c. 2026 Rod Ice
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(3-26)
Townshend Carr Lincoln was known for his contrarian habits at the rural, trailer community of Evergreen Estates. Unlike most others at the junkyard oasis, he did not seek out the company of others. He was socially, politically, and culturally an outlier. Not someone who followed the crowd, or attempted to join any coalition of like-minded individuals. He was surly, cranky, and perpetually drunk. Yet for a very small number of fellow residents, he represented a living history of the park. A leaseholder for nearly a quarter-century, he had been on the property longer than almost all of the other inhabitants. And despite constant inebriation, his memory of that dubious experience was sharp. He had seen expulsions and evictions, collapsing homes, fires, fistfights and arrests, and even shootings, on their crumbling streets. Families fleeing because of unpaid lot rent, and bankruptcy. Interlopers living in tents and storage sheds. Or their rusty cars. The chaos of daily living in such a setting had hardened him to any outside force. He did not pay attention to others. He did not care about their opinions or desires. He wanted only one thing, at the start of each day.
To be left alone.
But Mockbina Petrovich exploded that mental discipline, without any attempt to cajole or coerce him, in heart or mind. Her hardy build, and broad smile affected him like a magic spell. She was curvaceous, charmingly odd, and pure. Something in her psychological makeup appealed to him, without words. She had proven to be a survivor, both in her native land, and in a new, impoverished world of mobile-home living. Her toughness impressed him greatly. He became a fan without realizing the depth of this bond. Before long, whispers persisted around the development. They were deemed a crackpot couple. Strangely right for each other. Neither of them able to fit in, anywhere else.
A Russian dame and the dirty drunk.
Yet neither the stocky femme or her alcoholic cohort were aware of the gossip they had inspired. Each pursued their own routine vigorously and without too much self-awareness. She, at the cheese factory in Middlefield, with an Amish crew and Yankee supervisors. And he, at his ratty, singlewide longbox, on a concrete slab numbered 13.
With temperatures rising toward the advent of spring, Lincoln spent longer periods outside, on his front porch. This gave him a measure of comfort, languishing in the fresh air and aromas of natural rebirth. But it also sapped his energy to get through the day. He became groggy, tipsy, and lost what little comprehension of time that he had possessed. His face burned with a glow of high-proof liquor. His blood pressure became unregulated. His digestive system protested, with loud bursts of gas that could be heard from a distance.
Few ever came close when he was on his wooden bench. So, this condition did not present a real problem. But eventually, as in past years, he began to fall asleep, while exposed to the elements. Or, on the threadbare sofa in his living room, with the front door carelessly standing ajar. He would snore and sputter, until all of the decorative pillows had been scattered, and his position on the furnishing became decidedly uncomfortable.
After a weekend of redneck antics in the park, and four-wheelers or motorcycles being brought out for fun, the weary hermit had gotten dangerously blitzed. He couldn’t see beyond the top of his access ramp, or hobble fast enough to reach the bathroom, inside. Therefore, when the need for relief arrived, he simply stood behind a trash bin, on his deck, and sent a golden stream into the yard, below. This act of indifference was satisfying, and matched the slow, unsophisticated pace of life to which he had become accustomed.
For an hour or more, he bobbled side to side on the bench. With plenty of bourbon whiskey in his bloodstream. Then, in a daze, he crawled through the entryway, to his refuge across from the flat-screen television. With a flop, he fell on the couch. Oblivion beckoned with a tempting invitation to sleep that he could not resist.
The hour was barely past eight o’clock. Yet he had reached a point of complete exhaustion.
In a netherworld of unconsciousness, he floated through clouds of negation. Reduced from mortal flesh to an essence of eternal being. One with the universe, and God, and all those who had already completed their earthly journey. He saw nothing but light. And felt nothing but the embrace of a loving creator.
Then, a wet kiss from puffy, probing lips met his own.
He had been taken by the ears. A sweet taste of womanhood filled his mouth. He stiffened as caresses probed and pressed around his limbs and torso. He could hear the passionate breaths of another. Though for whatever reason, he could not open his eyes. He had become locked in a dream-state. Unable to wake. Disconnected from reality. Drunk to the point of a cardiac collapse. Teetering on the brink of his own finality.
In the morning, a glare of solar rays filled his window. He had to shield his eyes at first. Then realized that he had passed out in a sweaty haze of booze. He lay outstretched on the stains and crumbs that covered his sofa. And on the floor, his neighbor had folded blankets to form a makeshift mattress for herself. When he sat up, she stirred, sleepily. Then reached out to touch him as a sign of her empathy.
“You almost keel yourself yesterday! Do you understand, old guy? I see you are seek or something, then disappear. I come here and find you not breath no more. It scare me! I do CPR, you start to fight me, but then, at least, I know you are alive. I can’t get you to leesten, so I stay here all night. I no want you to go away. You are one friend for me, I think. I need you. No die, I say! No die!”
Lincoln felt his hands trembling. His body was sore, as if he had run a marathon race. Whatever had occurred, must have passed due to her improvised treatment. But now, he had pangs of guilt over the episode. A health crisis had not been on his radar.
“That’s a promise, ma’am. I won’t die. Ya know, dammit, I’m too stubborn fer that!”
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