c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(12-25)
My telephone interaction with Nova Caine was completely unexpected. But as we talked candidly about life in the rural outpost of Evergreen Estates, I began to sense that she must be jotting down notes during the conversation, for later review. Possibly to give some kind of report to her fellow participants at the Proletariat Property Co-op.
Her query about the park and its quirks precipitated a single comment that expressed the amazement of everyone in New York with endless disbelief.
“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? Why? Why? Why?”
I had to think for a moment. Using a measure of diplomacy to answer seemed proper. But I couldn’t phrase my reply gently. So instead, I simply blurted out the truth.
“People in this cluster of boxcar homes are damaged goods. They’ve been effed over by the outside world. Screwed in the name of justice, screwed in the name of righteousness, screwed by characters both good and bad. I’m a little bit surprised that they cling to any religious traditions, because those types exist on a different level of society. Here in my township, things are dirty. There are no clean hands. No saints, just lots and lots of sinners. Maybe that’s the attraction though, because it gives them hope of attaining something better. Some like to speak about ‘shit getting real’ when they post on internet media sites. Well, to be frank, shit is very, very real here in the pines. I’ve seen neighbors dragged out of their homes by sheriff’s deputies, and heard the cries of others who were hungry and desperate, and in a state of emotional collapse. I’ve seen these long huts burn to the ground, while those watching kept drinking beer and playing games like cornhole. I’ve seen home invasions and homicides. I’ve seen elected officials show up to offer a note of sanity, and retreat afterward, feeling the sting of failure. I’ve known many, many individuals who have been betrayed and hoodwinked, and conned, repeatedly. To the point that they now trust that same sort of huckster for salvation. They are like frightened animals. Fighting even those who want to provide a rescue from this deep pit of despair. It’s a case study on the habits of humanity, gone wrong. If I were smarter and more gifted, I could write a college dissertation on the trend. One of my cousins is a professor, he’s never been stuck in a rathole like this...”
Ms. Caine appeared to be out of breath. I could hear her choking back tears.
“MY GOD, HOW DO YOU MANAGE TO GET OUT OF BED IN THE MORNING? I THINK THAT I WOULD WANT TO KILL MYSELF!”
Her blunt confession caused me to laugh out loud. A reaction she did not expect.
“Look, I’ve heard that the human race is supremely adaptable. Able to cope with extreme cold, or heat, or famine, or drought. With wars and conflicts and the foibles of mankind. Well, this dump proves the point, scientifically. These residents are hard. They came here as soft clay, and were baked like bricks in a kiln. They’ve survived destitution, abandonment, humiliation, and torment. Nobody comes to a trailer park by choice. They come here because this is the end of a long and winding road. This is the drop-off point for lonely losers, orphans, widows and widowers, or foster kids kicked to the curb. They are divorced, broken, weary, lame, and exhausted. Out of options and ideas. You wonder why they won’t trust your good intentions? That’s the answer, right there. They don’t trust anyone or anything. It has all proven to be a bogus document. Composed of artful lies and trickery. You want trust? You want cooperation? Good luck with that...”
Nova wiped her eyes with a tissue. She could not bear to listen any longer.
“Mr. Lincoln, you have the reputation of an old drunk. But I think there’s a lot of wisdom in what you’ve said today! I appreciate getting to share your insight.”
I felt slightly embarrassed. Compliments were rare in my part of the world.
“I’ll guess that your partners figured on taking over this little wasteland, and turning it into a solid asset. The up-front price must have been cheap. I know that Wells Fargo has been trying to find a reputable owner for years. They must have hated carrying the property on their books. But this ground is too swampy for real houses, and we aren’t close to any population center. It’s a freaking miracle that anything got built on this spot. We’ve had terrible water quality, and power outages, for years. The rent keeps going up, and things stay open. But I don’t know how. To be honest, getting booted off the ship would be an act of mercy. Eviction would finally set me free...”
I could hear the financial aide shuffling paperwork on her desk. Then, she offered a conclusion voiced in dark tones of surrender.
“Sir, I thank you for taking the time to chat about this situation. You’ve been very helpful. Have a good day! I hope we get to meet in person, when the weather improves!”
Once she had ended our call, I realized that a powerful thirst had taken hold. I rummaged through the liquor cupboard, until finding a bottle of Old Grand-Dad whiskey, behind bags of pet treats and cleaning supplies. A forgotten bonus as I had run out of everything else, while waiting for a thaw to arrive. While beginning to imbibe, I scrolled through search results on my cellular device. It seemed reasonable to get some details about my new contact from the PPC. Yet when I searched professional websites such as LinkedIn, there were no results for anyone with her name. Facebook, X, Blue Sky, and other venues all failed to yield anything useful.
At the end of this roster, a link to TikTok post appeared. I was confused by the thumbnail image, which appeared to be an overweight woman with a towering, red beehive, and a sparkling gown in bright green. When I clicked on the text, a short video appeared. Music from a John Waters film accompanied a performance on a makeshift stage. There were howls and hoots of support, as the punchy dame twirled and high-stepped for her audience. Then, she took a bow before ripping off her wig, which was tossed into the crowd as a trophy.
I nearly spilled my bottle. Suddenly, I wanted to get completely obliterated on the Kentucky hooch.
“WHAT THE GAWDAMN HELL IS THAT? WHAT THE EFFING HELL IS THAT???”
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