Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 9: Dispute

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

 

I was normally drunk by noon, regardless of the season. But on Wednesday, I had a number of household chores waiting, when sitting at my desk in the home office. The space had originally been a master bedroom, one inhabited by the second of two wives, and myself. But after her departure with both daughters and their cats, I repurposed the vacant square as a storage locker. Packed, cardboard boxes towered to the ceiling, along one side of this chamber. It made for a messy venue in which to write and do research. Yet somehow, the visual cues were appropriate. My very existence, like the household I inhabited, was perpetually cluttered with unfinished business. Never quite up to par, or organized, as with other members of my bloodline.

 

Slogging through unread mail and documents I had received gave me a headache. I grew thirstier with each envelope torn open. Finally, an oversized, UPS shipment yielded a proposal for family holdings out of state. Regarding oil rights that were in a remote county of West Virginia. The offer smacked of exploitation. Everything had been prepared as if I were a simple, hillbilly rube. Ready to sign away rights and privileges for a pitiful reward. But my reaction was not the one they must have expected.

 

I wanted to pop the cork on a whiskey bottle. And instead, this distant company had interrupted my pleasure time with a solicitation that made me tax my brain cells, instead of drowning them in brown liquor!

 

The general attitude at Evergreen Estates had deteriorated, after a huge hike in lot rent. So, my own display of irritation did not get noticed, upon finally reaching the front porch. It was only about 30 degrees outside, cold enough to be bundled in layers of fabric and leather. But the sunshine had returned after long weeks of being absent. This caused me to be more jovial, as passers-by fretted over ruts of snow and ice, that ran up my street.

 

Ned Polanski, a retired laborer who had worked on Lake Erie for fifty years, drove by in a Geo Metro that was clapped-out and rusty. But still in service. He rolled down the driver’s window with a vigorous cranking of his left arm, and cursed as I sat with a tall can of brew.

 

“SEVENTY-FIVE BUCKS! CAN YA BELIEVE THAT SHIT? GEEEEEZ! WHAT WUZ THEY THINKIN’? IT’S A DAMN JOKE LIVIN’ HERE! WHATTA YA GONNA DO THOUGH, BEND OVER AND PAY IT, OR GET EVICTED! I GOT NOWHERE TA GO! YOUSE GOT NOWHERE TA GO!”

 

I nodded while sighing heavily. Then, raised my beer as a toast.

 

“Nowhere. You said it right. I got nowhere...”

 

I knew that his son had earned a diploma from John Carroll University, and moved to the west coast. That meant rarely seeing any grandchildren. The poor fellow was no better off in social terms. I liked it when he stopped by to share a drink, which wasn’t often.

 

“LINK, DON’T FREEZE YER ASS ON THAT BENCH, BUDDY! IT’S COOOOLD OUT HERE TODAY! THEM EMT GUYS ‘LL THINK YA LOOK LIKE A FAT POPSICLE! TAKE IT EASY, FRIEND!”

 

I had been described as a gruff, garden gnome, a homeless bum, a wandering fool, and a reincarnation of Grizzly Adams. But never a popsicle. I had to cheer silently for his clever interjection.

 

Nothing in the tone of his rant could have indicated that hundreds of miles away, the head of our new ownership group was expressing similar sentiments about the indefensible upcharge that had just occurred.

 

In Ithaca, New York, Nakano Volca liked to keep things informal and relaxed at his office within the Proletariat Property Co-op complex. He did not hold to a regular schedule, instead preferring to work according to his daily moods, and reserve of stamina. Because the building where he stayed was a multi-use facility, one that also housed a daycare center for children, counseling rooms, and a shelter for those transitioning from street life to a regular apartment, he could move from one spot to another freely. He enjoyed volunteer hours, when the stress of financial management became a bore.

 

Yet a call from one of the comrades in an outer office sent him unexpectedly into a fit of ire.

 

“Nakka? Hey, I just heard from our Cleveland subsidiary. There’s a near riot happening at the trailer park we acquired in Geauga County, Ohio. They got hit with almost a hundred dollars in new charges, per month. Apparently, Wells Fargo had it in the pipeline, before we signed paperwork to make the purchase!”

 

The asset supervisor was stunned. He spilled Chai tea over his homemade desk.

 

“THEY DID WHAT???”

 

Selden Pate had graduated from Cuyahoga Community College, just over a year ago. He had the appearance of a confirmed bachelor and nerd. With a gangly physique, thick, black spectacles, and garments from thrift stores in the area. But his mastery of answering phones and taking notes was commendable.

 

“From what I heard, people in that mobile-home village are raging. We tried to sell this takeover as a positive development for them, you know? A turnaround for those who have been getting pissed on for so many years. But this blew our cover. Now, we look like all the other money grubbers...”

 

Volca brought down his right fist, forcefully enough that a stack of compact discs toppled from his post.

 

“NO, NO, NO! THIS ISN’T WHAT I WANT! WE’RE SUPPOSED TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE FOR THESE RESIDENTS, NOT KEEP SCREWING THEM LIKE THE OTHER SCHEISTERS! YOU’VE GOT TO FIX THIS, MAN! FIX IT! FIX IT RIGHT! SETTLE THIS DISPUTE!”

 

His underling shrugged and rolled his eyes.

 

“It’s done now, Nakka. Maybe if you visit the property... I mean, when you visit the property... then we can put a better spin on our future plans?”

 

There was a long pause as the co-op steward leaned forward, on his elbows. He had never been to the Buckeye State. Never seen the heartland from ground level. Never interacted with people who drove pickup trucks to their jobs, and rode four-wheelers for fun. He had been raised in a cocoon of higher learning and institutional academia. The thought of moving beyond that safe realm, into the chaos of blue-collar entropy, made him tremble.

 

Fate had chosen him as an ambassador, however. It was his duty to go forth, and meet the population where they lived. To break bread with them, in their longbox dwellings. And to learn what they had in common, for the purpose of bettering their existence, and his own.