Trailer Park Victory Chapter 5: Press

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

Libby Raal had always been a voice of social consciousness at the Cleveland Plain Dealer. Her columns were penned with fiery rhetoric that reflected a bent toward progressive thinking and radical ideas. Yet when the American electorate chose to give Donald J. Trump a second term in Washington, the desperate tone of her writing intensified. She ranted online at Reddit and other sites for many days. Then, composed a manifesto for her newspaper employer that tested the limits of journalism.

 

Editor-in-Chief Magda Poleski gave her a private audience, as the holiday season approached. She tried hard to be fair in passing judgment. But seemed to tread too lightly for the liking of her popular scribe.

 

“Libby, I’ve always appreciated your courage at the keyboard. Our subscribers are drawn to the realism you project. This time though, I have to say that circumstances are somewhat... well... different.”

 

The counterculture maven was shocked to hear a hint of dissent from her supervisor.

 

“Maggie, don’t tell me you’ve been duped by that orange charlatan! He’s a monster! The old moron should be in prison, not the Oval Office!”

 

Poleski nodded in agreement. She had to brush the frosted mane out of her eyes. Her pulse quickened with an episode of vertigo.

 

“It’s not a matter of me being tricked. Our circulation numbers have dropped. Some readers think that we’re stuck in the 1960’s. Populism used to drive new-age ideas in this country. Now though, it has taken on a different character. People have become disenchanted with government institutions. They think many reforms have failed to deliver on the promise of a better life for all...”

 

Libby spat curses while narrowing her gaze. Her pierced eyebrows tightened severely.

 

“Are you nuts? Nobody likes that crusty, old liar! He’s a convicted felon, an insurrectionist, and a con man!”

 

Her leader at the publication nodded once again.

 

“Yes, and he’s also about to be our 47^th president...”

 

Ms. Raal jabbed at the air with her longish, purple nails.

 

“You’ve got to take a stand, Maggie! This is a time to fight, not surrender! Our audience is waiting to hear raw truth without any inhibitions getting in the way! You know it, I know it, and anyone with living brain cells knows it! Show some courage, woman! Let me speak freely! Let me speak from the heart!”

 

Poleski shrugged and sipped her Starbucks coffee. She was not in a mood to argue.

 

“Mr. Trump won the Electoral College, but also the popular vote. Are you aware of that, my friend?”

 

Libby squawked like a wounded fowl. Her neck tattoos throbbed with muscular spasms.er piercHer tattoos      

 

“YES, DAMMIT, YES! I KNOW ALL OF THAT! HE SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN ON THE BALLOT! THE GUY IS GUILTY OF TRYING TO OVERTURN AN ELECTION! HIS CRONIES WANTED TO HANG VICE PRESIDENT MIKE PENCE! HE’S A FASCIST HERO! GOD HELP US ALL, FOUR YEARS OF HIM WILL RUIN THIS NATION FOR GOOD!”

 

Her editorial director sighed heavily, and looked sideways, across the office cubicle.

 

“Michael Jordan once said, ‘Republicans buy sneakers, too.’ I could paraphrase that to read, ‘Republicans buy our paper, too.’ There are so many news sources out there today, this isn’t like the era when we could weave opinions into our articles and get away unscathed. People ask questions, they have contrasting opinions, they defy the safe logic of olden days...”

 

Libby huffed and tapped her sharp nails along the desktop.

 

“So we just give up? That’s the answer? We let idiots like the Mar-a-Lago menace run roughshod over truth and liberty? I can’t believe you’d go for that kind of surrender!”

 

Poleski sat her tumbler of java aside. She folded her hands, and whispered a final confession.

 

“This whole industry is in flux. We’ve added an online component, and trimmed our schedule of print issues. People don’t trust us anymore. Not like when I was a little girl, reading about Watergate, the Oil Embargo, and war in Vietnam. We’ve got to compete for the attention of readers now. It isn’t just that they might watch television or listen to radio instead. It’s a matter of confronting websites, podcasts, streaming content, and posts on social media. How can we be seen and heard in an environment where creators are publishing their material in real-time, 24 hours a day?”

 

Her professional scribbler snorted and slapped the broad workspace with a flattened palm.

 

“MISINFORMATION! DISINFORMATION! CHEAP FAKES! DOUBLETALK! OUTRIGHT LIES AND PREVARICATION! IN STREET LANGUAGE, BULLSHIT!”

 

The seasoned editor did not project any disagreement. Yet after leaning forward in her roller chair, a note of clarification resounded.

 

“See, we used to be able to throw those words around. Even four years ago, not that long in the past. But things have evolved. There is a running debate about government limits on free speech. Seething unrest left over from the COVID-19 pandemic. It’s a mix of rebelliousness and fear. I don’t like it at all, not one little bit! But you can’t just pretend that it doesn’t exist. Would I say that in a public forum, or under oath? Absolutely not! I wouldn’t even admit it to the owners of this paper. Still, it’s the reality we face. It’s the reason Trump got another chance to sit behind the Resolute Desk...”

 

Ms. Raal was near the point of a cardiac event. She had flushed red like a ripe tomato.

 

“NO, NO, NO, NO! I DON’T BELIEVE ANY OF THAT! I DON’T BELIEVE IT!”

 

Editor Poleski smoothed her silk blouse and took a last sip of cold coffee.

 

“I’m going to kill your piece for this week. Let things quiet down for a few days, you know? Mr. Trump will be in office very soon. We’ll report honestly on what transpires. I just don’t want opinions to creep into our news content. That era has ended. I’ll leave it to Fox News and MSNBC to offer a slanted view of the future. We’re in the business of providing information. At least, we used to be... I think this is where we’re headed. Back to the daily grind! So, thanks for coming to this meeting. Your pay packet won’t be affected. Be ready for some new assignments, and a fresh perspective!”

 

After leaving the offices, Libby stomped all the way to her Toyota Prius, leaving a trail of Doc Marten footprints on the concrete. Her vehicle was alone in the parking garage, downtown. A faded, ‘co-exist’ bumper sticker had tattered and split, on the rear hatch.

 

She shouted with the words of Michael Moore echoing around the abandoned chamber.

 

“DUDE, WHERE’S MY COUNTRY? WHERE’S MY DAMN COUNTRY???”

 

 

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 4: Landslide

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

When Townshend Carr Lincoln awakened, around three o’clock in the morning, his bladder was crying out for relief. He had passed out on the sofa still wearing his regular clothes, work boots, and baseball cap. In a pattern typical for Ohio, the weather had become unseasonably mild. So, despite leaving the front door standing open, it was not too cold inside of his trailer. He could see lights flashing through a window behind the television. There was some sort of commotion in the street. Not an outburst of violence or protest against the park management, but instead, a joyful celebration. He could hear voices raised in a drunken chant.

 

“LANDSLIDE! LANDSLIDE! LANDSLIDE!”

 

The disabled loner felt somewhat confused. But when he went outside for a better view of the neighborhood, the context became clearer. There was a parade of pickup trucks carrying residents in their beds, and bellowing diesel smoke into the air. Cheap beer flew like a shower of raindrops. Horns honked and guns barked with a unanimous report of expended ammunition.

 

“LANDSLIDE!!!!!!”

 

Still feeling groggy and hung over from many rounds of hard liquor, he turned on the flatscreen receiver next to his recliner. An announcer from CNN appeared on the display, chattering excitedly about election results. Her breathy, befuddled demeanor betrayed a sense of complete disbelief. She looked like a storm survivor, with a wrinkled blouse, messy hair, and a gaunt expression of loss.

 

“This is Deena Dodderidge in Washington. We have to report to you that it appears our controversial, 45^th president, Donald J. Trump, has now amassed enough votes in the Electoral College to become our next chief executive. A win over the failed Democratic party candidate, Kamala Harris...”

 

Shotgun shells were exploding everywhere. Firecrackers rattled loose panes up and down the rural boulevard. Linn Speck, an organizer and agitator who lived on the corner, had his bullhorn cranked up to full volume. His angled lot was crowded with revelers. They had parked in a crazy formation that stretched from the maintenance garage, nearby, to a cluster situated along the edge of his yard. Muddy ruts were already deep in the wet grass. Empty bottles and cans were strewn around the property. Fists pumped wildly, in a vertical show of force. The Gadsden flag, and Confederate banners, waved with populist pride.

 

“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”

 

Lincoln could barely see to find his cupboard by the broken dishwasher. Yet felt his way down the row of cabinets, until reaching the spot where more bottles of bourbon and assorted whiskies were stored. He found a giant jug of Evan Williams Bottled-in-Bond, twisted at the stopper, and force-fed himself a triple shot of the spiritous delight. A fiery wash of the liquid made his eyes snap open. He coughed and spit as the burn savaged his throat. Sweat beaded on his brow. Then, he felt more able to face the reality of still being part of the Evergreen Estates continuum.

 

In a hoodie pocket half-full of crumbs and lint, his cell phone began to ring. The caller ID indicated that a second cousin from Cleveland had dialed his number. Something he guessed must have been a mistake. Yet when he answered, the tone of her voice hit his ear like an arrow’s tip.

 

Libby Raal, who wrote sometimes for the Plain Dealer newspaper, could barely contain her emotional breakdown. She was sobbing and gasping and blubbering, all at the same time. Tears dripped from both eyes, and the piercings in her nose.

 

“HE WON! HE WON! THAT ORANGE NEMESIS IS GOING BACK TO THE WHITE HOUSE! HOW IN THE WISE CRONE’S NAME COULD THAT HAPPEN? TELL ME LINK! HOW COULD THAT HAPPEN?”

 

Her distant relative had already numbed himself with the Kentucky booze. But tried to sound attentive.

 

“Sorry Cuz, you know I don’t give a shit about any of that. Ya just spent four years complaining that yer man in charge wasn’t progressive enough. Will ya miss him that much?”

 

Libby was literally shaking. Her neck tattoos were swelled from a rush of blood flow.

 

“MISS HIM? WITH HITLER JUNIOR IN COMMAND, OF COURSE I’LL MISS HIM! ARE YOU NUTS? THIS IS THE END OF OUR DEMOCRACY! THE END OF AMERICA! THE END OF EVERYTHING!”

 

Lincoln wished for a Camel shorty. But had quit smoking many years ago.

 

“Personally, I think it’s all horse dung. Bankers and lobbyists run the show. Ya never figured that out? C’mon, Cuz. It’s a matter of who gets the graft fer four years. Nobody really chooses their leadership, it’s a shell game. Look at the Cheney family, they feed on endless war and stroking the defense contractors. Who did they support? Yer candidate, right? Did that give ya the willies? Nah, it was a no-brainer fer a lot of people. They just pulled the lever anyway. The merry-go-round kept spinning...”

 

The Cuyahoga-County journalist seethed with discontent. She wanted to vomit over the phone connection.

 

“NO, NO, NO, NO! YOU CAN’T BE THAT CALLOUS! IT ISN’T POSSIBLE! DON’T TELL ME YOU VOTED LIBERTARIAN AGAIN! YOU”RE SMARTER THAN THAT, LINK! TOO SMART TO WASTE YOUR VOTE ON A PIPE DREAM FANTASY! YOU DON’T WASTE YOUR CITIZENSHIP!”

 

Her genetic counterpart yawned loudly while taking another hit of liquor.

 

“I’s all a damn puppet show. Ain’t ya sussed that out? Lots of talk and very little action. Nothing matters, nobody matters. Did ya see how that CEO of United Healthcare got snuffed? Who’s crying over that hit? Yeah it was shocking, but then again, people get shot every day in the big cities. Just not people who matter. Would there be a gawdamm riot if I took a bullet? Ya can bet it’d be on the back page of yer paper, if it got covered at all...”

 

Libby rattled her rainbow bangles, while gesturing with arms spread wide.

 

“NO, NO, NO, NO! I won’t accept that! This is a free country! We all matter! Black lives, trans lives, gay lives, poor lives, homeless lives, addicted lives, every life!”

 

Lincoln had taken a seat on his wooden bench. As he watched, the caravan of MAGA disciples continued to circle around their development.

 

“All I know is that the natives out here in my township are restless right now. Damn, they’re having one hell of a party! Bud Light is running in the street! There’s confetti made from shredded bulletins about our piss water and rent increases. Ya think anybody is shaking in their boots? Nah, they’re excited about getting Big Don back in the Oval Office. He’ll be ordering McDonald’s fer Vance, Elon, Vivek, RFK Jr., and the whole frigging crew. Four more years is their mantra. Four more years! Which reminds me, I lost out on that house at the junction of Sidley Road. So, I guess it’s four more years fer me too, in this garbage dump, if I live that long!”

 

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 3: Rage

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

Judi Yonrak had been a realtor for long enough to know that the process of buying a home was one that affected people in different ways. Some met the pitfalls of this process with curiosity and unflagging optimism. While others fretted vocally over every detail and setback. Yet for her contrarian friend at Evergreen Estates, the yield of attempting to escape his downtrodden environment was more unpredictable in nature. She could not be sure of how he would react to the news that his best prospect in years for an exit from the park had just been taken off the market.

 

So with a bit of diplomacy in mind, and a measure of self-defense intended, she placed a call rather than revisiting Lot 13 in person.

 

“Link, this your friend from the property office in Chardon. I’m sorry to say that the manufactured home we’ve been discussing has... been sold. It happened so quickly that my head is spinning. Please don’t think that I wasn’t on top of the details. The seller didn’t even give me a chance to negotiate a better deal. They just took the first offer! I could’ve done better, but there was no time to argue the point. I wasn’t officially on the case so there is no recourse for me as an agent. I hope you’ll understand! I don’t have anything else that is comparable in mind, but trust me, I will keep looking...”

 

T.C. Lincoln was silent when replaying the message on his cell phone, hours later. He sat with the morning air hovering at 19 degrees. A temperature that permeated every layer of clothing he wore. His coffee chilled quickly, almost before the mug could meet his chapped lips. There were hints of frost in his gray beard. But now, nothing mattered.

 

After putting the wireless device aside, he huddled over his knees. A swelling of rage filled his chest. He began to rock on the wooden bench, until it creaked and groaned with stress fatigue. Then, in a final surrender to emotion, he turned sideways, and faced the corner post that framed his inset cubicle.

 

BAMMMMM!

 

His fist shattered the frozen timber with a strike of uncontrolled anger. It made his knuckles bleed. A second hit loosened the trim around his doorway. And turned his hand bloody red. A third sent pine fragments scattering across the deck.

 

“MOTHERFUCKER! MOTHERFUCKER! MOTHERFUCKER!”

 

His caffeine vessel had disappeared, in the outburst of emotion. A slushy pool of cold coffee surrounded his work boots. From the yard, there was a yowl of protest. His porch companion, a stray feline with patchy colors in its fur, one that had visited sporadically for two or three years, ran for cover.

 

His right arm cocked for another surge of muscular energy. But this time, he simply shook off the tension, and slumped in place.

 

“I’ll never get out of here... never! They can bury me in the dirt. With a whiskey flask by my head!”

 

A wash of liquor soon calmed his mood, despite being too early on the clock dial for inebriation. As he crept toward oblivion, this gentle cloak of indifference made him feel safe. But a raucous noise from down the street interrupted the progression.

 

A combative, pudgy neighbor known as Linn Speck, had staked out a spot in the center of his own yard. He held a bullhorn in one hand. With a bubbling bottle of champagne, in the other. 

 

“Victory party at my house! When we win this round at the ballot box, everyone is welcome to sit at my cinder-block fire pit. I’ve got pallets saved from a warehouse in Middlefield! Come one, come all! Make America Great Again! Make America Great!”

 

Lincoln had no vested interest in politics, or religion, of any kind. So, he and the fledgling, community activist knew no common ground. They were philosophical opposites. One eschewed the very concept of overarching authority, by nature. The other felt empowered by God to lead and direct a willing population of believers.

 

The reclusive hermit shouted an oath, though he was too distant to be heard.

 

“HEY SHITHEAD! KISS MY GAWDAMM ASS, OKAY? KISS IT TWO TIMES!”

 

In a drunken stupor, he replayed the message from Geauga Realty. Every word seared the cerebral matter in his skull. He mumbled along as if repeating lyrics from a song on the radio.

 

“I’m sorry to say that the manufactured home we’ve been discussing has... been sold. It happened so quickly that my head is spinning. Please don’t think that I wasn’t on top of the details...”

 

A fourth, violent burst made him punch at the wounded wall, until his wrist ached with a warning of broken bones. He crouched low in his seat, almost toppling onto the floorboards.

 

“Motherfucker!”

 

At the hovel occupied by Linn and Haki Speck, he could see other residents of the mobile village beginning to gather. They carried cases of Busch and Bud Light, cheap beer and bags of Walmart snacks. A line formed at the driveway. Flames and a chemical stench of lighter fluid permeated the morning. A chant of loyalty echoed as the group grew to dozens of bodies, and more.

 

“MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! MAKE AMERICA GREAT!”

 

Teetering in a haze of alcohol, the cranky oldster realized that despite his standoffish reputation among the mainstream residents, he had become an accepted part of their social order. Someone who had willingly inhabited his narrow strip of earth for so long, that reeking of beer and brown spirits, and the odor of many days going unwashed, did not shock anyone. He was generally averse to contact with those who surrounded his boxcar hovel. Yet they knew of his prickly habits, and accepted him as one of their own.

 

He was a porcupine among the livestock. Better seen, when viewed from a distance.

 

With his eyes slamming shut, he played the voicemail record one last time. Just to be certain of his woeful position. The words hit his ears like a fiery brand of iron.

 

“The seller didn’t even give me a chance to negotiate a better deal. They just took the first offer! I could’ve done better, but there was no time to argue the point. I wasn’t officially on the case so there is no recourse for me as an agent. I hope you’ll understand! I don’t have anything else that is comparable in mind, but trust me, I will keep looking...”

 

Unconsciousness came in a merciful fog of negation, as he returned the phone to his hoodie pocket. He would sleep outside for over an hour, in defiance of the frosty climate. Eventually, his arthritic limbs would struggle enough to carry him through the open doorway, to the sofa. There, he would descend into a deep chasm of nothingness.

 

His home search was at an end. He would be a resident of the trashy trailer park, until death finally carried him to eternity.

 

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 2: Frustration

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

 

The afternoon at Evergreen Estates had turned decidedly bitter, when Judi Yonrak arrived in her Cadillac cruiser. Snow piles lined the streets from previous days, with new precipitation covering the tarmac. Yet as she approached Lot 13, Townshend Lincoln was in his usual spot, on a bench nestled at the back his inset porch. He was dressed in winter attire and leather gloves, with only his shaggy hair and beard showing from underneath the layers. A square bottle of Jack Daniel’s sat in his lap. He was red-faced, and loud when she opened the door of her SUV.

 

The veteran realtor was bundled in a long, purple overcoat. Her short-cropped mane was streaked with blonde highlights that brightened in the wash of pale sunshine.

 

“I got all the details, Link! Some good and some bad. May I come inside?”

 

Her potential buyer slurred out a reply, after raising his whiskey in a toast of good cheer.

 

“What’s wrong with sitting right here, ma’am? Shit, we ain’t seen the real bluster of December yet. Wait till January or February cranks out the frost! C’mon, pull up the guest chair!”

 

He gestured toward a plastic, Walmart shower seat, intended for bathroom use. It had been sitting next to the trash barrel, and was half-covered with snow.

 

Judi shivered a bit before protesting.

 

“Are you serious? It’s awful out here! Let’s go in your living room and hash through an agreement I can take back to the seller of this manufactured bungalow on Sidley Road...”

 

Lincoln groaned and took a swig of the brown liquor.

 

“Shit, I’m not bothered by the temperature! Take a hit of this Tennessee antifreeze and you won’t be, either!”

 

His professional contact shivered for a second time. She was slightly disgusted by his carelessness with the bottle of high-proof hooch, yet amused in the same instant.

 

“Look, I was right about the financing. It has to go conventional. The interest rate I can get you is great considering how bad our markets have gotten. But you’ll need $13,000 down. You can do that, right?”

 

The hairy hermit spit juice and saliva like a garden hose being unwound.

 

“HOW MUCH? WHAT THE HELL, D’YA THINK I’M A GAWDAMM MISER OR SOMETHING? MY ASS IS BROKE! I DON’T HAVE TWO BUCKS SAVED IN MY WALLET! I LIVE ON A MONTHLY DOLE FROM SOCIAL SECURITY DISABILITY!”

 

The property queen adjusted her stylish, gold-rimmed glasses.

 

“I could get you a loan maybe, my company deals with Chardon Savings Bank...”

 

Lincoln belched hard enough that the storm door rattled on its rusted hinges.

 

“GET A LOAN TA GET A LOAN? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT NONSENSE?”

 

Judi felt melting snow soaking through her nylons, as she sat on the creaky shower chair.

 

“Link, I can only do so much to help you, okay? We’ve got to follow procedures. I shouldn’t even be involved with this, as I won’t make a penny on the transaction. But we’ve known each other for years...”

 

The drunken loner scratched his scraggly beard, and coughed phlegm.

 

“Alright then, what happens if I get ta do that and qualify fer a loan on the doublewide?”

 

His helper crossed her legs, as a whisper of Arctic wind blew over the wooden deck.

 

“You’ve got to handle the legwork yourself, since the seller is going without an agent. I’ll do what I can, but it’ll be unusual to say the least. If I get caught by my bosses, they might have a fit. Part of my commissions go to them, you know...”

 

The inebriated iconoclast could barely get his eyes to focus. But his thirst had not abated. He took another long pull of southern liquor from the bottle, then held his breath until the burn subsided.

 

“And after that, I can move in? It’s a done deal? I finally get a ticket outta this shithole?”

 

Judi gasped at the roughness of her friend’s demeanor. Yet it was nothing unexpected.

 

“The distance between this park and that piece of land isn’t considerable. I’d guess you could accomplish the move with lots of short trips. Maybe neighbors or friends would help?”

 

Lincoln chortled, with unrestrained glee.

 

“LINN SPECK DOWN THE STREET WOULD PROBABLY HIRE A DAMN MOVING COMPANY, JUST TA GET MY HIDE SHIPPED OUT! HE’S TRASHED ME WITH THE PARK, TOWNSHIP TRUSTEES, THE PREACHER AT OUR CHURCH ON THE SQUARE, AND EVEN MAYLENE JEFKA WHO LIVES ACROSS THE STREET! SHE’S LIKE A GRANDMA TA EVERYBODY HERE!”

 

The realtor felt her stomach beginning to turn sour. Silently, she wondered if making contact about the prefab house had been a mistake.

 

“I just need you to sign some paperwork. It’ll give me the right to represent you, and provide cover for my negotiation with the seller...”

 

Her rowdy associate gestured as if reaching for an ink pen.

 

“FUCK IT, LET’S GO! WORK YER MAGIC SPELL! I WANT OUT OF THIS FREAKING GRAVEYARD BEFORE SOMEBODY PLANTS MY DEAD ASS IN THE GROUND!”

 

Judi fumbled through her satchel, looking for a notepad and writing instrument.

 

“This will do until I can get a formal document printed. I just need your endorsement on paper, to show that we’ve struck a bargain and I can informally act as your agent...”

 

Lincoln scribbled his signature on the handwritten sheet while squinting. His fingers were already numb.

 

“I can’t see for fuck, without my reading glasses. But there ya go, who’s gonna poke around in yer shit anyway? The crowd in this park would throw a party if I left. Nobody has the balls ta come by fer a drink, except maybe a couple of blue-collar bikers who live back by the woods. They can relate ta my attitude. The rest of these losers are skittish about my daily habits. You’d think this was a gawdamm kindergarten class or something! They tiptoe around the conservative religous crazies and militia types. I say screw ‘em, screw ‘em all!”

 

When the property expert finally returned to her vehicle, she had become slightly blue from being outdoors for so long. But the prospect of making a sale, even one off the books, warmed her mood. On the way back to her gravel-road destination, she dialed a cellular number listed for the seller. Overhead, the cloudy sky had begun to clear. She had to flip down a sun visor to combat the flood of natural light. Something that lifted her spirits. But when the call went through, this impulsive boost dissipated quickly.

 

A familiar voice spoke over the wireless connection, with regret.

 

“Who is this? The lady from Geauga Realty, Incorporated? Hey, I left a message at your office, a few minutes ago. My home sold this afternoon! I knew it’d get snapped up immediately! Thanks anyway, for trying to help! Maybe your client can find something else!”

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 1: Stuck

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln had woefully marked 22 years at the Evergreen Estates mobile village, as summer approached in Thompson Township. He was grizzled and gray and socially non-compliant. Someone who preferred to be numb when considering that two decades had passed since his arrival. After reaching that milestone, he began to work even harder on escaping the junkyard pit of gloom, forever. A goal that had been unreachable for so long that it seemed he would take his final breath amid the rusted pickup trucks and prefab shacks of his adopted neighborhood. He scanned real estate listings, and kept watch for any signs of movement in local markets. Yet as fall arrived and then slid toward the seasonal isolation of winter, hope for better days evaporated.

 

With lake-effect snow bombarding the rural development, he crouched on his porch, with layers of clothing, gloves, and Tennessee whiskey providing comfort. Bouts of sunshine lit up the frosty terrain, as a mocking tribute to temperatures that were below the point of freezing. It did little to warm his insides. But he was grateful for the scent of fresh air in his nostrils. Stuck inside, he had only the musty odor of dirty carpet and sheets of wood paneling, long past their prime. Opening the front door was a ritual he cherished. A small step toward fleeing the trashy oasis, forever.

 

With droplets of brown nectar dripping lazily from his beard, he heard a notification chirp. Then another, and another. All vibrating in his shirt pocket, under a Red Kap overcoat, and Realtree camouflage hoodie. When he checked the device, there was a message left by his adviser and sales contact, Judi Yonrak. Her voice squeaked from a voicemail recording, with a lilt of excitement making him sit up straight.

 

“Link! I know you’ve been house hunting for months and years. These times are tough, my friend. There is a place on Sidley Road though, maybe a third bigger than your current trailer. It sits on an acre or two of land. I’ll have to check the official report. My sister had an early Christmas party in Geneva, and I was driving home. Road work forced me to make a detour, up a gravel road and across to Route 166! That was fortuitous though, I spied the manufactured home by accident. It’s not much different than what you’ve got now, but has a lot more privacy. There’d be no more booming, Pop Country tunes coming through your walls. Or residents wandering around, day and night, looking for something to steal...”

 

Even with the chilly air, the cranky hermit felt his cheeks flush red, immediately.

 

“GAWDAMM! THAT SOUNDS A WHOLE LOT BETTER THAN SITTING HERE IN PLYWOOD HELL!”

 

Lincoln had not held a job in eight years, at least. Though his credit score was still decent. He had a savings account that was nearly depleted. And not much else to boast about. A disability award kept him from being hungry, and homeless.

 

After finishing the liquor bottle, and adjusting his trucker hat, he dialed the number for Geauga Realty, Incorporated. Hot breaths made the screen of his cellphone go opaque with fog.

 

“Hey lady, this is yer drunk pal in the boxcar shithole, down by the border with Ashtabula County. Are ya sure this place is still available? Every time I get a bite on the line, somebody else snags it before I can hobble over ta take a look! Don’t bust my balls again, please! I need a ticket out of this black hole, pronto!”

 

His contact had more than two decades of experience as a professional representative. She was polite, well-groomed, and attractive for someone who avoided the spotlight of selling via social media accounts. Her perky, charming nature kept clients attentive.

 

“The monthly payment is probably about what you’re spending right now, to rent that strip of grass and concrete. It’d be a better deal in every way. The only hitch is financing. They are selling it on their own. They don’t have the home listed with me or anyone. I’d guess it will go conventional, you’d need a down payment of some kind...”

 

The reclusive iconoclast had begun to salivate.

 

“FUCK IT! I DON’T CARE WHAT IT TAKES, I’LL GIVE ‘EM MY RIGHT TESTICLE TO GET OUT OF HERE! IT’S A DAMN WONDER I’VE LASTED THIS LONG! BY GOD, THERE’S A VISIT FROM THE SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT ALMOST EVERY OTHER DAY! WE’VE GOT METH-HEADS, STONERS, MILITIA TYPES, AND A HANDFUL OF RELIGIOUS ZEALOTS WHO WANT TA REFORM EVERYBODY! I’M NOT IN ANY OF THOSE GROUPS. I JUST WANT TA GET DRUNK IN PEACE!”

 

Judi snorted and laughed at his honest plea. She scribbled on a notepad, sitting atop paperwork at her office desk.

 

“I’ll do you a favor and drive over there this afternoon. Keep in mind that with no agreement, I don’t make any money. Yet we’ve known each other for a long, long time. I understand how much it would mean to move out of your hovel. Which makes me think, your hillbilly roots are showing! I’ve never heard your vocal twang resound so convincingly...”

 

Lincoln bowed his head, with bubbles of whiskey lingering in the air.

 

“I’d be obliged to ya, ma’am!”

 

As the selling agent revisited her potential score, it looked a bit less appealing than when seen from the roadway. There were blemishes and issues of all sorts. But the basic structure stood strong. It had been maintained by the owner himself, and family members with carpentry skills. The yard was flat and unimproved. A space that had lots of potential. Other than dusty conditions, being situated on an unpaved route, the environment seemed appealing.

 

Just as she had suspected, a conventional loan was specified. Her alcoholic friend living in a shipping container would need to plunk down $13,000 for the transaction to be completed. Not a ridiculous sum of cash, particularly with market conditions so unfavorable. But she wondered if he would be able to scrape together that many dollars, without some sort of assistance.

 

After meeting with the owner, she sat in her sparkling, Cadillac SUV, parked on the gravel driveway. Her cellular reception was poor, being down the hillside from town, and east of the nearest tower. She could not get a call to go through. So finally, desperation made her embrace an impulsive change of plans.

 

She turned the shiny beast around, and decided to gamble on a face-to-face visit with the cranky oldster. Evergreen Estates was only about a mile around the corner. If she hurried, they could discuss the terms of sale over lunch, at a restaurant on the square. Or, if her buyer was too inebriated, while sitting in the snow, on his rustic porch.

 

Either alternative was bound to produce some kind of fireworks. She hoped that in the end, they could reach an agreement that would pay dividends for everyone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Guitar Man”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

 

In yonder days, when I was a teenager living in New York State, the pursuit of Rock & Roll dreams occupied my thoughts with an obsessive hold that was literally inescapable. Every moment of the day somehow tangentially related to the idea that I would find success as a music poet. The foundation for such projects always involved a guitar of some sort. Most often, out-of-reach plucksters hung up for sale at stores around my home, in the city of Ithaca. I would visit and drool, and ask about payment plans. Which of course mattered little, because I had no regular income, or any desire to submit myself to punching a time clock. This disparity meant that my only tool in the game was a battered, three-quarter scale, no-name Japanese axe. A tonal mess that I originally thought must have been a Teisco, but later identified as an even more pedestrian Kawai product. Made by the company that acquired their name and designs in 1967. My soundpole was tinny, prone to breaking strings, and the subject of much teasing from friends who had ‘real’ guitars made by companies like Fender and Gibson, or better copycats from the Orient. Yet when patched through a homemade amplifier fashioned from a cassette player and a Philco, cathedral radio that had belonged to my great-grandfather, it produced a considerable growl. I had wired an input jack directly to a connection for the tape head, so the mismatch in signals produced a wall of feedback when potted up to full blast.

 

Sadly, nothing I had after that primitive, experimental period ever reproduced the yield of my desperate creativity.

 

Associates in the Empire State who shared my appetite for the public stage owned a variety of their own instruments, all better than my personal prize. One named Judah had a sunburst, Ibanez Les Paul copy, which I borrowed on occasion. The counterfeit Gibbo was solid and played well enough to inspire lawsuits later, over copyright infringement. I enjoyed sessions with that plectrum player in my hands. Another six-string slinger of the same brand was a black, Deluxe 59er, used by my pal David who was a cohort at the local Channel 13 public-access studio. Girlfriend Suze had a red, Fender Bullet, a budget, bottom-end twanger with a thumping resonance. But most notable in that era was our chum Invisible Dick, who possessed a booming, Hagstrom 8-string bass, made in Sweden. An oddball piece to behold, even at that time.

 

I was humbled to be stuck with a music machine of such unremarkable quality. So, when better days arrived and I had the financial foundation to support a bigger stable, I began to buy guitars whenever they appeared. First, this included a blue, Crescendo copy of a teardrop Vox, then a Supro arch-top, in an orange hue, and finally, a Harmony Stratotone H45, because it reminded me of the woody mule used by Brian Jones, in his early period with the Rolling Stones.

 

I bought and bought and bought, until my closets and crawlspaces and knick-knack nooks were all jammed with guitars. But then, came a realization that over time, my chops had diminished. I had arthritis in both hands, and poor circulation. My fingers swelled when trying to hammer out riffs. I could barely manage to compose verses of power-chord glee. Though my writing abilities remained unaffected.

 

If I were more practical, this epiphany would’ve stalled my quest. But instead, despite sober moments of reflection and remorse, I once again started to peruse listings on eBay and other online sites.

 

It was a habit that I could seemingly not unlearn.

 

“Well I quit my job down at the car wash

Left my mama a goodbye note

By sundown I’d left Kingston

With my guitar under my coat

I hitchhiked all the way down to Memphis

Got a room at the YMCA

For the next three weeks I went a hauntin’ them nightclubs

Just lookin’ for a place to play

Well, I thought my pickin’ would set ‘em on fire

But nobody wanted to hire

A guitar man...”

 

Despite being surrounded by these talismans of a bygone self, I hadn’t really practiced in years. Life had taken me on a detour adventure, one fraught with all sorts of challenges and pitfalls. Job losses, divorces, relocations, and disability. In the fray, I had lost touch with this once-important habit. When I did attempt to revisit the craft, a struggle ensued. Though in my head, there were still visions of fantasy. I could hear stanzas of Rock anthems, echoing from those yonder times.

 

The spirit was alive, somewhere. Inspired by masters like Chuck Berry, Link Wray, Keith Richards, Roy Buchanan, and the rest.

 

“Well, I nearly ‘bout starved to death down in Memphis

I run outta money and luck

So I bummed me a ride down to Macon, Georgia

On a overloaded poultry truck

I thumbed on down to Panama City

Started checkin’ out some o’ them all night bars

Hopin’ I could make myself a dollar

Makin’ music on my guitar

I got the same old story at them all night piers

There ain’t no room around here

For a guitar man...”

 

Scrolling through entries on my computer, I saw an assortment of familiar targets. Telecasters, Stratocasters, Mosrite versions, Guilds and Gretsch beauties, and such. Cobbled-together relics from the United Kingdom, Europe, and the old Soviet Bloc. One-off specials, handcrafted, luthier creations, and trashy outliers with wild dimensions, materials, and colors.

 

My search was indefensible, in terms of a meager budget, and plodding performing ability. Yet the vibe once identified as ‘Guitar Acquisition Syndrome’ by author and contact Jay Wright persisted. I could not completely let go of my hunger to have at least one more steed in my stable.

 

“So I slept in the hobo jungles

Roamed a thousand miles of track

Till I found myself in Mobile Alabama

At a club they call Big Jack’s

A little four-piece band was jammin’

So I took my guitar and sat in

I showed ‘em what a band would sound like

With a swingin’ little

Guitar man

Show ‘em son...”

 

Everything I saw was in questionable condition, or overpriced, or both. Several of the Gibson models had cracked necks at the headstock, a familiar malady. Others were missing pickups, tuners, wiring, or guards. But the proliferation of Teisco’s May Queen versions made me pant with lust, a peculiar offering shaped like an artist’s palette. I remembered seeing one at Arrowhead Music, in nearby Mentor, many years ago. Something that at the time, I considered to be a sighting of a holy grail. Now, having been reproduced by the Eastwood company, they were more plentiful. And cheap!

 

I had to log off with my hands shaking. Even in the confined space of a 21^st Century existence, cowered by empty pockets and failing fingers, it was still difficult not to think like a guitar man.

 

Note: Lyrics for ‘Guitar Man’ c. 1967, Jerry Reed

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here - “Frozen Pipes Serenade”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

 

Living in a community of mobile homes is humbling for many reasons. Not the least of which is the stigma attached to such properties by those who dwell in more proper living spaces. Amazingly, friends who exist with a meager amount of support, and others who are more refined culturally and blessed with greater sums of financial wealth, prefer to be stuck in a shoebox somewhere. An apartment or condominium, or perhaps, a luxury high-rise. Many others plant their flag in the suburban soil of a home tract, as part of a neighborhood neatly arranged by developers. They extol the virtues of a real house with a yard and garage. But those of us who live outside of such comfortable, social bubbles, do so in a world charted by sacrifice.

 

I often liken my trailer to having the confined characteristics of a shipping container. And indeed, though it is portable in a literal sense, moving this longbox is not something accomplished so easily as parking a motor vehicle. Wheels would have to be reattached, axles positioned and checked, and a yoke bolted to the front frame section.

 

A neighbor who thought that this chore was none too daunting moved his own domicile, last year during the winter. The result was tragic for him and his brood. Multiple breakdowns along the way to a new site, and finally, a roadgoing flip and structural collapse. This dramatic event made me sad, to see a fellow adventurer suffering. Yet it amused others along my crumbling street, who did not embrace such risky plans with the zeal of a naïve explorer.

 

While I have no particular appetite for such a gamble in my own life, being able to survive frosty months in my prefab structure has proven to be challenging enough. With every dip of the thermometer causing hand-wringing and concern. The worry over icy pipes and a slippery access ramp is persistent. Moreover, being huddled inside, with snow piling up in prodigious quantities, only deepens the misery.

 

Still, none of this represents the frightening prospect of living without water.

 

A recent episode followed the usual curve of weather in northeastern Ohio. We had enjoyed spectacular conditions throughout the fall, long into November. But immediately after Thanksgiving, meteorological experts predicted a drop in the numbers that would have our teeth chattering, and Lake Erie cranking up the ski machine. This pattern manifested itself over a week, with more than five feet of snow being rudely deposited along the northcoast.

 

As a disabled retiree, I knew well to stock up ahead of time. I loaded the kitchen cupboards and stacked cases of water and beer in my living room. Beef smokies were bagged and in the refrigerator. I had bread and pretzels and plenty of canned foods at the ready.

 

A couple of neighbors checked in, to make sure that I was safe and steady throughout this pelting of winter white. One was a young fellow from up the street, a retail worker with a cheerful disposition, and lots of patience for listening to my stories about the world before he was born. The other was a chum who had also battled his way through many years as a decent, honest soul. A person I did not know well, and yet, connected with easily, through respect and shared experiences. In our blue-collar environment.

 

After surviving this brief interlude of isolation, I felt confident about getting through the latter days of our year, and into the pristine pages of a new calendar. But an unexpected wrecking ball shattered that mood of calm, before I could catch my breath.

 

Our water supply at the park, always a subject of much debate because of its unpredictable nature and poor quality, failed around four o’clock in the morning.

 

Temperatures were already in the teens when this dreaded event occurred. I had prepared by leaving a faucet partially open in my bathtub. A trick learned some 22 years earlier, from a veteran of the development. But with the flow of crystal liquid interrupted, suddenly, I was powerless to defend my home. Excuses multiplied before any corrective action was taken. Our park manager was sidelined by some undetermined ailment. We did not have anyone on the staff with enough knowledge to work at the wellhouse. Manned hours at the office were already cut short, due to hiring issues.

 

It took more than a dozen hours before anything happened. Though the sound of bitching and moaning must have been audible, all the way to Canada.

 

When our service was restored, I still had no water. At least four of us shared that delay. While sitting idle, the in-ground hydrants had frozen. Some, even with a liberal amount of heat tape wrapping the mechanisms up, like a counterculture Christmas present.

 

Lots of cursing followed. And many posts in our online, Facebook groups.

 

“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS! EVERY YEAR IT HAPPENS! EVERY DAMNED YEAR!”

 

I did not vocalize my woes, having long ago learned that spouting off verbally usually made no difference. But I did connect with fellow residents, to stay informed. And, while dryly swaddled in extra blankets, indoors, I pondered that my paternal grandparents had lived in an old farmhouse, southeast of Columbus, which never had plumbing or pipes, or a heating system installed. They used a kerosene heater, and wore their coats throughout the blustery months. Such sturdy folk were able to brave harsh conditions with a grin and a nod to circumstance. But for me, the yield was different. Four or five days without this familiar convenience turned me into a quivering mass of jelly.

 

I could barely eat or sleep or even sit at my desk. Every thought turned to my plight. While feeling stalled and surly, cranky and crabby. Knocked off the rails by having to live like my progenitors.

 

Amid the uncertainty of being denied this comfort, I ordered pizza delivery and drank Miller beer. A stray feline that had adopted my homestead as her own waystation kept me occupied and amused. I tried to watch shows on my flatscreen display, yet couldn’t stay interested for long. My concentration skills had been busted.

 

In a sense, I was actually living off-the-grid. Something that a sturdier individual might boast about, in a tell-all memoir, or a novel. I should have met my fate more graciously. But many aluminum cylinders of High Life brew tipped me into a chasm of oblivion. I fell asleep in sweaty, soiled clothes, with laundry and dished piled everywhere. Then, near the hour of midnight, I had to visit my bathroom. On the way, teetering with both canes, I heard the spray of an open valve.

 

The hooked faucet on my tub was alive again, with a streaming bounty of purified rain!

 

Oddly, in the aftermath of such memorable happenings, everything seems very quiet. And it did indeed, as I started a load in my automatic washer, cleaned dishes at the sink, and then sat with the stray kitty, in a chair by my sofa.

 

Quiet, quiet, quiet.

 

Eventually, my temporary companion had filled her belly with Meow Mix from a Gibson bowl, and lingered in front of the door. She wanted to go on a hunt, after hours. Her emotional support had ended. So, just as I might have done for one of my dogs, I let her out, to wander. I would not see her again until later, the next morning.

 

I checked and rechecked the tub, to make sure that it was still bubbling away. A weather report indicated that our state would find itself back in the 50’s, once the new day had blossomed. Finally, I had pushed my endurance far enough.

 

I fell asleep in my camo hoodie, around two o’clock in the morning. But not before putting my hands together, and whispering a prayer of thanks, for modernity.