Kookshow, Chapter 3: Contact

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-25)

 

Pondering a face-to-face rendezvous with Kookshow Baby kept me on edge, while engaging in a daily ritual of imbibing alcoholic refreshments on the front porch. I rocked on my wooden bench with anticipation inspiring a sense of restlessness. Would it be logical to make a trek across the continent, by air? Or perhaps, to enjoy a more leisurely ride aboard an Amtrak train? These options popped into my head almost immediately, when pondering that the abandoned drive-in theater where Terry and Tiffany DuFoe lived was many hours away. Yet a nagging hint of sobriety diluted the effects of my libation. I remembered that household funds had already been sacrificed to pay bills for the month. With the remainder spent buying food and drink. Royalties from my book sales were automatically put back into the business, so that I could afford promotional copies to be sent out for the purpose of garnering interest from potential partners. Every penny had already been earmarked for some special use. So, the thought of traveling by commercial means did not seem possible.

 

Predictably, this heat of frustration only intensified the temperature outside of my trailer. It was 96 degrees when I opened my first Genesee brew.

 

While I was not particularly tech savvy by any means, it did appear that I could make contact with the media belle, via cyberspace, if some relevant information could be obtained. I guessed that her own mobile home might be located somewhere on the property used as a staging ground for Cult Radio A-Go-Go. Perhaps this longbox refuge might even have its own studio, in some minimalist form, constructed to make her broadcasting adventures easier to accomplish. Once again, I searched throughout the databases available in real-time. Yet found nothing. There were no Whitepages entries, no school records, no personal histories. I was completely stumped.

 

Yarl Trite, a New York associate with better skills as a computer operator, offered to help with my quest. But he too came up empty, after wading in the virtual ocean. I guessed that he must have spent several hours trying to prove his competence. Something I never doubted for a moment.

 

“You’re sure this lady exists, right? I mean, she must be using a stage name on the airwaves. Though you’d think there ought to be something out there, a website, an e-mail address, even an old-fashioned post office box, like yours. But I don’t have a clue about where she is... I get nothing for results. And I’m really, really good at this!”

 

I felt a knot forming in my stomach. Sweat soaked my longish hair, and shaggy beard.

 

“Yeah, I understand. There are show segments in an archive. All were originally on the CRAGG platform. That’s it though. She’s a mystery to me!”

 

My Empire State pal cleared his throat, and made a matter-of-fact observation.

 

“Look, if she did her work for your friends in California, why don’t you ask them how to get in touch? Wouldn’t that make more sense than wasting time and being disappointed?”

 

My face reddened with supreme embarrassment. He had hit the bullseye.

 

“You’re right, you’re right. Dad and daughter DuFoe would be able to hook me up, I reckon. Umm... maybe that just felt too much like being intellectually lazy. I handle things on my own, you know?”

 

Yarl laughed out loud. He was amused by this defensive proclamation.

 

“Quit being an ass, Rodman! Call them up! Or do whatever it takes. Do it tonight!”

 

After our brief conversation ended, I slouched in my seat. The heat index in Ohio was now well over 100 degrees. But I had turned numb while quenching my thirst. Crushed cans sat in an empty box, on top of my Weber grill. I had lost count of their number, and gone past a personal point-of-no-return with regard to comprehension. Still, the suggestion of my distant friend continued to reverberate. I knew his analysis was correct.

 

Though the hour had grown late in my part of the country, I realized that on the west coast, it would be early enough for an attempt at making civilized contact. With care and determination, I fumbled through the steps necessary to open Facebook Messenger on my cell phone. Then, sent a yellow emoji, with a single verse of Beatles lyrics, below.

 

“Help me if you can, I’m feeling down!”

 

Despite my fear about pleading for an intervention, it did not take long for Tiffany to respond, vocally. She sent a series of question marks, and a shrug emoji. Then offered to ease my woeful mood by calling directly.

 

“What’s wrong, Mr. Swindle? We don’t have another live show scheduled until Saturday. Did you think of an idea we might use, on the air?”

 

I babbled with the nervous energy of a schoolboy.

 

“I... umm... have been dreaming a lot recently. Of things that are quite weird, I must confess. These visions come in the dark of night, after I have passed out from long interludes on my beloved porch. Maybe it’s the effect of heat and drink, I’m not sure. Anyway, I receive the same visitor, nearly every night. Someone you know well, I think. She is brassy and bold, perhaps even bawdy at times. Yet the giddy inflections of her voice, with that rural twang, are damned infectious... I can’t get her out of my mind!”

 

For a moment, I thought that my west-coast benefactor had dropped her device. There were hushed words, whispers, and sounds of creaking furniture. Then, Tiffany snorted and whistled.

 

“Terry says you’ve been alone for too long! That kind of isolation isn’t healthy, to be honest.”

 

I reddened even more deeply than before.

 

“Yeah... my social circle has definitely diminished over the years. I get more accomplished that way. But in the wee hours past sunset, sometimes, I do feel haunted, and empty...”

 

The radio entrepreneur sighed heavily, before revealing that she could ease my heartache.

 

“If you want me to ask Kookshow about getting in touch, I’ll do it. But remember one thing Rod, the reality of a chase is rarely ever so satisfying when the run is over. Do you understand? That girl is headstrong. I don’t know of anyone who could tame her wild spirit. She’s young and free, and well... how old are you now?”

 

I had to clutch my belly. A temporary bout of nausea made me swoon.

 

“Old enough to know better, when I hear a siren’s call. Yet here I am, enchanted and under her spell!”

Kookshow, Chapter 2 – Obsession

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-25)

 

 

After making my video confession about having a crush on Kookshow Baby, this episode faded quickly in memory. Because she was a character known only through broadcasts over the Cult Radio A-Go-Go platform, I did not linger on my impulsive confession. Like most of the videos recorded outside, while enjoying adult refreshments, it became simply a blip on the timeline. An odd detour from more important work. I went back to other writing projects, and even pondered composing new music. Something I had been wanting to do for several years, without the discipline to make this task bear fruit. Playing guitar was now a difficult chore, due to various forms of disability that had affected my life routine. In my head, melodies continued to appear. Yet translating those bursts of inspiration into recordable work was challenging. I found it easier to tap at the keyboard. Though the desire to sing and play remained strong.

 

I might have forgotten the radio belle completely, except for occasional dreams about meeting her in person. These flights of fantasy were strangely detailed and authentic. They permeated my consciousness, coming more and more frequently with the passage of weeks and months. Almost as if she were reaching out over the vast, psychic continuum to make contact. Each time that I beheld her curvy, long-legged profile, adorned in homespun, yet titillating garments, I flushed with shyness. Something that was impossible to explain, being long past an age of innocence. She had the quick wit and savvy of a feral feline, born into a world where women might be preyed upon, if not for their own resourcefulness. I liked that she was strong, but gentle. It made me think of frontier days, when family survival depended on vigilance, and determination.

 

Eventually, I remembered Tiffany DuFoe mentioning that appearances by this mysterious figure had been saved in a collection of shows, online. During a restless night in the summer, while fretting over heat and humidity, I sat at my desk and looked up the Internet Archive website. Strangely, being barely awake actually helped this process.

 

“Hold on to yer britches, y’all... cuz it’s pret-near time for... Trailer Trash A-Go-Go! That’s right y’all! I’m a-takin’ over! It’s time for Kookshow Baby’s Trailer Trash A Go-Go! Hey y’all, it’s your very own favorite little Kookshow Baby here! That’s right, it’s your favorite southern girl of the south, that’s here with the premiere episode of Trailer Trash A-Go-Go, for Cult TV A-Go-Go. One that I’m sure is gonna be the first of many here on this net-television station thingy... whatever they call it. Now, being a strong, independent woman as I am, and of course being a scream queen who is known for her brains and not just her, umm, other parts... if you do know what I mean, I have decided to decline the technical assistance that Terry and Tiffany from Cult Radio have offered to give me... but you know, I don’t think I have to worry about it, ‘cause y’all know that scream queens are immensely intelligent. I’m sure I can figure this whole interweb thing out...”

 

Still drifting through a fog of post-slumber, cranial incapacitation, I pecked weakly at the keys, while scrolling through search engines of all kinds. Kookshow? Kookshow Baby? Kookshow the Trailer Trash Queen? Kookshow, Friend of the DuFoes? Kookshow on the Radio? Kookshow A-Go-Go? Kookshow the Enchanting, Hayseed Hottie? Kookshow, the Undiscovered, Hee Haw Honey? None of these terms produced any results, other than what I had already discovered. I felt frustrated, and empty. My heart had begun to ache. A vibe not felt in many, many years.

 

Finally, I vocalized the agony that gripped my soul. Yowling with a tone of desperation that seemed to bubble up from the pit of my mortal self, like lava flowing over the rocky sides of an awakening volcano.

 

“WHO THE HELL IS KOOKSHOW BABYYYYYYYYYYY?”

 

Upon returning to the previous site where I had landed, more of the giggly, effusive charm that caught my attention appeared. I hung on her every word. Her voice tickled my ears.

 

“Hey y’all, it’s me your little ol’ Kookshow Baby! I’ll bet y’all didn’t think you were gonna hear back from me this soon! Of course, y’all are loyal, Cult Radio A-Go-Go listeners. And if y’all have been listenin’ then you know I joined you just about, hmm, two months ago... I didn’t think that Terry and Tiffany from Cult Radio were gonna let me come back this soon. Oh, but guess what, apparently they decided that it was such good feedback... that maybe this little Kookshow is gonna get to come back more frequently...”

 

Dozing in my office chair, I slipped into a netherworld of wild images, floating in the ether. I remembered taking an airplane flight to Las Vegas, for my second honeymoon. Something that was wholly more satisfying than the actual marriage experience that followed. I saw visions of a deceased, great aunt who had lived in Apple Valley, California, where she was a hospital administrator. And a lost uncle, who had ditched the family brood over 25 years before. I knew he lived outside of San Francisco, and had often sent cards and letters to any address that seemed relevant, without getting a reply. But now, a new sense of immediacy had taken hold. I wanted to board a wide-winged, silver bird, and fly west. To the gold coast, and someone that I barely knew by any measure. A kindred spirit, who I reckoned was steeped in pop culture, movies, music, and art, like myself. A seeker of treasures, of tales, of unsolved riddles and forgotten fame. Someone who found observational humor in everyday experiences, like Lenny Bruce, George Carlin, or Jerry Seinfeld. But with the flair of Phyllis Diller, or the catty courage of Joan Rivers.

 

Mentally, my gray matter filled in blank pages left by fate. What I did not know about Kookshow Baby, I imagined from whole cloth. Like a redneck tailor, repurposing a T-shirt and denim trousers with a set of shears, until they framed the body of a budding, internet star. A woman gifted with grace of the sort found in blue-collar neighborhoods like my own. A village of mobile homes, in the northeast corner of Ohio. Where speaking freely was a gift not taken for granted. Where basic elements of living retained their worth. Where an outcast, disabled and alone, could flourish amid the social wreckage.

 

Meeting Kookshow, I guessed, would be like joining with my other half. A part of myself unknown until now. It was a gamble that saner minds might have found risky, and ill-advised.

 

But one that I was now prepared to take.

Kookshow, Chapter 1: Video

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-25)

 

 

My name is Rodman Stockton Swindle. This is my story.

 

During my existence as a legitimate, human entity, I pursued life goals that were somewhat typical for a middle-class American, with a family background in education and literature. I worked dutifully as a business manager, to secure an income that would support my family. Though while doing so, I also pursued creative writing and music as areas of genuine interest. Eventually, I attempted to blend these efforts into a single, unified plan for achieving success. Yet my downfall was in stumbling upon chaotic relationships with naive regularity. Before the age of 50, I managed to rack up two painful divorces, lose both families, my home, career, and good name in the community. To cope with the darkness that followed, I turned to beverage alcohol. A strategy rooted in failure, but accessible and very familiar.

 

Like the subject of ‘There Stands the Glass’ which was first popularized by Country artist Webb Pierce, I knew the bottle well.

 

The lifestyle precipitated by this collapse was centered around living in a community of mobile homes known as Evergreen Estates. A place where the normal order of social progress had been upended by poverty, paranoia, and a crass sort of extreme patriotism. Symbols from our national history were displayed openly in this rural village, with different, modern-era meanings attached. Sometimes, it seemed that I had landed in a territory of the old south, a preserve still governed by platitudes of the Jefferson Davis Confederacy. But within the confines of my rustic, residence park, it was not General Robert E. Lee who held heroic status. Instead, it was a figure who sprang from the world of real estate, In New York, to become a Canon saint. One who later found popularity as a television personality.

 

Donald J. Trump was now and forever the king of my neighborhood.

 

I offer these truths not to instigate any sort of political or cultural debate, but simply for the purpose of orientation. This is how I live and where my life is centered emotionally. As an outcast by every definition, I have discovered that being present in the moment, or in a place such as my trailer enclave, is risky and dangerous. Sometimes, I vent the woes accrued over a long and meandering course with frightening honesty. When these outbursts happen, many who share my spot on the map are confused and befuddled. Their tendency to cling tightly like hornets in a hive only intensifies the frustration that I feel in sharing their space. When disturbed by contrarian views, they react with aggression. Their swarming causes a kind of uneasiness that drives me deeper into drink. Fortunately, over time, I have become known well enough that most of those who occupy surrounding plots of land simply keep their distance. I am left alone to imbibe liquor and brew, while wallowing in emptiness.

 

A few kindred souls remain in touch, to ease this willful isolation, though all are separated by great geographical distances. Oddly, the magic web of current technological advancement makes it possible to sit by myself, languishing in this black hole of sorts, while remaining fully connected. It is a conundrum that rules what is left of my mortal self. I use a cellular device to record brief episodes of porch wisdom, and then post these snippets to online sites such as YouTube or TikTok. The conflict between eschewing human contact, and embracing a potential audience of worldwide followers, is notable. It makes me ponder the instability of my intellectual plateau. A foundation not built upon solid rock.

 

In segments captured with my phone, I usually ruminate about elements of daily living. For example, the effects of aging on family members and friends, who have succumbed to various health issues in a way that is alarming and inescapable. Janis, David, and my younger brother are all in skilled-care facilities. My sister is in a Cleveland hospital, after cancer surgery. My brother-in-law is battling senile dementia, an affliction that plagued my mother before her passing some years ago. Though disabled by declining mobility, and a persistent madness that offends others, yet spurs creative projects, I have somehow been spared through the goodwill of a loving creator. I am independent and able to endure.

 

On one occasion, I even spoke about prayer. This venture into the subject of faith was not one undertaken casually. But I tried to opine with a broad view of spirituality not necessarily expressed within the guardrails of any official religious dogma. I wanted to give a testimony of what works for me, personally, without proselytizing.

 

All of these episodes were made possible by being emboldened with refreshments and solitude. Something very much in keeping with the habits of my junkyard oasis. The French philosopher Jean-Jaques Rousseau is often recognized for quipping that ‘a drunk mind speaks a sober heart.’ Which may not be truly accurate in terms of psychology, or the effect of chemical concoctions on the human mind. Yet for the purpose of sitting on my porch in Ohio, a few miles south of Lake Erie, this popular declaration serves a purpose. It explains why someone who is desperate to maintain anonymity would pierce that cocoon of safety, by raising an appeal to be heard.

 

In a blue-collar realm of longbox dwellings, pickup trucks, storage barns, and furniture made from discarded, wood pallets, this Gallic thinker might have tapped into the thought continuum like Nostradamus. Seeing what others could only imagine. Knowing what few could hope to perceive.

 

I was comfortable enough in having documented these flashes of inspiration for posterity. But on a recent night in June, something more complex resounded when I lifted my wireless wafer, and began to ramble, vocally. I confessed a secret affection for a character occasionally heard on Cult Radio A-Go-Go, a streaming platform with live shows featured. A product of Terry and Tiffany DuFoe, who do their work at an abandoned drive-in theater in California. The giggly, giddy voice of Kookshow Baby is one that has often resonated both in my brain, and heart. Her ability to host programs when the others were away struck me as marvelous and compelling. She projected an air of confidence unaffected by self-consciousness or hesitation. This belle of broadcasting quickly became a personal favorite. Yet I knew little about her professional work, or resume. A lyrical version of ‘Harper Valley P.T.A.’ was all that I had for evidence of her past glory.

 

Swooning a bit on my bench, outside, I parted the veil and confessed affinity for her folksy approach to radio theater. Then, in a moment of reckless honesty, I admitted having fantasized about embracing her gently, and tasting her ruddy, red lips with abandon. I reckoned they would be soft and sweet, like a comb of honey.

 

In the moment, having bared my soul did not seem so outrageous. But a day later, after coffee and toast in the morning, I replayed my impulsive video clip, and flushed with embarrassment. Regret shook my insides. I pondered deleting the segment to cover this interlude of unintended candor. But before doing so, I read a comment offered via Instagram by the CRAGG founders. One that soothed my fear of having overstepped boundaries, with a fool’s lack of good judgment.

 

“Sounds to us like you should write some Kookshow fan fiction! We talked to (her) and she said you have full permission to put out a Kookshow book...”

 

 

Libertarian No Kings Post 6-17-25

This is the best post regarding No Kings protests that I have seen so far.

- Editor 

 

“Bloodline”

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-25)

 

 

Indian Billy Iaac

A name that has endured long past his physical self

The cause of volumes on my bookshelf

And dreams that I cannot explain

Though our family tag has been revised

Made easier for those speaking English

To recognize

It remains intact

I often think of his story

When writing chapters of my own

A naïve, newspaper hack

With an ink ribbon, colored black

At the typewriter with ambition and skills

Craving to be filled

With lessons learned through nights at my father’s desk

When he was busy elsewhere

I knew so little

Yet with courage, I tapped at those keys

Fingers searching

My wrists, gangly and lurching

Arched with the childish ignorance of a student

Eager to learn, but undisciplined and shrill

It made the process harder to instill

But perhaps, a touch of magic kept me right

Courageous in a cocoon of night

I wanted to follow in the footsteps

Of my sire

One who spoke of farm living

And chicken wire

Gardens budding in warmer days

To feed the brood that his folk had raised

One of seven he was

The generations I could not number

Though imagination caused me to put doubts asunder

And peck away at the keys

Something in that cleansing act

Lyrically matter-of-fact

Dependably brought relief

But there was another path I wished to tread

Another lane I chose, instead

One more challenging and mystical to behold

Circumscribed during days of old

When our story had not yet been told

That of the captive, William Galloway

His followers in the genetic line

Owe a debt to be paid over time

Step by step, word by word

An unflagging spirit, brave and easily heard

Until the hourglass has run out of sand

And the young child made possible by a distant man

Takes a final breath

And closes the circle

The loam reclaims what it’s caretakers begat

And we are joined in eternity

United in naught

That I know is the eventual route

And an existence beyond the veil

If one is to believe the tales

Told in church

Those truths underpin my mind with sturdy clay

As does the lineage of yesterday

It makes me whole

A wine of fermented self

Dribbling down sides of the bowl

I hope that were he to peer over the edge of heaven

He might receive a glimpse of what the bloodline has become

And proudly surmise

That the youngest of his tribe

Is worthy

Dabbling in arts given as a gift

Blood and dirt and sweat and spit

From a garden seed, grown

To take up his journey through the hills, toward home

This is my calling

I am blessed to be here

Trailer Park Efficiency, Chapter 15: Exit

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-25)

 

 

Townshend Lincoln was still groggy and disoriented, while drinking coffee in his living room at Evergreen Estates. But despite being barely conscious, he already had a thirst for beverage alcohol. Something that nagged him from the point of leaving his bed in the morning, until oblivion finally overwhelmed his senses, later in the day. As he sat pondering the weekend ahead, a newscast reverberated from his television. He used the flatscreen device more for background noise than receiving any useful information. Yet a story about the South-African billionaire who had become so notable for his role in attempting to reduce waste, fraud, and abuse in Washington, made him embrace his temporary sobriety.

 

He sat upright in his chair and peered through a residual haze of liquor, at the images being displayed.

 

“After serving in the administration of Donald Trump through DOGE, the Department of Government Efficiency, suddenly Elon Musk has had a change of heart in how business is being conducted at the executive level. He posted on X, his social media platform, that the bill being pushed through Congress by loyalists of the MAGA movement is a ‘disgusting abomination.’ Strong language for someone who has until now, been an ally and supporter of our 47^th POTUS...”

 

For residents of their rural trailer community, a similar epiphany had arrived. After most inhabitants vociferously supported the effort to root out unnecessary costs, and trim the bloated federal budget, they chafed at having a similar plan instituted at home. As services were eliminated in their development, the woes of living in glorified shipping containers became even more challenging. Then, the most basic of all privileges was taken away, their right to rent and inhabit lots on the isolated property.

 

Efficiency had come to mean closing the neighborhood completely, and liquidating all of the assets, on-site.

 

Upon surrendering to his whiskey addiction, and taking a seat outside, on his wooden bench, the reclusive hermit noted that dumpster bins had been stationed at the front corner of each street. Yet piles of refuse were everywhere. In a silent protest, members of the population were discarding furniture, broken appliances, and other rubbish, wherever it landed. By the curb, in yards and in between homes, and even at the abandoned maintenance garage. No one seemed to care about the park itself. A mood of discontent had turned into total disaffection. With the notice of a mass eviction having been given, nothing mattered.

 

Judge Alten Sleeman, who remained in charge of the pending case, received a petition from Wells Fargo to provide some sort of legal relief, as this situation became more unruly. But upon reading the details of their plea in written form, he literally tore it in half. After decades on the bench as an adjudicator, he had never been so enraged by the careless conduct of an out-of-state operator. His black robe shimmered, as he gestured with obvious ire.

 

“WHEN THEY HAVE OFFICERS OF THE ASSET MANAGERS AND THE BANK APPEAR IN MY COURT, THEN I’LL BE INCLINED TO TAKE THEIR COMPLAINTS SERIOUSLY! UNTIL THEN, I DON’T SEE OR HEAR THEM, OR KNOW THEY TRULY EXIST! GOOD RIDDANCE TO THEM ALL! IT IS AN ACT OF MERCY THAT I DON’T ISSUE ARREST WARRANTS FOR EVERYONE INVOLVED!”

 

Attorney Fortrell Koch fled the chambers, fearing for his own safety. He quit shortly afterward.

 

By an official decree from the county commissioners, Sheriff Tom T. Rath was instructed to keep order at least, as residents vacated their mobile homes. But in a rare show of defiance, he refused. One lone deputy was sent to observe on the progress of this mass exodus, and report back as needed.

 

“I’D RATHER GIVE UP MY BADGE THAN PUT ANYONE IN HARM’S WAY ON THAT WORTHLESS PATCH OF DIRT! IT’S BEEN AN EYESORE AND A NUISANCE FOR YEARS AND YEARS! I WON’T SHED A SINGLE TEAR OVER IT BEING GONE! IT’S A HEADACHE I’LL BE GLAD TO LOSE!”

 

Linn Speck was heartbroken at having the underpinning of his residential association eliminated. He sat at the kitchen table, sorting paperwork left from his last signature drive, and scrolling through corresponding entries on his laptop computer. His jowls sagged, making him feel prickly and damp from days without shaving. He was still in an undershirt and boxer shorts, even when the hour had reached midday.

 

“What can we do? Where can we go? This was the last place we looked for a home, the last stop on our journey, you know? There’s nowhere else left!”

 

Haki, his rotund spouse, flipped her dyed hair and scowled.

 

“I don’t know honey! I just don’t know!”

 

Her husband groaned and brushed crumbs off the fold of his overfed belly.

 

“I know that somehow, Link was involved in this. He’s a menace and a troublemaker! Everything always comes back to that old, smelly drunk!”

 

The middle-aged woman was confused by this burst of twisted logic.

 

“Honey, he’s out of a place to live, just like us! How would it be his fault?”

 

Linn slammed both fists on the table. His violent motion sent bric-a-brac scattering from the top of their refrigerator.

 

“If he’d joined the association, maybe it might have made a difference. Some people around here actually listen to that horrible bastard! Why, I’ll never figure out! He’s juiced up every day! I can catch a whiff of liquor every time we drive by his trailer!”

 

Haki snorted with amusement.

 

“Maybe you’re right. But he’s bound to have a harder time relocating than us. Who would rent to a shaggy mess of a man like that? He looks like someone who lives in a cave!”

 

Both of them chortled over the peril of their sad, unsociable neighbor. For the moment, it provided a distraction from thoughts about their own unhappy situation.

 

At Lot 13, Lincoln had managed to drink half of his bourbon reserve, by noon. This wash of high-proof spirits had him teetering on the crude porch. His eyes were already blurry, and weak. Yet being numb kept him from worry. He did not fret about the prospect of a demolition crew being sent to clear their property, for a future sale.

 

Once again, the hayseed twang of his bloodline came into effect, vocally.

 

“I’ve wanted out of this dump fer a long, damn time! I’ve prayed and dreamed about it, and all that shit! But I never thought it’d come down to bean counters doing their bookwork! I guess this is a ticket back to the shed in my friend’s side yard, up by Lake Erie! Woo hoo! I’ve lived there before, and dammit, I’ll do it again! No water, no electricity! No bills, no neighbors, no police. You want efficiency? That’s it in a gawdamm nutshell!”

 

He lifted his bottle and swallowed hard.

 

“Like Janis Joplin sang, ‘Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose!”

 

 

 

Trailer Park Efficiency, Chapter 14: Closure

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-25)

 

 

The month of June had begun with unseasonably cold temperatures in Ohio. An odd welcome to the summer season which was so close at hand. At Evergreen Estates, this unexpected chill had everyone feeling uneasy, without a specific cause in mind. Something had infused a vibe of finality into the park continuum. A sense that they had, at long last, arrived at a point of great decision. The air crackled with palpable tension. Yet hopelessness kept everyone subdued. The usual rounds of domestic squabbles, disagreements with neighbors, and incursions by sheriff’s deputies, all fell silent.

 

Then, a notice appeared on the door of every resident. It carried the corporate logo of Pemmican Asset Management, which had its main office on the west coast.

 

“With sincere regret, it is our duty to inform those who live in this community that the ownership group responsible for overseeing your property has decided that our holdings must be trimmed at this time. In a move to fortify our financial situation, we are about to jettison unprofitable possessions, so that our resources may be used to better maintain those that we feel have genuine value in the marketplace. Be advised that our operations at this park will cease on June 30^th. We are surrendering our deed to all the acreage, buildings, and facilities. Wells Fargo will be in charge of liquidating the assets, or reselling them, as they see fit. You will be hearing more about this situation from that respected, financial institution, in the coming days...”

 

Lincoln was drunk upon receiving this dreadful, company communique. Despite rummaging through drawers in his kitchen for a pair of corrective glasses, he still had difficulty reading the letter. Finally, he crumpled the paper in his fist, and growled while taking another bottle of bourbon out of a cupboard by the broken dishwasher.

 

“I can’t make any sense of this scribbling! But there’ll damn sure be squawking about it. All I have to do is sit, and wait for the shitstorm to arrive!”

 

His prediction turned out to be a prophecy that was quickly fulfilled.

 

Darby Stronelli, the energetic eavesdropper from next door, appeared at the bottom of his access ramp. She took care not to get too close, with the memory of her last visit still fresh in recollection. In her right hand was a copy of the closure announcement.

 

“HEY BUDDY, DID YOU READ THIS FUCKING NOTICE? WE’RE ALL SCREWED! AND WE ARE! HOW CAN THEY THINK WE’RE GONNA MOVE OUR STUFF IN A MONTH? THAT’S CRAY CRAY! I GOT THREE BARNS OF SHIT TO HAUL OUTTA HERE!”

 

Lincoln had worn the same clothes for an entire week. He was shaggy and sweaty, and reeked of stale beer, and liquor. His T-shirt boasted stains of many meals, eaten carelessly. Yet any trace of his hillbilly accent disappeared. He was momentarily sharp in focus, despite being full of alcohol.

 

“I couldn’t read it! My eyes are bad, nowadays. Anything in fine print gets lost...”

 

The spiky-haired woman cackled and stomped her work boots.

 

“LINK, YOU’RE A GAWDAMM MESS! THEY’RE DUMPING THIS PLACE, UNDERSTAND? I DON’T FREAKING BELIEVE IT! HOW MUCH MONEY WILL THAT COST THOSE PRICKS? THEY GOT A HUNDRED TRAILERS HERE AT LEAST! THAT’S A LOT OF CASH, I THINK! A LOTTA LOTTA CASH IN THEIR DAMN POCKETS! BUT NOT WHEN THEY QUIT THIS GAME!”

 

The boozing hermit shrugged and continued to raise his bottle.

 

“They’ve got their own ways of doing business. Getting rid of a red line on their balance sheet is easy I guess, just a matter of crossing it off the list. Maybe like one of us sending a junk car to the boneyard, because we got tired of spending money on replacement parts...”

 

Darby snorted and shook her head.

 

“C’MON LINK! CAN YOU GET YOUR CRAP TOGETHER IN A MONTH? DAMN, DUDE! HOW’S THAT GONNA HAPPEN? YOU CAN’T EVEN WALK! YOU’LL END UP IN THE STREET, ON YOUR BUTT!”

 

Lincoln nodded with agreement. Her assessment was severe, but correct.

 

“Yeah, I can’t carry much. Can’t even stand up without at least one of these disability canes. My best bet would be to start a fire and let everything burn down...”

 

His nosey neighbor seethed with irritation. Her cheeks flushed bright red.

 

“I TOLD YOU WE SHOULDA DONE THE EX-CROW! FUCK THESE IDIOTS! FUCK THEM! THEY DON’T DESERVE TO GET OUR LOT RENT! EX-CROW! EX-CROW! EX-CROW!”

 

Her contrarian associate lowered his gaze, and huffed.

 

“Escrow would’ve just sped up the process. Otherwise, it would be the same. I’d guess they’ve been thinking about this for some time, as an offshoot of the efficiency drive. I bet our county judge halting evictions probably tipped the scales. Why stick around if they can’t run their business efficiently? That’s what it is, after all. A cold-hearted business...”

 

Darby spat on the ground, and hopped on her spot like an angry rodent.

 

“NAW, DAMMIT! NAW! IT CAN’T JUST BE ABOUT MONEY! WE’RE ALL LIVING HERE! THINK ABOUT US! IT HAS TO BE ABOUT US! US, US, US!”

 

Her contact across the empty lot actually laughed out loud.

 

“See, you say that because it feels good. If you’d ever owned a business, it might be different...”

 

The angry female kicked and cursed in response. She was once again at the point of losing her temper.

 

“SO, YOU’RE ON THEIR SIDE, YOU FUCKING TRAITOR? YOU’RE ON THEIR SIDE? YOU DUMB PIECE OF BULL POOP! NO WONDER EVERYBODY HATES YOU AROUND HERE! YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE! A BUTTHEAD ASSHOLE!”

 

Lincoln scratched his gray beard, and sighed.

 

“No friend, I’m not on their side. Not at all. They’ve been running this trash pit into the dirt for years. I just don’t think it’s a surprise to see them cut their losses, and run...”

 

His vocal neighbor suddenly turned quiet. She sputtered fearfully, while pondering the closure of their park.

 

“What’re we gonna do, Link? Where can we go? I don’t wanna live on the street again! Screw that homeless shit! This is a flipping joke, but it ain’t funny! Not a damn bit funny!”

 

The reclusive iconoclast did not argue. He huddled over his knees, feeling very inebriated.

 

“You’re right. It’s not funny at all...”