c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(12-25)
The invasion of frigid, Arctic air, thanks to a polar vortex, put Evergreen Estates into a prevailing stupor with no end in sight. Conditions were simply too cold for doing much of anything. Building projects with repurposed pallet lumber, driveway repairs for aging pickup trucks, and lot maintenance were stalled in unison. Residents huddled inside of their boxcar dwellings, cursing the change in seasons. Marijuana and tobacco smoke wafted from compromised window seals. Empty cans and bottles littered the snowy yards, from bags of trash ejected when waste bins toppled. Frost crystals covered any surface that had been left exposed. The park office was temporarily abandoned. Mail deliveries were spotty. An Amazon van attempted to make rounds at the trailer village, and got sucked into ruts left by a lone plow on a Dodge Ram from the 1990s. But the contractor was otherwise a vagrant, and cared little for finishing his job on time. No one answered the phones, even at a 24-hour emergency number set up for inhabitants of the property. So, the commercial, cargo hauler was left behind, empty and forgotten.
Every other citizen in the sprawling junkyard seethed angrily over being stymied and stuck. But for me, the difference from any other day was minimal. I heard the furnace run a bit more than usual, and saw bright, blazing reflections of sunshine off mounds of winter white, outside of my entrance portico. Otherwise, there were no clues that the pace of life in my community had been halted by Mother Nature.
I reckoned that the meteorological pause was a welcome event.
Next door, I could hear Darby Stronelli squawking in her party barn. A shed that had been remodeled to serve as a bar and game spot. Fumes from a propane heater had driven her through the double doors, and outside into the blistering muck. She kicked and yelped, and fell on her skinny posterior. Her watery beverage spilled down the deck.
“I’M SO SICK OF THIS SHITTTT! SO SICK OF IT!”
The spectacle caused me to grin slightly, while opening my liquor cupboard.
“It’s only just the beginning of December, neighbor! There’ll be plenty more of this weather in the weeks and months to come!”
Getting drunk in my living room was far less appealing than being out on the crude, wooden bench where I normally sat. Yet it offered a measure of anonymity while becoming inebriated, at least. But blurred vision meant that I couldn’t continue to work at my office computer. Instead, I rummaged through a stand at the end of my couch for reading glasses, and then sat with my cell phone and a whiskey tumbler. Drunk texting and posting were never a good idea, as such sessions often resulted in bruised egos and hurt feelings. My normal ability to aggravate those up and down the street grew more intense, when filtered through a stream of strong drink.
It put me in mind of a T-shirt found during high school days, many years ago.
“Instant asshole – just add alcohol!”
On the corner, I saw that Linn Speck had managed to run his Japanese sedan into a snow drift. The tail section had become suspended on a crest of ice and hard-packed precipitation. His flabby jaws were jacking up and down, with hoots and howls echoing from the yard.
“HAKI! GET OUT HERE AND HELP ME! I CAN’T LEAVE OUR CAR WHERE THE THING IS SITTING, ITS BUTT END IS HALFWAY OUT IN THE STREET! HAKI! HAKI! HAKI!!!”
His spouse had put on a Pop Country video channel, and poured herself a glass of boxed wine. She seemed not to hear her husband’s pleas for assistance. Or perhaps, she simply did not care to brave the cold.
I snorted while peeking through the drapes in my bay window. Which were, in fact, old blankets hung on a slouching, curtain rod. As I beheld this woeful spectacle, the plow vehicle reappeared. Presumably after making rounds throughout our rural township. A frosty spew was flung off one side of its blade. This airborne mass buried Linn’s people mover, while he spat and stammered.
“HAKI! HAKI! HAKI! GET YOUR PRETTY RUMP OUT HERE AND HELP ME!!!”
I knew that our meeting with a representative from the Proletariat Property Co-op had been canceled. Yet no firm date was issued for a makeup day. With Dana Alvarez taking paid time off to cover her absence, there were no managers on-site.
I fell backward on the sofa, while returning to the central space in my mobile home. Inertia sent me crashing on a mound of decorative pillows. But then, my wireless device began to chirp with notifications.
Fellow lot-renters from our development were conversing about the takeover plan, in capital letters. The Evergreen Estates Facebook page had two-dozen new posts. Lots of four-letter words, and graphic memes, were included.
Finally, with a bit of effort, I was able to concentrate on composing my own response to the real-time ranting. My fingers were stiff, and uncooperative.
“Look, I get the frustration with this park. Believe me, after more than 20 years, I’ve had plenty of reasons to get out. But like the rest of you, I’m too broke for a big move. Now, this cooperative in New York sounds really different than any of the other owners we’ve had. Their way of doing business is unique, to say the least. It sounds like a damn credit union. They don’t pick up assets to squeeze out bottom-line profits, apparently. Their vibe is helping people get ahead. I know you’ve got to give that a hard look before accepting anything. Like your former hero, Ronald Reagan used to say, ‘trust but verify.’ It’s all good. I’m on board with that. But put your political prejudices aside, and listen. Whenever they visit us, that is...”
The blowback was immediate. I should have tossed my phone at the wall, and invested more leisure time in drinking and snoring. Aimes Hefti, the aspiring militia leader, was vocally unrestrained in calling me out as a heretic. He had never approved of my presence at Lot 13.
“LINK, SHUT YER EFFIN’ MOUTH, OLD FART! YER A GAWDAMN BOURBON-BRAINED IDIOT! THESE PEOPLE ARE STUDENT AGITATORS, I BET THEY LOVE DOPE, HIPPIES, KARL MARX, AND ANTIFA! I BET MOST OF THEM ARE TRANS-FREAKS OR DRAG QUEENS! WE DON’T WANT ‘EM HERE! NO FREAKIN’ WAY!”
I made one last attempt to strike a note of reason.
“Even if it means saving a few bucks, and being treated better?”
The combative commando sent a string of rude emojis, capped off with a middle finger.
“SCREW SAVING MONEY, I’M KEEPIN’ IT ALL, LINK! THEY WON’T GET ANOTHER RENT CHECK FROM THIS COWBOY. I’M DONE PAYIN’ THEIR DAMN BILLS!”
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