c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(12-25)
Normally, when Ohio weather turns frosty, there are periods of respite in the offing. But with the month of December well underway, temperatures continued to hover below freezing. This condition had lasted since around Thanksgiving, and effectively turned the junkyard district of Evergreen Estates into a frozen wasteland. Though I wanted to sit outside on my front porch, with a jug of bourbon antifreeze, and layers of winter gear for protection, this habit surrendered to the trend. As the meteorological cycle worsened, I joined everyone else on my street. Though this surrender to the season made me salty.
The entire park was now in a state of willful hibernation.
Even during the best of times, there were disputes and domestic squabbles, at most every lot in the neighborhood. But with the population being shut into their confined, living spaces, tempers were flaring. Broken windows appeared here and there, and were quickly mended with duct tape. Smashed furniture was left out to collect a decorative garnish of white precipitation. A few trailers appeared to have been abandoned altogether, due to unpaid utility bills, busted pipes, or broken furnaces.
I wanted to taste the invigorating chill of fresh air. Yet knew that as my outdoor thermometer approached readings in single digits, it would not be wise. Still, this acquiescence to reason put me in a mood of inner conflict. I did not like the feeling of being obedient to anyone, or anything. Said plainly, this need to huddle in my living room pissed me off. But the creaking and cracking of prefabricated walls assured me that my choice was well founded.
While lubricating my arthritic joints with whiskey, I could hear a plow truck at work. It’s diesel motor surged and popped while pushing aside mounds of fallen snow. There was little traffic along my rustic boulevard. But the effort to keep access lanes open seemed admirable. Another positive change from the neglect of previous owners.
I had been in a chair at the end of my couch for long enough, that it was difficult to get up for another bottle of liquor. My creep across the carpet was slow and balky. But as I reached the door where more high-proof refreshments were stashed, my cell phone began to ring.
I cursed while counting the cycle.
“Dammit! I can’t move that fast! One... two... three... four...”
The voicemail program picked up before I could retrieve a jug of Kentucky swill from my cupboard. As I hobbled back to the device, there was a notification chirp. Someone had left a message in lieu of having an actual conversation.
“Mr. Lincoln? This is Nova Caine, I am an assistant to Nakano Volca at the Proletariat Property Co-op. If you are willing, I’d like to ask some questions about the Evergreen Estates development. Your on-site manager said that you have lived in the community for many years, longer than most other residents. Please call me back at this number, sir. Thank you, and have a great day!”
I flopped into the upright chair with a wheeze of breath forced from my lungs. The voice I heard was smooth, and yet had an odd timbre of a kettle drum. I could not quite guess the caller’s gender. Particularly because the name indicated was not one which sounded familiar. I would normally have deleted the recording, and ignored this plea for contact. But I was still relatively sober. My drinking ritual had only started at such an early hour. So, I tapped on the number for a re-dial. Then, punched in the extension that had been included.
There was a hoarse announcement indicating that I had reached the proper channel in their answering system. Then, a loud click stung my ear.
“This is Ms. Caine, how may I help you today?”
I paused before answering. The deep resonance of her tone left me puzzled.
“Yeah, hey, this is T. C. Lincoln from Ohio. You called earlier, and I couldn’t get to my phone in time. What’s the deal with asking questions? I don’t know shit about this trailer park...”
She laughed with a full-throated bark of amusement.
“Dana Alvarez has been very helpful to me, and I wanted to get some background information on your village of mobile homes. She said you’re at the top of her list for long-term leaseholders.”
I was slightly embarrassed to admit having been stuck on my lot for so long.
“To be honest, I came here because of a divorce. So, it wasn’t really by choice. I got kicked out of my home in Lake County, north of here. My wife somehow obtained a restraining order from a local judge. That started my downhill slide...”
Nova hummed to herself for a minute. Apparently, this confession was unexpected.
“I’ve noticed that many of the people in your neighborhood have colorful stories about becoming tenants. But few have been willing to give me straight answers regarding the living conditions. They are generally suspicious of any outsiders.”
I took a righteous swig of booze, to steady my nerves. Pondering my origin story as a member of the blue-collar tribe was never a pleasant experience. But I had strong opinions to share.
“I get it. When we’ve had to deal with owners, they were always playing the role of a bully. It’s normal to be spat upon here. We’ve gotten used to it over time...”
The PPC underling sighed and tapped on her computer keyboard.
“I see many reports on the internet, regarding your location. There are lots of incidents with police officers, the county courts, and even National Guard troops. But, that’s not why I called. I want to understand the mindset of inhabitants at Evergreen Estates. What makes them tick? Why do they resist our plans? What information would help me, and my supervisors, as we try to operate this property, efficiently and honorably?”
I knocked back a stiff shot of whiskey, and a dribble dripped into my gray beard.
“HONORABLY? YOU GIVE A DAMN ABOUT BEING HONORABLE AS OUR MASTERS?”
Ms. Caine took offense at this remark.
“Well, of course! Sir, we view the credit cooperative as a union. The members stand in solidarity with each other, and basic principles of fairness. That’s how we do business!”
I chortled at her naïve explanation.
“Look, the people here have been taking it high and hard, like a major league pitch in baseball, for years. They’ve all been effed more than a prostitute in Cleveland. Understand? Nobody ever gave a frig about fairness. The previous owners boned us whenever possible. With water bills, raised lot rent, reduced services, and no maintenance. You know, whatever they could do...”
The company representative gasped at my assertion. She was overwhelmed by disbelief.
“THAT’S OUTRAGEOUS!”
I sensed that our candid chat would continue for much longer than expected. But being drunk insulated me from the stress of this interrogation.
Unwittingly, I had prepared myself to give a full testimony about the junkyard spot where I lived.
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