Mermaid & Walrus Revisited – “Basic Human Decency – Is It Lost?”

  

c. 2026 Cheryl Keller, Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

Mermaid Says:

 

Whatever happened to just being a decent human being?  I was in the middle of my early Saturday morning…coffee, cinnamon raisin toast, and a little phone scrolling.  I do try to limit my screen time for obvious health reasons, both physical and mental given our current political environment.  I think emotional health is critical and “doom scrolling” just leads you down a rabbit hole that before you know it, hours have gone by and your mental state has quickly deteriorated from having a great day to I am going to die tomorrow and the world is imploding.

 

I need to say one thing before I continue this writing; that this article is not about the details of the incident that transpired, it is about the responses of the parties involved.  I also need to say that it concerns a lawsuit that was filed and that it goes hand in hand with the words "allegedly" and “innocent until proven guilty”, etc.  Lastly, I do not typically write about triggering content, or such content that is this heavy, but this story has hit a nerve; not just from a woman’s perspective, but also a mother’s, and definitely from a mother of boys.

 

This particular morning, I happened across a video post discussing an incident at Cornell University.  It concerns a lawsuit that was recently filed by a young woman who was intoxicated and went to a male friend’s room, was convinced to do drugs, and then when she passed out, was raped.  Not only raped by her “friend”, but he then posted in his fraternity group chat about her being “available for sex” and multiple additional young men answered the post, showed up and raped her as well…for hours.  Not one of these young men, nor the other young men who the post went out to in the entire fraternity seemed to think this was wrong.  No one came to help her, called to report, responded with any human decency to say this is not right, nothing.  To add insult to injury, as I kept watching, Cornell’s response was to expel two of them and have the other five write an essay.  Yes, you read that correctly, write an essay.

 

Someone’s daughter was assaulted by multiple people, and no one was arrested, and the trusted institution involved felt that an essay was an appropriate response.  I am sitting here in disbelief.  As a mother…and one of two boys…I am just at a loss for words.  If it is one thing I taught my boys, it is respect for women, and not just women, but people in general.  Respect, compassion, love, common human decency - how to treat another human being.  How can anyone think that this behavior is acceptable, that this behavior does not require a more devastating consequence than a mere essay?  Have we as a society devalued women that much?  I just don’t understand, and it strikes that nerve, that anger that fuels this writing.

 

I have written many articles where I have touched on human interaction and just being a decent human being; treating others well, but this one hits me as a woman much harder.  I get tired of hearing when a woman is assaulted, questions that surround what she was wearing or what position she put herself in -  the where or the time of night.  I rarely hear that the assault should never happen, period.  That if consent is not given, clearly, you cannot take it, you cannot act on it.  Where is the repercussion for these young men who decided on their own accord to take what was not rightfully theirs to take?  Where is the moral compass that steps in and says “this is not right”?  How and when did they lose the ability to look at another human being and treat them with basic human decency, kindness?

 

What happened to this young woman should never have happened.  Those young men should be held accountable for exactly what transpired - rape.  Expulsion, writing essays, not enough; subsequent criminal charges need to be brought and punishment through the court system swift.  As for Cornell University - private, Ivy League - you are not above being held responsible.  Not only should your assets take a hit, but your reputation as well.  Safety for your students needs to be a priority and not swept under the rug with a hand smack such as doling out paper and a pen for an essay.

 

Walrus Responds:

 

I must begin by saying that I have a personal connection with Cornell University. I was privileged to enjoy an apprenticeship at Channel 13 in Ithaca, New York from 1979-1980, where I had the opportunity to study television broadcasting and production in a hands-on environment. I still have friends in the area, and one of them works in a limited capacity for the Cornell Daily Sun newspaper, which has reported on this story. A tragic failure of order and discipline allegedly transpiring in 2024.

 

With that having been said, I will confess that my writing partner has addressed this issue in compassionate and logical terms. All I can do is echo her sentiments, and endorse them completely. It is astounding to me that in our world of modernity, such disgusting incidents still occur. And it is particularly troubling to see such conduct being precipitated in an environment of higher education, such as Cornell. There is no justification for what happened on any level. Indeed, it speaks to the dark nature of humanity in general, even among the people of an advanced and privileged society such as our own.

 

I will refrain from tangential references to politics and sociology which could be made here, even though they may be merited. As a nation, we sometimes seem to gloss over the importance of stifling these harmful behaviors, and punishing the perpetrators, in favor of convenient rationalizations about ‘one side versus the other.’

 

We have allowed certain notable and powerful individuals to avoid scrutiny, over issues like human trafficking, sexual harassment, rape, public prevarication, financial improprieties, and outright corruption. Each bout of ignorance, whether great or small, has an effect on the rest of us, I believe. There ought not to be excuses accepted for any of these sins. But we know from our own history that in times of partisan rancor and tribalism, these sad truths may come to pass. It is a trail of evidence we leave behind us like footprints in the mud or snow.

 

We ought to do better. We need to do better. We must do better.

 

But until we cross that threshold from antiquity and inequality, to a realm of permanently elevated standards, it seems that we remain stuck in that doom loop. Literally scrolling and scrolling in a search for nothingness.

 

I pray that somehow, that sobering reality will change.

 

From the Cornell Daily Sun: https://www.cornellsun.com/article/2026/09/tccsuykuvb4z 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Stuck” (Part Three)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had reached a tipping point in his challenging existence at Evergreen Estates. He was distant from everyone in the park, and also from the few members of his family that lived in nearby communities. But as the year moved into its final quarter, he realized that this separation now also encompassed portions of his own personality and life experience. Who and what he had been before landing at the junkyard oasis no longer mattered in real terms. His reasons for living had been jettisoned. What remained was simply a husk of flesh, crumbling slowly like the façade of a vacant building. He meant little to anyone, anywhere, and now was irrelevant even to himself.

 

Begging God for final termination would be justified, he thought, yet pointless. Because it seemed likely that no one would notice his absence. He had already departed in mind and spirit, long ago. Only the condemned temple of his body refused to accept that reality. Beer and bourbon kept him artificially alive. That persistent flow of alcohol had become his lifeblood. His fuel to go forward. His medicine and comforter, when all else had failed.

 

In the tradition of Frankenstein’s monster, he had found a methodology to cheat the grave.

 

Each day in the rural trailer village was substantially equal to the next. A plodding stumble through mounds of rubbish, ruin, and chaos, with no purpose in mind except to survive until the sunset arrived with its blessing of darkness and anonymity.

 

During a Thursday evening liquor binge, he collapsed on the floor of his living room, with the front door standing carelessly ajar. A full jug of bourbon had obliterated his senses. Both disability canes were cast aside as he fell. Pillows scattered from the furnishing at his side. He slobbered and snored while tossing from one hip to the other, on his threadbare carpet. Around midnight, the moon overhead streaked his spot with shades of pale white, and gray. A rhythmic thud of heavy footsteps wandered up his access ramp, outside. The threshold of his entryway creaked lightly. And then a hint of smoke drifted into the crowded space.

 

Lincoln did not react to this change in atmosphere immediately. He was deep in an alcoholic coma, still oblivious to his surroundings. But as the foul odors entered his lungs, he began to cough reflexively. His chest heaved, needing to breathe freely. The interior temperature increased dramatically, as an arsonist’s blaze swept through the trailer. Finally, across the street, a hooded figure crouched in the shadows.

 

Linn Speck, the neighborhood antagonist and failed association leader, cheered as he watched the prefabricated singlewide openly burst into flames.

 

“THERE YOU GO, OLD MAN! YOU WANTED TO STEAL MY WIFE? WELL, I WANTED SOMETHING TOO. I WANTED TO WATCH YOUR SORRY ASS BURN TO A CRISP IN THAT SHITTY SHACK! GO TO HELL, YOU PIECE OF CRAP! GO STRAIGHT TO HELL, WHERE YOU BELONG! YOU DON’T DESERVE MERCY OR GRACE FROM THE ALMIGHTY!”

 

It did not take long for this clandestine conflagration to consume the boxcar dwelling. But even with the roof collapsing, and timbers disintegrating into columns of ash, the boozing iconoclast was slow to respond. He rolled on the dirty carpet, unable to balance himself. After falling on his belly, he crawled toward the open doorway, in a desperate bid to escape.

 

His opponent who lived on the corner had already fled. The night cloaked his retreat effectively. Yet with the fire now out of control, things around the perimeter of Lot 13 were oddly bright for such a late hour. That fluctuating glow enabled the shaggy loner to find a path through the cascading debris. He spun off of the deck outside, landed in his overgrown yard, and huddled there as remnants of the abode disappeared. Only the framework of that structure stood intact. All else had surrendered to the white-hot energy of destruction.

 

Linn met his spouse in their driveway. She was dressed in a floral robe and fuzzy slippers.

 

“Honey, what did you do to that poor drunk up the street? What in the world did you do?”

 

Her significant other laughed gleefully. His flabby jowls jiggled in the flickering, chaotic light.

 

“I HANDLED MY BUSINESS! THAT’S WHAT I DID! HE WON’T BE COMING AROUND TO CHASE YOUR SHAPELY BUTT ANYMORE, I GUARANTEE IT! THAT UGLY NONSENSE IS OVER! OUR WEDDING VOWS WILL REMAIN IN EFFECT!”

 

Haki pulled the long garment tighter around her shoulders. She shuddered in the cold.

 

“You set his trailer on fire? Are you crazy? They’ll be snooping around here to figure out what happened. Everyone in this park knows how much you hate that pitiful guy!”

 

The rotund instigator chortled and clapped his hands.

 

“AND EVERYBODY KNOWS YOU’VE TRIED TO MAKE PEACE WITH HIM, MORE THAN ONCE. BUT HE DOESN’T WANT PEACE BETWEEN US, HE WANTS A PIECE OF YOU! AND HE WON’T GET IT NOW! THAT ORNERY BASTARD HAS MET HIS MATCH! I AM MORE OF A MAN THAN HE’LL EVER BE! HE CAN KEEP HIS DISTANCE! OTHERWISE, I’LL BUST HIM IN THE TEETH!”

 

The middle-aged female rolled her eyes, and shrugged.

 

“Honey, this isn’t a pissing contest! That man needs a place to live just like we do. Now he will be homeless! Don’t you think that is a shame? He’s a human being and matters in the eyes of God...”

 

Linn sputtered until drool ebbed from his mouth.

 

“I CALL BULLSHIT! GOD WOULDN’T WANT ANYTHING TO DO WITH A WHITE-TRASH LOSER LIKE THAT! HE’S DISGUSTING AND VILE! DON’T FEEL SORRY FOR HIM, NOBODY ELSE DOES! NOBODY AT ALL! NONE OF US EVER WANTED HIM TO BE HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE! HE ISN’T ONE OF OUR KIND!”

 

Haki went silent while watching the flames turn to black smoke and finality. The dastardly deed had been done. Now, it would simply be a matter of cleaning up the mess. In the aftermath, few other residents would care that their number had been reduced by one.

 

“Did he make it out of that burning shell? Do you know or care? Do you even want to know?”

 

Her husband shrugged, and stood with his gaze directed toward the ground. He yawned impulsively, and then turned toward their porch.

 

“I’m going to bed. You can join me if you wish. Be a good Christian wife, and follow me inside! Otherwise, you’re no better than that bum with the bourbon bottle! It’s your time to choose, Mrs. Speck! Make your decision carefully!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Stuck” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

Precarity – “A condition of existence without predictability or security, affecting material or psychological welfare.” - via Wordnik

 

T. C. Lincoln had been wallowing in a perpetual state of precarity for a dozen years, since his abrupt exit from the workforce, and society in general. His connection to the outside world had been immediately severed by this unexpected shift in routines. But a deep dive into the dark realm of alcohol dependency kept him grounded. By staying perpetually drunk and distant, he was able to survive in this vacuum. Even without the benefit of daylight or oxygen to support his endurance. He was unwashed, unloved, and unafraid. Fear did not hold sway over his emotions. Instead, he relished the thought of going to sleep, forever.

 

Because in a functional sense, he had already died.

 

Yet the flesh of his body, and synapses of his mind, were still extant and alive. Despite numerous disabilities and handicaps, he continued to thrive on a certain level. Still able to move slowly and with deliberation, around the mobile home that he occupied at Evergreen Estates. He rarely interacted with family members who lived in nearby communities. And shunned visits from curious neighbors who had good intentions and bad habits. Living alone had proved to be a difficult chore, one fraught with challenges that sapped his energy and made him feel overwhelmed. But he continued to choose isolation over the environment of a skilled-care facility.

 

The singlewide abode, and its restrictive, narrow lot offered enough space for him to live in relative comfort. He did not need or want anything more.

 

On a Wednesday afternoon, with fall having arrived and cooler temperatures in effect, he sat outside on his wooden bench, with a flask of bourbon. The potent liquor had already numbed his nerves, and brought on a pleasant mood of inebriation. So, as he began to swoon and snore, a surrender to the moment took hold. His head dipped, his eyes closed, and he slouched where he sat on the outside porch.

 

The old hermit was unconscious for a half-hour or more. Then, the gentle caress of a feminine hand fell upon his cheek. He felt fingers running through his shaggy beard and long, tangled mass of hair. Finally, a kiss teased his lips. Another followed quickly, with a third punctuating this anonymous gesture of affection.

 

Lincoln awakened with a jolt. Haki Speck, a resident who lived with her husband on the corner, was straddling him on the crude furnishing. She wore a tight blouse and shiny leggings, with her lengthy legs spread wide, in a vee of temptation. While gloating with an expression of confidence, and purpose.

 

The contrarian loner stiffened as his eyes regained their focus.

 

“MA’AM, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE? I HAVE A GUEST CHAIR IF YOU WANT TO SIT FOR A SPELL!”

 

The curvaceous femme boasted a bounty of motherly curves, and golden curls draped over both shoulders. Her Rubenesque profile was undeniably appealing for someone in their middle 60s. Yet she restrained her salacious impulses, while stepping backward for a better view.

 

“Link, you were really zoned out! I’ve been trying to wake your ass up for fifteen minutes! Do you always drink so early in the day?”

 

The graying boozer rubbed his face and yawned forcefully, He was disoriented and confused, while struggling to speak coherently.

 

“Ask around, I’ve got a reputation in this park. People will tell you that all I do is get loaded...”

 

Haki sighed and stood with her hands posed on both hips.

 

“Neighbor, I don’t care what anybody says about you. I didn’t come here to judge, or to give a you a lecture about living healthy. I wanted to make peace, is that something you would like? I’m tired of the conflict between you and my hubby. As a matter of fact, I’m tired of listening to him complain about this ratty little village, every day. But that’s another story. And it’s none of your business!”

 

 Lincoln nodded in agreement.

 

“Ma’am, I don’t make it my business to pry into anybody’s shit. So we’re definitely on the same page, right there...”

 

Mrs. Speck smiled with satisfaction at this endorsement.

 

“I’m a Christian woman, Link. I care about others. They are God’s children, I believe. Just like I am, just like the rest of us are. When I see you out in the driveway, struggling to get into your car, it weighs heavy on my heart. I can tell that you are almost always in pain. I know you must be in trouble. And I can see that you are very, very alone!”

 

The rowdy misanthrope was slightly miffed by her description. He did not seek to win sympathy or concern from anyone.

 

“Look ma’am, I get around okay. Sure I’m creaky, but that’s nothing unusual for an old dude like myself. I don’t let it drag me down. It’s made me tough enough to handle things on my own. That’s what really matters, keeping my independence...”

 

Haki was bold in her response. She came close enough that her breath tickled his nostrils. Then, she put a hand on his shoulder.

 

“You’ve got friends here, and don’t even know it. People who watch and listen, and pray for your well-being. People who notice your spunk and creative spirit. People who appreciate seeing a real cowboy, even if you can’t get up on a horse right now...”

 

Lincoln sputtered with laughter.

 

“COWBOY? HELL MA’AM, I’M A WHIPPED MULE. NOT WORTH A DAMN AT THE MOMENT. NOT WORTH A DAMN TO ME OR ANYBODY ELSE...”

 

The mature female fell deftly into his lap. She spun sideways, threw her arms around his broad shoulders, and pursed her lips.

 

“I know that you must be tired, Link. I am tired too, tired of pinching pennies to pay bills, tired of how this property is neglected by its owners, tired of my spouse bitching about our trailer, and tired of being stuck in a life going nowhere. Most of all, I’m tired of seeing you hobble along with nobody to care, when all I really want to do is come to your lot, and help!”

 

She placed her mouth against his, with such determination that it betrayed years of martial neglect and dissatisfaction. Suddenly, the senior dissenter found himself fighting to breathe. He thrashed from side to side, as kisses smothered him where he sat. His nether regions were probed by wandering fingers. And his physique responded in kind, despite a desire to stall any such reaction before it could begin.

 

“WHAT THE FUGG, MA’AM! THIS IS WRONG, WRONG, WRONG! THIS SHIT IS CRAZY AND WRONG! YOUR FATASSED HUSBAND WILL LOSE HIS FREAKING MIND! DON’T START SOMETHING WE CAN’T FINISH! YOU'RE A CHRISTIAN WOMAN, REMEMBER?"

 

The barking of a dog next door interrupted this impulsive tryst.

 

Lincoln emerged from the fog of alcohol feeling exhausted and befuddled. A seasonal chill blew across his yard. The street before him was empty, and silent. He could not be certain if the visit from his neighbor had been a real event, or simply a vision inspired by many rounds of high-proof liquor causing him to hallucinate.

 

He was alone and subdued. Yet still trembling from the romantic interlude that had seemed so genuine in character. It left him shocked and stunned. And wracked with guilt for having participated in an encounter that unsettled him to the core.

 

He would need a night in bed, and coffee, to clear away the mental debris. After that, perhaps he could determine what had been a frightful work of fantasy, and what was real. But until those comfort measures arrived, he was left at his origin point. Literally at the start of this unpredictable day in the oasis of manufactured homes.

 

As ever, precarity was his companion. At the beginning, and end of everything.

“Borrowed Time”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

Living long on borrowed time

But when was this talent taken?

A quantity of clock-ticks, pilfered

In a transaction, most mistaken

No longer close to growing old

Clutching a purse filled with gold

 

I might offer a daring denial

One that can convince the best

But if made to explain the disparity

I would be put right to the test

My mouth, hanging agape

Looking around for a quick escape

 

Guilty men will show their cards

And I am in this group by choice

Seen for what I am to be

Though I protest and, raise my voice

Few believe in what I say

Engaging in this truth decay

 

I might have fled the scene on foot

If better thoughts had come to pass

But in the end, I failed and fell

Fingers slipping from the glass

The moment came and I was slow

To comprehend what I should know

 

There was a time when I did more

Than to simply take what chance bequeaths

But now I find myself a fool

Laid out under a Christmas wreath

With the holiday too far removed

And I am lost without a clue

 

If you might forgive a friend

I would take that gift with a grin

A ticket to redemption, sweet and sure

When this patient pause was wearing thin

Let me jump my place in line

And snatch these pearls from rooting swine

 

With reverence I reclaim the good

To turn my gaze toward the light

I’d rather shrug and apologize

Than languish in eternal night

It’s a bargain struck for the better

A sidestep for a giddy go-getter

 

Do you think my act deceives?

I understand that way of thinking

A concept on the rule of law

A dud decree from the lips of a king

But what I have in mind to tell

Is something more than a ringing bell

 

Running free with imagination

A wild embrace of an unseen world

I close my eyes and view more clearly

The cosmic creep of comets, hurled

A handclap sounding at the fore

With a crowd of crows at heaven’s door

 

“Give up on the task at hand!”

That is advice I won’t accept

I’ll put my shoulder to the wheel

And dig more deeply to intercept

The traveling orb, from its run

In a ring of fire around the sun

 

Borrowed time is a reward

When every other prize is won

A grab and dash at the dollar store

A convenient flop where sods are stunned

I might have appeared to be out of place

But there’s a halo set around my face

 

If it causes you to groan

When I come out on the other side

Don’t be angry with Lady Luck

She still stands tall, and dignified

I received a kiss as an act of grace

An invitation to a chariot race

 

If I win when undeserved

It will be made to mock the mighty

A satire set in a bygone age

On wings spread wide, to glide with glee

My name holds no importance here

I am not what I may appear

 

Now I put aside the scroll

With nothing more to bend the ear

Let me exit the stage with a bow

And mercifully be able to disappear

I have no more tricks up my sleeve

The hour is later than you perceive

“Last Day”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

Last day of the season, already past

A return to vacancy, too long ignored

If I struggle to recall my manner and gait

I might view that result as kind of reward

Out of necessity, I look far away

While others are busy, testing limits of truth

I stay at the wheel, navigating from need

And find myself there, discovering clues

Oddly, these challenges made me strong

Temptations failed, I refused their allure

In the final hour stumbling, but still intact

As a sinner, unwashed, yet mercifully pure

This illusion was convenient, a trick of the light

A blessing bequeathed by a master of words

A trinket of gold, polished slowly to a sheen

I accepted this gift that was quite undeserved

It brought a sensation of having been clean

When I knew too well that my soul was stained

I pondered the mirror for a reflection of glass

And the essence of life was all that remained

Last day of the season, cold winds soon to come

I cannot turn aside this inevitable shift

The changes are charted in celestial circles

Unknown to the authors of a holy manuscript

It is easy to hear, and concur with the wise

That strategy has been a method to learn

Yet with the arrival of a new age in effect

It is certain and just that the tides may turn

No hand raised in anger will stall the substitution

Of old habits for new, and a crack of the whip

Horses run wild when the range is wide open

A metaphor like a blunderbuss, carried at the hip

Skies grow cloudy, and patience wears thin

As the centuries amass in a record of time

That tale is tempestuous and told to inform

Those seeking a sacrifice to calm restless minds

Penitence is given, as an offering for good

But does not erase, the deeds that were done

Those marvelous mistakes still linger with guilt

To edify believers who look to the sun

What I intended, when moving the chalk

Was a greater act of giving, than some could conceive

As I stepped off the edge of reason and right

My descent into darkness was a surprise to receive

Down in the depths of a foolhardy whim

Set aside from the protection of a loving embrace

I looked at the shield, and saw only a curse

A trickle of consequence, ordinary and commonplace

A stone under my heel, nagging and hard

Each footfall is forceful, as I teeter and whine

My balance surrendered to stay true to the beat

Of a millennial cadence, marching in line

Oaths shouted in unison, both loud and crisp

Like a crackle of muskets, raised to the blue

This level of defiance has lasted for years

Independence expressed, revived and renewed

That twinkle of trust, has been my north star

A guide of full chapters, written in longhand

I give praise to those who went forward at first

And feel thankful to inherit the coming of man

This beast rules the daylight, a bold sire to be seen

Until the horizon goes black at its end

When conquest and crusades cease to inspire

And a silence of regret will put minds on the mend

No tears will be shed, no tightening of throats

Not a moment to tarry, while recounting events

I’ll stand at the altar, and inhale the aromas

From sacraments of wine and burning incense

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Stuck”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had been outside on his wooden bench for about an hour, when the first suspicious sighting of a citizen policeman occurred. After the usual parade of rusted minivans, pickup trucks belching diesel exhaust, and ratty, economy cars wobbling on sagging springs, a sleek, maroon cruiser passed by the end of his driveway. It was familiar only because he had seen it at a lot on the corner, about three or four trailers away. It boasted the European design of a foreign manufacturer, with aerodynamic lines, and an edgy, minimalist ethos. Things that were out of place for a rural community like Evergreen Estates.

 

The vehicle rolled past without stopping, yet was unhurried in its pace to the point of being visible and exposed, for a long time. In the passenger window, a mature woman attempted to hide her identity with dark sunglasses and a baseball cap. The logo was a winged letter G, one used by Cleveland’s American League franchise. She had the accessory pulled down tightly over her golden scalp. But the outline of her generous, glorious bosom betrayed any desire to remain anonymous.

 

Haki Speck was well-known for projecting a leggy, Rubenesque figure among the women who inhabited their park. Her beauty had aged over the course of time, but not diminished. She retained the lively, feminine appeal of a much younger individual. Something that caused many men on the property to question how she had chosen to marry a sweaty, flabby, pale lump of flesh who never reflected the charm of her bubbling personality. Linn, her spouse, was a constant agitator and unsuccessful head of a failed residential association. He would grouse about politics and social trends, while his other half breezily interacted with other people all around the development. That disparity often strained the bonds of their marriage. And made for loud arguments in the kitchen or bedroom.

 

This mysterious, premium automobile had disappeared by the time that Lincoln found his jug of Kentucky bourbon. A righteous swig of brown liquor tingled his nose and made both eyes water. But he sat silently while pondering the lagging loop made by his opponent. It constituted a curious sort of surveillance, for an unknown purpose. But served to unsettle the alcoholic nerves of its target.

 

“Why the fugg does he keep driving by here? Shit, there’s nothing to see but a crippled old man, getting drunk! That can’t be too damn interesting to watch!”

 

The afternoon was seasonally cool, reflecting the approach of fall. Leaves had begun to cascade from a tree on the other side of his singlewide abode. They fell across the long, access ramp before scattering as a sign of what was yet to come. Children on bicycles and makeshift scooters raised a clattering of skinny wheels in motion. The unsophisticated tones of Country music could be heard echoing from a distant yard. Nothing seemed unusual or out of place, except for the watchful appearance of his clandestine pursuer.

 

The aging hermit had nearly fallen asleep in his seat, when the motorized, maroon carriage once again crawled along the meandering border of his gravel drive. This time, the riding positions had switched. Linn inclined his balding skull and raised a hand, to avoid being recognized. But glared angrily as if he had some vexing chore to perform that involved keeping watch on the greater community. Specifically, on the one individual at their junkyard oasis that he considered to be an enemy and a threat to order.

 

Lincoln grumbled to himself, while chortling.

 

“You freaking dumbass! What’s the deal, man? Are you just trying to rattle my cage?”

 

By that point, the contrarian loner had consumed enough beer and booze to make his bladder yowl for relief. He struggled to his feet, hobbled to a back corner of the narrow deck, and let fly with a forceful stream of nature. The resulting wash of yellow splashed over abandoned buckets and coffee cans that were lost in the weeds. To punctuate this release, he passed wind loudly. Then, belched until brew foam dribbled into his shaggy beard.

 

This moment of protest made him stagger on the way back to his wooden perch. He almost toppled from the raised platform, but caught himself against an exterior wall, covered with cheap vinyl siding. A single disability cane skipped into the recess by his front door. But the other kept him supported enough to move swiftly to his intended destination.

 

Once he was sitting again, and steady, his hand returned to the jug of hillbilly juice. He tipped it skyward and swallowed hard. A coughing fit followed, as he shook and stomped his work boots.

Finally, he slumped into position. A pleasant detachment took hold, inspired by the 100-proof libation.

 

His eyes had closed gently, when the whirring of a refined, German motor interrupted the pause. Haki Speck was back in the passenger seat, this time riding with her head uncovered, and bulging chest pushed forward, dramatically. Almost as if she were teasing him with a reckless view of her physical assets. A gift he did not want under any circumstances.

 

Lincoln sputtered saliva and whiskey. He pounded the railing next to his bench.

 

“CUSS ME OUT ALREADY! THROW STONES OR PEPPER MY ASS WITH LEAD! DO SOMETHING, ASSHOLE! THIS IS MESSED UP! YOU KEEP GOING BY HERE, BUT NEVER DO ANYTHING! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT ALL ABOUT?”

 

Feeling desperate for enlightenment, he thumbed a Messenger app on his cell phone. While squinting to see the tiny characters, he sent a text to Darby Stronelli, who lived on his eastern flank. A person he rarely contacted, except in times of need. Her eager reply came in an instant.

 

“Hey buddy! What ya doin’ over there? Gettin’ loaded like always? That’s a good idea, I need ta pop open a drink and start a fire in my barrel! Why don’t ya come over?”

 

The senior contrarian was not in a mood for personal interaction. But wanted to know about the constant observation by their fellow resident from the corner.

 

“I keep seeing Linn and his big-haired bride gawking at me from the street. What’s the point of that? They’ve been in a holding pattern all day. Driving up one side of this dunghole, and back around on the next. I don’t get it! What’s the gawdamn point?”

 

Darby had the manner of an irritated chihuahua, especially when feeling tipsy.

 

“He wants to start up that neighborhood watch thing again, ya know? It’s got him all worked up, like last year. He even talked to the park manager about gettin’ people ta volunteer. But that ain’t my job, they can handle it on their own! And they can! I don’t own this dump! Screw their nonsense!”

 

Lincoln shrugged and continued to sip from his container.

 

“Okay, but why is Haki riding shotgun? She usually stays clear of his bullshit ideas...”

 

The middle-aged femme snorted and tapped at her wireless device, with both thumbs.

 

“BECAUSE SHE’S AFRAID HE’LL START A FIGHT WITH YER CRANKY ASS! WHY CAN’T YA GET JUST ALONG WITH EACH OTHER? YA ALWAYS HAVE TO COP AN ATTUTUDE! MAKE PEACE AND LET GO OF THE HATE! THAT’S HOW I ROLL! WHOEVER BRINGS ME BEER IS A DAMN FRIEND FOR LIFE! I’M GOOD WITH EVERYBODY!”

 

The reclusive bum ended their brief conversation abruptly. He had no interest in debating details of the enduring conflict still reverberating in their neighborhood. But, he was stuck in his prefab hovel by circumstance. Not able to escape on any level, except through inebriation.

 

“Friend, I’m no peacemaker, but by God I know how to drink!”

“Nothing”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

I have nothing, except for my pain

Dancing on a pin cushion, lumbering and lame

Better off when I can sit

Far removed from the use of a first aid kit

My failings have multiplied, numerically whole

As I have reached the age of a senior soul

Gone gray too quickly

Gone to a realm both puzzling and prickly

Does it matter if I rise in the morn?

When the grand orb glows, golden and warm

My footsteps wander as I trace a path

Stumbling over talismans from my past

There was a time when I stood tall

Able and eager to answer the call

Of ambition and sacrifice, twin quantities of worth

But now I scratch out figures, lazily in the dirt

It did not take long

To compose this epitaph in song

Hear ye, hear ye

The hours run, fleetingly

A flash of light from an instamatic cube

While I fall over the wingtips of my two-tone shoes

All the while, I realize

Listening ears have now turned aside

I am alone, yet aware

Lost in a void of silence and blank stares

As the moments expire

And this descent into the eventual comes randomly, like a wildfire

I want to lodge a protest

To feast at the fest

But what I possess constitutes a zero

With a sigh and a shrug, no season for heroes

Nothing is the name

A spin of the wheel in a gambler’s game

Jaws drop around the table

I would escape, were I willing and able

But my feet move too slowly

I have been brought to heel, the one and only

It doesn’t matter anymore

With no dealer keeping score

The words of a noted laureate, may echo from on high

But that wisdom is little more than a cracker crumb for a fly

Too insignificant to matter

As I teeter toward the hereafter

Nothing is my prize

Polished and preened for this daunting demise

Nothing I am now

Nothing shows me the why and how

Nothing gilds the arch to its keystone

Nothing plays the trumpet, and trombone

Nothing is my legal name

Nothing fits me, all the same

Nothing nags with a smattering of truth

Nothing is the omnipotent foe that no one would choose

A heartbeat of marching bands, upon the street

Boots and braces, all along the concrete

If I could find a reason to rebel

That certainty might inspire a groundswell

But trembling hands do not make amends

Knocking knees attract no friends

Only the night will obscure what is seen

Which otherwise is visible with a glimmering sheen

Too obvious for a denial

Too extensive for a case-study file

It could fill the drawer with evidence

A long-running trail of mistaken moves, and consequence

I know the tale so well

It is a lesson learned, a sorcerer’s spell

Laced up and tied with a bow

An eagle crying, “Look out below!”

Deep in a dare to dive from the edge

A cluster of clues, hidden in the hedge

The last response of a hospice subject

Nodding off on his bed, from a litany of regrets

Flesh turned chalky, pale and thin

A weeping of sweat trickles down the chin

Nothing in its wake

Stirred by the force of an unexpected earthquake

Then, breathless and still

Make of it what you will

Nothing To See Here: “Final Chapter”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

For many years, I have been a great fan of Hunter S. Thompson. The free-form work he authored as a creative wordsmith remains memorable, even years after his passing. His contributions continue to provoke and inspire. The example he set, by living out a wild and chaotic existence before the public eye, is attractive because of its uninhibited style and love for being alive. He did not waste time fretting over how he looked or sounded to those who were less able to express themselves freely. He enjoyed the pleasures of composing an American story, and crossed boundaries of legality and culture as a brave warrior for intellectual liberty. But one fact from that extensive journey still troubles me as someone who enjoys using the written word to convey emotions and ideas.

 

He chose to end this marvelous saga, before it had naturally concluded.

 

As a younger fellow, I did not necessarily fix my attention on the method of his exit, to the exclusion of other pertinent details. Having snuffed out the candle on his own, he joined a roster of notable figures that still reverberates with meaning, from literary and entertainment history. And yet, when viewed from a more mature perspective, I cannot avoid pondering his willful descent into the void with a measure of puzzlement.

 

His death evokes a question that is challenging to answer. Would I choose to slip beyond the veil, as he did, to escape the pain and woe of being a mortal subject, in a failing shell? My answer is, of course, a negative retort. Shouted long and loud at my desk.

 

“NO, NO, NO! HELL NO! HELL NOOOOOO!”

 

I am mindful of his predicament, however. It is not pleasant to exist in a cocoon of flesh that aches, throbs, swells, chills, and trembles when called upon to perform rudimentary, basic tasks. Getting out of bed in the morning, for example, requires sitting at the edge of my mattress, positioning my legs and posterior so that leverage will make it possible to flip myself forward and upright, while reaching out for the support of a sagging chest-of-drawers that stands against the opposite wall. This gymnastic trick is one of many that I perform regularly, while enduring a night of rest in the bedroom. I have learned each one through trial and error. The crowded dimensions of my home space actually play into this handicapped regimen, by having hard surfaces close in proximity to each other.

 

How would I fare in a larger, less restrictive environment? That riddle is one I thankfully, do not have to solve at the moment.

 

I navigate the floors of my boxcar residence with two adjustable canes for support. Pausing here and there to brace myself against countertops, shelving, random pieces of furniture, and appliances that are massive and sturdy. Any crevice or separation may offer a fingerhold to remain stable. I trace my steps according to need, keeping movements throughout the long chamber to a minimum. I never hurry for any reason. Not even when a visitor is carelessly rapping at my entrance door. I am mindful of spills, throw rugs, and loose sections of linoleum, whenever they appear. A clear path is, I reckon, one that is unobstructed, straight as possible, dry, smooth, and lit well at all hours.

 

Sometimes, I hear echoes of R. L. Burnside in my head. His plea to be seated in the afterlife, and given absolution, is one I understand now more than ever.

 

“I wish I was in Heaven, sitting down

Well, I wish I was in Heaven, sitting down

Lord, Angel, Oh my Lord

Wish I was in Heaven, sitting down

Take away my sin and give me grace

Take away my sin and give me grace

Lord, Angel, Oh my Lord...”

 

When in my office chair, at the far end of a couch in the living room, or out on a bench at my front porch, I have the needed stability to avoid a fall. Getting up is the chore that brings displeasure. Only when I am in motion is the balance of my bones precarious enough to be put off kilter by happenstance or carelessness.

 

Still, being awake and self-aware means having to move around my domicile, and to other destinations that are farther away. I must visit doctors and their clinics, hospitals, specified care facilities, and all kinds of other networking institutions. Rarely does anyone acknowledge the amount of personal effort it took to arrive in one piece. They simply nod while checking boxes on a clipboard or computer tablet.

 

For HST, that amount of sacrifice eventually became too great to deliver. And I certainly feel empathy for the burden that he carried. It is one borne by all who reach their golden years in a state of sentient being. With eyes, brain, limbs, and nerves, along with bodily functions, finding their own rebellious rhythms as a matter of course.

 

Hunter spoke cryptically in his farewell note. Those words continue to bring a chill, when I recite them from memory. Especially a passage about his chronological age.

 

“...67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun – for anybody...”

 

His statement causes me to become introspective. Am I bitchy? Or boring? Could it be said that I am not fun as an individual? Such assessments are judgments to be made by others, not myself. But I believe that by staying socially aloof, as I have done for years, provides a buffer between being a nuisance to others, and irrelevant as a human entity. I am two years shy of the benchmark he noted. Though no less conscious of my position as a senior citizen in the midst of a general decline. But while the flesh may show signs of weakness, I have never wielded the sort of artistic ability that is currently in my toolkit. So, I believe that it must be a tradeoff worthy of embracing.

 

One form of coherence, surrendered for another.

 

I wonder what Thompson would have made of that conundrum? Being present, with all of the negative aspects involved, might have given him a new wrinkle on creative writing. The curious charm of hobbling around among other patients, in a hospital setting. In a fellowship of medical evaluations, tests, and treatments. Had he chosen to let us stay in his orbit, as spectators and students, we might know the answer, today. And perhaps, feel emboldened to speak on our own as voyagers on a grand journey.

 

But that Gonzo manuscript was finished long ago. And with its conclusion, came an ending put into ink, far too soon for those of us who wanted to read and digest a greater body of work. He had no more to say, as an eternal sunset arrived. It was his decision to be gone.

 

I hope to continue for a bit longer, as those issues persist. And to speak about what I encounter in real time, one experience after another.