c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(11-25)
Living alone in an environment such as Evergreen Estates can be challenging. A condition that works against staying on balance, mentally. But I have found that being busy, at my desk, refrigerator, or liquor cabinet, keeps me centered and on course. I do not have to justify this strategy to anyone. Least of all, to myself.
It works, and that is all that matters.
But sometimes, an intervention from outside forces can divert me from this trusted path toward inner peace. A recent example of the phenomenon came as a notice from the park manager was left in my storm door. It had been drafted in haste, I suspected, and spoke cryptically about a new owner taking over at our development. While the number of corporate entities and bankers who technically possessed the property had been many, most residents simply learned to live with our plight. Having a tangible center of operations did not matter much. Especially when those distant, anonymous masters were located at a business nexus on the west coast. So long as checks for lot rent were processed, little else changed over time. Every company seemed to have a similar outlook on providing maintenance and supervision. In other words, each of these financial supervisors ignored conditions on the ground, in favor of collecting income and avoiding lawsuits. Only the most basic remedies to our woes were ever offered. Happily, we learned to endure and thrive, in spite of this obvious neglect.
There was little else we could do, as individuals caught in a loop of despair and gloom.
The bulletin placed in between sections of my front entryway did not explain a great deal about who had assumed the mantle of stewardship for our trailer oasis. Yet it sparked a lively debate among neighbors and friends on the street. Some immediately called for hiring a legal representative. Though none of us had the funds to secure that kind of advocacy. In personal terms, I poured a round of Jack Daniel’s in my favorite drinking glass, and sat outside to read and ponder what had been announced.
“Attention residents – this community has been formally acquired by a new group of shareholders in New York City, the Proletariat Property Co-op, LLC. In the coming days, you will receive more information about this investor group, and their novel practices in the mobile-home industry. But be assured that the high standards to which you have become accustomed at Evergreen Estates will be fully maintained. For the moment, your on-site contact will continue to be Dana Alvarez, and questions regarding this change may be directed to her at the office. We thank you for your patience in this matter...”
My cell phone began to vibrate in a hoodie pocket, almost immediately. First to reach out in protest was Darby Stronelli, a spiky-haired busybody who lived on my eastern flank. Predictably, she had strong opinions on the notice, despite knowing nothing about the new group taking charge.
“HEY LINK, DID YOU READ THIS SHIT IN THE PAPER? HERE WE GO AGAIN! I BEEN TRYING TO TELL PEOPLE, OHIO LAW AIN’T CALIFORNIA LAW! AND I HAVE! BUT NOBODY LISTENS. SCREW ‘EM IF THEY DON’T CARE! THEY GOT ME EFFED UP! THEY CAN’T GET AWAY WITH THIS! AM I RIGHT OR WHAT, BUDDY?”
I wanted to ignore her virtual tantrum. But knew that if I remained silent for too long, she would simply walk across the empty space between my longbox and hers, to repeat every word, face-to-face.
“Umm, did you read the flier completely? This mysterious co-op is in New York City...”
My cohort across the side yard must have been squawking like an irritated hen. The tone of her messaging rattled my nerves, even without being conveyed in an audio blast.
“TO HELL WITH THAT, I DON’T GIVE A DAMN WHERE THEY COME FROM! AND I DON’T! THEY CAN’T JUST PULL A BUYOUT ON OUR PARK WITHOUT GIVING NOTICE! IT’S NINETY DAYS, NINETY DAYS IN OHIO! THIS IS OHIO, DAMMIT! O-HI-O! NOT CAL-I-FOR-NIA!”
I savored the burn of my Tennessee whiskey before sending a reply.
“Where did you get that info? I never heard of such a law...”
Darby sent a string of angry emojis, and a clenched fist.
“YOU OUGHTA BE SMART LIKE ME, DUDE! I PAY ATTENTION TO THIS SHIT! WE’RE IN OHIO NOT CALIFORNIA. NOT NEW YORK. NOT ANYWHERE BUT RIGHT HERE! THIS IS WHERE WE ARE, MAN!”
I nodded quietly, and wiped my mouth which was still tingling with high-proof residue.
“I figure they’ve already worked out the details. Those legal eggheads get paid for pushing their paperwork through the courts. It’s what they do for a career...”
She was livid at reading my simplistic explanation.
“COURTS? WHAT THE HELL, WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT THE COURTS, WE DON’T EVEN GOT A LAWYER, BUDDY!”
I sighed heavily, and took another swig of the potent, brown distillation.
“Darb, it isn’t like passing out Bud Light to hustle up some free wood for your projects. There’s got to be a blessing from a judge somewhere. The last institution was bankrupt, or so they claimed to Wells Fargo. Who was that, Western Golden Financial Partners? I can’t even recall actually, there have been so many. Maybe I have them out of order...”
My fellow resident was in an ugly mood. I feared that she might toss one of her empty bottles toward my living room window.
“QUIT BEING AN ASSHOLE, OLD FART! YOU ALWAYS GOTTA BE A DICK ABOUT EVERYTHING! I HATE IT WHEN YOU SIT OVER THERE AND GET DRUNK BY YOURSELF!”
I wanted to relate that being inebriated regularly kept me from burning down my trailer, and leaving the park in a fit of righteous indignation. And that it generally kept other inhabitants at a safe distance. But I restrained this rowdy impulse. Instead, I stroked her ego with a bit of diplomatic flair.
“You know plenty of people around this place. Let them bend your ears. See what they think about this revelation. You’ve got a good sense of what goes on in this dump. Meanwhile, I’ll contact my friend Yarl the computer nerd. He has a talent for looking up details in cyberspace. I’ll bet he can figure out what this new gang of money-grubbers is likely to do...”
Darby was silent for a moment. Then she posted a middle finger, and a laughing face.
“DUMBASS! I HARDLY KNOW ANYBODY HERE, MAYBE TWO OR THREE THAT COME OVER TO MY PARTY BARN FOR FREE BEER AND DORITOS. THAT’S IT, BRUH! THAT’S IT!”
I should have allowed our interaction to terminate in silence. Yet something made me respond with a final line of text.
“C’mon woman, you know at least a dozen residents just on this street, alone. You ought to be running this property, yourself. I see your profile on social media, every day. You are always in somebody else’s business...”
My unhinged counterpart was outraged at this candid assessment. I should have held my tongue.
“WHAT THE HECK, MANNNN? YOU’RE A BUTTHEAD, LINK! A GAWDAMM FREAKING BUTTHEAD! KISS MY ASSSSSS! KISS IT TWO TIMES! KISS IT!”
The device screen turned blank after her final outburst. I was embarrassed, but grateful.
Now, I could drink in peace.
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