TPV Chapter 12: Bureau

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

After a day of frustration and failure, Libby Raal retreated to her small condominium in Lakewood. She had been home long enough to feed her Maine Coon feline, change into a pair of patterned, Maruchan Ramen pajamas, and start a teakettle boiling on the stove. She switched on MSNBC to catch a special broadcast from celebrity pundit Rachel Madcow, and sorted through her handwritten notes, while waiting to relax with a hot beverage.

 

A short, sharp knock at the door caught her by surprise. When she peered through the viewport, a trio of men in black overcoats were standing on her stoop. It was late enough in the evening that a security protocol at her development should have kept any visitors waiting at the main entrance, by their guard station. Somehow, however, they had managed to breach that line of defense.

 

One of the group, a fellow with close-cropped hair and squarish jaw, raised a silver badge where it could be seen from her vantage point. The logo was one she recognized, immediately. Even though it was unfamiliar.

 

“My name is Darren Strock, from the Cleveland FBI Field Office. May I speak with you for a moment, Ms. Raal?”

 

Libby felt her legs weaken. She feared allowing access to the strange men who already knew her name. Yet instinctively realized that they were not going to simply go away without some sort of conversation.

 

“I don’t know you, or your business here. How did you get past our gatekeeper?”

 

The government agent pocketed his identification, and bowed gracefully.

 

“As I said, miss, we are from the Cleveland FBI office. I’d like to ask a couple of questions about your recent trip to Geauga County, and Evergreen Estates...”

 

The active journalist felt her insides go into a twist.

 

“HOW DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT?”

 

Strock smiled with a confident tightening of his long face.

 

“You’re known as a staff member at the Plain Dealer, Ms. Raal. Don’t sell yourself short. Your business and mine are very similar. We both live on digging up evidence, and putting it to good use. Might we chat about our shared interests for a moment?”

 

Libby unlocked the door, while fiddling with her cell phone. She had set the device to dial 911, when needed. It was hidden in her wooly pocket.

 

“Alright, come inside. You don’t want to talk out in the open, I’m sure. Actually, I’d expect you to drag me away to your offices, not do a face-to-face right here and now!”

 

The G-Man and his team were courteous enough to avoid soiling her carpet with their shoes. Instead, the trio remained at her entryway, which was under an arch decorated with artificial flowers.

 

“I’ll speak candidly, since you and I are both professionals. There’s been an uptick in the militia presence at that rural, trailer community. We noticed it right after Election Day, in November. Our Special Agent in Charge expects to be fired soon. The director has already stepped down. Most of my colleagues believe that our core mission will be sidelined in favor of other interests. But I want to stay the course. Protecting the country from radical elements matters. We know the threats they pose...”

 

His host heard the kettle beginning to whistle. She excused herself, and extinguished the stove burner, without filling her mug with hot water.

 

“I don’t get what that has to do with me, okay? You guys are creepy, I’ll just say it out loud. You also talk a lot for federal dudes. I’m not used to that! In my line of work, it’s normally hard to get a quote out of stooges like you!”

 

Agent Strock breathed heavily, and stroked his chin.

 

“Your take on this visit is correct. As I said, our mission will be changing soon. I want this to stay between us, which I know it will. Because no one would believe your report if you rendered it in print...”

 

Libby felt her eyes growing wider.

 

“Yeah, that’s probably true. Nobody seems to want my content right now, anyway! But why collar me here about that hillbilly, mobile-home park? There’s nothing happening on the premises that I could see. Just the normal grind of broke people struggling not to get evicted!”

 

The government representative raised an eyebrow and tilted his head.

 

“Nothing? That’s why I’m here. I want to know what you saw and heard. Our intelligence officers have indicated that the old Jonovic militia is scheming to take advantage of a new administration, In Washington...”

 

The newspaper scribe was puzzled. She leaned against the back of her sofa. Her face felt hot and red.

 

“Who? What? You’re spitting out riddles, bruh! What’s your point?”

 

The G-Man folded his arms in a power move.

 

“Did you interact with a resident named Aimes Porter Hefti?”

 

Raal grinned while pondering their confrontation.

 

“That asshole with the thing for pretending to be a patriot soldier? He stopped me at the property entrance. I had finished doing interviews, and was on my way out. There weren’t many people who wanted to cooperate. That’s a MAGA enclave, for sure. They don’t trust anyone who looks like me, you know?”

 

Strock smiled again. He pondered her piercings, tattoos, and black mane, streaked with purple and gray.

 

“I can imagine! But that’s not my line of thinking, miss. I’d like to know if he divulged any details. Could you sense that his group was being reorganized and rearmed? They apparently have a large contingent of supporters across the county. And a stash of weapons, some of which were procured from underground sources, including 3-D printing...”

 

The counterculture femme flushed with amazement.

 

“If your agency knows all of that, then why aren’t those hicks in jail?”

 

The FBI servant narrowed his gaze.

 

“We can learn more with them on the outside, rather than the inside. There’ll come a time for arrests to be made. But not now. Show me your notes, please. Help me understand what is going on at that waste pit before things get any worse...”

 

Libby shuddered with ire.

 

“MY NOTES? HELL NO, DUDE! I’M A MEMBER OF THE PRESS! THOSE ARE SACRED! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! GET OUT RIGHT NOW!”

 

The trio of agents glared at her, intently. Yet stayed silent. Finally, their leader offered a word of warning.

 

“I’ll leave you with this caveat. Remember that surveillance can be done by all sorts of people in the modern world. Not just members of my bureau, but also amateur sleuths and agitators. Anyone with an agenda to promote. You’d be safer under my umbrella. I caution you, don’t be foolish...”

 

The veteran scribbler clenched her fists and gestured toward the entryway.

 

“GET OUT OF HERE! GET OUT AND DAMMIT, STAY AWAY!”

TPV Chapter 11: Disappointment

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

After conducting interviews at Evergreen Estates, Libby Raal was glad to put the rural, trailer community out of her mind. Yet returning to Cleveland, and the LGBT enclave of radical journalists, artists, and student activists, posed a problem. She was unlikely to earn a great amount of money from sharing her work in the alternative, Queer Conundrum publication. So, as a detour from her original plan, she returned with humility to the Plain Dealer offices. There, she sought another interview with Editor-in-Chief Magda Poleski.

 

The media maven was regally attired, as if she had come directly from some function with other dignitaries in the city. Her frosted mane was an artificial coif of yesteryear. It sparkled with reflections from gold jewelry, and brooches, that dotted her outfit. But despite looking dated, the print princess still exuded an irresistible appeal.

 

Her knowledge of the craft remained impeccable.

 

“So, you’ve come here to seek forgiveness? Is that it, Ms. Raal?”

 

The unemployed reporter clenched her hands, reflexively. But stifled an urge to speak in rebellious tones.

 

“Ms. Maggie, I know we had a curious encounter, last week. Your wisdom sank in after we parted though, I get what you were saying. Readers want realism in the press, So, I got a contrasting view from some of the protest kids here by Lake Erie. That inspired me to visit the heart of MAGA country. I spent a day talking to voters in Geauga County...”

 

Poleski went wide-eyed and red.

 

“YOU DID WHAT?”

 

Her professional underling brought out a notebook full of scribbled entries.

 

“I visited an old development of mobile homes at the northeast corner, in Thompson Township. I learned that it has been a center for political organizing and religious groups. You know, the type of people that generally ride with the GOP. I guessed that it really would be the perfect spot to gather quotes on what happened in November...”

 

The media queen needed to hear more before offering an opinion. But she reached across the desk in a gesture of comity.

 

“I'll agree that this paper needs to offer hard facts about what transpired. We also want to titillate our subscribers, to keep them attentive. There are so many sources for news, that a print journal has to stay competitive, or disappear from the marketplace. Did you find evidence of the Ku Klux Klan, for example? That would justify us running with an expose on the park!”

 

Raal was shocked by the query.

 

“The Klan? Well no, nothing like that was evident. Sorry!”

 

Poleski smoothed her silk blouse, and reclined in the roller chair.

 

“Okay then, how about the American Nazi Party? Any swastikas flying while you were there? Any German helmets or Iron Crosses, maybe?”

 

Her potential contributor had to reply with a curt word of negation.

 

“No, not a single one, Ms. P! Nothing so extreme.”

 

The newspaper steward shook her head with disappointment.

 

“QAnon, maybe? The Oath Keepers? Or Patriot Front?”

 

Libby sighed and closed her notebook.

 

“Just some clown who was trying to rally the troops, so to speak. He’s been a thorn in the side of local police, and the sheriff’s department, for several years. A homegrown instigator. Literally, a buffoon.”

 

The wordsmithing chief chewed her lip and nodded.

 

“So, you’ve got interviews with relevant citizens? Did they provide evidence of how residents think in that part of our state? We need to underpin anything we offer with a solid foundation of facts. Or give equal time to other viewpoints... bias is out of the question this time around.”

 

Raal shrugged and reopened her notes.

 

“I umm... spoke with two participants, and the property manager. No one else would unlock their door. The people on-site are very suspicious of outsiders. It isn’t surprising with all of the negative attention they’ve received over the years. Many trustees and commissioners aren’t thrilled with having them there, at all. The park is considered to be a ghetto. A dumping ground for the dregs of society. A wasteland in the midst of prosperity.”

 

Editor Poleski frowned while tapping her mauve nails on the desktop.

 

“Let me be blunt... I need headlines, woman! Something that’ll sell copies of our publication! We’re drowning in profit loss, currently. The youth segment is going for TikTok and YouTube, or Bluesky and WhatsApp. All kinds of platforms I can’t even name yet. They come and go so quickly, the pace of revolution has increased with every year. Technology has exploded the world we know. Artificial Intelligence is about to drown us in prefab content. Give me something I can hang on the wall, like an award plaque! I don’t care which side comes out clean, and who gets dirtied. I just need a hit on the target! Make it happen! And make it last! I need to score ratings points for this company. Or we’ll all be out of work, very soon! The days of feeding bits of half-truth to willing supplicants is over! We’ve got to earn our keep!”

 

Libby left the meeting with a dejected sense of loss. Her purpose as a writer was now in question. Only revisiting the QC offices could provide hope. So, she sought another audience with Quantra Bolden, the hippie mother and alternative icon.

 

After arriving for their chat, a similar line of questioning sprang from her lips.

 

“You actually went to that disgusting village of boxcar homes? What happened next? Did you see Klansmen or Nazis or any other hate groups, marching down the street? Elon Musk is one of them, I just need proof!”

 

Raal slouched on her perch. A sudden realization that she was no better off than before made her stomach quiver.

 

“No, nothing so obvious. The first people I encountered were quite churchy. Religious zealots of the kind normally found in rural areas. They even had a copy of the Trump Bible on their coffee table.”

 

Bolden brushed the long, gray locks away from her piercing eyes.

 

“Look, our volunteers need a reason to get motivated by the work we do, in this little commune. Telling them that their adversaries are fond of Sunday School and Jesus won’t exactly light a fire. We need more reasons to get them marching. You didn’t see anything at that park? No bazookas or machine guns, or fascist followers doing the goosestep around their trailers?”

 

Libby laughed softly.

 

“No, not at all. You sound surprisingly like my erstwhile boss at the Pee Dee. Can’t we just run with the tagline of progressivism and free thinking? That used to be enough. Minority rights, coexistence, tolerance, diversity, inclusion, equity...”

 

Mother Quantra smiled and tilted her head forward.

 

“If only! That’s the world in which I grew up, friend. It’s long gone now, however. We’ve arrived in an age of incessant, streaming bullshit! Nobody believes anyone else. We’re all safe in our tribes. But not outside of the bubble. I don’t know how to fix things. I only know that they need someone to put right what has become such a mess...”

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 10: Escape

 

 

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

After speaking with Linn and Haki Speck, and the obliterated loner, T.C. Lincoln, Libby Raal retreated to her Toyota Prius. She had a notepad and other tools of the trade in a belly bag which was quickly cast aside. Behind the steering wheel, she sent a text to the Queer Conundrum office in Cleveland, before getting underway. Just to announce the completion of her task. No one else at Evergreen Estates had been eager, or willing, to participate in an interview session. So, the visit ended abruptly without any great revelation about why residents of the trailer community were so confrontational in their social and political views. Only the reclusive hermit at Lot 13 had offered any insight. Though his brain had been soaked in strong drink, he spoke with a sober view of life at the isolated park.

 

Once the tiny vehicle puttered to life, its operator turned toward the property entrance, and Pine Trail Road. She had almost made her exit, when a line of lifted, diesel pickup trucks blocked the tarmac. Gadsden flags and Confederate banners waved from poles in all of the beds. Country music blared from speakers, inside of the cabs. Then, a figure dressed in military garb stood at the roadway edge. He brandished a shotgun with impunity.

 

“Y’ALL BEEN SNEAKING AROUND HERE ALL DAY! WHAT’S YER GAME, MISS?”

 

Libby lost most of the color in her cheeks. Her piercings seemed to sting.

 

“Umm... I was on my way out actually!”

 

Aimes Hefti had been an unofficial leader at the development, ever since the suicide of Esmeralda Jonovic, years before. The militia queen had nearly been captured by agents from the FBI field office, near Lake Erie. Yet her rebel spirit could not abide the thought of imprisonment, and debriefing by government officials. So, she chose to die as a martyr. Her name was still revered, all across the region.

 

“I CAN SEE THAT! BUT WHAT THE FUCK WERE Y’ALL DOING HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE?”

 

The frightened reporter pondered her options, while offering an explanation.

 

“I’m with a couple of print purveyors in Cuyahoga County. The umm... Plain Dealer is one you might know. All I’ve done is ask a few questions. I don’t suppose you’d like to contribute any extra content to my story?”

 

The extremist soldier chortled and lowered his weapon.

 

“CONTRIBUTE? HELL NO I DON’T WANT TO SAY ANYTHING ON THE RECORD! EXCEPT THAT WE NEED TO SEARCH YER LITTLE SHITBOX BEFORE LETTING Y’ALL GO!”

 

Ms. Raal stiffened while clutching the steering wheel.

 

“Search? For what??”

 

Aimes bared his teeth like an angry mutt.

 

“WHAT KIND OF CRAP ARE Y’ALL GONNA WRITE? SOMETHING TA MAKE US LOOK BAD WITH YER READERS? WE’VE BEEN SLAMMED FER YEARS BY THE GAWDAMM MEDIA TYPES! BUT THAT’LL END RIGHT HERE, AND RIGHT NOW. GIVE UP YER PURSE, LADY!”

 

The professional writer bristled at his dominant tone. Perspiration had begun to fog her thick-rimmed glasses.

 

“Sorry man, my car is off limits. Clear the driveway so I can get out of your hair. Okay?”

 

A red, Chevy Silverado on huge tires backed into her vehicle. It’s bumper almost touched the windshield. Exhaust made her cough. And the group that surrounded her automobile remained defiant.

 

“ONE MORE TIME, DAMMIT! OPEN YER DOOR AND GET OUT! WE’RE GONNA HAVE A LOOK-SEE UNDER YER SEATS AND IN THE BACK!”

 

Libby stroked her arm tattoos. Specifically, one with an emblem for peace.

 

“Go for it, big dude! Pull me through the window. There’s a Go-Pro on my dash, didn’t you notice? I’ve got contacts at WJW Channel 8. They’d love to run the video...”

 

One of the platoon members swung a baseball bat, and cracked the forward glass, easily. He took great amusement at humiliating the counterculture waif.

 

“OUT OF THE FUCKING CAR! OUT! OUT! OUT! I’LL SMASH YER SHITTY CAMERA!”

 

From up the street, a click-clack grinding of Grande Dame Maylene Jefka resounded, as she moved along slowly with her walker. The afternoon had been sunny enough that she felt impulsively brave. Having been stuck inside for a week or more, the brief thaw offered a chance to get her mail. She savored the fresh air like a fine perfume.

 

“Boys, what’s all the shouting about? It’s a glorious day for late December, don’t you think? God gives us blessings, when we need them most!”

 

Aimes and his armed patrol went limp upon seeing the gray-headed matron. She had lived in the neighborhood longer than anyone else. Some said, since the late 1950’s, when mobile homes were first brought to the distant township.

 

“GRANNY, IT AIN’T SAFER FER Y’ALL TO BE OUT HERE ALONE! WHERE’S YER KIDS? OR GRANDKIDS? OR GREAT-GRANDKIDS?”

 

The Sunday-School teacher and church icon smiled with feigned ignorance. Silver curls of hair bounced in the wind, from under her wool beret.

 

“I just wanted to check my box at the postal shed. There might be a catalog from Lane Bryant, or a letter from my sister in Florida. Something to help me pass the time. I get so bored watching the television, all the good programs are reruns!”

 

Finally, the militia horde had lost their courage. No one wanted to appear aggressive, while being scolded by an octogenarian woman that everyone loved and respected.

 

“GRANNY, WE’D BE GLAD TO HELP IF Y’ALL WANT! ONE OF US COULD RUN OVER AND GET YER MAIL, AND THEN GIVE YA AN ESCORT BACK HOME!”

 

Maylene tilted her head backward, and glared confidently.

 

“I don’t need to be babied, son! You can run along, and let this poor lady go about her business. She doesn’t need your help, and neither do I, trust me! These old bones can still get motivated when the sun is shining! It’s the love of Jesus that keeps me going! Didn’t I teach you that up the hill at our sanctuary? Amen, I say! Amen! Amen! Amen!”

 

Everyone in the militia brigade lowered their heads. Any thought of being argumentative had evaporated.

 

Aimes smoothed his buzz cut, and reddened with bashful regret. He had been neutered as an authority figure by the stooped-over marm, in her out-of-style winter coat from Fisher’s Big Wheel.

 

“Yes ma’am, that’s it! We’ll be going now, y’all stay safe, alright? Don’t hesitate to call if yer in need. Any one of us will come running! Yes we will!”

 

Libby nodded with gratitude, while shifting her plain Toyota into gear. The undersized, hybrid motor left a trail of sanitized vapor in its wake. She would be glad to see the lakeshore, again. And grateful to have escaped the rural, boxcar settlement, alive.

 

With a bit of luck, she would never see the junkyard paradise, again.

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 9: Drunk

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln had started drinking early on the Monday before Christmas. While others in his rural neighborhood were feeling festive, and full of the holiday spirit, he had tumbled into a funk of social alienation. There were no Yuletide emblems around his trailer household. No authentic trees erected for the occasion, only a single string of lights purchased on eBay, and wrapped around a broom handle that stood in a dark corner of his living room. He did not sing carols or quote scriptures to commemorate the season. Instead, he dived deep into the liquor cabinet, by his broken dishwasher. After all of the Jack Daniel’s had been consumed, he turned to less expensive brands, like Evan Williams, Old Grandad, and even a stray bottle of Ancient Age, left on his doorstep by a resident who had been evicted for delinquent lot-rent bills. This wash of high-proof booze made him comfortably numb, and tipsy. Yet when the sound of tiny footsteps echoed up his access ramp, immediately, he snapped to attention.

 

Visitors at his prefab hovel were rare. Most people in the park knew better than to approach him while in the midst of an alcohol binge. Or when sobriety made him speak forcefully and to the point, on any issue. Generally, he was left alone, other than when absolutely necessary. A passing wave while driving by was the safest gesture. Knowing that any contact made was brief in duration seemed to give him comfort. He did not seek out the company of fellow residents. Only Maylene Jefka, a matron in their community who lived directly across the street, could approach the contrarian loner with daily greetings. She had the kind demeanor of someone who had raised generations of family members. Her heart was pure. And her keen sense of timing always matched his prevailing mood.

 

Libby Raal could feel tension in the air, as she pulled up to Lincoln’s driveway. Something that grew stronger with each minute she spent in the mobile-home development. According to online research, Evergreen Estates had originally been built on swampland in a northeastern quadrant of Geauga County. Over acreage fortified with construction scraps and landfill. A persistent odor of junkyard waste permeated the environment. The property was unclean in every sense. A dirty, ramshackle cluster of boxcar dwellings. Its inhabitants were no better. Though they proved to be resourceful in carving a life out of the thick, Buckeye mud. They made living under such harsh conditions possible through grit and determination.

 

It was that tradition of blue-collar defiance that caused the veteran reporter to tremble slightly, as she approached the target for her next interview.

 

“Hello sir, I’m here talking to people who voted in the recent election, for a newspaper assignment. Would you have a moment to chat about that historic day?”

 

The reclusive hermit was inebriated, and very confused.

 

“WHAT DID YA SAY? NEWSPAPER? SHIT, MOST OF THESE LOCAL YOKELS CAN’T EVEN READ, MA’AM...”

 

Libby shuddered at this declaration. She zipped up her Cleveland State hoodie, feeling a chill.

 

“I’ve been told your nickname in the park is Link. May I address you so casually? And perhaps pause here for a moment? I’d just like to get some thoughts about the coming year, and what we might expect to see as Americans, from our leadership in Washington...”

 

The crusty contrarian scratched his gray beard, and belched with a spew of saliva dripping in the aftermath.

 

“MY THOUGHTS? NOBODY EVER GAVE A RAT’S ASS ABOUT MY THOUGHTS, BEFORE!”

 

The snow had melted a bit, since temperatures were on an upswing, momentarily. More of winter’s bluster lingered in the forecast, however. Yet with solar rays peeking through the clouds, it was not uncomfortable on the wooden deck and inset porch.

 

Ms. Raal instinctively reached for a Walmart shower chair, that had been hidden behind a Waste Management trash receptacle, in the corner. She sat down, and took out her notebook, and pen.

 

“The data I found about vote totals shows that this area went overwhelmingly for the MAGA option, in November. Was that your choice, sir? Are you a fan of Donald J. Trump?”

 

Lincoln coughed phlegm until his face turned red.

 

“FAN OF THE ORANGE FUCK? NAH, NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT...”

 

This reaction made the professional writer brighten with hope. She scribbled excitedly while sitting up straight.

 

“Aha! Very good, Link! Very good! So, how did it feel voting for a progressive candidate, when your neighbors were cheering about a second tour of duty for the man from Mar-a-Lago?”

 

Her subject spat droplets of whiskey and beer.

 

“VOTE FOR WHO? WHAT THE HELL DID YA SAY? GET REAL, SISTER! I’M A GAWDAMM LIBERTARIAN!”

 

Libby sputtered like a flat tire deflating.

 

“Oh... oh... oh my! I got that wrong, completely. Sorry, sir! Well then, you chose to flush your vote because neither party offered you a strong chance of seeing real change? I get it! You must’ve been furious!”

 

Lincoln clenched his fists and howled like a wolf.

 

“FLUSH MY VOTE? SCREW THAT NOISE, LADY! DID YA COME OUT HERE JUST TO INSULT MY INTELLIGENCE? I’VE GONE INDEPENDENT MY WHOLE, MISERABLE LIFE, STARTING WITH ROGER MAC BRIDE IN 1976...”

 

The Lake Erie journalist was puzzled by his reference.

 

“Who? Is that an actual person? Was he on the ballot for real?”

 

Her host thumped the weathered railing next to his bench.

 

“GOOGLE IT, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! I THOUGHT YA WERE A FREAKING NEWSHOUND!”

 

Ms. Raal realized that her line of questioning had been run off the rails. She leaned forward, folded both hands, and lowered her tone to a squeak.

 

“Look, I’m sorry, really sorry. This isn’t what I had in mind. I’m working on a feature about how people in this region of Ohio made their choices at the polls, a few weeks ago. So far, everyone I’ve encountered in this township stood with the Republican alternative. On the way here in my car, I saw a few yard signs for Harris & Walz, but not many. Your perspective is unique, to say the least. Give me a chance to convey that to my readers!”

 

The shaggy drunk slumped over his knees, feeling more compliant at last. He gestured with a half-empty bottle of brown juice. Suddenly, his hillbilly brogue vanished in favor of a more professorial accent.

 

“The system is broken. I’ve believed that since my teenage years, long before it became stylish to express such sentiments. That vibration is in the air. But most folks can’t make the leap to voting third-party. Money matters. Political power matters. They get stuck in a groove. Those of us who jump the curb get mocked for being intellectually strange. That’s where I live. That’s where I have lived, for the past 50 years...”

 

Libby opened her notebook once again. She jotted down entries at a furious pace.

 

“But your streak of thinking critically didn’t translate into a pull of the lever for that real estate tycoon and TV star? What made you different from all the rest in this trailer park? Was it having a better education, more life experiences, a bigger brain, or something else? Tell me, so I can explain it to subscribers of my paper!”

 

Lincoln growled a bit before answering. He did not consider himself to be better than anyone in his isolated community.

 

“I’ve got no ego, none at all. Don’t think that my nose is in the air. I detest that kind of attitude. These people are a lot like members of my own family. Having disagreements doesn’t keep us from sharing hope for a better tomorrow. Do you recall Michael Moore saying in 2016 that stumping for the Orange Man would be like throwing a Molotov Cocktail in the voting booth? That’s how they felt, apparently. With chaos abroad, inflation spiraling out of control at home, and porous borders, the choice seemed obvious, I guess. Not to me, and not for many friends who I knew during days spent living in the Empire State. But here in Ohio, that’s how the rivers flow. God help us, when the new year arrives. One side is rejoicing, and the other is weeping and gnashing their teeth, in despair. I just figure it’ll be more of the same. More lobbyists, more bureaucrats, more bullshit. More of the power structure grinding every good initiative to a halt. I hope that I’m wrong, though. Believe me, I want to be wrong...”

 

The wandering scribe put away her pad and writing instrument. She extended her hand with a smile, and a nod of gratitude.

 

“Thank you, Link. Your outlook is one I’ll remember for a long time! Be well!”

 

 

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 8: Expelled

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-25)

 

 

Libby Raal had barely gotten a chance to ask her first question at the Speck abode, when Haki was interrupted by her husband Linn, who barged out of the household bedroom half-dressed and in a state of obvious irritation. After going through his closet, it had become clear that a recent weight fluctuation meant that many of his good clothes, for church and public events, would no longer fit.

 

He bounced into the living room, sliding across the worn carpet in his gym socks.

 

“Who’s this you’ve invited over? A new resident to join our park association?”

 

His spouse was embarrassed and had to clear her throat before answering.

 

“Honey, calm down! This woman is a reporter from Cleveland, she’s writing a piece about our county. Isn’t that exciting?”

 

Libby Raal smiled and snorted gently. Her piercings shimmered in the fluorescent light.

 

“I prefer to be addressed as ‘they’ or ‘them’ if you please. You know, a non-judgmental, non-binary, non-divisive, prejudice-free term of reference...”

 

Linn felt his jaw drop. He stood in the kitchen doorway, still sweating profusely.

 

“They or them? What the heck?”

 

His wife attempted to smooth over the issue, politely.

 

“It doesn’t matter, why don’t you sit with us? I think it’s exciting to meet someone from the Plain Dealer, don’t you, dear?”

 

Ms. Raal breathed deeply and adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses. Her notepad scribbling was barely legible.

 

“I’d just like to learn more about how people in this rural township view the recent election. My readers want insight into how you voted here...”

 

The pudgy, community organizer adjusted his sagging suspenders. His white T-shirt was damp and sticky.

 

“SO YOU CAN MAKE FUN OF US IN YOUR STORY? IS THAT THE GOAL? GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”

 

The professional reporter cradled her pen and pad carefully.

 

“No, no, of course not. I’d like to get your take on what happened. Let’s say that people along the lakeshore are confused about the results. I think it would be useful to hear from someone like yourself. Say whatever you like...”

 

Haki lounged between cushions on the sofa. She began to sense that an outburst was imminent.

 

“Well, we voted Republican, of course. Everybody in this neighborhood did, pretty much. Didn’t you?”

 

Libby filled a half-page with jotted references. While sidestepping the personal query.

 

“And you feel good about doing that? You feel good about where we will be headed in the upcoming year?”

 

Linn scratched his jowls and braced himself in the doorway.

 

“OF COURSE I DO! WHAT KIND OF A STUPID QUESTION IS THAT, LADY?”

 

The newspaper scribe took more notes while continuing her quiz.

 

“A felony conviction didn’t bother you? A judgement of being liable in a civil court for rape? Numerous episodes of sexual harassment? Nefarious business deals? And support from extremist groups?”

 

Mrs. Speck blinked several times while collecting her thoughts.

 

“We’ve heard all of that nonsense, okay? It doesn’t wash out here in the country. We know how the game is played. Wouldn’t you rather ask us about something else? Like our pets or hobbies, or our taste in music? We like WKKY in Geneva, they play lots of great, Pop Country tunes!”

 

Libby stopped writing and took off her spectacles.

 

“I do apologize. This isn’t going to be a rehash of past offenses. I’d just like to know what inspired you and your husband to select such a chaotic figure at the ballot box...”

 

The head of household sputtered and started to wave his fists.

 

“PATRIOTISM INSPIRED US! FAITH IN JESUS INSPIRED US! HAVING MORALS INSPIRED US! WANTING TO KEEP MY ARMY RIFLES INSPIRED US! WHAT DO YOU THINK, WOMAN? IT ISN’T HARD TO GUESS!”

 

Haki projected a mood of sweetness that contrasted with her mate. But did not disagree regarding his political vibe.

 

“You can knock on every door in our neighborhood, miss! You’ll get the same answer over and over and over. We weren’t fooled by a billion dollars of special-interest money. It really didn’t make a difference!”

 

Ms. Raal sighed and chewed her bottom lip.

 

“Advice from Oprah made no difference? Barack and Michelle Obama? Bill Clinton? LeBron James? Even Bruce Springsteen?”

 

Linn patted his overfed belly.

 

“LOOK AT THE PRICE OF EGGS! OF MILK AND BREAD! OF GASOLINE! OF EVERYTHING! IT’S ALL BEEN A MESS UNDER THE CURRENT PRESIDENT! WE NEVER SHOULD’VE DUMPED TRUMP! YOU HAVE TO ADMIT THAT I’M RIGHT! SCREW YOUR PRONOUNS AND TRANS ATHLETES AND ALL THAT LEFTY NOISE! IT’S TIME TO MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! GET IT? MAKE AMERICA GREAT!”

 

The journalist had turned pale and cold. She capped her pen and closed the notebook.

 

“I’m sorry, this was supposed to be a candid session to gather evidence. But I can see that we’re getting nowhere. I’m sorry for wasting your time...”

 

Haki frowned with disappointment. She was sad over losing a chance for celebrity status in their mobile-home community.

 

“Does this mean you won’t be writing your article, after all? You won’t take any photos of our trailer?”

 

Her husband clenched his teeth and growled with defiance.

 

“Tell your readers the truth! That residents in Evergreen Estates are too smart to be fooled by the bureaucrats in Washington! Tell them we still love America, apple pie, and pickup trucks! Tell them that this nation is still alive and kicking! Very much alive!”

 

Libby tried to restrain her mouth. But failed quickly.

 

“I didn’t see a 4x4 hauler in your driveway, Mr. Speck. It looked more like a rusted, Japanese sedan with bald tires and faded paint...”

 

Linn finally lost his temper. He had run out of patience with the media contact.

 

“GET OUT OF HERE! GET OUT! GET OUT! GO BACK TO YOUR LITTLE PARADISE BY LAKE ERIE! GO BACK TO YOUR POT-SMOKING, RAINBOW FLAG, ENVIRONMENTALIST CRAZIES! YOU DON’T BELONG IN THIS PARK! YOU DON’T BELONG IN THIS TOWNSHIP! DAMMIT, YOU DON’T EVEN BELONG IN THIS STATE!”

 

Trinkets and bric-a-brac flew from the coffee table, as Ms. Raal lunged for the front door. She was visibly shaken by the order of expulsion. And dubious about staying in the isolated community, to complete her assignment.

 

She sat in her car until both hands stopped shaking. Then, remembered that her income stream had been severed. Some sort of project would have to be finished for her to get paid. That basic need steadied her nerves and brought clarity, once again.

 

With reluctance, she drove up the rustic boulevard to Lot 13. There, lived the most controversial resident of their isolated property. Someone who was known to be drunk and explosive, nearly every day.

 

She hoped that courageously interviewing him might save her reputation, and career.

Trailer Park Victory Chapter 7: Assignment

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

 

The drive to Evergreen Estates from Cleveland took Libby Raal on a journey measured both in geographical distance, and life experiences. She was more than reluctant to see the county of her birth, again. It represented a revisiting of bad memories from her childhood. Touching base with people that had once caused her to feel like an alien. Yet her knowledge of such a place was useful in providing balance as a journalist. Still, she did not need or want to be reminded that there were citizens of the republic who followed the Orange Man with absolute fealty.

 

But that fact was now inescapable, living anywhere in Ohio.

 

She had no professional credentials for the Queer Conundrum staff. In her belly bag were business cards from the Plain Dealer, but she hesitated to use them now. Her status with that notable gazette was very much in question. Yet at a place like the rural trailer oasis, it probably did not matter. She would be viewed with some suspicion, regardless of her ability to provide identification.

 

Upon entering the park, she went directly to the main office. It was a cramped, corner installation, next to the maintenance garage. There, she encountered Dana Alvarez, the property manager. Someone with dark hair, deep eyes, and a strong will to represent both her employer and residents of the community.

 

Libby brightened upon seeing that her initial contact was a Latina with a broad smile and gregarious nature.

 

“I’m here on a writing assignment, and want to interview some of your people, if that is permitted. For insight into the local scene, not as a hit piece or anything...”

 

The supervisor on duty wrinkled her nose and winked.

 

“Hit piece? Why would you say that? Dios mio!”

 

The Cleveland scribe sighed gently before answering. She wanted to project a friendly vibe.

 

“I know you’ve had visitors from Cuyahoga County in the past. I’ve seen some of their work. This place has had... quite a reputation!”

 

Dana tilted her head to one side and nodded.

 

“I don’t know about that toro mierda! This has only been my job for a few months. I collect the lot rent, and make sure things keep moving. That’s enough for me!”

 

Ms. Raal wanted to abandon her mission and go running back to Lake Erie. But she persisted in staying focused on the task.

 

“I’ve seen those I-Team reports on WJW Channel 8, it doesn’t sound like things ever quieted down here, until this past summer, anyway. I wouldn’t do anything to stir the pot, believe me. But what happened in November... well, that has the urban population confused. I’ll admit to being in that group, myself. So, this is what I’d like to do... get a local take on why we are about to have a second dose of the guy selling NFTs, gold shoes and bibles!”

 

The park manager shrugged and tapped her ink pen on the desktop.

 

“You want an idea of what makes this neighborhood tick? I got no clue, hermana! I didn’t grow up here. I never saw this township before getting an interview with the owner. Well, with somebody who represented her, that is, I don’t really know!”

 

Libby flushed with curiosity. She reached for a notepad in her bag.

 

“She? You mean this park is owned by a woman? That might be an angle for a story, a female entrepreneur in a rural region...”

 

Dana bristled at being quizzed so intently. She lusted for a cigarette.

 

“YOU ASK TOO DAMN MANY QUESTIONS! I DON’T SAY TOO MUCH, THAT KEEPS ME OUT OF TROUBLE!”

 

The wandering reporter laughed at her dismissive attitude.

 

“I get it, that’s a safe way to live. All I need is your permission to knock on a few doors. Can you suggest who might be a good prospect for conversation?”

 

The manager crossed her legs and cradled her head in one hand.

 

“Well, you can talk to anybody I suppose. I’d stay away from Linn Speck on the corner, and Townshend Lincoln at Lot 13. Those two are enemies. Long-time combatientes, you know? Linn has his nose in the air, like he is special. And Link is a drunk. Just don’t piss off anybody, okay? Santa Madre, I don’t need no trouble!”

 

Ms. Raal pretended to agree on this plan. Yet upon leaving the office, she immediately decided to hit both of the forbidden residents, first. It was something she recalled from taking journalism courses as a youngster. To dig where the soil is rich.

 

Haki Speck answered the door, when she approached a weathered, brown trailer across from the property headquarters. Her sweatsuit was gray and pink, dotted with designs of the Christian cross. She stood tall and curvy, easily bigger than her husband.

 

“Who are you? A sales rep from Spectrum Cable, or the power company? We don’t need anything, thanks! Try someone else on this street!”

 

The freelancing writer shook her head and apologized.

 

“I’m sorry, may I explain my presence on your doorstep? I’m with... umm... some publications in the city. A newspaper and a 'zine, so to speak...”

 

The red-faced housewife immediately grew suspicious.

 

“NEWSPAPER? ZEEN? HUH? WHAT’S THE POINT OF COMING TO THIS DUMP IN THE WOODS? DID YOU GET LOST OR SOMETHING? THIS ISN’T THE ROCK HALL OF FAME!”

 

Libby reached into her belly bag for a business card from the Plain Dealer. For now, it would have to do as an introductory gesture.

 

“My work has been printed all over. If you’ve read anything with my byline, you know I strive to be fair and literal. I don’t twist tales or make up quotes...”

 

Haki held the card while raising a pair of reading glasses from its dangling chain.

 

“The Pee Dee? Oh my, we still subscribe to that paper! My husband hates how everything has turned into a website or a cellphone app. Come on inside, we’d be glad to have a chat. Would you like some coffee?”

 

From another room, Linn wrestled with his undersized trousers, and a pair of suspenders. He was rotund and balding. And very sweaty.

 

“Hey who the heck is that out there? If they are selling Girl Scout cookies, buy a few boxes! Otherwise, tell them to turn tail and get out of here!”

 

 

TPV Chapter 6: Conundrum

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

With her future at the Cleveland Plain Dealer now in doubt, journalist Libby Raal decided to pursue other alternatives for channeling the power of creative output. She had long been involved in progressive causes, and chased her career goals with the zeal of a true believer. The election results did much to sour her mood on the future of America. Yet she would not surrender her faith in democracy, or citizen action. Despite the doubtful status of media organizations who shared her outlook, she chose to seek another safe haven.

 

After scrolling through entries in her newspaper database, she realized that opportunities in the field had become decidedly slim. Blogs were so commonplace that they often got ignored by consumers. Podcasts were already abundant, and widely available in an oversaturated market. Websites were easy to create, and sometimes popular. But she was largely unknown outside of northeastern Ohio. Finally, she stumbled upon a print publication with headquarters in the metropolitan area. It was called ‘Queer Conundrum’ and had been in in existence since 1969.

 

When she read through details of its history, her cheeks began to flush with emotion. The monthly journal had been established as a reference point for the LGBT community, and their counterculture affiliates, who lived along Lake Erie. The gazette had evolved over time, and now encompassed an online version which was posted for readers around the nation, and world, free of charge.

 

She visited on a weekend between Christmas and New Year’s Day, when weather patterns were once again changing. A blast of warm air had temperatures soaring. Yet a meteorological crash was expected, with snow soon to appear in the forecast.

 

The QC office was in a brick building of uncertain vintage. It had become overgrown with vines and tall weeds, due to neglect and a minimal budget. A handmade placard hung by the front entrance, painted in rainbow hues. Inside, the staff was populated with young, non-binary students and their older mentors. Shades of purple and pink hair mixed with more seasoned colors of gray and white. The location was busy with social networking, public outreach, assistance programs, a lunchroom serving homeless citizens, and a floor of temporary housing for those in need.

 

Quantra Bolden had been an editor with the main publication, since graduating from Kent State University, in her twenties. She was old enough to have grandchildren working on the premises. But still retained the youthful energy of her bygone self. Instead of inhabiting an official office, she often used the on-site kitchen and tearoom as her workspace.

 

Libby was impressed by the casual nature of this arrangement.

 

“Ms. Q, I’ve brought you my resume, if there’s time to have a look. The Plain Dealer is cowering with MAGA crap once again surging in the polls! I need somewhere to land. Staying quiet, in a corner, just isn’t my thing!”

 

Bolden shook her long curls and cackled softly. She wore a pendant fashioned from fish bones and scavenger finds discovered along the waterfront.

 

“The Pee Dee, you say? Does anybody read that thing currently? I might give it a look now and then, but no one of this current generation pays attention to old media. Except for our rag, of course! I suppose we might be risk being classed in with yesterday’s news...”

 

The wandering scribe held a folder of articles she had penned for mainstream outlets around Cleveland.

 

“I was born and raised in Geauga County. It’s a different world out there, but that made me tough! I know a lot of Trump fanatics. They are all around in my old neighborhood. Along with stray, Amish families, and blue-collar types that you see in rural areas!”

 

The QC supervisor was intrigued by this confession. It seemed to offer an opportunity to broaden the appeal of her publication.

 

“Geauga? Oh my, that must’ve been a challenge! I can’t imagine living out that far! This city is more diverse. More tolerant. More sophisticated. I wouldn’t last a week in your home environment! Still, it makes me think that this 'zine needs to report with realism about what has happened just now. Some of my staff think that people like us will be sent to prison camps, or worse! We need insight on how others look at reality. Maybe that’s your niche? You could write honestly about that mindset. There is a place in your territory called Evergreen Estates, have you heard of it? Right by the county line with Ashtabula. That dirty, dilapidated park has been in the news, over and over, for years. Mainly for militia activity on its streets! That would be the target for your assignment. To interview residents, and expose their ignorance! You might be exactly what we’ve needed in the pages of Queer Conundrum! Someone with the gravitas to explain how the Orange Man has managed to con his way back into the White House!”

 

Suddenly, Raal felt sick at her stomach. She had started to swoon in her seat.

 

“That trailer park in Thompson Township? Are you... kidding? Please say that is a joke!”

 

Bolden smiled with wrinkles fanning out gently from her facial features.

 

“Not a jest, Libby. If you really want an opportunity to join our team, then that’s the peg on which to hang your shingle. Canvas that park, jot down your notes, and bring me a story about what you heard. No one here understands how voters could be so backward in their perceptions. It literally makes no sense! That’s an alien culture to us...”

 

Her prospective hire shuddered and shivered.

 

“AND YOU THINK I CAN FIND AN EXPLANATION?”

 

The print queen nodded to affirm her impulsive idea. Her hemp blouse was tattered and patched from being recycled, many times over.

 

“If you want to join our crew, and our community, then that’s the way. Bring me a piece I can run in our pages. Make it compelling, and authentic. Tell the true tale of why your home spot is a century behind the rest of this area. Our readers need to know. It’ll help to edify them, and maybe, to protect them from being dragged into a modern-day revisitation of the Dark Ages! Think of it as a public service. Think of it as your audition with Queer Conundrum. Think of it as... a new beginning!”

 

Once the interview had concluded, Libby returned to her hybrid car, and sat in silence while gripping the steering wheel. She had no other prospects for employment. And maintaining her connection with the Plain Dealer would mean groveling and begging for forgiveness, things that disgusted her intensely. Like a forced meal of liver and onions, instead of a selection from her typical, vegan menu.

 

Evergreen Estates was on Pine Trail Road, mere miles from where she had gone to grade school. The journey wouldn’t take long. Yet as she pondered her opportunity to shine, the assignment had her insides churning with unhappy vibes. She had managed to survive growing up as an outcast among laborers, cowboys and hunters, and such. But how could she last when tossed back into that boiling pot of redneck brine?

 

That fate made her pause, and whimper in reflection.