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!”
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