c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(12-25)
Thanks to swift action by our park manager, Dana Alvarez, I learned officially that only three residents of Evergreen Estates had paid their lot rent at the appointed time. I was the first, followed shortly by our local matron, Maylene Jefka, who lived across the street. And Miss Poindexter, the nearsighted, gamer-girl on my western flank, came in third. We were singled out and shamed, as part of an association newsletter that got mailed to every other person in the development. Written by Linn & Haki Speck. A badge of honor that I took as an amusing measure of negative esteem. Yet with what appeared to be the impending doom of a mass eviction at hand, nothing happened.
A philosophical and practical standoff between opposing factions had been sired by this citizen protest.
Our on-site supervisor rightly believed that if funds were left uncollected, the community could not survive. Her logic was rooted in the sturdy habit of commerce. An exchange of money for goods or services. But Sheriff Tom T. Rath balked at the notion of dumping so many leaseholders in a single expulsion. The resulting chaos would be something he and his deputies were unprepared to handle. Public opinion was likely to side with families left out in the cold. He had no appetite to be painted as Ebeneezer Scrooge, with Christmas close at hand.
Nakano Volca had been raised on the populist dogma of his mother and her fellow students at Cornell University. The thought of running inhabitants out of their homes, into the harsh climate of winter, disgusted him completely. He could not abide throwing in his lot with bankers and their legal partners. Though the board at his firm clearly recognized that the outlaw strike was illegitimate, and unwarranted, none of them sought to punish those involved. Negotiation had always been their tool of choice. Building bridges and seeking partnerships for future growth.
The result of this conflicted stance was that for the moment, nothing happened. Life at the rural village of mobile homes continued on, as before.
My own predisposition toward drunkenness and isolation meant that in personal terms, this momentary calm was welcome. A brief thaw in temperatures allowed me to spend longer periods outside, on my wooden bench. There, I felt present in the neighborhood without being too exposed. Anyone who passed my singlewide dwelling did so at a safe and comfortable distance. I liked having this buffer zone in effect.
My pleasant detachment from the park continuum lasted late into the afternoon. But then, I noted that a caravan of jacked-up, smoke-belching trucks had begun to circle the area. My own pre-fab hovel, and those of the two others who had kept their bargain with our ownership, were situated in a triangle that straddled the crumbling boulevard. Attention seemed to be focused only on our specific residences. And finally, the intention of this odd parade became clear. A barrage of rubber bullets was fired, as if to make a statement about our cooperation. Afterward, two of the big-wheeled behemoths split off, and took aim at my lot, and that of the contrarian geek, next door.
Aimes Hefti rolled down his window, and lifted a bullhorn until it was nearly pointed at the sky. The militia leader had donned a tactical uniform, and carried an assault rifle at his side.
“ALIGHTY THEN, LINK, HERE’S THE DEAL! GRANNY MAY GETS A PASS, ‘CAUSE SHE’S OLD AS DIRT, AND STUCK ON LIVIN’ RIGHT! BUT YOU ‘N THAT LESBO BITCH ARE RIGHT IN MY CROSSHAIRS! FER THIS IDEA TO WORK, EVERYBODY HAS TO PITCH IN! THAT MEANS 100% OF US HOLDIN’ BACK OUR LOT RENT, EVEN IF THE GAWDAMN COURTS WON’T APPROVE ESCROW ACCOUNTS! DO YA GET IT? 100% OF US! THAT MEANS NO SLACKERS, NO TRAITORS! BUT SOMEHOW, Y’ALL TWO DIDN’T GET THE MESSAGE! SO, GET READY FER A SHOWER OF REAL LEAD! MAYBE A LITTLE BIT OF VENTILATION IN THAT SHITBOX OF YERS WILL MAKE A DIFFERENCE!”
Expended ammunition flew wildly. As a reflex action, I ducked my head. Though of course, this would make little difference if I had been targeted.
“Commando, you’re cutting into my drinking time! That’s a sin, neighbor! Go pester somebody else, I am in the zone and just getting started on a bottle of whiskey!”
The enraged militant was not impressed by my complaint. He locked the transfer case of his Chevy Silverado into 4-wheel low, and tore up a long strip beside my driveway.
“THIS AIN’T NO GAME, OLD MAN! YOU ‘N THAT QUEER CHICK ARE GONNA GET IT, GOOD! THIS TAKEOVER IS GROUNDS FER A REVOLT! I’LL BET WHEN THOSE STUDENT KIDS FROM NEW YORK SEE WHAT WE’VE GOT PLANNED, THEY’LL BEG WELLS FARGO TO TAKE BACK THE DEED! WE DON’T WANT THEM HERE, OR THEIR WEIRD-ASS IDEAS! THIS IS NO PLACE FER FREAKS AND HIPPIES AND WHATEVER-THE-FRIG THEY ARE! SCREW ‘EM! THEY CAN GO TO HELL!”
I was still too sober for listening to his redneck banter. I needed to drown my senses in alcohol.
“You’d be scary if I took this place seriously. But figure it out, we’ve been here for years and never yet been kicked to the curb. The township trustees don’t want us here, but they damn well can’t send us anywhere else. We’d be like undocumented migrants getting bussed to Martha’s Vineyard, they’d hustle us out of town, pronto! People who live out in the wealthy suburbs wouldn’t have us nearby! We’re trash, to put it politely. Offal, in their eyes. Worse than horse manure on the streets of Middlefield!”
Aimes peppered the wall next to my seat with gunfire. Shards of vinyl siding scattered across my porch. The kitchen window cracked along its base.
“GIVE UP, ASSHOLE! Y’ALL HAVE BEEN OUTSMARTED AND OUTMATCHED! ADMIT THAT YA MADE A MISTAKE PAYIN’ THOSE MOTHER-EFFERS, AND SWEAR THAT IT’S ONE Y’ALL WON’T MAKE AGAIN! SAY IT QUICK, BEFORE I GOT TIME TO RELOAD WITH ANOTHER CLIP!”
I slammed a double-shot of Evan Williams Bottled-in-Bond. The burn tingled my nose. I shivered just a bit, as the liquor settled in my belly. But a pervasive numbness took hold, at last.
“Look, you can’t kill me today. I’ve been dead inside for years, since coming to this junkyard wasteland. We’re all dead to the world. Some of us just haven’t figured it out yet. Take a hard look in the mirror, dude. One of those poor bastards is you...”
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