Trailer Park Vignettes – “Gold Shoe Gambit”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

T.C. Lincoln had started drinking early on Monday afternoon. A decision that was predictably bad for his health, but common among residents of Evergreen Estates. He sat outside on his wooden bench, basking in February temperatures that had risen to 38 degrees. Solar rays streaming backward into his boxed porch amplified this official temperature. It invigorated him, while sipping Jack Daniel’s straight from the square bottle. And washing down each swig of whiskey with cold brew from his refrigerator.

 

“Another blessed week here in the trailer park! Hoo boy, it’s like I won the damn lottery!”

 

He had begun to tip toward a numb feeling of bliss, when one of the neighborhood kids appeared on his access ramp. A long construction that spanned half the length of his prefab dwelling. The youngster was wearing outdated clothes from a local Goodwill store. Both the T-shirt and pants were sized too small, and faded from many cycles through a washing machine. His crew cut looked to have been executed by a home barber, with clippers from Walmart. Yet nothing dimmed his enthusiasm in passing out fliers for an upcoming meeting. He was grateful to have been picked for the task.

 

“That fat guy on the corner gave me a $20 bill to take these around the park. I get to ride my bicycle and make some scratch! After that, my momma is ordering pizza for dinner, when I get home. Her boyfriend moved in with us last week, when he got out of jail. This job will help me afford a new game for my Playstation! What a life! See you later, old man! Hope you don’t pee your pants from all that booze!”

 

The shaggy hermit snorted in response. But his mood was mellow from the wash of alcohol. Squinting in the glare of sunlight, he took out a pair of dollar-store spectacles, then unfolded the printed sheet of paper and began to read.

 

“Come one, come all, to the Speck Household! We’ve got a business opportunity for you! This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer. It won’t come around again! Have you heard of the ‘Never Surrender High Tops?’ These kicks were just introduced by President Trump himself, at Sneakercon in Philadelphia. The first 1000 pairs of these gold shoes went like hotcakes! So, another round of production has been ordered. You can get in on the ground floor to sell these collectible hoofers anywhere and everywhere. All it takes is a minimal investment. Come to my longbox at Lot 1, and join in the winning! There’s money to be made, don’t miss out and be left crying with the losers! Join the patriot army! March away with your own pair, today!”

 

A disclaimer at the bottom mentioned CIC Ventures, LLC. Supposedly a firm holding licensing rights authorized by the Orange Man, personally.

 

Lincoln was already too drunk to contemplate any business opportunities. Particularly one that sounded very much like an Amway-style, pyramid scheme. But he stashed the invitation in an inverted desk cabinet, cabinet next to his perch. His finances had been ruined for so long that thoughts of profit and loss only gave him a headache. Through years of scraping along in survival mode, he had learned to be content with a minimal existence.

 

If he had flasks of strong drink in his cupboard, and snacks on the countertop, that was enough.

 

Imbibing liquor had almost sent him careening over the edge, into oblivion. Yet the sound of a message arriving in an app on his cell phone interrupted this critical moment. Darby Stronelli, a redneck queen who lived on his eastern flank, had received the same blurb in her storm door. The reaction that followed was one of joyous zeal in making an extra buck, by any means. She must have been dancing in her Red Wing work boots.

 

“HEY BUDDY! DID YOU GET THE LETTER FROM LINN? THAT CHANCE TO SELL THE GOLD GRAILS IS FREAKING AWESOME! HE’S A GENUIS! THAT CHUBBY PIGGIE KNOWS HOW TO JUMP ON SHIT WHEN IT’S FRESH! YOU CAN’T WAIT AROUND, THOSE DEALS DON’T LAST!”

 

The contrarian loner sighed heavily, and slumped in his seat. He whispered to himself while continuing to drink.

 

“Stepping in fresh poop. That’s not my thing by any means, neighbor...”

 

While he was swooning in gallons of brown juice and beer, another text zapped his device. This time, it was Rottie who had come to the park from an urban district nearer to Lake Erie. He was covered with tattoos, and bald.

 

“BRUH LINK! MANNNNN, DID YOU GET THE LOW-DOWN FROM LINN SPECK? HE’S SHARP, THAT GET-TOGETHER AT HIS TRAILER IS A GODSEND! I’VE BEEN CRAWLING THROUGH THIS MONTH, NO CASH IN MY WALLET. I NEED A GOOD HUSTLE! THOSE GOLD CREEPERS WILL FLY OFF THE SHELVES! I BET EVERYBODY HERE WILL BUY AT LEAST ONE PAIR. SEE YOU AT THE MEETING, DUDE! BE THERE OR BE SQUARE!”

 

Lincoln felt his belly churning. He was tipsy and nearly blind. Somehow, information about the time and date of this ill-advised confab had slipped by, unnoticed. So, he read the flier once again. Fine print at the very bottom mentioned that the sales session had been scheduled for later in the evening. He was visibly unfit to share the company of anyone else in their development, particularly his frenemy at the crossroads by the company maintenance garage. Still, there was a mysterious allure to the thought of witnessing the sham event with his own, bleary eyes.

 

Visiting the drab, disintegrating hovel would be dangerous even with a sober head. But he reckoned that being blitzed might help to make such a wearisome happening more palatable, in the end.

 

When he appeared, just before seven o’clock, a crowd of local residents had already arrived. Even Maylene Jefka, matron and adoptive granny to the entire village of mobile homes, was present. She had dressed in a lavender sweatshirt and matching pants, which carried a crest styled in a Christian motif. A gold cross pendant hung around her neck.

 

Linn took charge of the gathering with authority. His wife, Haki, bubbled with adoration as he spoke through a karaoke machine.

 

“Okay everybody, this is it! We’re all ready to get rich, right? Nobody likes being poor. So, if you want to gain wealth, where do you go to learn about money? You go to the source, to the master! You go to a man like our 45^th president!”

 

The single-wide living room exploded with enthusiasm.

 

“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”

 

Mrs. Speck stood up on cue. Her long, floral dress billowed in the blast from a heating vent. She had ruddy cheeks that were glistening with color.

 

“My hubby is right! You don’t have to live the broke life anymore! These gold kicks are a ticket to the high life! For you, for me, for everybody!”

 

Lincoln winked sarcastically, and laughed out loud.

 

“High life my ass! The only high life I get comes from Miller Brewing Company, in Wisconsin!”

 

Grumbling sounded from every corner of the small space. Rottie shook his head like a wet dog.

 

“C’MON, OLD FART! GIVE HIM A CHANCE TO TALK! I LIKE HIS LINE OF THINKING!”

 

Darby nodded in agreement.

 

“Don’t be such a butthead, Link! We’re about to cash-in for a change! You got a problem with stuffing your pockets?”

 

Linn had begun to sweat profusely. His thinning hair had gone completely flat. A stripe of bare flesh protruded from under his polo shirt.

 

“All it’ll take is everybody putting in fifty bucks as a deposit. These gold high-tops are selling for $399.00, at list price. But rarity has already driven up their market value. I see pairs going for thousands of dollars on eBay. If we get in on the ground floor, there’s a ton of moolah to be made! I guarantee it! This gamble can’t lose! Hooray for us!”

 

From a folding chair against the back wall, Lincoln continued his role as an agitator. He belched forcefully and scratched his gray beard.

 

“Go ahead, give up your dough, if that makes you feel happy. Invest in these pro-sports knock-offs. I’ll save mine for restocking the liquor cabinet! Don’t bother calling when you’ve run out of supplies. I’ll be in my own little world, popping corks and getting loaded!”

 

Haki flipped her longish, blonde curls and sneered at her sparring opponent.

 

“You’ll be staying messed up and poor, neighbor! I feel sorry for you! I really do! Everybody else here is getting onboard the profit train! The gold-plated, high rolling, presidential train! This will soon be a community of blue-collar millionaires! Good luck with your exile, feeling sad and alone! I pity you!”

 

Again, the group burst into spontaneous cheering and celebration.

 

“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”

 

In only a matter of weeks, a stampede of gold footwear had completely overrun their rural park. Almost everyone laced up their shimmering, MAGA galoshes, and took to the pavement. Marching proudly, they strode around the property perimeter with the brisk cadence of a Clydesdale herd, galloping gleefully.

 

At Lot 13, the lone dissenter from this active show of support had passed out on his wooden bench. Drool dripped down his hairy chin. He tumbled into unconsciousness with a tune from the Rolling Stones reverberating inside of his skull. The drumbeat and repeating guitar riff led him into a welcome respite of slumber and mental negation.

 

“Don’t care if your love grows cold

Found love in someone else’s home

Don’t like standing in the snow

Everything’s turning to gold

 

You used to know me long ago

Was so lost and way down low

Now that the love juice starts to flow

Everything is turning to gold...”

 

 

 

“Long Hours Before Sunrise”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

Darkness drapes the yard outside

Framed by a string of clear lights, hung from the entryway

A finale for this winter day

A sign of persistent consciousness

Despite the hour

I lean backward in my office chair, pondering a quote offered to soothe

Hack writers on the move

Their newspaper careers crumbling like ancient temples in Greece

Hunter S. Thompson brought me peace

A wild vision comes as I reread his words for a hundredth time

Eyes peering between halves of the veil

Looking out from a netherworld

Imagined into being, composed of dreamscape vapors

That rise like fog just before the sun crests treetops

Arranged along the property line

I think of them as sentries on patrol

Sent to herd wandering souls

Arms at the ready

Guarding ghosts that linger over ground won in combat

And lost again, as generations evolved

Who remembers the railroad that ran through here, from Cleveland?

An interurban link

A stream of water, dripping from the kitchen sink

They took it as a blessing in those days

Hopping a ride to metropolitan delights

Starched shirts and billowing gowns

Fedora hats and floral arrangements worn conspicuously

By men and women native to a distant county

That age is buried now in historical tabulations

Numerically recorded

By scribbling sages

Bent on preserving what they knew would not endure on back pages

Flesh and bone

Breath and bumbling

A musical retort crafted to mimic the cadence of a drunken fool, stumbling

Forward and free

That bum is wiser by far, than me

He knows when to quit

If only I had such skill in perceiving with the mind what optic nerves cannot see

I would punch my ticket to nobility

A swashbuckling pirate, with a sword long and sharp

Leadbelly plucking out tunes with a lonesome cry sung over a blues harp

That trick of the tale

Might be enough, I think

If it echoed through a concrete viaduct

Magnified and reflected

Boosterized and sanitized

For the gentlest of ears

Darkness leaves the heart to yearn for a new beginning

When the cycle is complete

Lit up with the golden glow of traffic and body heat

On the boulevard

Travelers traipse

Seekers and soothsayers meet their fates

And I am still at the desk, though barely awake after so many hours

Falling down

Chin on my chest

Jerking upward from a spasm of unintended rest

Falling, falling

Fingers skip across the keys without connecting

Gonzo guile makes me guilty

Of lyrical appropriation

I cop that vibe

From something he once jotted down on a fast-food menu, in crayon

A jester’s jump

A cartwheel over a speed bump

Long hours tick-tock tippling away

The second-hand swings in increments barely visible to careful inspection

From this to that

And that to this

Besmirched and forgotten

An apple core, turned rotten

After one bite at the fruit

A solemn padre in a pinstripe suit

Holding the study guide gingerly, as he speaks

Vitalis on his combed crop, wingtips on his feet

“Hear ye, hear ye!”

This is a damn sight better than crouching in a doorway to avoid the rain

I reckoned he must have understood

Must have rightly deciphered bad from good

While I hid out in the shadows cast

By an antenna mast

With the coaxial cable unplugged and limp

So useless and cold

No signal transferred, no showmanship to behold

Just a spark of residual electricity, deferred

A flicker among the stars

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Wedding Day”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

Pastor Cabe Forester from Thompson Township’s Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven was slightly miffed when sitting at his desk in the Geauga County house of worship. He had heard that two residents of Evergreen Estates, a trailer village located down the hill from his sanctuary, pledged to take their marriage vows in a ceremony on the park property. Yet this blessed union would take place without his involvement as the de facto spiritual leader of their community.

 

The thought of being sidelined for this ceremony caused his stomach to ache.

 

“I’ve read out of the holy scriptures at nuptials of all sorts around these parts! My name was always the first one mentioned when plans were being made. Generations of families have started under my careful stewardship. So, what happened now? Where did I go wrong with the current crew? Am I too old, or too conservative, or just too darned boring for kids who like to play video games and make cellphone posts on the Tik Tok app?

 

His secretary adjusted her wool sweater, and pushed the half-frame reading glasses backward on her perky nose.

 

“Cabriel, I don’t have a clue. Jenny Ann and Klondike have been sweethearts since going to high school by the ledges. Their parents are solid citizens, members of the local Republican Party. They all like to hunt and fish and play cornhole in the summer. But there’s a new fellow in that development of mobile homes. He’s attracted quite a following. They’ve got a congregation meeting in a long shed, made of plywood sheets and pallet boards. This guy wears a camouflage suit, and a cross made out of scrap metal around his neck. With a pistol hanging from his belt...”

 

The traditional clergyman coughed and wheezed.

 

“A pistol? God help us!”

 

Sally McNamara shook her head in disbelief. Her gray curls bounced with a lively flip of indifference.

 

“I heard it from one of our parishioners who lives there. She said people are going to services now, that never read a Bible before. Even some bikers and malcontents that have their own corner district, a whole row of boxcar dwellings. This fellow has been baptizing sinners and preaching the gospel like a traveling, big-tent evangelist. It has the population riled up and excited. At the beginning of this week, there were fifty residents packed into that ramshackle barn! Nobody ever stirred up so much fervor in our area, before. I think you ought to meet with him, and get a feel for what he really believes...”

 

Forester felt slightly disgusted.

 

“Meet with him? I’m the legitimate one here! Ordained by the official church, and sanctioned to teach God’s word! If anything, he should be seeking an audience with me!”

 

The record keeper rubbed a string of pearls that was draped lazily around her throat.

 

“This isn’t a time to argue, Cabe! Reach out and greet him in a spirit of Christian love!”

 

Weeks passed by as the mainstream reverend found multiple excuses not to visit the rural oasis in person. He had a conference to attend in Columbus, the state capital. Then, a gathering of clerics from across the Midwest. One of his children was finishing her work as a missionary in Honduras, and had been scheduled to return while he was busy with other responsibilities. Finally, he needed to direct fundraising for a restoration project on their rooftop steeple, which had begun to sag visibly after years of neglect.

 

When the wedding day arrived, he had all but forgotten about its controversial presence on the calendar. Many members of his flock wanted to participate in some fashion. But he chafed at it being allowed to happen without his oversight. Curiosity gnawed at his insides however, like a parasite. He wanted to know what was transpiring. Would this clandestine joining of souls take place with a pagan ritual of some kind? Perhaps a recitation of satanic perversion, or new-age heresy? Might it be rendered in a foreign brogue, or a language lost to antiquity?

 

He cloaked himself in a dark overcoat and a plaid, wool-lined hat of the Elmer Fudd variety. After other guests had arrived in an upper field that bordered the trailer enclave’s maintenance garage, he managed to sneak into the crowd surreptitiously. No one noticed him being situated near a makeshift enclosure, covered with blue tarps bought at Home Depot. He crept close enough to see the bride walking up an aisle of armed veterans, with a bouquet of plastic roses in her hands, from Dollar General. She wore a veil over hunting apparel and combat boots.

 

Her prospective husband was already at the altar. He carried a shotgun under his arm, and a canvas pouch with the wedding bands secured. His long hair was matted and slick, and protruded from under a NASCAR cap with Dale Earnhardt’s national number 3 prominently displayed.

 

Preacher Buck Jones from Gallipolis, by the Ohio River, stood with his good book open to 1 Corinthians 13.

 

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.”

 

Gasps and tears began to fill the air. The pastor trembled as he witnessed this display of humility before the Holy Spirit.

 

“I don’t understand... this isn’t what I expected, at all!”

 

The folksy rector raised his hand in a respectful tribute to saints in the heavens.

 

“For many centuries, this forging of a sacred bond has been important at every corner of the world. It is the foundation of our society. The bedrock of nations, tribes, and cultures, everywhere. Some might want to use it as a sword, to mete out judgment. To condemn those who are perceived as being unworthy. To charge infidels with defiling what has been accepted. To frighten those who might stray from a familiar path. But I tell you here and now, this is God’s word in action. A pledge of truth one to another. A rock upon which bloodlines that have endured for thousands of years has been constructed. There is no greater value, no greater promise, to behold...”

 

Rain had begun to fall on the mass of patient attendees. Forester dropped to his knees in the mud. Suddenly, he voiced shame and regret.

 

“This is not how I thought it would be!”

 

Buck ended his sermon with another passage from the same book.

 

“And now these three remain; faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love!”

 

He took the hands of both bride and groom, then clasped them together. Dramatically, his voice boomed from the improvised shelter.

 

“In the name of our creator and beloved parent, the one who brought this universe into being and everything within, I proclaim that you are a new creation! Let not pride or prejudice or pretentiousness put this union asunder! Cleave to each other, boost and uplift your helpmate, and enjoy the bliss of matrimony. In the name of Jesus and all the prophets, Amen!”

 

A procession of 4x4 pickup trucks plowed through the muck. Blasts of ammunition were fired overhead. Gadsden flags and Betsy Ross banners waved in celebration. Slabs of fried turkey and containers of potato salad were waiting on folding tables, by the park office. Bud Light and Miller High Life flowed like champagne. Firecrackers exploded in the sky.

 

And Cabe Forester prayed silently to himself.

 

“Forgive me Lord, for my arrogance. Forgive me...”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Nachos”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

T.C. Lincoln was a professional drinker. One who had trained his body on a diet of strong spirits, and other assorted forms of beverage alcohol, since the early days of childhood. Once, around the age of nine, he and friends discovered a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon that had somehow been dropped by the curb in their suburban neighborhood. This prize had rolled, still fully intact, to a spot nestled in a fold of the concrete apron. He and friends were riding their Schwinn bicycles, all customized with chopper stylings adapted from adult machines. One of the greenhorn crew named Petey boldly retrieved this tall can, and worked the pull-tab until it opened. He was showered with a spray of beer and foam. The aroma disgusted him enough to hand it off without taking a swig. Another member of their gang named Tim tried sampling the clandestine drink, and gagged with surprise. He had expected a taste more akin to Sprite or Mountain Dew. The lack of sweet flavor notes rattled him to his core. Finally, young Townie grabbed the steel cylinder and downed its contents in a single gulp. He snorted like a bull after tossing the emptied container into a hedge.

 

“THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT! I’VE SEEN MY DAD DRINK A DOZEN LIKE THAT, WITH HIS STEAK DINNER! YEEHAW!”

 

Many years later, the reclusive loner still managed to get drunk almost every day.

 

On a Thursday afternoon in February, the temperature had risen to 44 degrees. An amazingly comfortable reality for that time in the year. So, he decided to celebrate having Ohio blessed with such a mild winter. Instead of taking his Jack Daniel’s bottle to an end table by the couch, he went outside to the porch. There, the ritual libation began in earnest.

 

By two o’clock, he was already very drunk.

 

A familiar parade of vehicles passed as he sank deeper and deeper into the tide of liquor. First came a ratty, Chevrolet work truck loaded with pallets, and metal scraps. Then, a Dodge Ram from two decades before, jacked up on big tires and booming with a loud, diesel exhaust. After that, a Geo Metro wobbled along the narrow boulevard. Something so ancient and obscure that it made Lincoln snap to attention. It had been repainted at some point, in such a careless manner that he guessed a broom must have been used as a brush.

 

He was nearly unconscious when footsteps echoed from his lengthy, access ramp. A construction intended to aid him in disability, as canes were necessary just to stay in motion. He tilted sideways in his seat, to look around the corner, and down a vinyl-sided wall that fronted the trailer. But this move only darkened his mood. Seething with rage, his neighbor on the corner was approaching.

 

Linn Speck, a rotund powder-keg of a man, had seemingly chosen the same calendar day to become blitzed on booze. He had both fists clenched. Huffing, wet breaths left a trail of phlegm down his chin.

 

“LINK, YOU BASTARD! WHAT’S THIS SHIT ABOUT MY WIFE? I KNOW YOU’VE BEEN DROOLING OVER HER, DAMMIT! ANY MAN WOULD, SHE’S A TREASURE! BUT I WON’T TOLERATE THE INSULT! I’M HERE TO SETTLE THE SCORE BETWEEN US!”

 

The shaggy hermit opened a bottle of Miller High Life, to clear his palate.

 

“Whaaat? Dude, I figure you’ve popped a cork over nothing. As a matter of fact, I’ve never given a thought to your ol’ lady, for any reason...”

 

Linn stopped in his tracks and howled with anger.

 

“ARE YOU SAYING SHE ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH FOR A SECOND LOOK? WHAT THE HELL KIND OF TALK IS THAT, YOU IDIOT? SHE’S DAMNED SEXY, AND A REAL KEEPER!”

 

Lincoln chortled and spit a mouthful of brew.

 

“Huh? You came storming up the street to just debate her wifely qualities? That’s a hoot, brother. Like I said, she’s never been on my radar. That’s no slam at her, or you. I’m running solo for a reason. Two divorces are enough. I don’t need the drama of shacking up with a female...”

 

The pudgy piggie stroked his bald head and growled. He was wearing a white undershirt, and cargo shorts. Both were soaked with sweat.

 

“YOU PUT SOMETHING ON FACEBOOK ABOUT GETTING YOUR LIPS ON HER! THAT CHEESED ME RIGHT OFF! I WON’T STAND FOR THAT KIND OF LEERING OVER A GOOD WOMAN! YOU’RE A PIECE OF CRAP, OLD FART! A FRIGGING PIECE OF DOG CRAP!”

 

The contrarian hobo rubbed his eyes. A burn of Tennessee whiskey lingered in his throat.

 

“That comment was about game-day nachos. You posted a photo, remember? Right then, I was jonesing for something to fill my belly. Call it an appetite outbreak. Sorry if it got your panties in a bunch...”

 

Linn swung his hardened knuckles forcefully. The wild punch missed, and caused him to teeter over the wooden railing. He hung limply, panting for his breath.

 

“ASSHOLE! LIAR! STAND UP AND LET ME SEE WHAT YOU’RE MADE OF, COMMANDO!”

 

Lincoln struggled to his feet. He had unzipped his camouflage hoodie. Both canes were at the ready.

 

“This is my drinking time, neighbor. That’s important to me, maybe you’ll understand? I don’t get many pleasures in life these days. Having a sip out here in the fresh air brings me peace. If you wanted to pass the time of day and share a drink, that’d be okay. Don’t take that as an invite, because you’ve never been one of my favorite people in this trailer park. But I don’t refuse company. I’m not unsociable, just used to living life on my own. I go along to get along...”

 

His opponent from the corner slouched against the rough-hewn banister.

 

“NACHOS? YOU EXPECT ME TO ACCEPT AN EXCUSE THAT YOU LIKED MY WIFE’S NACHOS? NOT HER BOOBS OR BUTT?”

 

His intended victim laughed out loud. Gray highlights in his beard twinkled in the sunshine.

 

“Pizza, wings, tacos, ribs, or nachos. Any of that sounds good when I’m raising my glass. Getting bombed always makes me hungry. I reckon that’s how I stay fat, otherwise, I don’t eat too many meals. That’s the honest truth, my right hand to God!”

 

Linn was unconvinced.

 

“NACHOS? WHAT KIND OF BULL POOP IS THAT? NACHOS? REALLY?”

 

He lunged forward to strike a fatal blow. But the cantankerous drunk lifted one of his canes, and swiped it in a sideways motion. The brass tip smacked his assailant with a loud crack of immediacy. This made his mouth gush a fountain of crimson and bile.

 

Lincoln stomped his motorcycle boot on the floorboards.

 

“Had enough? I’m not in a mood to fight. I did plenty of that in Vietnam. Against better foes than a fatass with skinny legs, no job, bad breath, and a longbox hovel even more ugly than mine! Say this is settled and go home to your lady! She can kiss your wounds. And you, buddy, can kiss my saggy ass! Vaya con Dios!”

 

The courage of this unexpected visitor had evaporated at last. His head drooped like a broken branch, flailing in a thunderstorm. He muttered to himself while stumbling down the long ramp.

 

“Nachos... that’s what it was all about... nothing but a craving for nachos!”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Steel Belted”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

Nate Bucyrus paced around his living room at Evergreen Estates with nervous energy. The afternoon was surprisingly sunny, for being such a cold day in February. He had been alone since the morning, when his wife of a dozen years left to visit her sister in Lycoming, Pennsylvania. The trip had been an impulsive dash away from home, after a protracted squabble. Their bickering had intensified as the new year arrived. Though in truth, neither of them felt that the bond of their marriage was still strong in any sense. They had drifted apart as his career at the U.S. Post Office went into a tailspin. He couldn’t see well after having cataract surgeries. Packages and letters were shipped to incorrect destinations. Each reprimand for these careless mistakes only made him more bitter for working long hours at a small location in the hinterland of Ohio. He drank heavily during off-duty hours. Bankruptcy drew nearer with each month that passed.

 

And the balding, stocky, lug of a man kept noticing a peg on top of the door to a double closet in the hallway. It had been installed originally to secure the slab of carved wood on one side. The other opened to reveal stacked shelves that his spouse used to store cleaning products, and extra towels. His mind lingered on the sturdy, metal post with each trip to their front bathroom. It appeared to have been machined from brass. When not in use, this short post jutted upward as if it were flashing a sign of defiant angst. Something that matched his own angry gloominess. He would stand at the spot where a thermostat for their trailer furnace was located, and ponder about that hardened bit of alloy.

 

The polished buckle of his favorite belt could slip into place atop that accessory, with ease. Then, the chrome strap patterned after a 1970’s disco ball might find a new use to bind his neck. His only daughter had called it a ‘steel belt’ during her childhood years. She thought that prom photos of her parents, dancing to hits by K.C. and the Sunshine band, or the Bee Gees, were hilarious. When they divorced, she predictably took her mother’s side in the legal dispute. Now, he rarely saw his biological offspring.

 

Thanks to the clockwork grind of fate in action, his second partner was now also likely to become MIA from the drab and dreary existence of living in a prefab community.

 

He stood at a chest of drawers in the bedroom, and tugged out the Malaise-era relic. It glistened coldly in his fingers. When he pulled it tight in both hands, there was a frightening crack of leather and steel. He had to hold his breath for a moment.

 

“Damn damn damn! I think this might work. Forgive me, Holy Father. I think this might really work after all!”

 

After two or three weeks had passed, it became evident that his second bride did not intend to return from her self-imposed exile. The postal boss in charge of his district offered a permanent layoff, once his distant depot had closed. With retirement money to follow. Yet his finances had already been skewered by months and years of unpaid bills. He had also fallen behind on lot rent at the village of mobile homes.

 

On Friday evening he got very drunk. By midnight, the liquor cabinet had been completely emptied. Then, he started to hum the tune of ‘Get Down Tonight’ by his one-time musical champions from Hialeah, Florida.

 

“Baby, baby, let’s get together

Honey, honey, me and you

And do the things, ah, do the things

That we like to do

Oh, do a little dance, make a little love

Get down tonight

Get down tonight...”

 

He took the steel belt from its hiding spot under layers of boxer shorts. The clothing restraint tingled his skin as if charged with electricity. He curled it into a loop, and then carried it to the narrow passage that ran down one side of their boxcar hovel. With nimble fingers, he opened the left-side, closet door. Then stood perfectly still.

 

The brass peg was spring-loaded and ready. He felt an odd surge of confidence while maneuvering himself into place, on a wooden chair from the dinner table. The shiny strap pulled taut around his throat. When he stepped forward, off of the seat, his toes straightened in the empty air. A gasp of certainty made him choke. He gargled and gurgled curses while flailing.

 

“Do it motherf*****! Do it! Show some balls! Finish the damn job! Don’t be a candyass!”

 

Numbness overtook him with incredible rapidity. He lost consciousness for a moment, while jerking from side to side. But a natural revulsion toward being suffocated caused him to turn weak. He wheezed and coughed before hanging limply against the wall. His knees knocked like timpani mallets. Vomit stuck in his blocked airway.

 

“Die! Die! Die! Get it over with! Don’t let me twist on this belt, forever!”

 

A peal of thunder shook the manufactured dwelling, as Nate was making his plea to be released from mortality. A flash of intense, blue-and-white lit up the full-length mirror stationed across from the closet where he was suspended. Finally, a face appeared in the reflective glass. It was dark and oval, under a hood drawn down at the chin.

 

A scythe protruded over this foreboding creature as it spoke in a breathy hiss.

 

“Mr. Bucyrus! You’ve jumped the gun today. This was not your time. Every human journey ends at a point known by the creator. This escape is given freely, with no malice. Yet it must be taken respectfully. Do you understand? I have no patience for someone who is ignorant of his own importance. Don’t you realize there is a purpose in being here? God does not tolerate rebellion inside his kingdom of glory!”

 

The pudgy, middle-aged fellow found himself standing barefoot on the carpet. His painful attempt at suicide had suddenly been interrupted. Before he could answer, the cryptic guest pointed a finger from the mirror’s edge. The disco belt was incinerated immediately. It burned to ash, on the floor. This spectacle made the drunken rube tremble with fear of retribution.

 

“I’m dead already, is that it? This is my punishment, right? It must be! Hell is my home now! But that’s better than living here, in a hell-on-earth! I’m sick of being worthless! Sick of it!”

 

The specter frowned and grimaced with disgust. This made his nebulous countenance more defined in the shadows.

 

“I am Death, no more than a courier for the Great Spirit. Lucifer rules below, God rules above. I am in between. I do not reward, or punish. I simply gather those who pass, and transport them to their final judgment. It is in a sense, a thankless occupation. But one that is necessary. Still, I take no comfort in performing this task. I do not relish the barbaric bite of my weapon when it claims new blood. I do not cheer over victories won. And I will not assist you in rudely moving ahead on this queue. It is not your time, can’t you see? That old woman who lives across the street, consider her if you will! She is weary, having outlived all of her brothers and sisters, and her husband. But you stop by each day for conversation. Even the silliest of comments warms her heart! And that lonely, young kid on the other side of this park, who visits to tell you about his work routine at Walmart. His father is an alcoholic, wracked with diabetes. He has no one to trust. His mother is gone. You are his hero. Does that matter now? Your neighbor to the east is struggling, he is also separated from his wife. Just last week, he was prepared to use an antique straight razor in a violent act, against himself. You happened to pause while delivering a package that was too large for his slot at the mail shed, by your maintenance garage. Just that word of friendship made the difference. He glowed like an oil lamp after you departed. Didn’t you notice the change? Your heart is broken at the moment. I comprehend that suffering more than you might imagine. I have seen centuries of grief, first-hand. But listen to me, and take heed. This is not the day or the hour. When the sun rises tomorrow, your beloved will return. She is in agony without you at her side. Even if you have pissed her off repeatedly with your inebriated rants!”

 

Nate flushed with embarrassment. He had tears streaming over his ruddy cheeks.

 

“I didn’t know, believe me! I didn’t know!”

 

The trailer shook with what felt like a localized earthquake. From the long mirror, the keeper of final rest bowed his head and swore an oath.

 

“You will see me again, at the appointed time. Be aware of what awaits! But until then, fulfill the promise of your birth. Do not separate yourself from the love of your creator. Or from those around you, who care. Live and breathe and celebrate each day! I say this in the name of goodness and light! Amen!”

 

The humbled boozer massaged his neck, which was chapped and raw from the temporary hanging. He was still nauseous, and weak. Yet renewed vigor pulsed in his chest.

 

“Amen indeed! Amen! Amen!”

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Flagged Online”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

Doing research for an online newspaper is something that often happens in real time, while working on writing projects. I zip through news stories and blog posts, find what I need, and keep moving. This sort of learning-on-the-fly is second nature to younger members of the creative continuum. But for those of us raised in the era of magazines and books, and library visits in person, it is a marvel to behold.

 

During a recent trip through cyberspace, I stumbled upon a mention of the Pine Tree Riot from 1772. An early event in the crescendo of our revolutionary zeal as a fledgling nation, about to be born. The banner depicted was of an evergreen tree, with the quote ‘An Appeal To Heaven’ accompanying this familiar arbor. The image seemed strangely appropriate for those living in a community like my own, which had been named at its inception in the 1950’s for that sturdy pine. But when I shared this tidbit of information with other residents who participated in a group dedicated to staying informed about events in the neighborhood, it fell flat like a pierced balloon. There were no comments or likes.

 

When I happened to include a photo of this obscure ensign in a message sent to my mentor and compatriot Carrie Hamglaze however, the reaction was completely opposite. She answered with a lively retort that bolstered my spirits.

 

“THAT’S AN INSPIRING TALE FROM AMERICAN HISTORY, MY FRIEND! BRAVO! I HADN’T THOUGHT ABOUT IT IN YEARS! I DO HAVE A GADSDEN FLAG, AND THE ONE DESIGNED BY BETSY ROSS AS WELL! BUT THE PINE TREE STANDARD ISN’T IN MY TROVE OF TREASURES! IF YOU SEE ONE AVAILABLE, DO PICK IT UP FOR ME! I WOULD BE VERY GRATEFUL!”

 

Discovering this interesting, cultural relic came while I was busy doing something else. A familiar reality while working in my home office. So, I did not immediately follow-up on her request. Yet eventually, some other mention of these emblems from our distant past jogged my memory. An article about the FBI having created a document that tagged such images as evidence of activity by MVEs, or ‘Militia Violent Extremists’ made me pause to dig more deeply.

 

Though it was nearly two years old in current terms, I remembered reading the report as if it had just been issued.

 

Christopher Gadsden’s iconic creation from 1775, bearing a coiled serpent on a yellow background, had become so ubiquitous in my neighborhood, that I wondered with a flash of dark humor if some sort of government surveillance might have been triggered. The phrase ‘Don’t Tread On Me’ was literally present all over our rural development. Along with other banners mentioned in the FBI screed. This sobering reality brought back more distant recollections, like the sight on television of Texas Senator Ted Cruz boasting about his cowboy boots, which were emblazoned with the Gonzales Battle Flag. A later talisman historically, but related in being stigmatized, by the bureau’s official investigation.

 

After studiously scrolling through archived literature that had been penned about the white-and-green, tree banner, with its quote inspired by John Locke, I rummaged around for his complete text. It popped up in his noted work, the ‘Second Treatise of Civil Government.’ For myself, the yield was emotionally moving and significant.

 

“And where the body of the people, or any single man, is deprived of their right, or is under the exercise of a power without right, and have no appeal on earth, then they have a liberty to appeal to heaven, whenever they judge the cause of sufficient moment. And therefore, though the people cannot be judge, so as to have, by the constitution of that society, any superior power, to determine and give effective sentence in the case; yet they have, by a law antecedent and paramount to all positive laws of men, reserved that ultimate determination to themselves which belongs to all mankind, where there lies no appeal on earth, viz. to judge, whether they have just cause to make their appeal to heaven.”

 

Adopting a modernist slant on this regal declaration, I switched to the website eBay. A place where I had often found items not seen in my own travels. Though this pine banner was still barely familiar in personal terms, I found that many versions were available for sale. The antiquated appeal to a higher vista had been copied onto cloth rectangles of all sizes, small and large. And depicted on adhesive stickers, coffee mugs, badges and buttons, and other items of graphic-intense apparel.

 

For a moment, I felt cheated in not having mentioned the flag in my ‘Trailer Park Militia’ series, which had taken place at the fictional Evergreen Estates. With hindsight, this omission made my belly groan. Though a future installment might be employed to rectify that sin.

 

Grande Dame Carrie truly needed the historical nugget in her collection. Therefore, I did not hesitate, despite normally moving at a snail’s pace while away from the keyboard. I hobbled to a chair in my living room, with a cup of coffee. Then, found the relevant shopping app on my cell phone. A vendor in Westminster, California had the item available for immediate purchase. Free shipping was advertised, with a promise of no delay in promptly getting products to their destinations. I clicked on the ‘buy now’ icon in between sips of hot java.

 

When the revolutionary ensign arrived, a trio of messages hit my inbox.

 

“I’m watching the movie Robin Hood while writing this note, a version from 1938. How appropriate as it carries a theme of fighting tyrannical oppression in Sherwood Forest. An awesome cast of actors was used, I watch it whenever Turner Classic Movies includes it in their schedule. You gift is a perfect compliment to my awesome day! It fits the mood set by this cinematic masterpiece! Again I say, bravo! I appreciate your overwhelming kindness!”

 

Her gracious reply made me wonder if there were other artifacts available. Perhaps I also should collect a few, to spruce up the appearance of my minimalist abode? The thought rattled around inside of my skull. But a secondary notion stilled this impulse in its tracks. My mug had gone empty. Now, I sat alone with my thoughts.

 

Would the sight of such historical references in and around my home cause me to be branded as an MVE by the authorities? 

 

 

 

“Answer”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

Answering the telephone line

Thought I stepped on a land mine

A cacophony of caterwauling like I had never heard before

A crazy crowing of dissent

Suggesting studious self-improvement

A chastising chase coming briskly in the out door

I found myself oddly deterred

From answering with a single word

The intellectual mashup of scorn and sedition turned my head

I tried to soberly contemplate

Tiny wheels on a roller skate

Just to clear my mind from these thoughts of dread

 

Answering a call and response

A flicker from the candle sconce

Something so slight and yet, powerful enough to see

I tried to think, not only react

With desire for what I lacked

I knew the best plan ahead was to greet this challenge graciously

But I found out soon enough

Being the better person was truly rough

It rattled my bones like a skeleton freely roaming the halls

I had it all dialed in

This evisceration of foolish sins

But then slipped on a secret, and met the stoic stance of a brick wall

 

Answering a universe

Stowed inside a sow’s ear purse

Made me tip into a new vista of careless flight

I looked upon the mirror glaze

Transfixed with images of yesterdays

And cried a tear for what had so long been denied

I took a place at the throne

Which had formerly been a slab of stone

Knocked out loaded, and ready for a restless repeat

Feeling groggy from bread and wine

A feast on pickled hog in brine

Stumbling home with canvas sacks tied around my feet

 

Answering a bold review

A sweeping, seething verbal spew

Something I could not have guessed would be my gift for the day

Bent and broken, in deed and name

Lost and lonely, all the same

Storm clouds trailed across the sky like a spread of marmalade

I laugh when thinking of the fate

That chose me now to mark this date

A calendar box filled with ink scribbles that no scholar could decode

Shake my head and spit in the wind

Thank God for my next of kin

To be ready when I slide off the cliff into what awaits, down below

 

Answering a prime directive

Peering like a private detective

Through a magnifying glass pilfered from a jeweler’s stash

Stepping, stomping over the streets

Like a constable on his municipal beat

Waxing up the ends of an 19^th Century moustache

I might have looked the part of a fool

Living large by the Golden Rule

Yet it gave me confidence to follow a rut dug deep into the loam

I figured that this course of action

Would create a split between the factions

That separate those who pay no mind from their opposites, staying home

 

Answering a mail solicitation

On the back of a ticket at the train station

Was a conclusion that provided a plot twist few readers would expect

I coughed and cursed and feared for naught

Over being seen and getting caught

While being busy with the midnight maze of a writing project

This last breath taken right at dawn

Let me slip away and be gone

I raised my one-fingered salute to the glow of a waking morrow

There came a cheer in return

Watching the solar butter churn

Stirring these elements of unbridled joy and sorrow

 

Answering the telephone line

Vertigo vamps leaving a sign

That my balance might have been flawed from the very inception

I thought at first it was a ruse

This yield of strange and mystic clues

But at the end I found a measure of spiritual protection

Cackling crones recited tales

Of seafarers seeking swimming whales

I heard their noise and had to look away with a sense of need

This rhyming rope circled quick

Like a chiropractor doing parlor tricks

It pulled tight at my throat and dropped me to my knees