c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(12-25)
When I arrived at the maintenance garage for our long-distance hookup with the Proletariat Property Co-op, a boisterous crowd had already gathered. Attendance for the event was surprisingly strong. Many neighbors who owned their trailer homes were present. Moderating the session was Trina Trelane, who lived next door. I had grown accustomed to her rants about social injustices of all sorts, and capitalist greed. She often had gaming parties throughout the summer, and left her windows open to vent the stench of marijuana smoke. So, I was always an incidental participant, despite having no membership in her circle of friends. But today, her manner was different from that norm. She carried herself with a surprising measure of dignity, despite being dressed in pajamas and a Maruchan Ramen hoodie.
“Can all of you see the computer monitor? I did my best to arrange everything so this spot in the park’s repair bay will work for what we want to do...”
Dana Alvarez sat in the front row of chairs. She was impatient about the confab, wishing that it could get started, without a long wait. Her glistening, black hair was tied up in a red bandana.
“Ayyyyyyy, it looks good to me! We gotta link up the facetime or Google Meet, or whatever it is, though. Did you call those people in the Finger Lakes?”
Trina nodded and gestured to the group.
“Our Zoom call is about to begin. Now remember, the guy we’re going to see is chairman of the ownership group. He’s not like the usual banker types, though. I appreciate his style. Don’t expect a dude in a suit and tie...”
When Nakano Volca appeared on the large, flatscreen display, his casual demeanor surprised everyone in the room. He had not bothered to dress formally for the virtual visit. Neck tattoos were visible above his shirt collar. He had multiple piercings on both ears.
“Hey, I’m glad this connection is working. So then, here we go, everybody! Let me introduce myself. I’m the lead manager for PPC, the new deed-holder for your property. People here at our offices in Ithaca, New York, call me Nakka. I joined this credit cooperative while studying at Cornell University. Its roots were with kids enrolled back in the late 60s. One of those was my mother, Gemma. She’s now an adviser, and a member of the governance council.”
The residents who were watching quickly became restless. They had no interest in polite chatter. Finally, Linn Speck raised his small, stubby fingers, to be recognized. His voice was a grating whine of indifference.
“I have a question sir, or whatever you identify as in public. When do we get the truth about your plans for Evergreen Estates? Is this going to be some kind of hippie commune?”
The financial steward laughed with a nervous twitch of his slender cheeks.
“That’s funny, man, but no, we don’t have anything fun like that in mind. Let me get right to the point here, the PPC is basically a credit pool. Our original idea was to let everyone put their resources together, for the benefit of all the members. You know, some had money to invest, but others were just struggling along on a blue-collar paycheck. It’s all good, there is no prejudice in our ranks. See, the mission here is to make things equal for each participant. Maybe you started off with empty pockets, but we share assets and also liabilities. That’s how it works. If you’re down on bucks, you can invest time instead. That makes it right for all. Now, nobody in your community has to join up, it’s completely voluntary. We don’t like a lot of rules and regulations. That’s not our trip. If you stand pat, then all we ask is that you pay your lot rent, just like with the other owners. No change is needed. But, if you want to upgrade, then ask about being a full member of the co-op. That gives you security. We don’t believe in evicting people from their living spaces when hard times come around. We give them options, instead...”
I was astounded by this declaration. It made me stroke my shaggy beard, and exclaim out loud.
“Oh wow, no evictions? You’re kidding, right? All of the bastards we’ve had in charge here get off on kicking people and their families to the curb!”
Volca shrugged and folded his hands. Then learned closer to the webcam.
“That’s the old way, bruh. It’s not our way. We want to help individuals who get behind on their rent. Not make them homeless. Our society has suffered enough growing pains, already. See, the bankers like to hoard their cash and screw anyone who falls into poverty. That’s how their circus-show keeps running, by using fear and intimidation to put people on their knees. Maybe you even think it’s a safe bet for us? Or for you? But I’m here to say, that con-job won’t last. Look around, there are millions of citizens hurting, right now. They want a place to sleep at night, with their families. They want dignity. They want hope. Do you think those other owners ever cared about your well-being? Nah, trust me, it was all a ruse to empty your wallets. But that’s done now. We want to wipe the slate clean, and start over!”
Aimes Hefti had been sitting on a wooden crate, in the back row. His head was shaved, and he wore the tactical gear of a professional soldier. Throughout the meeting, he had been feverishly fretting over the explanation of details being offered. And, patting his sidearm in its holster. Eventually, his mood turned dark and violent. He stood up suddenly, and pointed his pistol at the glowing, monitor screen.
“EFF THIS HORSESHIT! I’VE LISTENED TO ENOUGH OF YER DRIVEL! Y’ALL ARE HUCKSTERS AND LIARS! THIS IS ALL A FREAKIN’ HOAX! A HUUUGE, HUUUGE HOAX! SIGN THIS DUMP BACK OVER TA WELLS FARGO, AND GET THE HELL OUTTA HERE!”
I had reached my limit of patience. With the wannabe commando, and our dubious predicament. It took some effort to get up from my seat. But then, I gestured with one of my disability canes.
“Enough of this nonsense, I’m overdue for a drink on my porch. Have a good day everybody...”
Aimes swung his handgun in my direction. His eyes were blazing with anger and resentment.
“Stay put, Link! Or I’m gonna bust a cap in yer old ass! Sit down and shut up!”
On the computer display, I saw an expression of disbelief overtake our guest. But did not retreat from my spot. Instead, a hard-edge sharpened my tone of speaking.
“DO IT, DICKHEAD! PULL THE TRIGGER! BELIEVE ME, IT’D BE A RELIEF TO FINALLY GET OUT OF THIS RAT’S NEST, ONE WAY OR ANOTHER! QUIT YOUR TRASH TALKING, AND SHOOT!”
The self-appointed militia chief seemed to shrink in his combat boots. His hand trembled before lowering the firearm.
“Link, yer one crazy son-of-a-bitch! Go ahead, hobble on home and enjoy yer liquor. I’m gettin’ bored anyway! This silliness sounds like a gawdamn multi-level marketing scam, ta me! Screw this crap!”
No comments:
Post a Comment