c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(5-25)
At the west coast offices of Pemmican Asset Management, in Fremont, California, the mood on Monday morning was effusive and celebratory. A report on the company credit rating had indicated that their firm was now ranked at the very top of companies that owned and supervised troubled properties across the nation. This news came after difficult years of surviving a worldwide pandemic, inflationary pressures, and the push for regulatory action on behalf of homeowners who were under water on their loans.
Jacoby Brennt, lead adviser for the institution, sat at a desk in his corner office. He had made a conference call to partners across the spectrum of investors that were in their network. A tumbler of Starbucks coffee sat nearby. He had not bothered to dress formally, after a morning jog to maintain his toned physique. Instead, he was still in an orange sweatsuit, and running shoes.
He had to clear his throat before speaking.
“Ahem! Hello, everyone! I hope we’ve got things connected now! This call is to announce that we’ve passed muster with VMS Financial, Wells Fargo, and all of our principal underwriters. As you know, we took some heat in the markets for buying up questionable assets, like trailer parks and such, as a gamble on big opportunities. And it didn’t go so well at first. Our margins were decidedly slim at the outset. I won’t pretend that we weren’t worried about surviving the first year. But the rent-to-own plan offered by Tesla backers, and our own mimicking of the DOGE undertaking, has paid dividends like we haven’t seen before. We are at last in a position to leverage our way out of debt, completely. With the possibility of new investments to come!”
Applause echoed over the virtual connection. It was clear that the achievement of real success had impressed their group.
A breathy voice ebbed from the landline speakerphone before anyone else could interrupt with congratulations, however.
“Jake, this is Marta Style at the office in New Haven, Connecticut. I think we’ve all breathed a sigh of relief just now. Bravo, friend! But I’ve got to strike a note of dissent, unfortunately. I see by our CSI figures that resident complaints have skyrocketed. There are a rash of ACLU petitions being filed, rent money going into escrow accounts, investigators poking around from cable news sources, and such. Also, the rate of abandonments for mobile homes is increasing. Do you think that might be a counterpoint to an improved bottom line?”
Manager Brennt laughed loudly, nearly spilling his hot beverage.
“Marta, that just isn’t a concern worth discussing. We’re making money! That’s the aim of this game! Get onboard the freedom train!”
Another person joined the conversation, unexpectedly. They had the insistent tone of a Wall Street analyst.
“Jacoby, this is Crocker Finn from the office in Sparta, Tennessee. Our newspapers here have been running with stories of trailer park tenants being left to fend for themselves. Does that bother you at all, the thought of receiving bad publicity? We’ve got college kids wearing T-shirts that say, ‘Shut Up Elon!’ while protesting at Tesla dealerships. What if they show up at some of the properties we manage? What should we do?”
Brennt snorted and then pinched his nose.
“Come on, people! A win is a win, is a win! We’re turning a profit for the first time in a long time! Do you think there’ll be a mass exodus from our prefab communities? I doubt it, seriously! Those neighborhoods exist to provide housing for disadvantaged individuals and their families. They are poor and uneducated and quite frankly, not very smart or dependable. They don’t work hard, or save their cash, or plan ahead...”
Finn coughed with embarrassment. He had to wipe his face before responding.
“Look, I get that those lot renters don’t have much of a stake in the world of business, but isn't taking such an attitude is just a bit harsh? There can’t be much opportunity in robbing people who already have empty pockets!”
Their distant leader began to chortle and guffaw. He had no interest in conducting a debate.
“Listen to me! We’re on a glide path right now to a big pot of gold! Pay attention to our return on these investments! Those who have assets piled up, and lobbyists to defend their interests, present much more of a challenge to our industry. Broken people living in longboxes are a cinch to corral! At the most, they’ll howl about their suffering, and maybe shoot up a park office or two. But law enforcement and the courts are generally on our side! We control the game! At least, we can when things break in our favor. That’s how the dice are rolling right now. VMS is financing a coast-to-coast fleet of new Cybertrucks, and we’re sucking rent income from run-down, forgotten properties with a minimal investment. Tell me how that can be bad? Tell me, or shut up, and sit down!”
Silence followed his bold assertion. The well of opposing ideas had run dry, at last.
In Thompson Township, Ohio, none of the inhabitants of Evergreen Estates were aware that any sort of virtual meeting had been held. The names and faces of their owners were unknown and anonymous. Literally not part of any discussion about their plight in the pines. Yet as conditions worsened after the efficiency initiative had been implemented, a grumbling about being neglected could be heard everywhere. Anger permeated the general environment. Graffiti appeared on walls of the maintenance garage, and park office. Rubbish was left in the streets. Unpaid bills meant that repairs were delayed or ignored altogether. Basic services disappeared. Everything had been channeled through a single connection via telephone, or e-mail. Otherwise, no one was listening.
Finally, someone with strong legs kicked through the repaired office door. It split in half, and hung from broken hinges. The sheriff visited, and took a report. But there was no follow-up, afterward. No one seemed to care.
Townshend Lincoln sat on his wooden bench, outside, and drank Jack Daniel’s whiskey. This flow of brown liquor kept him numb while watching the decline, from a vantage point safely distant, and out of the mainstream.
He groaned, belched and farted, until his stomach and intestinal tract were both empty. Then whistled the tune of a song he remembered from the Hee Haw program, once popular on television. A ballad of despair mockingly sung by characters from the cast.
“Gloom, despair, and agony on me. Deep dark depression, excessive misery. If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all. Gloom, despair, and agony on me!”
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