c. 2026 Rod Ice
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(6-26)
Townshend Lincoln had only been drinking outside for long enough to have consumed one shot of Kentucky bourbon, and a tall container of cold brew. But when his cellular device chirped for attention, he immediately felt fatigued. This hour of the afternoon was one which he cherished for its restful anonymity. So, being interrupted for any reason, while willfully dulling his senses, presented an unwelcome turn of events. Yet when he tapped on the Messenger icon, and began to read, sobriety returned with immediate force. The image of an unfamiliar, blonde woman popped up on his screen.
“Hello, Mr. T. C. Lincoln. I am out here on the Pacific coast, my mom is Jess Decosta, and well, I think that I may be your daughter!”
Bogus accounts were always prolific on social media sites, even for someone who was reluctant to participate like himself. So, he did not pay much attention before deleting the random text. But then, with the whiskey jug raised to his lips, the name that had been included began to reverberate from his memories.
Decosta... Jess Decosta... Ithaca, New York... Santa Barbara, California... Quakertown, Pennsylvania...
Surging forward on his wooden bench, the shaggy hermit spit a mouthful of liquor over himself.
“GAWDAMN! JESSICA LYNN DECOSTA! WHO THE HELL PLUCKED THAT NAME OUT OF MY HEAD? IT CAN’T BE A DAMN COINCIDENCE!”
He tried to retrieve the minimalist message, but those words were gone.
Curses echoed as he stomped on the floorboards of his porch. The reference was one long lost to antiquity, to the time when he had first returned to his native soil in Ohio. After a leap he had termed to be ‘an exodus in rags’ at the time, his crash into the retrograde scene of Lake Erie brought relief and torment in equal measures. Having a traditional home-setting restored sanity and brought focus back to his existence. But the emotional cost was considerable. He could not shed the remnants of artistry and creative zeal that lingered, from his summer of abandon. Like ghosts speaking from afar, they taunted him during nights spent sleeping restlessly on the sofa in his family living room. He would scatter the pillows and blankets, cry out for escape, and drift through visions of what had gone before. Ultimately, his parents were perplexed and confused. They mourned his moodiness and detachment, while attempting to rebuild the connection of kinship that had once existed.
In the post-modern portion of his life, Lincoln had no interest in revisiting such forgotten events.
Yet now, with the deleted communique stuck in his head, he was back at the beginning. Back to the point of being a teenaged refugee, in tattered clothes, freezing and hungry on the streets in New York. Lost in every way, alienated from himself and the one he loved so desperately. A wreck of human indignities, staggering, stammering, stooped under the weight of consequences. Unable to handle his guilt, and the corresponding weakness that doubled him over at night. He had talent, and energy, along with the ability to translate these gifts into a patchwork document of written materials. But they fell far short of being valued enough to sustain him as a scribe and performer. He was, by both friends and foes, looked upon as an oddity in their realm. Someone born in the heartland, and destined to be a factory laborer or professional rig-driver, not a vocal advocate for sound and vision, being channeled into useful prose and imagery.
This messy conflict stirred inside of him, even after returning home as a vagabond loser.
Being drunk and oblivious throughout the day brought some needed comfort to his soul. He cherished the coming of oblivion that preceded every evening spent dozing on his seat, outside. It was an elixir that eased years of regret and emptiness swollen up in his belly. A medicinal concoction that allowed him to thrive on nothingness.
He stared blankly at the glass panes of his storm door, directly across from the bench. The reflected visage was of a scruffy, aging beast, who had been whittled down to his essence by judgment and exile. A prisoner on the run, perpetually chased by demons and darkness. A phantom, much like Barnabas Collins of Dark Shadows lore, who was condemned to never behold the glory of daylight and love, again.
Lincoln cradled his phone in one hand, and swore angrily at its vacant display.
“WHY DID I GET RID OF THAT MESSAGE SO DAMN QUICK? WHY? WHY? WHY?”
The glass reserve of brown juice emptied rapidly, as he pondered his plight. Then, as he had reached the point of surrendering consciousness, a notification chirp sounded once again.
“Mr. Lincoln, my name is Amanda. We don’t know each other, of course, but I can feel something between us. My mother was a gypsy in her younger days, a protégé of Janis Joplin and Stevie Nicks, at least in artistic terms. She’s still a wild grandma, a hippie relic with beads and bracelets and dresses made of hemp. A crazy chica, to use words I hear from her friends here in Cali! I can tell how much you must have loved her, from mom’s stories about New York. I could feel the vibe of that affection in a letter you wrote, which she found here in a book about Edie Sedgewick. But the reason I’m being a pest... and forgive me for that... is because I had a son earlier this year. And his appearance doesn’t match anything in our bloodline. Just like part of how I look also seems out of place. There’s a missing chapter to the story somewhere, and I want to read it, and understand how all of this began. You’re the missing link in all of this... Townie Link, as my mother calls you. I need to know whether you really did spark me into life with her, over 40 years ago. I want to know. I have to know!”
Lincoln shuddered while imbibing the last of his Kentucky bourbon. The righteous swig caused his throat to burn, and both eyes to water. Then, he sat back with sweat and drool dribbling into his beard.
“DAMMIT, I’M NOT READY FOR THIS! BUT HERE WE GO, I’LL NEED A BARREL OF WHISKEY TO SURVIVE!”
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