c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(3-26)
Townshend Lincoln was used to being alone, without human interaction of any kind for days or weeks at a time. He stayed perpetually drunk, and existed on a horrid diet of salty snacks, smoked beef treats, pickles, and cheeses. Something that caused his doctor to shake her head with disgust and concern. Yet those in his immediate family rarely visited Evergreen Estates, as it was an unappealing heap of rubbish, and off the beaten path by several miles. Moreover, he had few if any friends in the trailer community. So, there were no hindrances to his preferred routine. He lived life as it came. One crisis, or calamity, at a time. Generally, ignored in favor of imbibing more beverage alcohol.
But with the arrival of Mockbina Petrovich, he suddenly had a companion of sorts within the perimeter. Someone accessible physically and emotionally. This threw him off balance with a new wrinkle of his personal evolution. He found himself doting on her in thoughts and deeds. Sometimes greeting her in the driveway, when she got home from her position as a laborer at the cheese factory, in Middlefield. On other occasions, he would sit outside, on his small porch, and wait for her to visit. The pair developed a psychic bond that kept them in contact, even when apart. This happening made him wonder about spirituality, and the afterlife, things he had not pondered in decades. But with enough liquor in his bloodstream, such serious considerations were negated. He simply languished in a sense of peace. That alone was enough to sustain him as an individual.
He did not need, or want, company. But her presence brought a smile to his shaggy face.
On a warm, weekend afternoon before the start of spring, he heard the Russian femme working on a flower garden in front of her singlewide abode. She was singing aloud, first in her native tongue, which was decidedly unfamiliar. Then, she attempted to render a version of the Dolly Parton classic, Jolene. Despite stumbling over the lyrics, her voice rang out sweet, and strong.
“Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene
I beg you not take my man
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene
Do not take because you can
You a beauty are
With lots of hair, I think
Ivory skin, yes, ivory skin
You breathe like spring
You speak like rain falling on ground
I cannot compete, I think
I cannot compete...”
The old hermit had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Yet he was entertained by the courage and passion of his foreign neighbor. He reckoned that she felt even more out-of-place and isolated than anyone in the park. They were all misfits of some sort. Whether coming from shattered relationships, bankruptcy, homelessness, or jail.
He had just managed to hobble inside for a full jug of Kentucky bourbon, when a high-riding, Chevy Silverado rolled down their street. Its horn blasted the tune of ‘Dixie’ in a nod to Confederate traditions of olden days. Oren Kronk, a firearms afficionado and political agitator rolled down the driver’s window, while passing. He raised a middle finger, and howled with redneck glee. This visual cue made the immigrant woman pause her music stream, and turn around, suddenly.
“HEY, COMMIE BITCH! LEARN TA SPEAK ENGLISH, DAMMIT! Y’ALL ARE A FRIGGIN’ MESS OVER THERE! OTHERWISE, GO THE EFF BACK TO YER GAWDAMN SOVIET PARADISE!”
Lincoln flushed a bright shade of crimson. His anger boiled over, quickly. But he stayed silent.
Mockbina had been hardened by her origin under Russian rules and traditions. In addition to the loss of her husband, and many members of the family, due to their adventurist escape in Ukraine. So, she remained unaffected by this verbal blast of insults. Instead, she continued to sing.
“He talk about you in sleep
There is nothing I do
I cry and cry when he call your name
I understand, yes
How you could take him
You could take
But he means to me, a lot
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene
I beg you not take my man
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene
Do not take because you can...”
Lincoln had ingested a whole bag of hot pork rinds, and a 12-pack of beer, since moving to his perch on the wooden bench. Therefore, his intestinal tract turned rebellious from being abused. Taking liberties better reserved for the inside of his longbox hovel, he belched like a foghorn. The window over his kitchen sink rattled in its frame. A stray feline went running. Birds flew from a tree in the side yard.
Mockbina stripped away her earphones. She was puzzled for a moment, then grinned widely.
“Old one, you make joke, I think? Or just seek at stomach? You drink wodka it not do so bad. Eat bread with it, good bread. I make you some good bread!”
The contrarian loner had to think his way through her unusual dialect.
“I’m a carb craver by nature, so some hearty bread would be all right. But how ‘bout some biscuits? Put ‘em with gravy and you’ll be talkin’ my language...”
The stocky female tilted her head to one side. She rolled her eyes, and huffed.
“Americans are heel-beely as you say. Hunt deer, hunt rabbit maybe, squirrel, they go fish. They do so many things. Then make biscuits, I hear about biscuits all day long at cheese factory. They make good cheese biscuits, I think! But I no like!”
Lincoln was struck by her report. Despite having a full stomach, he felt hungry again.
“Cheese biscuits? Damn, damn, damn, now that sounds mighty appealing...”
His friend across the rustic boulevard snorted. She did not want to think about her place of employment on a day away from work.
“NO BISCUITS! I NOT MAKE THEM! YOU LIKE RUSSIAN BREAD BETTER, I THINK! YOU WILL LIKE!”
The gray-haired misanthrope could not stand any kind of clear beverage. Particularly not the distilled drink of which she had spoken. But he brightened at the thought of any other homemade foods. Especially those brought over from distant lands.
“I’ve got an open mind, believe me. Just don’t bring me grilled yak or moose, or nothin’ crazy...”
Mockbina shook her head with amusement. Then, returned to her garden, and the task she had been pursuing. Again, her voice echoed over the lawn. She had a sense of comfort in knowing that the oddball fellow nearby enjoyed sharing her living space. That negated any sense of being a widow, abandoned, in an alien setting.
“Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene
I beg you not take my man
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene
Do not take because you can...”
No comments:
Post a Comment