c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(12-25)
I have never been one to attend park meetings of any kind, unless compelled by force, or the threat of eviction. So, when it was announced that we would be visited by someone from the Proletariat Property Co-op, my first reaction was indifference. A hard pass taken with no pangs of guilt. Our village of mobile homes had been sold, resold, and repossessed so many times that it didn’t seem to matter enough for serious concern. But neighbors along my crumbling boulevard were excited for a prospective opportunity to vent their anger directly. Especially to someone who worked for the new financial concern. This beehive mood of agitation quickly overwhelmed my general shyness and hermitic tendencies.
I decided to attend the confab when it happened, and watch this ill-advised spectacle for clues about our future.
But before I could commit myself to participating, Mother Nature intervened with an Arctic blast of early winter. As November gave way to December, white precipitation blanketed the junkyard landscape. Then, the outside air became bitter and rough in my lungs. I kept up a daily routine of drinking on my front porch, fortified with southern whiskies of differing kinds. But eventually, a nagging numbness in my fingers and toes made this habit hard to endure. My face was chapped, despite its shaggy, messy shroud of gray hair. I felt an increased stiffness in my arthritic joints. Fellow residents stopped waving as they passed, instead peering straight ahead, intently. With a desperation to see anything familiar through the icy haze.
Each breath burned more than the liquor. When I surrendered, a curse was on my lips.
I put a fireplace stream on the television, via YouTube. This live video display did nothing to warm my frozen limbs, but it touched a nerve in my brain. Somehow, hearing a gentle pop of wood logs in flame, and seeing their red-orange glow on the screen, gave me greater confidence in staying comfortable. With three rounds of Jack Daniel’s in my belly, I had almost forgotten that the prevailing weather pattern would keep me indoors for weeks to come.
Yet my moment of relaxation only lasted for a few minutes. Picking up my cell phone exploded that whisper of calm like a hand grenade.
In one of our Evergreen Estates Facebook groups, I saw that Linn Speck, the rotund agitator who lived nearby, had posted an angry missive about the delay in having a park conference. He included a photo of his porky digits, giving the middle finger.
“What is this??? The people from New York can’t come here because of a cold snap? Oh my, I might break out in tears! That’s ridiculous, I think! We’re all bundled up and surviving, isn’t it a lot worse in that eastern hell hole? They get plenty of bad snow-squalls and storms and whatever this time of year can bring! Boo hoo! They can’t drive to Ohio? I just don’t believe it, they are making excuses! It’s a cheap way out of answering for their dirty deeds! We deserve better, everybody! That’s why I say to hold your rent checks, don’t give them a penny! Let them choke on their late notices! Wad them up, and throw them back! Choke, choke, choke!”
Just knowing that he and his Karen spouse were huddled within a few hundred yards of my own longbox home brought on fits of revulsion. But with enough alcohol in my blood, it was a distant worry. One that I could pretend to ignore, summoning a measure of patience.
Inebriation fogged my vision until finally, my appetite was aroused. I found an open bag of Doritos, and began to feast while drinking. Then, there was a frantic pounding at my door. This rapid beat of gloved hands, pleading for entry, caused me to jump in my chair.
“It’s open, dammit! Don’t make me get up, I’m drowning in booze!”
Lionel Koppel nearly fell on the floor, as he stumbled inside. The youngster was a regular visitor in warmer months, full of tales about working at a retail supercenter. His angst over being a serf-for-hire was decidedly similar to what I had once experienced, as a willing member of polite society. Something I never wanted to revisit.
His woeful confessions made me glad to have escaped.
“Link, it’s brutal out there! But my dad wanted to know what we got in the mail. I walked all the way down to our postal barn, and the box was empty! I bet they didn’t even deliver from the township office, today!”
His rubber-soled boots trailed melting slush on the carpet. But I pretended not to notice.
“You’re shivering, neighbor! Rest your skinny bones in my recliner. That thing is too low for me to use, I can’t get up again without help, and there’s nobody else here!”
The tall, lanky kid grinned and snorted while peeling off his gloves and knit toboggan. It was colored a bright shade of blue, and carried the yellow spark logo used by Walmart.
“Hey, Ms. Alvarez canceled her community meeting. But you probably already know that, right? I wouldn’t go out on a day like this unless we were starving. Luckily, my dad is heating up some canned soup. I gotta get back there before too long, he hates eating alone!”
I belched loudly enough that my visitor cringed slightly.
“Really, I didn’t figure on seeing anybody. But I appreciate you checking in...”
Lionel had to wipe his glasses, which had fogged with condensation.
“Dad wants to know if you’re joining the rent strike. I think the only person on this street who’s paid so far is Granny Maylene. There’s gonna be an earthquake when the park runs out of money. They deserve a kick in the rear, or somewhere else!”
I hesitated before answering. It seemed improper to sway the impressionable lad with my contrarian opinion.
“Look, I have to admit that my bill got paid already. I don’t like it, don’t agree with it, but after more than 20 years of being on this lot, it is what it is...”
I could tell that my adolescent helper was disappointed. He huffed and shook his head, before hurriedly getting to his feet.
“I thought you’d be spoiling for a good fight! That’s what my dad said. But you kept your mouth shut and paid it on time? Geeeeeez!”
I savored a cool swallow of brew, and another shot of high-proof spirits. Then, looked straight into his narrowed eyes.
“I’m an old mule, do you understand? I figure that giving the park their tribute means being left alone. That’s my goal. Getting from sunrise to sunset without any of those irritating bastards giving me trouble. Maybe that ain’t setting the bar too high, but there you go, that’s my way of living. Be a good neighbor, and keep your distance. That’s the motto for me...
The gangly youngster looked confused. I realized that my candid outburst must have made him feel awkward. But it was too late for an apology. He left, sulking and silent.
I was too drunk to care. In only a moment, I had passed out on the sofa. It was time to sleep.
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