c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(8-26)
T. C. Lincoln had once been a willing member of mainstream society, with career goals and aspirations that were common all across the North American continent. But upon crashing at the isolated community of manufactured homes in his rural township, this predisposition to follow accepted norms quickly evaporated. In place of that gentle outlook, he gravitated to principles and habits that were popular with older members of his Appalachian bloodline. This minimalist, contrarian mode of thinking pitted him against some in the county who wanted to better themselves as solid citizens. With a pretentious preening that was completely useless among the pallet-board huts and weeded lots of his crude neighborhood.
At Evergreen Estates, there was no path to improvement or elevation. Only more of the same scorn and disgust from those who had never been forced to endure living in boxcar shacks, brought in on wheels. So, despite the best intentions of friends in Cleveland and beyond, he reverted to being a hillbilly in every sense. Shaggy, gray, and distant from other residents by design. This alienation brought him a sense of peace. And beverage alcohol kept him numb to any outside force that might attempt to intrude.
On a Monday afternoon, he had been sitting outside for an hour or more, alternately swigging mouthfuls of southern liquor and cold brew. With a music stream of Blues classics playing on his cellular device. His mood was relaxed and content. But while gazing from his perch on the front porch, he noted that a young woman with barbered hair was canvassing others along the street from a clipboard full of forms. He stiffened a bit, while wondering about her intentions. Perhaps she might be taking a political survey, or a making check on conditions in their primitive development? Eventually, the slender female reached his own lot, and politely stood at the base of a long, access ramp next to the trailer. She bowed her head gracefully, while checking off his name on her printed list.
“You are Townshend Lincoln I believe? My name is Marcy DeVry, from Millenium Meal Services, Incorporated. How are you, today, sir?”
The reclusive hermit cleared his throat of phlegm, and barked out a stern reply.
“I’m great until this damn bottle runs out! After that, we’ll see if there’s another one in my cupboard!”
The company representative cradled her survey accessory in both hands.
“Mr. Lincoln, I am here on behalf of Community Action Social Services. We are looking in on people who are retired, disabled, and handicapped. It is our mission to make sure that inhabitants of this district are able to enjoy quality foods at affordable prices. Are you on Medicaid or Medicare?”
The contrarian loner snorted at this query. But attempted to remain polite.
“Medicare, that’s it. I’ve been sidelined for 10 years...”
Marcy scribbled notes on her paperwork.
“Sir, we have a dinner program that will deliver packaged meals you may heat and enjoy at your convenience. Let me give you an example of our menu, it is truly impressive for this kind of operation. Imagine sitting down to a feast of turkey-cardamom truffles, with cranberry umami, or fiddler crab with a garlic glaze, butter squash, and an egg and lemon aioli, on naan bread! Doesn’t that sound delightful?”
The erstwhile biker felt his stomach beginning to growl.
“Umm, yeah... delightful. That’s it!”
His visitor continued her sales pitch with a vigorous reading of more items from the Millennium kitchens.
“Or maybe a plate of steamed, rice noodles with smoked squid and whale fillets, in a poppyseed, soy marinade? Perhaps even avocado arepas with chickpeas and a garnish of maize brandy sauce? With a tasty slice of mushroom-flour cake for dessert? With sativa icing?”
Lincoln had turned woozy, and sat on the edge of his wooden bench. Sweat dribbled from his beard.
“MUSHROOM FLOUR? WHAT THE FRIG?”
Marcy smiled as if speaking to a nebbish from the hinterland.
“It pairs wonderfully with our mushroom-chicory coffee!”
Finally, the weary drunk could not restrain his Mountaineer impulses. He leaned forward, with one of his disability canes for support. Then attempted to explain his unique perspective, in diplomatic terms.
“Ma’am, I’ll try to say this nicely if I can... that all sounds like a gawdamn mess to me! I wouldn’t give a plug nickel for anything of the kind!”
The company spokesperson was astounded by this negative reaction. She slipped the clipboard under her right arm, and glared with indignation.
“You’d really refuse chef-quality meals in favor of eating canned ravioli or boxed macaroni and cheese? That’s a pity, sir! Our service is here to help enrich the lives of disadvantaged people in Ohio! And I do think that you would qualify!”
The crusty boozer grinned with yellow teeth.
“Ma’am, if you’d really like to enrich my life, then how about bringing me a pan of cornbread? Or some biscuits with sausage gravy? That’s the kind of down-home vittles I prefer!”
The young femme was visibly horrified. She shuddered and stumbled in the gravel driveway.
“Tell me, Mr. Lincoln, what are you having for your supper tonight? Some kind of microwave bowl from Walmart?”
The alcoholic misanthrope snickered at this prediction.
“Naw, I’ve got the crock pot going in my kitchen. It’s full of country ham and pinto beans, with a dollop of minced garlic added for extra flavor...”
Marcy had to cover her mouth.
“Country ham? What is that, like out of a can or something? You mean, SPAM?”
The solitary resident was slightly insulted. But disciplined himself in the moment.
“Ma’am, if you’re unfamiliar with real country ham, it’s a cut of meat, hung up and aged in a smokehouse. Salted away as the old timers used to say, with a good dose of natural seasoning. It’ll curl your lips with that flavor of the hills! You’ll never forget taking your first bite!”
The Millennium contact closed her eyes and began to shiver.
“Sir, we’re here to help you live better, not kill yourself with unhealthy dietary choices!”
Lincoln could not stifle a ribald guffaw of epic proportions. He laughed until his insides had begun to ache.
“I ain’t dead yet, as you can see! That ought to count for something, right? Hang around, and I’ll show you how to do bologna steaks on the grill. That’s another hillbilly delicacy that I like a lot! Especially with Famous Dave’s BBQ sauce, as a kicker!”
Marcy capped her ball-point pen, and put it in a vest pocket. Her patience had run dry.
“Very well sir, I thank you for listening to my offer. If you might happen to have a change of heart, feel free to call the offices of Community Action Social Services. We’ll be glad to help whenever you are ready...”
The young representative turned on her heels without another word. In only a minute, she had disappeared completely. Her exit from the park could not come quickly enough.
Lincoln raised his whiskey jug before taking the last drink in a single gulp.
“I hope those beans are done, all of this chatter has given me one hell of an appetite!”
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