c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(3-26)
Throughout years of living alone, Townshend Lincoln had paid little attention to the outside world. And even less to himself. With no guardrails in place, he took each day as it came. Health concerns, money woes, and the opinions of others failed to register as important. His philosophy could be summed up in a single sentence. One repeated to friends and neighbors, close relatives, and at family gatherings, until he was excommunicated completely from their orbit.
“I do what I want, screw everything else!”
But with a willing participant challenging the boundaries of his comfort zone, this stoic reality disappeared on its own. He felt emotionally exposed. Self-conscious in a way not experienced in many years. Now, his habits and mental outlook actually mattered to someone else. That gave him a sense of responsibility that chafed at his mind. He preferred the unbridled liberty of going nowhere, at his chosen pace. Being coddled and corralled held no appeal. But after sharing his primitive bed for the night, that disposition was in doubt.
Mockbina was warm, soft, and curvy. A plus-sized partner who liked to snuggle closely. Her aroma lingered in his nostrils, even when morning arrived and he crept out to the kitchen. In front of the stove, he took out iron skillets and started to fry up his own version of an Appalachian breakfast, as coffee percolated on the countertop. His guest did not rise immediately, dozing for another half-hour or more. But when she appeared in the living room, a whisper of protest preceded any greeting for the new day.
“I promise you to cook, yesterday. What is this, Link? You are a wery strange man. I cannot figure what you want. Okay? I must guess and guess, while you make fun.”
The shaggy hermit bowed with a bit of culinary flair, while cooking up country ham and redeye gravy, for their biscuits.
“Naw ma’am, I reckon yer the guest here, so it only seemed right fer me to fix some vittles. I’m creating some real hillbilly grub, I hope it meets with yer approval. Ham, eggs, hash browns, and cheesy grits!”
The Russian female tilted her head to one side. Confusion caused her to wonder, out loud.
“Greets? What is this, you say, greets? I do not know this greets. It is not a meal in my country. And the ham you cook, it is strong, and salty. I smell it to over here! America is confused for me. I will learn, maybe. You help me to learn?”
Lincoln chortled and grinned. But stayed busy with his pans.
“See, some folks in my family went away to school, and got an education. Then they came back with all kinds of fancy things fer eats. Weird combinations I don’t savor. The kind of tricky tastes that don’t make my mouth water. My old bones crave down home flavors. The kind of things my grandma made when she lived with us. Or dishes served at church dinners, in the days when sitting in a pew wasn’t an open invitation to get yer ass judged. My folks were all blue-collar people. They worked in the fields, and tended to livestock. That’s an honest life. Not enough people are really honest, any more...”
Mockbina rubbed her eyes, which were still narrowed and groggy.
“Bloo coller? What is this expression? I do not know it. Is like a dog coller maybe?”
The habitual loner gestured with a metal spatula.
“It’s about working with yer hands, miss. Being a grunt worker. Earning yer keep in a simple way...”
The immigrant dame smiled and nodded.
“I feel like grunt, as you say, at cheese factory. We must work wery hard to make the cheese. It is good cheese. I am proud that we make cheese. But then I am tired.”
Lincoln filled coffee mugs for himself, and his guest.
“A long time ago, I could deal with others. It’s hard to remember now, but I had a real job, in a supervisory capacity. I managed businesses. I tried to be fair and kind to the crew. But that approach bit me in the hindquarters. It got me used and abused. Eventually, when assets were sold and contracts got broken, I jumped off the merry-go-round. That kinda happened in my marriages too. I gave up on pleasing others. Frig ‘em, anyway! That’s when things turned dark. That’s when I started drinking more, and keeping to myself. But now, here ya are, watching me play in my kitchen. Yer like a gawdamn kid, curious as hell. Making me care about things again, which don’t come easily. I hope ya are a woman of yer word, because I’ll say it strait, I’m getting sucked into this groove...”
Mockbina hugged him from behind. She cradled her chin on his left shoulder.
“I not have man make breakfast, before. Not ever, I think. You do this to be good? It is odd to me, but I do like. I am from work, wery tired. But also in the heart. I miss theengs. My family at home, my husband, my village. All these are now gone.”
The sober contrarian turned pale in reflection.
“I get ya, ma’am. It’s funny how growing older means losing things. Ya lose friends, and relatives, and abilities to get stuff done. Maybe ya lose yer sense of being alive. Though I sure don’t ever want to let go of that. My grandma used to say that any day above ground is a miracle. And I knew she meant it. Her generation lived through the Great Depression. They were tough and resilient. More so than those of us who came along later. Our burdens have been light. But listening to yer tales of a distant land snaps me back to attention. It makes me grateful fer what little I’ve got. Not much money, I mean, but peace at home. A place to be, even if it's a longbox shack in the woods. Neighbors who can at least tolerate my way of living. And some measure of security. An Ithaca shotgun that I’ve never had to use. A buck knife in a leather sheath. Ditto fer it as well. Those things might not show up on a pay stub, but they matter a lot. They matter to me...”
The foreign femme sighed heavily. Then took a sip of the brewed java.
“You, Link. You also matter... to me!”
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