c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(12-25)
Even on a good day at Evergreen Estates, there were always causes for concern. The very nature of those living within its borders was defined by existing under conditions that most citizens of the outside world would find to be primitive, at best. Additionally, over a chaotic progression from one ownership group to the next, certain habits had been maintained. There was always a bullying attitude from supervisors. And from contractors linked to the rural property, such as the metering service that tracked water usage to generate extra income. Whether at home or away, residents were never treated with the measure of respect that was common elsewhere. They were presumed to be naïve, unsophisticated, boorish, crude, and dumb. Cheating them, in the eyes of those who inhabited better levels of the social order, seemed proper. Perhaps, even deserved. This prevailing paradigm had hardened the mindset of leaseholders, over many years. Therefore, they were not only suspicious of strangers, but also lacking in trust for institutions normally thought to be stable and secure. Only one advocate dependably held sway within the park. The 45th and 47th President of our United States.
I had lived at Lot 13 for so long that none of this felt odd or unusual. My senses had been dulled over the past 20 years and more, as a spectator to this sad parade. So, while staying somewhat isolated from others in my development, I had still been stained by association. Marked forever as someone who had fallen from the gracious realm of greater humanity. Though I did not think or behave as neighbors did, or yearn to be one of them, my identity was now erased. I could not hope to find absolution, again. Damnation of an everlasting sort was my inheritance. Goodness and light, and the tingle of joy upon waking each morning, had all vanished from my slab of rented concrete.
I was persistently drunk, and forever drowning in a vast sea of excrement. Anything else was a fantasy that I could no longer imagine. Yet this perspective was relatively calm when compared to the outlook held by members of our local militia. Their seething rage was perpetually set on a boil, despite being isolated and relatively anonymous. Firearms and regimentation gave them a momentary taste of being powerful, within the community perimeter. But this surge never lasted for long. It was not unlike gambling at a grand casino. The house, as it has been said, always wins. And my compatriots in the pines were losers of a lamentable sort. Yielding their money, relationships, freedom, and dignity, on demand. While serving as the butt of jokes for wealthy and privileged individuals, who never had to endure living in a longbox home.
The Proletariat Property Co-op carried intentions that were arguably noble, and just. Yet by entering the bubble of our trailer village, they had provided something else. Specifically, a target, for those who needed to vent their anger. These unfamiliar invaders were freakish and fallible. Unwisely wedded to a mode of thinking that was unwelcome in places such as the heartland. Their tilt toward the fringe did not resonate on our cracked and crumbling streets. Their embrace of a new order challenged the old one, still very much in effect.
I thought about these things, while huddled in my living room. A cramped space full of moving boxes, useless furnishings, and collected items that no longer held any sentimental value. The outside temperature had turned inhospitable, once again. Strong winds made this meteorological shift even harder to survive. I sat with the interior door standing ajar, and watched as icy crystals obscured the outside panes of glass, on its twin.
Plodding footsteps thudded in the snow, atop my access ramp. Then, a knock on the exterior wall made me jump in my seat.
“MR. LINCOLN? THIS IS THE SHERIFF! MAY I COME INSIDE, SIR?”
I was flustered and clumsy. Both arms of the vintage, waiting-room chair creaked as I tried to stand. Then, I surrendered and fell back into my spot.
“Yeah, it’s all good. I never lock up at night anymore. Especially in the winter, that door swells and gets jammed...”
Tom T. Rath was a big fellow. Gregarious and gifted with a generous girth. He kept his appearance neat and professional. Except for a wiry mustache that seemed to harken backward to earlier generations. After removing his Stetson, he bowed slightly, and held it by the brim.
“Old man, there’s a storm brewing here. And I don’t mean the lake-effect precip we’re getting, right now. I’ve been receiving calls from your on-site manager almost every day. She’s up in arms about an illegal rent strike. Her solution is what you might imagine, namely, me and my deputies running the instigators out of this park. That alone would be a tall order, because her number of violations is over 100 at the present. But when I contacted the owners at their offices in New York, I heard them sing a different tune. Nobody there wants a mass eviction. It’s a standoff like I’ve never seen before. But more than that, I’ve been hearing rumors about a different kind of takeover. One that would involve breaking-and-entering at the office, kidnapping, and a little revolution right here in this township. This development is at the point of being turned into a minefield! What I want to learn is, how much do you know about it, and what would you advise me to do in response?”
I sat my bourbon tumbler aside. His candid query was completely unexpected.
“You want to hear my opinion, sheriff?”
Rath nodded and fiddled with his uniform accessory.
“Link, we’ve both been in this area for a long time. You more than me, but each of us knows how things roll around here, this is a special kind of neighborhood. I’ve always done my best to handle events on this patch of dirt with care. But what is about to happen turns my stomach. There’ll be a dogfight between residents and my men, and the crew running this place. Meanwhile, we’ll have the press snooping with cameras and microphones. I don’t need that nonsense, you don’t need it, and the owners don’t need it! So, what can I do?”
I had to take a deep breath before answering. Then, my face turned pale.
“You want the truth, sheriff? The hard-core, God’s honest truth?”
He bowed more dramatically, and nodded again.
“Yes I do. Give it to me straight!”
I rubbed my eyes and then closed them in a gesture of contemplation.
“Call Wells Fargo. They effed up selling this place to a bunch of university kids. I’ll bet none of them have ever been to a district like Geauga County. They need a reality check. And more than that, they need to sign this dump back over to the bankers, and then get the hell out of Ohio! Out, out, out!”
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