c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(3-26)
Townshend Lincoln slept restlessly as the wind gusts continued to howl overnight. The entire trailer rocked and shook on its concrete slab. There were noises of debris and outdoor furniture flying around in the yard. Gaps in the window seals whistled and buzzed. This cacophony infused his dreams with images of mayhem and chaos. And from the midst of that meteorological sideshow, he heard the voice of his neighbor, echoing with purpose. Her frank comment on his living space had been accurate, if harsh.
“I not pay attention so much, before. Now I see things. You require a strong wife, I think. Perhaps she would leave you instead of living here? I see so much to do. Bad, bad, bad!”
That descriptive term grew louder in his head, until finally, he shouted so violently that it ended his slumber. For a moment, he was disoriented, and had to sit on the edge of his bed.
“WIFE? SHE ACTUALLY SAID, WIFE?”
He was groggy until managing to stand, find a disability cane, and traipse through the short, narrow hallway to his living room. There, he sat at the end of his couch, in a chair bought from a thrift store near their county capital. Sunrise was still an hour away. But he had exhausted the possibility of sleep by thrashing around on his mattress. A check of his cellular phone confirmed that gusts reached 85 mph while he slept. But surprisingly, also testified that the power hadn’t been interrupted for their rural location. A small miracle considering the utility outages of previous years.
Across the lane from his singlewide box, Mockbina had also been unconsciously affected by the bluster of Mother Nature, while attempting to rest her body. She was swept through an eerie vision of her husband, and his fellow soldiers, battling in Ukraine. A war they never desired. That endless conflict had robbed her of inner peace and security. With the eventual result that she fled to a new world, around the globe from her native land. She still struggled to make friends, while learning another language. But something about her new contact with the shaggy hair and threadbare attire felt enduring. He caused her to gasp sometimes, and even avert her eyes in an act of self-preservation. Yet for her, without words to describe the emotional bond, he held a sort of crude appeal. His attitude was rooted in contrarian independence. An ability to exist without being coddled or praised, or helped along the way. This mirrored her own tilt toward survival. She did not want to be indebted to anyone. Except, perhaps, for a loving creator to whom she prayed at the St. Theodosius church.
Through an expansive, bay window, at the front of her trailer, she saw that the old bum had moved to his wooden bench with a metal, campfire pot of coffee. And a white, ribbed mug that stood tall enough to hold a generous round of black java. Her interest reverberated as he loafed through a breakfast of plain biscuits, dipped in the hot beverage. To see the senior hermit on his favorite perch, sober for the moment and silent in reflection, was uncommon. But she guessed that perhaps, it was an activity more frequent than first expected. Something she missed while hurrying off to her job site in Middlefield.
With a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, she crept across the street. Then, joined her friend on his porch without being invited.
“I not have a good night much. There is too many noises, I think. It spin my head around. I worry that the trailer will break in half! Or maybe be under a tree, wery soon. You understand?”
Lincoln nodded, while offering to share his invigorating drink. Something that brightened the early morning.
“Yeah, same over here. I figured my guest chairs and trash bin would end up at another lot. But somehow, they stayed close. I left lights burning in the bathroom, and kitchen. And it never got dark inside. I can’t figure how that was possible, but damn, I’ll take it! Good deal!”
The Russian female smiled and cradled her steaming mug in both hands, for warmth.
“Yes, as you say, a good deal it is!”
The reclusive loner slouched on his seat.
“Do ya notice how quiet it gets after a storm? All that damn racket, and then nothing. It’s weird really, people like to caterwaul about their problems. But when this kind of shit goes down, they get all humble. Not bitching so much about life then, just showing gratitude. I’m here, you’re here, that’s good enough for the moment. Neither of us got blowed away...”
Mockbina shivered from the cold.
“I am too beeg for that, maybe. You also are not tiny, I think. We stand our ground? As you say, a good deal.”
The habitual drunk patted his belly.
“Gawdamn right, I’m stout enough fer a strong wind! No worries over being a kite. I’m more like a freaking boat anchor. It keeps my ass where its planted!”
His foreign contact covered her mouth to keep from laughing. She rolled her eyes with amusement.
“You are what some at work say, is goof. A goof! But I like goofing, maybe. I must like the American goof wery much.”
Lincoln snorted after a swig of grounds. Having social contact without the benefit of alcohol made him slightly uncomfortable. Yet he was glad for her company. It had been a long time since he could tolerate the presence of another human being, with such ease.
“Ma’am, as my brother used to say, ‘Call me whatever ya want, just don’t call me late fer dinner.’ I reckon that goes fer me as well...”
Mockbina grabbed her neighbor by his shoulders. Unintentionally, he had just provided a burst of inspiration.
“Yes, that is a good deal, I think. Deen-er. You like? I make some deen-er for us both, when it is spring, maybe. We have a picnic in the grass. You share stories with me? I also share with you, stories. We have good time. I promise.”
The graying boozer felt his face turning red. He hadn’t enjoyed a meal with anyone in years. Scattered crumbs around his favorite chair in the living room testified to the careless and solitary nature of dining under primitive conditions. Something he did out of necessity.
“Yeah sure, I reckon that’d be okay. But remember now, yer reputation won’t be bettered by being seen at this lot. I’m in a kind of sinkhole over here. Nobody comes this way unless they intend to collect on a debt or lay down the law. Otherwise, I’m invisible. For which I am glad as hell!”
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