c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(10-26)
T. C. Lincoln found his exile from the junkyard village in Geauga County to be a sort of resurrection. For the first time in many years, he felt unencumbered by the habits and opinions of others. While being able to live without a sense that his existence was predicated on avoiding conflict with neighbors and park employees. Yet strangely, he could not escape the mental imprint of this bygone experience. Being shunned and shamed as an outcast had given him an indelible identity. One of purposeful antagonism, in the midst of blue-collar, social decay. Now, he was simply a tumbleweed. Homeless, faceless, and alone. Invisible against a backdrop of those who were busy chasing after the possibility of trophies, rewards, and accolades that would fail to fulfill their true aspirations. A condition that Janis Joplin had once vocalized artfully, in song.
“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose
Nothin’ don’t mean nothin’ honey, if it ain’t free...”
This realization came as a shock to his system. He had believed that escaping the restrictions of a cultural continuum such as their trailer oasis would restore him to what he had been, before. A liberated spirit, who did not need a crutch of alcohol to prop up his sagging personality. But without the negativity of that previous environment, his inner gyroscope had been sacrificed. He wallowed in a mood of vertigo. Off-kilter, and unable to track the course of his own well-being.
Eventually, he allowed the Econoline van to find its own direction. They wandered together across the eastern flank of Ohio, and over the border into Pennsylvania. Then, across the region of western New York. He passed communities that were barely familiar, forgotten for the sake of time and expedience. Findley Lake, Mina, Sherman, Bemus Point, Jamestown, and finally, Falconer, where he had once paused during a motorcycle run on the way to Corning and Ithaca. Cities where friends from his younger days had remained. The joy of that stopover from antiquity glowed in his head, and yet rattled him with its contrast to the current climate. He was no longer ambitious and carefree, or mobile as an individual. His bones ached, and the seasonal tilt toward winter made him cautious with anticipation. A round of gas-station coffee helped to steady his nerves. But then, the chirp of a ringtone interrupted this lazy break in the action.
Somehow, his device had reactivated itself, despite being intentionally disabled. The exchange registered in his call history was for an office line at Evergreen Estates. When he punched up the related voicemail, a breathy accent of Latin inflections filled his ear.
“Ayyyyy, you don’t answer this phone no more? Hey, I get it, you must be pissed off about your trailer, right? But I got good news maybe. You wanna come back here, Link? The owners are bringing in new trailers, well, sorta new I mean. Better than some of the shacks we already got in this park. They gonna put one on your slab, after the bull mierda gets cleaned up. I figure you should get first pick. They said the company will give you a discount, because of what happened. I always liked you, because your rent check got to my drop box on time, every month. No excuses, no arrastrando el culo! No dragging ass! So, hit me up, bruh!”
Lincoln wiped java residue from his mouth. The thought of returning to that isolated development in Thompson Township caused his stomach to ache. And yet, it was entirely appropriate as a nod to convenience. He had lived on the property for a quarter-century, longer than anywhere else in his personal history. While he never felt loved or accepted on that isolated patch of dirt, it had been a comfortable landing zone for desperate souls. He belonged there, somehow, by staying aloof and detached as a general rule. That placed him on a solid footing, as one of many individuals who were battered and broken, but still alive and able to endure despite the harsh realities of their residential status.
With his hands trembling, he returned the call while battling emotions of regret and remorse. Responding to the solicitation proved to be more difficult than he expected.
“Dana? Hey, I’m out of the area right now. What is all this shit about bringing in more trailers? You’d really want me back in that rathole?”
The property supervisor was cheerful and loud when she answered.
“Ayyyyy, you kidding me, Link? Of course I want you back here! Maybe that bastardo on the corner would hate on it, but I don’t care. Like I said, you paid your rent on time and didn’t start crap with nobody. I like peace and quiet, you know? Give it a thought. Those guys in Cali will offer you a good deal on another trailer!”
Her former tenant sighed heavily while pondering the possibility.
“You’d need an EMT crew on standby with their ambulance. Linn Speck would have a cardiac event! I guarantee it...”
Ms. Alvarez snorted and tapped her red nails on the desktop.
“That gordo cabrón can kiss my ass! All he does is stir up things, and get people fighting with each other. Like I said, peace and quiet is good. I don’t need headaches! Dios mío!”
Lincoln did not feel happy about going back to the rustic neighborhood from which he had been expelled. But there was a measure of comfort in having his membership in the group reinstated. It would put him back on his assigned lot, and in a geographical location that was convenient for family members and his doctors.
“What will this cost me, Dana? I’m busted right now, my wallet is empty...”
The park manager whistled through her teeth.
“YOU AIN’T GOTTA PAY NOTHING, LINK! NO DINERO DOWN! WE’LL WORK IT OUT LATER, YOU DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT. MAYBE THE SHERIFF WILL TAKE IT OUTTA THAT DUDE’S ASS! HE OWES YOU, AND HE OWES US, TOO!”
After concluding their brief conversation, the shaggy misanthrope reclined on a narrow bunk in his homemade camper. His face burned from the moment of surrender. It was out of character for him to accept returning to the cluster of manufactured homes, without some kind of justice being won. Yet winter was about to arrive, and his joints throbbed from injury. He needed a proper bed where rest would come more easily. And the amenities of an actual dwelling, instead of his boxy rig. A place that he could call his own, however humble it might be as an asset.
But most of all, Lincoln needed a stiff drink.
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