c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(8-26)
T. C. Lincoln had lived at Evergreen Estates for so long that the period of years preceding his slide into disability and isolation had now become difficult to recall with any amount of clarity. He could summon certain recollections with effort, yet remained unable to properly interpret them sequentially. Like bits of fluff, they were loose and randomly arranged, inside of his skull. He knew that two failed marriages were on his personal roster. Somewhere in California, a daughter carried the signature of his DNA, anonymously. He had wasted educational and career opportunities in the interest of freeing himself from any burden of responsibility. And most of all, his penchant for getting drunk on beverage alcohol dulled the sting of bad decisions and unfortunate consequences that came as a result. With the effect of separating him from reality in a way that impeded his ability to perceive literal events in a common manner.
His mode of thinking was always tilted in an opposite direction from any neighbors, family members, or friends from his limited social circle.
Yet the first appearance of a looming, global conflict snapped him out of this foggy funk. It hit on a morning when he had finished having coffee and a bologna-cheese taco at his desk. An improvised breakfast that was unconventional, but satisfying. He scrolled through links posted online, until a report about wealthy individuals like tech guru Martín Varsavsky buying property in Argentina caught his attention. The Financial Times story about a ranch called ‘Wamani’ had been delivered with various photographs that depicted a beautiful and challenging landscape. A spot on the earth where someone of wealth and accomplishment could be safe with their familiy, in the event of a worldwide conflagration of nuclear weapons.
Predictably, no one in the trailer park paid any attention to this surreal tale of planning for post-apocalyptic survival. But at Lot 13, the yield of this revelation hit home, emotionally. It also meshed well with information about Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, and Turkey forming a Mecca Joint Defense Agreement, as mutual partners. And continuing aggression in Europe and the Middle East threatening to stall the cause of peace before it could blossom.
“Everything is falling into place! This is WW III, in its primary stages! We are effed!”
Lincoln hummed the tune of an Everclear song from the 1990s, while reading more on his display. The lyrics of their composition ‘Santa Monica’ fit the mood, perfectly.
“I am still living with your ghost
Lonely and dreaming of the west coast
I don’t wanna be your downtime
I don’t wanna be your stupid game
With my big black boots and an old suitcase
I do believe I’ll find myself a new place
I don’t wanna be the bad guy
I don’t want to do your sleepwalk dance anymore
I just wanna see some palm trees
I will try and shake away this disease
We could live beside the ocean
Leave the fire behind
Swim out past the breakers
Watch the world die
We can live beside the ocean
Leave the fire behind
Swin out past the breakers
Watch the world die...”
Finally, the chill of a potential disruption in planetary order sent him outside, to the front porch. There, he sat with a jug of bourbon to ease his mind, and dull the throb of worry being expressed by pundits and prognosticators, everywhere.
He had managed to get through two rounds of potent liquor, when a notification chirp sounded from his cell phone.
“Hey Link, are you over there, buddy? Linn is having a yard party on the corner! Come on down, there’s plenty of brew and snacks! You need to get out and see people for a change!”
Darby Stronelli, on his eastern flank, had been in her storage barn, watching highlights of training camps being conducted ahead of the upcoming NFL season. The squarish, pallet-board hut was adorned in yellow and black, colors of her favorite franchise.
The reclusive hermit felt his stomach beginning to ache.
“Party? What made him want to throw a shindig right now? It’s been hot as blazes for several days. He sweats like a pig...”
The spiky-haired female must have snorted at her device. A string of emojis followed with another line of text.
“I don’t know, something about his fantasy league, he’s the commissioner. I don’t get into that kind of game, but whatever, right? He’s got plenty of beer in the coolers! I figure we can all drink for free!”
Lincoln clutched at his belly, and shuddered.
“He always buys Milwaukee’s Best, that piss is horrible! And I’d have to listen to him rant about church functions and politics. No thanks...”
Darby sent several middle fingers, and a laughing smiley face.
“Yeah, he does go for the cheap stuff! Oh well, it was just a thought. I’m watching old Super Bowl highlights, six rings still shining bright, buddy! Six big, golden rings for my Steelers!”
The inebriated loner dropped his wireless link in a vest pocket. Then lifted the glass bottle of whiskey until it was straight up in the air.
“Screw that portly son-of-a-bitch on the corner. And screw your Boys in the ‘Burgh! I’m good right here where I sit...”
While diving deeper into drunkenness, the contrarian boozer took out his phone again, and scrolled through more news headlines about dwindling, domestic stockpiles of ammunition, and fears of bold military moves by Russia and China in the wake of American embarrassment. Each report seemed to be more sensationalized than the one before. Eventually, the constant din of dire predictions became too heavy to bear.
With a right-hand flip deftly executed, the shaggy misanthrope tossed his phone aside and reached for a cold container of Miller Lite. Foam poured from the corners of his mouth. A dribble of suds streamed over his T-shirt.
Again, song lyrics echoed across the synapses of his brain. If the world were about to end, he would be a spectator, here on his wooden bench. Numb and insulated by a persistent wash of fiery, brown juice, with hops and grains as a delectable chaser.
“I am still dreaming of your face
Hungry and hollow for all the things you took away
I don’t wanna be your good time
I don’t wanna be your fallback crutch anymore
Walk right out into a brand-new day
Insane and rising in my own weird way
I don’t wanna be the bad guy
I don’t wanna do your sleepwalk dance anymore
I just wanna feel some sunshine
I just wanna find some place to be alone
We could live beside the ocean
Leave the fire behind
Swim out past the breakers
Watch the world die
We can live beside the ocean
Leave the fire behind
Swim out past the breakers
Watch the world die...”
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