Drama, Dust and Dramamine

A Year Goes By Like Nothing

A lot can happen in a year. Not at the Whispering Pines Trailer Park; this place is like a bad black & white television series stuck on summer re-runs for all eternity. Certainly a lot happens, it is just that the stuff that happens almost never varies and mostly involves the cops coming around to pick up some lost soul who “forgot” to show up in court or “forgot” to drop by the office and spend a little quality with their probation officer. Last week the gendarmes came screeching into the center court where I live and two squad cars did pretty cool sliding stops in the gravel parking lot. This sends up huge clouds of dust that invariably find their way into my trailer so that my bike shop/living room looks like a remake of Lawrence of Arabia, except this time Lawrence is not as slim and rides a bicycle instead of a camel.

The lawmen (and woman) leaped out of their cars and quickly surrounded the trailer across from mine.

Yippee kayay

Drawn guns always catch my attention. I was up on a ladder pressure washing a trailer whose roof I was getting ready to paint. Rather than remain in my precarious perch where I felt rather like a bird on a wire I decided to clamber down the ladder and mosey on back to my own trailer. I was wearing my pressure washing clothes. These are a big oversized pair of bright yellow fisherman's overalls and a pair of very white rubber boots. Pressure washing is wet and messy.

The Tink

My path took me past Sgt. Tinker, a guy who has been on the Hawks Park force as long as I can remember. And I can remember pretty good since he is the only human that has ever lifted me off my feet by the shirt collar with one hand. Of course, I weighed a lot less twenty years ago but he hasn't aged much and his six foot six frame is still pretty stout.

“Who you guys killin' today, Tink?” He had his right hand on his gun and he was talking into his cell phone with the other.

“Hold on a minute , honey,” he said. He wasn't talking to me. “What's up, dude?” he said.

“You're surrounding an empty trailer,” I said.

“I'll call you right back,” he said into the phone. “You sure?” he asked. He was already snapping the strap closed over the top of his gun and you could feel the tension go out of him. It was a palpable thing.

“Of course I'm sure. You after Little Mike?”

“Yeah.”

“What's he done this time?”

“Shoplifting.”

'Oh good lord. Dramamine again? What a dumbass. Oh well, when he comes home I'll ask him to give you a call.'

“Yeah, right. He also has a VOP. I want him. You goin' fishin'?”

“Nah, I dress like this all the time now.” I went into my trailer to get out of the hot overalls and watch what they would do next. I tried to decide what was the right thing to do. Before I came down off that ladder I had seen Little Mike duck into the dumpster enclosure on the other side of the Park. While I was drinking a beer and watching the cops (who were now clustered in the middle of the parking lot in conference) the Blonde came over from her trailer, the one next door to mine.

“They after Little Mike?”

“Nah, they're just surrounding his trailer for practice.”

“Don't be a smart aleck. He's hiding behind the dumpster.”

“I know.” The two squad cars were pulling out of the center court. More dust. 

“How do you know? You were way over on the other side.”

“Because when I am up on that ladder I am like unto the Lord, and see all things.”

“Yeah, right, Lord. What are you going to do?”

“I'm gonna get out of these hot damn rubber clothes. Wanna help?”

“I mean what are you going to do about Little Mike?”

“I know what you mean. Nothing.” But it was too late to do nothing. We heard that loud 'CHIRP' the cops make with their loudspeakers when they want everyone's attention and there they were, storming back into the still dusty parking lot, kicking up yet another cloud of dust. I was going to have to pressure wash that trailer roof again, after all this dusty drama. Little Mike was just a flash of bright red Bob Marley t-shirt and baggy shorts, the kind you have to hold up with one hand in order to run. He flashed like a ghost into his trailer and slammed the door behind him. The cops repeated their surrounding positions. Like I said earlier. Reruns.

Dressing for the Five O'Clock News

I went into my room and took off my Tuna of the Sea outfit and put on a pair of shorts. I pulled on a nice clean t-shirt. It was one of the Redfish series by Guy Harvey. The Blonde and the Twins bought it for me Christmas before last. I went back into the front and got another beer out of the fridge. The Blonde was watching the action across the parking lot, maybe thirty feet away. The cops had their guns out again.

“Why do they have their guns out? They look stupid.” She was worried.

“I don't know.” I reached up on the key board and took the keys to Mike's trailer off the hook. I chugged my beer and went outside. Big Tinker was in the same spot. The strap was off his gun and this time he wasn't on the phone.

“Hey Tink,” I said, in a voice that wasn't a whisper and it wasn't loud. It was a voice I would use to let a distracted friend know that it was his turn at the pool table or to point out a tailing redfish on a quiet lagoon. He turned a quarter turn and saw the keys in my upraised hand.

“What are you going to do with those?' he asked.

“Let you guys in so you can get a clean shot.”

“Stop fucking around, Blix.” He muttered something into the radio on his shoulder and the guns went into their holsters. I went over to the porch and the two cops that were there moved away, one to the side and one behind me. I would make a pretty good shield if shots were fired but I knew damn well Little Mike didn't have a gun and that if he did that damn squirrel-headed fool would shoot himself in the foot before getting one off in my direction.


 But as I was getting up to the door I had a sudden vision of butcher knives.

Trailer Park Negotiations

“Mike!” My trailer park voice. Maybe friendly, maybe not. It depends on you.

“Go away! You can't come in without a warrant!”

“Mike, you dumbass, it's me, Tim Joe! Not the cops! I've got the key and I'm coming in! These guys are pissed and I just want to get you out and safe and sound and in the back of the patrol car before this gets any worse. It's only shoplifting man!”

“Go away!”

“You already ate that whole pack of pills, didn't you?”

“I'm not coming out!”

“OK, dude I'm coming in!” I put the key in the lock and turn it slowly. I turn the knob and give a push.

Nothing. The deadbolt is locked. I take the other key and put it in the deadbolt. It won't turn.

This happens. There is so much turnover and confusion here at the Park that keys and locks get swapped and lost and my big hero moment is now stymied by a ten dollar deadbolt.

The Red-Faced Redfish

I turn to the cop behind me. He does me a favor and doesn't mention what a loser I am. I know that Tink won't be so gracious and I look around for a way to get back to my trailer that doesn't involve going past that big ape. I am surprised to see that while I was busy playing the Big Man   a couple more squad cars have pulled in. Those must have been some very important pills.  I turn back to my trailer just as the Tinker goes bombing past me, moving fast.

“The hell with this,” he says, going over to the rear door of the trailer. It doesn't have a deadbolt. 

 “You inside, the manager has given me the keys. We are coming in!”

 I look down at the ring of keys in my hand, then I look up just as Sgt. Tinker puts his big ham-size hand on the flimsy aluminum rear trailer door. A shotgun has magically appeared in his other hand and I am not surprised when he yanks the whole door out of the wall, lock, hinges and all. He reaches in and makes a grab and out comes Little Mike, all 160 pounds of hallucinating thrashing little squirrel-headed shoplifter. The other cops swarm all over him and Big Tink comes over to me. That twelve-gauge looks like a toy in his hand. 

  “Here's your keys back, sir,” he says in a loud voice. 'Did you see me enter the residence at any time?”

“No, sir, looked to me like he came out on his own. Practically flew out.”

“I'll take a picture of the damage he did coming out of the door in case you decide to complain to the department.” I look at the door laying there in the dusty grass. It was no more damage done than any given weekend in any given trailer in this dump.

“Why, Sarge, whatever are you talking about? I'll have that door fixed and swinging before you guys even get that rascal back to the station. And as always, I apologize for your troubles.”

“No trouble at all. See ya next time. And by the way, you're fixing this place up pretty good. Keep it up.”

"I'm doing the best I can, Sarge.  I'm doing the best I can."


Whispering Pines Trailer Park  and Squirrel Cage
#62

Camembert, Swiss or Roquefort

I Blame Xeno

It has now been a year since I began blathering on here and I want to say that I am very disappointed.  I thought that by now Trailer Park Cyclist the Movie would have come out and George Clooney would be accepting his Oscar and thanking me profusely for writing such wonderful tripe that all he had to do was say the lines and stand back.  Furthermore,  I am sorry to say that Disney has turned down the chance to option Pirates of the Carribbean:  The Return of the Trailer Park Cyclist.  Johnny called last night at 3 am weeping and apologizing and obviously drunk saying how “sorry he was” and “are we still friends?” and begging me not to expose his ties to Scientology.

Well,  I am a liberal and a live-and-let-live kind of guy but I gotta tell ya;  I only have so much patience with these Euro-dwelling dweebs and George and Johnny better tighten up their act or there will be no more Uncle Bill’s Legendary Backcountry Gator Sauce winging its way across the universe to their humble trailer park chateaux.

I Got You, Babe(s)

But meanwhile, I got you guys to bolster and encourage my efforts and correct my spelling, grammar and syntax.  (What is syntax, anyway?  Do I have to pay it?  The only syn I feel guilty of is resentment towards Disney and the Scientologists but how much can the IRS charge for that, I wonder?  Plenty, no doubt.)

All this nonsensical rambling has most likely caused those of you who are still awake to think to yourselves  “He obviously hasn’t been riding.”

They Call Me the Streak

Hah!  Wrong!  I got in fifty miles yesterday and it only took me four and a half hours to do it.  In my day I was a Builder of Eateries and one of those eateries was the Outback Steakhouse.  So I was reading in the newspaper that there was a new Outback going up at the Daytona Airport.  I got a little excited because it has been a long while since last I milked the Corporate Cow and I am ready, fit and able to dive into the creamery and once again squeeze out some cheese.  So I saddled up the Schwinn,  strapped on my Goodwill Messenger Bag and headed North.

Aeolus,  Aeolus, What Did I Ever Do To You?

The wind was wacky.  I live within a mile of the Atlantic Ocean and you would think that the trusty Trade Winds would give us some kind of steady breeze but they do not;  I think the Trade Winds got traded down to the minors and what we got now is this very professional and very powerful Wind that is also eccentric and insane.

While I pedaled North on Old US One I was getting a headwind, then a cross-wind, then a header again.  As I crossed the new Spruce Creek Bridge I noticed the tide was running really fast, running out through the bridge as though that creek water was as freaked out by the wind as I was and just wanted to get out to sea and catch its breath.

Motordrome

There is this Big Race Track in Daytona where they apparently have some kind of automobile events from time to time.  The Daytona Airport is there, also; and airports and race tracks were designed with the firm structural philosophy that bicycles do not exist. These places are laid out in such a fashion that vast quantities of cars and overweight, impatient people (who are not from around here) can screech around very rapidly and distractedly while they rush to a place where they will be treated rudely and forced to wait in long lines and pay way too much for beer.

TPC Gets Political

I know this because I was there and I saw it.  I am regionally embarrassed to say, however, that the high speed lanes at the Daytona Airport were vastly empty and I had them all to myself and even did some lazy sine wave sweep riding on the way to the terminal.  What the hell is going on?  Do I have to run for President and get this mess all straightened out?  My recent disappointment with Hollywood has me looking towards Washington…

So anyway, I rode all over the Daytona Airport and wherever that stoopid Outback is being installed, it must be underground.  This is the second time I have gone off in search of the Gig That Will Fix-It and found nothing.  But at least I got in some miles.

Airports Are Big

The whole time this was going on I was riding in big two and three mile loops.  That is how these airport roads are laid out.  And the wind may have been from the same direction the entire time for all I knew but I was getting these great little boosts and getting excited with my 21 mph speedo’meter readings then suddenly I would be slapped in the face and groaning along at 10 mph.

There’s No Road Like Home

Finally,  I said to hell with it and blasted my way back to trusty old US One and headed south.  The wind by this time was fairly clean, blowing mostly from the southwest and the southeast and sometimes from the north and then in from outer space,  with occasional hard 12 knot blasts head-on.  It did not matter;  there are beer stores on this ride home; it is only 15 miles or so and I know where those beer stores are and I can even tell you the varying temperatures of the coolers in those stores and it was going to be alright.  I was having fun. Disappointment is only a temporary thing for those who strive to endeavor and I am already planning my return trip.  I am going to find that Outback job and get me some Camembert, Swiss or Roquefort out of it or I’ll know why not.

And So…

Me and the Schwinn pushed, forced, struggled and shoved our way on home.  We drank (drunk/drinked/partook of) beer and we endeavored to persevere and when we got home Daisy and Toby were there at the gate with dog smiles and dog kisses and I was still strong. I still felt pretty damned strong and I like to think I could have done it all again.  But I am saving my strength for a trip to the South of France.  That’s right, George and Johnny,  I’m coming.  I’m going to get this mess straightened out and I don’t want to hear any lame-ass Disney/Euro/Hollywood excuses.  It ain’t American.



Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Political Headquarters
#59

Time and Space

Everything On the Other Side Of This Card Is A Lie

As many of you are aware, I am a Wizard of Time and Space.  Armed as I am with the abilities of Wizardness, I am able to go hither and yon on quests of unfathomable yearning and far reaching importance doing stuff that neither you nor I can fathom.  On just such a quest of which I was hitherto unaware of until just now when I thought it up:  I Rode Some Miles.

I’m In the Country.

Yeah, Baby.  Out where the breathin’ air is sweet.  I’m hittin’ a lick on this old abandoned orange grove road that has long been my dream trail and I once pedaled this route two or three times a week but for some reason or another having to do with the Wizard Union  and miles and regulations and Trailer Park Fix It and just damned old age and laziness,  it seems that these days I only ride it once or twice a month.

But I rode it today and unless the Lords of Blog deign to interfere you will now hear about it.

First:  There Were Eagles

Just a couple days ago I was spreading my wisdom over at this Aussie Blog about how Once There Were Eagles in Old Hawks Park but now there ain’t  but there are still Hawks but then,  in true Wizardly Fashion, I somehow and magically summoned up a mating pair of the real thing on the first leg of my long ride and there they were,  ignoring me in that haughty way that eagles have but doing Eagle Stuff nonetheless.  Whatever it was probably had more to do with procreation than patriotism but it is both sad and noble that the Symbol of our (Once?) proud nation is a rare sight.

And Then Came the Work

After that I mostly breathed hard a lot and wondered what the hell was wrong with my powerful legs and bottomless lungs.  This is Florida and while the winters can be harsh and the temperature can often drop as low as 55 degrees I still cannot get a grip on This My New Weariness.  But I was strong enough at this point and still enjoying the ride and I looked at my Schwinn Approved speedo’meter and was impressed to see that I was streaking along at sixteen miles per hour and that I had already covered eighteen miles and that was very reassuring;  I knew that at twenty miles there would be a beer store and besides, in the time it took to type this there it was.  I could see the Beer Store and there was just a moment’s doubt,  but then I knew: this would not be the day I chose Gatorade over Budweiser. [KA-CHING.  (Sound of Cash Register)]

Whatever...I Like Beer

I took my two 16 OZ cans of Busch [ka-ching] and stuffed them into my Goodwill messenger bag.  I shifted down into an easy gear that would have made me feel guilty back when I was cool but now that I am a fat lazy drunk-ass bastard who drinks cheap-ass beer what the hell?  If I wasn’t wearing charity bib shorts by Bontrager [ka-ching] the folks in their rusty pick-up trucks trying to run me off the side of Old US One would be getting a pretty gnarly shot of plumber’s crack right about now and I haven’t even drank  (drunk; dranken, partook of;) those beers yet.

And So...

 The cool thing about being a Wizard of Space and Time is that it always works out.  Within minutes I am sitting at an old  worn-out  park bench on the side of the vast and enigmatic Mosquito Lagoon.  This is an ancient place and it really is; there are ghosts here and I am a ghost and these warm beers are just right;  the cool thing about Space and Time is that they are Relative [ka-ching] and all of this and none of this is real but yeah, today I had this moment of Happy Mystery and Wonder and Riding My Bicycle and now you have too.  Raise a glass my friends for the sorta-long ride of dreams and eagles, manatees and mysteries.

Thirty miles is just right.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Dream Factory
#59

Stuff Fron The Back Burner #one: After the War Began

  Hey, everyone! Earlier this year Keith Snyder sent out a call for short fiction stories for his book "Ride 2", the second volume of his series of short cycling fiction.  I'm not much of a fiction writer, but I made first drafts of a couple attempts before deciding the heck with it, I'll just stick to my Blog and stories of  the real world, which are fictional enough for me.  But here in the Dead Zone between Christmas and New Years, I thought I would clean off the stuff from the back burner and see what you think.

After the War Began

When the War started one of the first edicts of the New Bush administration was a National Emergency Act shutting down all the gas stations.  Giant Government tanker trucks came out to every city and outlying suburb and to every little town and sucked up every drop of petrol from every tank.  The Gasoline Riots started almost overnight and  until all the gasoline was removed President Jeb would not allow the reopening of the gasoline stores.  But it was fast,  almost as though it had been planned in advance.  Where did all those giant tankers come from, anyway?  Suddenly they were everywhere at once,  like a domestic alien invasion and then just as suddenly it was over and Jeb came on the television and let everyone know that they could go out and get cigarettes and beer and baby formula from their neighborhood market once more.


This was fine except for those people who had never walked three blocks or more in their entire lives;  the “neighborhood market”  might as well be on the Moon as far as they were concerned.  A delivery network  quickly sprung forth as the more able and quick of the neighborhood began taking money from their neighbors to pick up food and necessities for their suddenly stricken friends.  This of course led to further conflicts as theft and chicanery had its way with the New Reality until it also was resolved by typically intrepid American entrepreneurialism.  Vendors and salesmen started showing up with pushcarts and pedal driven contraptions bringing all manner of products and services to every gated community and worn out trailer park in every city everywhere.




Highly self-important business men found themselves stranded in variously damnable places.  The high rise apartments of their mistresses and the downtown banks and brokerages,  their far-removed mansions and yachts at marinas not their own,  these are the ones Good Ol’ Jeb blamed for the sudden crash of the cell phone system.  It was there one minute,  then it was gone.  But the televisions and the land lines were working (except for long distance), and the internet.  Jeb was there, in black and white on the TV and in some oddly altered internet presence that would soon enough fade back to DOS.  But no one cared.  Food and water was what folks were now concerned with.  The infrastructure was sound and all the country had electricity and the government trucks came daily with more beer and cigarettes and frozen pizza to restock the little locally owned neighborhood markets.  The toilets still worked and when the national chain supermarkets and department stores slowly dwindled and died almost no one noticed.  Those stores were far from the houses and no one went far from home in the first few weeks of the War.


Until the Messengers came.  First there were only trickles of one or two riders and they were welcomed and then robbed of their bicycles for parts for pedal carts or stolen by miserable wretches looking for a way to get whatever illegal substance their bodies craved.  Bicycles had become highly valuable but most were of very inferior quality and slow and soon died.  The craftsmen who knew how to repair bicycles and had spare parts to do so were crafty, (after they figured out which way the wind was blowing,) and soon enough went underground.  The Messengers were coming and these bicycle repair guys didn’t know it, but they knew that they had what was needed to get away.  But to where?  No one knew. 


Humans are the best.  While possessed of questionable character, they are, for the most part, one hell of a surviving group of a species.  President Jeb came on the radio warning everyone to watch out for large, fast groups of riders on bicycles.  He said not to listen to their lies and propaganda and went on to say that the televisions would be back on soon enough and he was sorry about the internet but the fat cats and stockbrokers had somehow screwed that up too, but don’t worry,  the War is going great and  he wanted to personally reassure every American that their sacrifice and strength was what made America Great.

But the Messengers were telling a different tale.  They were coming in from all points and telling of riots and death and rumors.  `The worst was that President Jeb was broadcasting from Saudi Arabia.


To be continued

Trailer Park Sanctuary

Angels Come In All Forms

“Tim Joe!”  


I look up from my work.  I’ve got my Old Schwinn in the stand and I am carefully and diligently applying my personal secret chain lube formula to the chain.  It ain’t easy and I have to concentrate but who was that?


Wasn’t me, said the Voice.


“Tim Joe!”  


OK, there it was again.  It has a Brooklyn accent.  The only entity I know who has a Brooklyn accent is the Sun.  Looking out the open window,  I see him.  A scruffy guy standing at the wrong gate calling out my name.  He is standing at the Blonde’s trailer calling for me and “Now What?” I think.  


“Hey!”  I say, in my firm ( maybe friendly, maybe not) voice that I use around the Park.  These people are of a type who begin with an inch.


“Oh, there you are.”  Who is this fucking guy? “What are you doing over there?,”  he asks,  as though I were up to something, or trying to somehow pull a fast one.


“I live here.  Who are you?”


“It’s me, Tommy C.  You know, Jo’s friend. I was at your house a couple weeks ago for the ribs.”
 Oh.  OK.  This is what I get for trying to have a cookout without Uncle Bill.

My New Side Job

“Oh yeah, Tommy, come on over.”  He seems disoriented and I go out the door and stand at my own gate.  “Over here, dude”  He crosses over and I open the gate to let him in.  As he comes in the dogs start their dance of joy and gladness and jump on him and Toby the Trouble Puppy stands up and pushes him.  I’m working on Toby but he is half Pit and half Jack and all Trouble.


“Get off me, dog!”  says my new guest.  Strike one.  Plus he stinks.  Not body odor.  He smells like jail.  “Hey, Bro,  Jo had to work and she said I should just come hang out over here until she gets off.”  I look at the clock.  Miss Jo won’t be coming home for five hours.  Five hours.  I instinctively reach for a beer but there isn’t any.  I ran out of beer half an hour ago.  Toby starts trying to hump Mr. Tommy C’s leg.  “Get OFF!”  he says, giving Toby a little kick.  I don’t want a dog humping my leg either.  But this apparent baby-sitting session is not beginning well.  

There Will Be Beer

“So, Tommy,  what’s up?  I was just getting ready to go for a  bike ride.”  I glance over at me Little Darlin’ hanging there in the stand.  I look at my two darlin’ little dogs, sitting side by side and smiling and open to the conversation and happy and willing to take a bullet for either one of us.  I look out the window at this damned Trailer Park that could be a different  kind of thing;  it could be a secret enclave of artists and musicians.  It could be a quiet and serene final-days hideout for the elderly.  It could be a lot of things that would be cool and groovy but it is not.  It is a trashy, worn out and filthy haven for the two-legged refuse that has no where else to be.  This is their place.  It is where they belong.  Them and me.


“Ah, man, you know I had to check into court for sentencing on the 23rd but my Public Defender got fired or quit or something so my new PD got me a continuance.  But I already sold all my stuff and got into a fight with my old lady and she threw me out and now here I am with no place to go and no money and no gas and I’m hungry as hell.”  Of course you are, Tommy.  Of course you are.


“Well,”  I say, “First we need some beer.  Why don’t you hang out here while I pedal off to the beer store.  It will only take a minute.”


“Can I take a shower?”


“Good idea.  There’s a clean towel next to the sink.  I’ll be right back.”  

A Little Preparation Goes A Long Way

I take my bicycle off the stand and grab my Goodwill messenger bag.  Tommy C is a rough character, covered top to bottom with jailhouse tattoos and covered top to bottom with that general aura attained by those who have spent so much time in jail that they have become confused about what is the right place to be:  inside or outside.  Me,  I am not confused.  I take my bike and park her outside the gate.  I listen for the shower to start and I quietly go back in.  I take my laptop and place it inside the tool drawer on my workbench.  I lock the drawer and then I gather up the puppies and take them next door to the Blonde’s trailer.  I lock them inside.  I don’t know how the day is going to turn out; but any collateral damage will be limited if I can help it and no innocent little dogs will be hurt.  I can’t promise myself the same about any not-so-innocent two legged dogs but I have run with bad packs before and can pretty much predict the end of the story.

WWTJD?

 I have friends who are followers of Christ and so am I,  after a fashion.  Every man I meet begins as my friend and anyone who comes to me frightened, hungry, friendless and with no where to go will not be summarily turned away.  But I am old.  I have lived a hundred lifetimes and I have learned the painful learning that these lost souls are usually lost for a reason and that reason sometimes ain’t pretty.

But What of That?  We Have Heaven!

Outside!  Man I love the outdoors!  I hit a lick on the pedals and for a moment I am free and there is nothing going on but me and my bike.  I have started riding a lot more with the advent of Spring and me and the bicycle have once again become a combined thing of wheels and steel and soul and flying.  I hit a lick on the pedals and Ol’ Tommy C and his confusion about freedom and what freedom means are at my back for the moment;  the dogs are safe in the Other Trailer and the only two things I own are my laptop and my bicycle and they too are safe;  I am coasting fast to the beer store here in Old Hawks Park.

Hail the Pioneers!

Hawks Park is a village named for its founder,  Florida Pioneer Dr. John Hawks.  But as though drawn here by some magical force of name-recognition this place is alive with birds.  And hawks.  As I fly to the store there is a beautiful red-wing hawk hovering nearby, then another.  This is their place.  The day is so bright that it hurts just to look at it and if only we could show this to everybody…but not today. Today, these hawks have a place to be and so do I and I am grateful for that.  Sometimes in my deep darkness and inner sickness God sends over a soul for my enlightenment and edification and for a chance to see how lucky I am.

Meanwhile, Back At the Trailer Park…

“Man,  Tim Joe.  Thank you so much.  I needed that shower.  The cops are after me, I think.”


“Have a beer, my brother.  Why are the cops after you?”


‘That’s just it.  I don’t know.”  (They never do.)  “Maybe it was the door frames.”


Tommy C is one of this growing breed of desperado metal junkies.  All the World is covered with scrap metal and it is becoming more valuable and guys like Tommy, once they figured out that any old piece of scrap steel or brass or copper or aluminum could be traded for the price of a pack of cigarettes or a pill or a six-pack or whatever the heart desires (in small portions); once this truth became apparent they started scrappin’.  When I see Tommy gazing in admiration at my old Schwinn I know he isn’t looking at a beautiful freedom machine.  He sees a crack rock or an Oxycontin or a couple gallons of gas.  


Mis Jo needs a stern talking-to about this baby-sitting stuff.


“You got that right, Voice.  Now shut up,  I’m busy being munificent and wary.”

Crooked Angels

So me and Tommy C spent a half-assedly pleasurable afternoon together drinking a case of cheap beer and me listening to him talk on his cell phone, making dastardly plans for his escape and his next scrap binge and cussing out the various people who may or may not have been involved with why the cops came to his girlfriend’s house this morning, looking for Tommy and rooting through the trash cans out back and asking a lot of questions.


Me,  I’m just waiting for Miss Jo to get done with her Day Job so I can hand over this tattooed and screwed waif-ape and go get my dogs out of the Other Trailer and maybe catch a Sundown Ride along the River and maybe catch a glimpse of a Hawk or a Sailboat or some other Winged Creature. I fed Tommy C some hot dogs and chili; I shared my beer and a moment’s sanctuary and if God sent him here for me to Do Something About It,  I hope I did.


Hawks Park Trailer Park and Orphan Recycling Center
#58

Rainbow Down

A Man For One Season

Hey!  Here it comes now!  Our Old Friend Summer and even in a warmish place like Florida, Summer makes a difference. The squirrels are getting frisky and not just the ones in the trees outside my summertime doorway. The frisky rascals that inhabit these trailers are warming up as well and coming out of doors and here we go, summer is upon us and we have got to get ready.

Bacon!

I get ready with Bacon. Bacon! Because I also, (even though old and stiff and crotchety) am feeling frisky my ownself and man, I just took a brisk and risky Baconesque Quicksilver ride through a gentle misty sundown rain, wearing gym shorts and flip flops and there was a rainbow over my shoulder, and I don't mean a romantic figurative artsy-fartsy rainbow, I mean there was a real live brilliant little rainbow just the right size for a sundowner bicycle beer run and I took it, man, zipping and darting and cutting across the sleepy highway like drug dealers or crooked stock brokers (or whoever the bad guys are in that movie) were hot on my tail and I just had to Get the Job Done.

See Me Flash By

I have written about the various variations of my rides; the Lazy Float, the Free Century, the Buddy Run and the Phred Stalk and probably more, I can never remember. Sometimes I pile it on so high that even I lose track.

But this zippity-doo-da lickety-split three miles to the House of Beer is all about bringing home the Bacon, evoking the Inner Messenger and saying “Hey Summer! I'm still here Old Buddy! What? I know man, I can't believe it either!”

Danger Man

Lickety-split and when I get there I dash inside and whip my three-dollar Goodwill messenger bag around my neck and reach in for my wallet and the girl behind the counter is accustomed to me now, but the first time she twitched and jumped a little when I thrust my hand into the bag and seeing her reaction I laughed like a maniac 'cause let's face it, I ain't the Mild-Mannered Trailer Park Cyclist right this minute, it's me Kevin Bacon Lickety-Split Quicksilver and I need that beer! C'mon, Honey, it is only sprinkling right now and there is a sundown glow and a rainbow but that can change at any minute and then it will be Summertime Thunder and Rain and I don't have a name for that ride yet.

Yee-Ha!

Then like a bandit I stuff the six-pack into my bag, whip it smartly around so that it lands just right in the small of my back and I leap for the door. Shazam! Take that,  Bad Guys! and Boom! I'm back on my bike and I'm too old and stiff and crotchety to do one of those flying cyclocross leaps into the saddle but I do a pretty good rapidissomo mount anyway and I have already down-shifted and I accelerate impressively and with alacrity away from the store and by the time I clear the parking lot I am hitting a good clip and the rain has stopped and I feather the brakes to clear the moisture from my rims and I lean over into the drops and cut hard and fast around the corner. Was that a stop sign? Who knows? It was just a red blur to me and I pull hard on the upstroke so my flip-flops dig into the toe clips and I'm breathing hard because let's face it, I am almost two Kevin Bacons in the real world but this ain't it; this ain't the real world, this is Florida at the front-end of summer and there's a rainbow watching and I don't want to let it down.

Never Disappoint A Rainbow

I don't go to saloons much anymore because of the exciting and interesting and frequently disastrous results of my forays into public drinking establishments. Me, I'm all about Sundowns and Gentle Rain and One Friend At a Time. It seems that lately, though, all my One Friends seem to be either Over-Married or Long-Distanced or Pedaling the Far Country, if you know what I mean. But what of that? One of my oldest and best friends of these my waning years lives only a few trailers away.

Canyon de Chelly

Or he did. As I sit here drinking my ill-gotten reckless beer, I am looking out my window at a U-Haul Truck. Coyote is leaving, returning to his Ancestral Home of deepest Arizona for some reason or another. He has good reasons for doing so but man, you are talking about a guy with whom I have shared more windshield time and middle of the night interstate philosophy sessions than any other two-legged creature on Earth. Or in Heaven for that matter. We used to joke that we spent more nights in rooms together than we did with our wives. Except it wasn't a joke; it was the truth. Coyote would take extended leaves to patch things up and then come back out, always loyal and always, by the time he came back, Just In Time. I was the Owner and the Boss and didn't have that luxury and when Number Two left because she “Didn't want to be a single parent anymore” Coyote was there and his Ol' Lady and when it all came crashing down (the first time) and there weren't that many loyal friends to be found, guess whose couch I crashed on?

Every Picture Tells a Story

Yeah, I know. Stiff upper lip and all. Hell, we hardly see each other or even talk much. But that ain't the point. The deal is, should something come up and some filthy lucre were to be had, all I had to do was walk a few trailers over, let my old friend know that it was time to saddle up once again, and off we would go. And that is a pretty big deal. Coyote was the Facilitator. He took care of all the crap that distracted me from the finish line. He was really good at it. It was like having a fully-amped Lance Armstrong riding domestique in a bad climb in the Tour de Hell.

How Many Hearts Are Broken By U-Hauls?

Ah, man, this is only Life. Life its Ownself. That U-Haul is pulling out in the morning. When it pulls out a chapter of my life will have been written and polished off and hopefully, for my brother Coyote, a new more better chapter will begin.

Bonne Chance, Coyote!

Still Here

 That Rainbow is gone now but it left behind a sneaky beautiful twilight that will serve just fine.  As for me,  I am fast enough, for now. I am quick and daring on a bicycle and I am still here and now comes summer (as it always does) and I will be alright; all of us will be alright and our chapters are still being written and that is just right. The finish line is out there and we will sure enough find our way to it and that, also, is just right. 

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Refugee Camp

#54

Cheez Whiz

I gotta tell ya, guys, this crazy Booger of ours is growing in popularity at such a rate that I'm not sure I can keep up. And before I get started with today's post, let me say this: no matter how high I fly, no matter how great my greatness becomes, I will always remember all three of you guys and don't worry, as soon as I get the Pulitzer I'll send you autographed photos of me hauling ass to the South of France where me and George Clooney and Johnny Depp will sort out All the Trouble In the World and ride bicycles.

Disclaimer

As the Trailer Park Cyclist, I am required by the UCI to mention “bicycles” at least once per post. I asked and was informed in a personal letter from Pat McQuaid that no, I can't say “bicycle” four times in one post and make it count for four posts, so there ya go.

“There who goes?” You probably are asking yourselves. Well, you. There you go.

What am I talking about? Who knows? But back to the Booger...

Jared Is A Drug Addled Bully

I strongly dislike bullies. They come in all shapes and sizes and after High School, they take on a darker and more insidious form. In our little corner of reality, bicycle cycling, they can be particularly foul. For example:

Bathroom Scale:   “For Pete's sake, get off me. You're killing me! I can't breathe!”

Closet Mirror:        “Do you realize I can't look the other way when you expose yourself like this?                                 

Your Kind-Hearted Friends:    “But what a great personality!”

Fellow Cyclists:       “Good thing Spandex is stretchy.”

So anyway, You Get the Message and you make a brave and well intentioned decision To Do Something About It. But what? What is the answer? If you are like me, you go into the kitchen and get a big slice of cheesecake and a double dip of Ben & Jerry's and you go sit down at the computer to figure it all out. Then it hits you:

Bicycles

“Bicycles! Of course! I used to ride a bicycle all the time when I was a little kid and I was never fat and life was good and that's it! I'll get a bicycle and start riding everyday and I will once again be thin and popular and happy...”

So to celebrate you pop open a bottle of wine and get out some Cheez Whiz and some Ritz Crackers and go back to the computer to shop bicycles and cycling and then the bullying begins in earnest.

Honey,  There's Some Guy With Greasy Hands Sleeping In Our Bed

First you find out that things have changed since you were a Little Kid. Bicycles now cost a month's pay and require a full time mechanic even if you don't have a spare bedroom. If you want to get back into cycling you will have to give all your money to your Local Bike Shop and start sleeping on the couch because Bike Mechanics require quality accommodations. But, being of firm resolve and not willing to be daunted, you take a deep breath and head on out to Walmart, where every problem in the world can be fixed.

(Side note:  Once, while in the South of France drinking wine and eating Cheez Whiz with George and Johnny, we figured out (after the fourth bottle) that the path to World Peace was to build Walmarts in every city in the world. We figured out that is why all these foreigners are so angry at America. They don't have Walmarts.)

So Anyway...

Where was I? Oh...so you get to Walmart and the kid in the bicycle sectiion takes a bike down from the rack to let you see how it feels but the front wheel falls off. He chases it down the bicycle aisle (which is in the toy department) but bangs into a shelf loaded with talking dolls and they all start talking at once. Bedazzled and confused, you give up and wander off to the front of the store and there is a Subway counter there and you get a foot long Meatball Sub and a Diet Coke and sit down to cry. You cry and eat the meatball sub and promise yourself that you won't get up and get one of those Subway Cookies but there they are; there they are and that Jared guy probably was a big liar and really got skinny by shooting meth.

The Truth

The worst bully of all is ourselves. We fear failure and in any effort at joy or self help we tend to seek the Path of Least Resistance and that is okay. Water does it and has been quite successful at doing it for Eons but us, We the Human Beans ain't water, we are a sad and self-loathing race that was created in the image of God and then set about Trashing the Temple as best we can. We can't help it, it is called Being Human and food really tastes good (most of the time) and don't even get me started on Beer. Beer is one of the greatest things on the Planet and if God had not created it one of us Beans would have figured it out. Wine too. And Cheez Whiz and Ritz Crackers.  And Peanut M&M's, with beer. (If I never give you another word of bad advice, sometime try a bowl of Peanut M&M's with beer.)

Back To the Bicycles

Bicycles are a solid and real answer to keeping a fit mind and body but a Bean can go crazy trying to sort it all out. When I started this Booger it was gonna be about my Journey On the Path of Bicycular Enlightenment but somewhere along the way my inescapable Literary Genius took over and danged if I can wrest control from his egotistical hands. But I'm trying and meanwhile I intend to cut back on the drama...wait...give me a minute, the Cops just pulled into the center court. I'll be right back...

Sigh. Okay, it is two hours later and the firetrucks just left and nobody died so where was I? Oh yes...

It Ain't Easy Being Cheesy

The hard part about bicycles is that new ones are pretty costly and the cheap ones at the Big Box are not worth buying. The answer, in my Trailer Park Opinion is to find a used, preferably old bicycle at a yard sale or thrift store and then stop whining and figure out how to fix them yourself. Bicycle repair (like literary genius) is inescapable. But it is easy and along the way you will meet new non-bullying friends and gain a little piece of self respect and that is how it starts. It worked for me. It will work for anybody.

As for you (my three Regular Readers), I realize you guys already know all this stuff. But last night Bill Clinton appeared in my dreams and ordered me to go forth and spread the Word. It may have been all the corn beef and cabbage I had for supper or a trick being played upon my tormented soul by Ernest and Julio; I don't know. But some bullies are scarier than others and when you dream about Bill Clinton it gets your attention.

Print this and leave copies around the office. It may help some poor lost Bean discover cycling. Also, next week I'm going to start running advertising and frankly, I need the money.

Yer pal, TJC the TPC

Whispering Pines Trailer Park and Nonsense Dispensary

#53