with befuddlement.

 

“I got no idea, friend. Supposedly there’s a lawyer in Cleveland on a retainer. A guy who works part-time...”

 

Deputy Pronk chortled loudly.

 

“It sounds like smoke and mirrors to me, sir! Nobody has any responsibility, just a contract agreement and an online account. But if these residents keep paying their lot rent, then I guess it doesn’t really matter! I’d call it a slick setup!”

 

His department head stiffened, and sighed.

 

“I’d call it a few things, all spelled with four letters. Like what you’d find on the floor of a horse’s stall! But for now, I guess we’ll settle for something more polite. Maybe the word, efficiency!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Efficiency, Chapter 5: Ritual

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-25)

 

 

With temperatures warming as the end of May approached, Evergreen Estates had finally moved past the season of freezing and thawing that was typical in their Midwestern climate. Streets around the property were cracked and full of potholes, due in part to a lack of maintenance with ownership changing constantly. But as brighter days arrived, the sight of a golf cart stacked with tools and buckets of gravel became common.

 

The efficiency initiative at their rural, trailer community meant that there were now no supervisors or members of a maintenance crew on-site. But the current regime from Pemmican Asset Management had contracted with a local Home Depot store to provide some relief. The retail location, in turn, hired individuals to perform limited repairs as private operators. Most of these fellows were retirees with knowledge of fix-it tasks acquired over long years of farm or factory work.

 

Rahm Stocker had been at the Perry Nuclear Generating Station for many years. But after leaving as senior employees were made redundant, he became bored, grouchy, and pot-bellied. His wife had passed away, and children were spread across the continent, with careers and other interests taking precedence. So, the part-time endeavor of performing fix-it chores around the county made sense.

 

The PAM investor group had directed him to fill gaping holes in the tarmac with loose stones. A sort of aggregate that quickly got bounced out of place by passing traffic, especially big-tired pickup trucks. His duties were simple, and somewhat futile. Much like the mythical, Greek tale of Sisyphus, rolling a boulder up a hill. Yet having a regular schedule of sorts, and a potential for more assignments in the future, gave him a sense of purpose.

 

He stayed busy while shaded by the canopy of his electrified buggy.

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln was generally on his three-sided porch after the hour of noon, with a bottle of spirituous liquor. Most often, he streamed music from a cell phone in his shirt pocket, to stay entertained while getting drunk. But having company of some kind, made this experience more tolerable.

 

Both men would encounter each other at some point during the day. When this happened, their conversations were often lively and uninhibited. Both had an unspoken pessimism about existing in a setting of poverty and hardship, where their lives had little value to anyone else. Still, they each found cause to begin the day with determination to endure, and perhaps, overcome their plight. Though sparring back and forth reflected an uneasy balance struck between confidence, and despair.

 

Lincoln shouted from his seat while sipping Kentucky bourbon, on a Monday. His hillbilly twang had returned, after eschewing the company of neighbors for most of the month.

 

“Yer out here again? Gawdamm! What’s the point, dude? Filling those holes lasts a day or two maybe, but no longer. It’s a fucked-up errand to run!”

 

Rahm hadn’t shaved his face in several days, being a widower. He felt gritty and damp.

 

“Hey Link, pipe down over there! It’s a job, I get paid once a month. Maybe I will that is, they’re supposed to mail me a check...”

 

The alcoholic hermit doubled over with amusement.

 

“Mail a check? Hahahahahah, yer a comedian! That’s freaking hilarious! These people never pay their bills, that’s why the trash only gets picked up now and then. And why the water goes off every week. There’s nobody to hear their complaints!”

 

His contact with the boxy, golf scooter snorted and scowled.

 

“Well, if they don’t pay me, Home Depot will take them to court. We got an arrangement, it’s all legal, you know? How about that, buddy?”

 

Lincoln savored the burn of his bottled-in-bond whiskey.

 

“Yer out of luck, man! I heard the Pemmican people are all lawyers. They know how to game the system...”

 

Rahm shoveled gravel until all of his buckets were empty. With regret, he realized that there was no more supply left at the maintenance garage.

 

“Dammit, I’m out of rocks for right now! I only get paid for four hours at a time anyway, so maybe it don’t matter. But I like keeping busy!”

 

His chum with the big jug had reached a point of pleasant inebriation.

 

“D’ya think these people really give a shit? Or is it a PR move, just to make good with the bankers? Not that they’d care either, nobody cares. I read in the Plain Dealer that their bottom line improved by a ton after changing the way they run these mobile-home parks. Elon Musk must be proud...”

 

The maintenance worker made a rude noise while spitting canned tea.

 

“It was that way at the Perry plant, we never saw any of the top dogs. They had their own places to hang out. We got the grunt work. We took the risks, we lived with the heat if anything went wrong!”

 

Lincoln wiped his mouth, after taking a righteous swallow from the bottle.

 

“The way I see things, yer no better or worse off than me. But don’t take that as a kick in the ass! We’ve had a dozen owners here at least, and some made promises while these jokers are cutting our throats. But ya know what? It always ends up the same. This neighborhood looks like crap. Any improvements come from us, from doing things ourselves...”

 

Rahm patted his round stomach, and grinned.

 

“I keep fed by having a job. Maybe it’s fried bologna most of the time, but so be it! Not going hungry is all that matters to me! Screw taking responsibility for anything else!”

 

The boozing loner nodded with agreement.

 

“It’s like Hank Williams Jr. sang, ‘A Country Boy Can Survive!’ That’s the routine here in our junkyard hellhole. That’s the ritual...”

 

The contract employee manifested a hint of regret, while pondering his depleted stash. Other streets at the isolated development would have to wait till tomorrow. Or until whenever Pemmican Asset Management allocated more crushed aggregate for filling holes. He figured that just getting in touch with the distant owners could take several days, or more.

 

“I’ll see you on the next round trip, Link! Don’t piss your pants, old man!”

“End Hoping”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-25)

 

 

Hoping the end will come

It’s a fact that I admit

While baffling bums with bullshit

I might appear a rube

But there’s so much work to do

So do not think me crazy

Or intellectually lazy

I’m hoping the end will come

 

Hoping the end will come

With a nod to the inevitable

My heart only half-full

Teetering on the precipice

Of a lost lover’s Judas kiss

A pat upon the shoulder blade

As I turn away

Hoping the end will come

 

Hoping the end will come

Drunk on the worth of self

At the gates of holy hell

I used to think about the cost

Of living under a rock

But now it matters little

I dance as the players fiddle

Hoping the end will come

 

Hoping the end will come

With fatigue weighing heavily

My worries growing steadily

Concerns and cares arise

But seen through jaded eyes

I look upon the sunset

And ponder what I forget

Hoping the end will come

 

Hoping the end will come

Fingers lose the sense of touch

Evidently from a constant crush

I held on too tightly

To visions coming overnightly

They populate my head

When I am toss-turning in my bed

Hoping the end will come

 

Hoping the end will come

Like a sadder, wiser soul

Stuck searching with a fishing pole

I might have found a tangled line

If I chose to spend the time

But instead it came along

In a stanza of a marching song

Hoping the end will come

 

Hoping the end will come

Outside in the elements

A watcher, naked in his environment

Somewhere past the garden fence

Sold for a coin worth fifty pence

I would have wished for more

Than Pixy Stix at the candy store

Hoping the end will come

 

Hoping the end will come

I was just dozing in my chair

With a hint of smoke in the air

Eyes shut boldly wide

A lever for the powerglide

Cheeks afire and about to turn

Into a sinner at the butter churn

Hoping the end will come

 

Written on my iPhone 16e