c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(4-26)
T. C. Lincoln had only been awake for a few hours, when his typical jones for an alcoholic beverage kicked in, with righteous fervor. He had been in a favorite recliner, scrolling through entries on a store app, via his cellular device. Patiently searching for pickled bologna, or red-hot frankfurters. This pursuit was one that revealed the high cost of such prepared delights, when being bought through third-party vendors. Late in the previous year, he had noted certain varieties of these treats, along with pickled eggs, available at a grocery depot nearer to Lake Erie. But the winter season had made him a hermit.
After years of struggling, he finally surrendered the desire to go anywhere beyond the comfort of his small, secluded front porch.
With a jug of Kentucky bourbon in hand, he hobbled through the kitchen, living room, and out to the wooden bench by his access ramp. Temperatures were already near 70 degrees, despite a possibility of snow in the forecast, on Easter. His first swig of strong liquor cleared away residual flavors of coffee, fried SPAM, and eggs. Then, as numbness spread across his shaggy face, he began to sink into a mood of pleasant detachment.
He was always best able to cope with living at Evergreen Estates, a community of mobile homes built on swampland filled in with construction waste, by staying perpetually drunk.
In about a half-hour, furious barking sounded on both sides of his singlewide trailer. To the west, from a tiny, yet aggressive ankle-biter, with a violent personality and a poor disposition. To the east, this growling was magnified with the addition of a Lab mix, and her adopted, Cattle Dog sibling. A visiting German Shepherd, out in the street, kept all of these participants eager to vocalize their canine sentiments.
Lincoln had a box fan in his side window. While undersized for the task of moving air around, it rattled and buzzed loudly enough to help eliminate the din of being outside, and exposed.
In another 30 minutes, neighbors who were a few lots away began to debate their marital status, in the driveway. A location not suited to private discourse. There was much wailing and screeching from the wife, and a silent scowl from her spouse. With persistent hoots of protest from others who were near enough to be offended, without actually becoming involved. Soon, garden implements, pet toys, and lawn furniture were flying around the lot. The husband eventually stomped to safety in his pickup truck, cranked its ignition, and sped away.
By then, it was long past the hour of noon. A clatter of digging machines could be heard from up their street, by the woods. Leaks in the park system for delivering water were maddeningly common. With frequent outages in service interrupting showers, doing loads of laundry, and other household chores. Each low-budget repair represented a desperate attempt to save money while operating the rural property. But if tallied on a balance sheet, they likely cost more than simply modernizing the structural components, which had first been put in place during the 1950s.
Around one o’clock, Lincoln noted that a warm glow of inebriation had shrouded him in blissful anonymity. He could not hear, see, or think with any measure of clarity. This condition also liberated his joints from a prevailing stiffness brought on by arthritis and long-term abuse during his professional career.
He had reached the peak of his life force for the day. A glorious moment when cares and woes disappeared into a suffocating haze of brown booze.
Up the hillside from their crude development, harsh blasts of gunfire echoed repeatedly. One-two-three-four-five, and so forth. While continuing to drink, the reclusive loner counted off more than a dozen rounds being discharged. Far too many for a hunting excursion. Shouts of redneck glee were audible. Then, a siren wail. Either from an emergency vehicle, or perhaps, sheriff’s deputies pursuing miscreants in action.
Finally, the senior bum had reached a point of chemical oblivion. He swooned on the bench. Dizzy from drunkenness, and groggy enough to see sparkles of light where none existed in literal terms. Then, a click-clack of high heels filled his ears. From the landing by his flower bed, at the edge of their rustic boulevard, a young woman approached. Attired in the style of a dance-hall reveler. Someone he did not recognize as a resident from the same part of their neighborhood.
An interlude of wonder and confusion passed between them, before the colorful lass threw back her curled, blonde head of hair, and began to laugh out loud.
“What the heck? Y’all ain’t my grandpaw! Well horse poop, I done picked the wrong damn trailer. Sorry feller, I apologize fer interruptin’ yer nap!”
Lincoln shook his head and belched rudely.
“Grandpa? No, I think you’re definitely off-track there, miss. None of my family members live out here. Which is best in the long run, I figure. It’s better to stay aloof and undetectable. Off-the-radar, so to speak...”
The youthful female cocked her head to one side. She needed to regain a proper sense of direction. Chewing her lip, she expressed obvious doubts over her visit.
“Ain’t this Lot 113? He said it would be easy to find, but that was a doggone lie! I can’t figure out this park fer shit! This is a screwed-up little hole-in-the-wall!”
The gray-bearded contrarian smiled and gestured toward the rear of their property.
“This is Lot 13, ma’am. Lot 113 will be way in the back, that’s a whole different section of the community. Like another world, really. You’ve got to roll past my street, curve around by the dump, and head west again...”
An expression of amazement glowed from the woman’s eyes. She pivoted on her spiked boots, while waving with painted nails.
“I get it now, gawdamn! He’s been beggin’ me ta come out fer more ‘n a year! Somethin’ about bein’ diagnosed with a heart condition. Ya know, people get old and tired, and cranky. Nobody else can stand him anymore. My sisters think he’s pain in the ass! But, I always sort of liked his bawdy sense of humor. He would embarrass my mom in public. She tried to make him go ta church, but his mouth was too wild. As a kid, I thought it was cool that he knew how ta cuss!”
Lincoln pointed once again, before savoring a generous swallow of refreshment.
“To repeat myself, it’s in the back. You’ll find it now, a white trailer with a plywood barn and a skinny sidewalk in between. I used to know someone who lived next door. A friend from the days when I could still tolerate other human beings...”
There was a cackle of disinterest as the flashy femme disappeared.
A quarter-hour elapsed, with more drinking and belching, as the solitary figure pondered this perfumed princess in her absence. A gentle trace of her essence remained in his nostrils. He had nearly fallen asleep when she returned, unexpectedly. This time however, her approach came at a pace stalled by apprehension and regret. She had begun to cry.
“Lot 113, that’s what the old fool said! His Jeep Cherokee was still parked out in front. Someone a few spaces away told me that a freakin’ ambulance came fer him, last week. They had a team of medics wheel him out on a gurney! But the old dude didn’t make it ta the hospital. I messed around too damn long. It’s all my fault! Ain’t that a bite in the ass? Now I feel like a total bitch!”
Lincoln could not summon proper words of condolence for his uninvited guest. So instead, he uncorked another jug of southern whiskey. The pop of that seal was sharp and intimidating.
“Why don’t you sit here for a minute or two? Just to collect your thoughts, if nothing else...”
The booted dancer crouched on her heels. She lit a cigarette, and replied with a whisper.
“New Grandpaw, I’d appreciate hearin’ some stories if ya might wanna share with me. And while yer at it, how about a drink of that hooch?”
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