12.07.05
Malcolm drove through the minimal St. Catharines traffic, fuming to himself. His battered pickup truck cut off several smaller, neater cars, and was almost involved in more than one collision. He left a trail of frustration, anger and bad will behind him, bad will that spread like tendrils throughout the city, eddies and currents of low grade misery that lessened the quality of life for everyone in the who crossed his path. Malcolm was like a plague, car spewing black treacley exhaust, dripping oil, with top 40 radio blaring through the tinted windshield. He spun his tires upon hitting the gravel driveway of a nondescript, somewhat isolated building just on the outskirts of downtown. The well shuttered windows were caked with dust and mud, the painted wood facade was peeling and grubby, its best days well behind it.
Malcolm parked his car behind the building, alongside cars that were light years away from Malcolm’s pickup. He walked up to a surprisingly fortified back door, and knocked out a rhythm so complex and ridiculous that it could only be a secret code. He looked up into the overhang, eyes locking on the weathered knothole that hid a pinhole camera. Somewhere in the recesses of the building, his face was screened; a grainy digital image was reviewed by an otherwise bored security guard, who pressed the button that granted entry to those who could pass these nominal tests.
The interior of the building belied its grubby exterior. While not the height of luxury, the well maintained décor suggested the atmosphere of a gentleman’s club from years gone by, and not some sort of doomsday or libertarian cult compound as suggested by the entrance. The smell of cigar smoke and alcohol were fragrant in the air, with the sort of soaked in quality of smell that indicated that these cigars had been smoked and this whiskey had been drunk for many years within these confines. Malcolm walked down a wood paneled hallway that terminated at a comfortable looking sitting room.
“Well, Malcolm,” said an elderly, well dressed man, folding a newspaper onto his lap. “I understand you took a visit out to Pine Ridge.” It wasn’t a question. Phineas Cider had the look of an elder statesman, and was obviously a man of no little importance here.
“Well, Mr. Cider, I thought that someone should have a little chat with Robert Morgan, and let him know where things stood,” said Malcolm, fidgeting with his belt nervously. “It seemed to me to be a good idea.”
“Well done, Malcolm. Well done.” Phineas Cider looked at Malcolm appraisingly. “I hope you didn’t push too hard, or cross any lines of legality.”
“No sir, Mr. Cider, I just had a little chat. It was almost friendly-like, until that drunk started shooting off his mouth a little.”
“He does have the gift of elocution that is true. Nevertheless, we must keep ourselves on the friendly side of the law. It wouldn’t do to have any problems surface at this early time.” Cider stood up and walked over to where Malcolm was still playing with his belt buckle. Cider slapped Malcolm’s hand away. “Relax, son, just be patient. Things will fall into place.”
Malcolm took a step back, embarrassed at being caught playing with himself, or at least his belt. It was an old habit from his boyhood days, and he found it hard to break.
“Should we go over the plan again, Mr. Cider?” Malcolm asked, his face becoming suffused with excitement.
“Let’s wait until the others get here. I would like to have a full accounting of what everyone thinks first.” He smiled and reached for his glass of whisky. “Yes, we must proceed carefully.”
He walked over to a wall on which was hung a giant poster, gaudily colored, with bright, eye-popping writing. It was an advertisement for some sort of amusement park. Some sort of horrible looking, strange, un-fun amusement park. It looked like some sort of uber-unfun place, not simple unfun in the way most amusement parks were unfun, with clowns prancing around underfoot at every turn, rigged games of chance, and salmonella-tinged food stalls spewing out the smell of grease and sweat from the pimply-faced teens working there, but seriously, seriously unfun. There was just something wrong-looking about it, as though someone had held an amusement park poster up to a funhouse mirror, and painted the results. Cider looked at the horrible poster admiringly. “There is no need to rush, Malcolm. One step at a time.” He wiped a fleck of dust off of the poster and flicked it to the ground. “We need only be patient.”
Chuck and Melissa were cruising quickly on highway 401. The evening traffic out of the city was surprisingly light, and they were making excellent time.
“Why did you never tell me your father lived so close by?” Melissa asked, feeling slightly hurt that she was left out of the family loop. “Did you not wish him to meet me?”
“Honey, I haven’t thought of my father in ten years. My mom used to make me send him birthday card, and he used to send me some money every now and again, but really, I had nothing to do with him.” This explanation calmed Melissa slightly. She turned her attention to the reason for the last minute trip to an unfamiliar city.
“What is the property we are going to see? Is it a home, a business?”
“I’m not really sure,” Chuck answered, merging onto the turnoff. “That Robert guy was pretty vague. Maybe my dad got lucky somewhere along the line, opened a successful business or something.” Chuck considered this. “Not really likely, knowing what I know about my dad. Could just as easily be a shack, really. What do those directions say? Where do we go from here?” They were driving down the main strip of downtown St. Catharines. Like many smaller cities in Ontario, downtown was essentially one street, spilling off onto the occasional side street. It was a strange area, divided equally between old, run down buildings that had years ago lost their splendor, and new, modern storefronts lifted seamlessly from the almost-trendy areas of Toronto. Once beautiful 18th century storefronts, with meticulous detailing were crumbling to dust, while newer edifices of concrete and steel were shining under the already lit streetlights. Chuck tried to take it all in.
“This city has a serious split personality,” he murmured, driving past a worn out looking movie theatre.
Melissa examined the directions carefully. “Just keep going straight,” she said. “We will cross a bridge and drive a few minutes, to number 3547. Will Robert be there?”
“Yeah, he said he would be waiting outside for us. Here is the bridge.” They drove on in silence, watching the numbers tick slowly up. “Next driveway.” Chuck exclaimed, excitement leaping in his throat. What would it be? What was the property? He pulled left into the driveway, car headlights briefly illuminating a wooden sign. He stopped to read it.
“A trailer park?” he asked incuriously. “This is some sort o freaking joke, right?” He stopped the car and hopped out, walking over to the dimly lit sign. “Pine Ridge Trailer Park,” he read the faux wooden-log text. “It’s trailer park?” He walked along the path, Melissa hurrying to keep up. As he walked along the path, they could see a tall thin man walking towards them, up a gentle slope. Chuck and Melinda looked down at their new domain, row after row of neat trailers stretched before them, looking like nothing less than a neatly arranged pile of white teeth. Very few lights were on in the trailers, although the paths and walkways were brightly lit by overhead lamps. While not entirely deserted looking, the park had a quietness about it that came more from emptiness, and not merely the quietness of its inhabitants.
Robert walked up to the shocked-looking city dwellers, stuck out his hand and said sardonically “Welcome to paradise.”
The Hotel St. Catharines was one of the oldest buildings in the city. It had been built to celebrate the Canadian Centennial over 100 hundred years ago, although no one could easily remember why the building of a hotel was supposed to celebrate the nation’s birthday. The current owner, a fastidious Brit of the old school, took great pains to maintain its’ glorious appearance, and spent every dime available on antique decor, paints, carpets and great objects of beauty for the rooms. It had grown to be one of the most celebrated hotels in the entire province of Ontario, and as such, it was booked solid for months to come. Yes, staying in this hotel was a great treat, and the guests continually raved about the care expressed in collecting objects d’art contemporaneous with the opening of the hotel. Many a time Malcolm McDougal was called a genius, and he was regularly feted at the Historical Society’s annual celebrations. It was great pity that the owner did not take such great care and pride with his electrical system. Lazily twisted wires in the basement rubbed against one another as the traffic overhead on St. Paul’s Street caused minute vibrations. These wires had been rubbing like this for years, and the plastic sheath covering them had long since grown dry and crumbly. Plastic powder drifted to the ground as a Mac truck rolled by overhead and naked wire rubbed up against naked wire. Like a car being hot wired, there was a spark, and another, and yet another. Soon, sparks were shooting off in every direction. Most of them stuck the barren cement floor, but a few flew unerringly towards some old, cushioned chairs. The owner had long ago thought to recover them; it was only the matter of finding a suitable fabric. It was a real shame these chairs were built long before fire retardant was invented. They went up in flame quickly, fire reaching up to the ceiling, smoke blackening the windows. Before too long, an actual 4 alarm fire had broken out, razing the historic edifice to the ground. Amazingly enough, no one was seriously hurt, the only injuries being light smoke inhalation and some bumps and bruises as the inhabitants raced towards the exits. The only true victim of the fire was Henry McDougal, who, after watching his life’s work go up in flames, was placed on suicide watch.
Chuck was walking back and forth in his dead father’s trailer. Robert had given him a full tour of Pine Ridge Trailer Park, and introduced him to a few of the trailer folk who were still out and about. It was slowly sinking in for Chuck that this was not a joke, that there was no mansion or successful business waiting for him. He was the ostensible owner of a trailer park, barring any complications. Lawyers would have to be involved, and it would probably be a bit of a process, working through all the legalities of intestate inheritance, but Ontario law was clear. As the sole child and last remaining relative of Charlie’s the property, eventually, would be Chuck’s. He and Robert were pouring over the park’s books, recently uncovered by Chuck’s explorations. Melissa had stayed behind after meeting Melinda and Melody, preferring to spend her time in their tastefully decorated home over waiting in the stark, uncomfortable trailer that until recently was Charlie’s home.
“So, the park turns a small profit, even at a 30% rental rate. If you could get more people here, you would make a bit of money. It won’t make you rich, but it will add up to a nice sum.”
Chuck looked over the figures. It was true that the park made some money, but it was a fraction of the amount he was used to making, or rather, used to make. Any monies his father made he had rolled back into the park, not leaving even a tiny nest egg for himself, or his children. Or child as it were.
“If I hired a superintendent that would pretty much wipe out any profit margin.” Robert looked over the books again. “Probably, yes,” he agreed. “Unless you got some more tenants. More tenants, more money.”
“Why didn’t my dad work to get more people in here? He could have been rich if this place had been filled up.” Chuck shook his head, confounded that someone would let such an opportunity slide.
“Well, the demand for trailer parks in St. Catharines is surprisingly low. The rent for a nice apartment closer to the city is about the same, or less, than the cost of a trailer lot. You will get some more traffic in the summer, though. The season is winding down. Also, your dad didn’t want to have the place too busy. He was particular about who he let in. Too many people, too much work. Problems, problems, problems.” Robert tapped the account books. “He decided to keep things perfectly balanced so that he would have enough financial resources for repairs and maintenance, as well as enough for himself to survive, and left it at that.” Robert flipped through a stack of paper. “I believe there is a reserve fund somewhere, in case of emergencies.” He pulled out a small bankbook. “I think, yes, here it is.” He passed over the book to Chuck, who flipped it open, and suddenly had good reason to practice his poker face. The figure on the very last page, the balance in the account, was more than he made in the year. Now THIS was an inheritance. “So, can we spend this? Wanna go shopping, Robert?”
Robert grinned at him, and said “Certainly, however you will want to go shopping for a lawyer first. That money is tied up under so many protection laws it would make your head spin.” He pulled the bank book out of Chuck’s tight grasp. “That money is for emergencies and capital improvements only. You could get yourself into a world of trouble if you used it for anything else.” Robert looked at the balance carefully.
“But it’s so much money! It can’t just sit there doing nothing!” Chuck was sounding petulant even to himself. He tried to regain his composure.
“It has to. If there was ever a serious emergency, or a big problem, that money has to be there. Consider what would happen if there were a tornado.”
“No offence Robert, but I do not really think that Southern Ontario has many tornados.”
“Well, if ever it does, you can rest assured that it will strike us here at Shady Pines.” He smiled ruefully. “You will find a few of our inhabitants, on the whole, to be less than lucky. Less lucky than average, at least.”
“I think I can empathize with them.” Robert considered his options. “Can you look after things around here for a few days, Robert? I need to be back in Toronto for awhile, get things going there. I can come back on the weekend, and see how things are going then.”
“That won’t be a problem, Chuck.” He tore off the corner of a loose sheet of paper. “Here is my number, call me if you have any questions.” Chuck passed Robert a business card. “Oh, wait, I’m, uh, no longer available at that number.” He took it from Robert and wrote his home number on the back. “You can reach me here, if you think of anything. I will go to a lawyer tomorrow, and get started on getting this park changed over into my name.” He shook his had, unable to believe that he would shortly be the owner of a trailer park. Strange, strange world. They shook hands, locked up Charlie’s trailer, Chuck taking a handful of documents that the lawyer would need. He thought about taking the emergency fund bank book, but reconsidered. Temptation was a terrible thing. Having the information readily available would not be a good idea. Robert took him along the maze of trailers, back to find Melissa waiting patiently with Melinda and Melody. Their trailer was decorated as beautifully as a trailer can be decorated. The air was thick and heavy with the smell of incense, and the lights were tinted with a sensuous pink hue. They invited Chuck in for a quick cup of coffee, which he accepted. Robert took his leave of them.
“So, what is it that you do, Chuck?” asked Melinda. She and Melody sat across from Chuck and Melissa, twined together on the small kitchen bench, dark hair, dark eyes, smooth complexions. They were like sisters, sisters who sitting uncomfortably close to one another. Melinda reached out her hand and started stroking Melody’s hair.
“I’m in marketing,” replied Chuck, finding himself slightly aroused by the stunning pair. Melissa sat beside him, hand gently rubbing his thigh, making him feel even more aroused.
“He was in marketing,” interjected Melissa. “He has recently found himself to be slightly embarrassed in the employment department.” Melody raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“I was fired,” explained Chuck. “I had some trouble at work, and was let go. I will probably get a new job soon.” He looked around at the trailer, finding it difficult to believe it was the design as his father’s. Melinda and Melody had found a layout that gave twice the available space, and look beautiful as well. “I can’t believe that this is really a trailer,” Chuck said. “You have done a lot with very little. It’s pretty cool.”
Melody smiled sweetly. “It’s in the knowing. My family has lived in trailers for a long time. You learn tricks, what’s important to keep, what you don’t need. I’m just used to traveling light.”
“What does your family do?”
Melinda looked thoughtful. “You could say they are in marketing as well. Melinda was generally protective of her family history, as they were, in fact, the notorious Midnight Marauders, a gang of robbers that had torn a devastating path across the American Midwest. Her mother was the wheelman (or, wheel mama, as Delores Torres insisted she be called), her father was the heavy, and her Uncle Rob rode shotgun. Melinda had grown up in the back seat of a getaway car, usually one short step ahead of the law. In the mid 1980’s, her father experienced a vision while on a tequila and peyote binge.
The family had holed up for the night in a run down roadside motel, the sort that only took cash but asked no questions. Melinda was hanging out with her uncle, watching grainy black and white television so her parents could have some quality time, when she heard yet another commotion from the next room. Her parents were known to fight, so she and her Uncle Rob just ignored the noise, when suddenly the door to the shabby room burst open. Her father stood in the doorway, wearing naught but a pair of faded briefs and mismatched socks. His face was bright red, glowing with a feverous intensity Melinda had never seen before.
“Halleluiah,” he shouted, shaking the hotel room right down to its foundations, before running up and down the highway, exhorting the few passing motorists to praise Jesus. Few drivers seemed inclined to participate in this late night, last minute revival, and most accelerated sharply, at the sight of a near naked man jogging along the interstate in state o religious glorification. Even in the South, this didn’t play very well. It was later discovered that Michael Claiborne had spilled shot of tequila, and the splash pattern looked surprisingly like the usual representation of Jesus Christ, especially if you looked at it sideways, and squinted a little. He swore up and down that he had had a vision of God, and converted on the spot, first haranguing his wife about the glory of God before taking the sermon to the street. The family had assumed he would come back shortly, but after midnight, Uncle Rob was sent out to find him. He was 5 miles down the highway, lying in the ditch, repeating “Praise Jesus” over and over to himself.
The next day the Midnight Marauders broke up for good. Uncle Rob took the car to continue his life of crime (a highly unsuccessful one, which shortly lead to his incarceration), while Michael, Delores and Melinda started a road-side evangelical church. Michael and Delores were amazed to discover that shortly after pitching a tent (purchased with kind “donations” from a series of banks) they made more on proper donations than they ever made as thieves. They were now working harder than ever to convert more people, especially people with money, marketing the word of the lord into a successful business. Melinda carried on their work, in her own fashion. Meeting Melody had been a revelation, both spiritually and physically.
Chuck finally broke the slightly uncomfortable silence that had settled in the trailer. “Well, I guess we should be going.” He quickly swallowed his still too-hot coffee, wincing slightly. “I suppose we will see you both again.” He stood awkwardly, suddenly feeling overlarge in the confines of the trailer. Beside him Melissa rose gracefully, even with the slight stoop she needed to keep from bumping her head on the ceiling. Melody escorted them to the door. ‘It was a true pleasure meeting you both,” she said, smiling shyly. “Please, come back and visit us anytime.” Murmuring assent, Melissa and Chuck stepped out into the night.
Both Chuck and Melissa were silent on the way back to their car. Darkness had covered the trailer park, only the walkway lights making a small dint against the blackness. Chuck had no doubt that he and Melissa were the lone people still awake in the park, excepting perhaps Melinda and Melody. They were sure an… interesting pair. He looked up at Melissa, walking with her long stride back to the car. He almost had to scurry to keep up with her. “Well, what do you think, honey?” Melissa looked down at him sharply.
“About what?”
Robert waved his hands around in large encompassing circles. “About this, about the park. I own this. This is my park.” Against his better judgment, he was getting excited. It was a big piece of land. Like every Canadian boy before him, he had read “The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz”, and was feeling a little bit proud of his land. He didn’t have to alienate or screw anybody over for it. It was his. Or it would be soon enough.
“It is fine, I suppose. Melinda and Melody are… interesting, but,” she paused, trying to put her thoughts into speech. “It’s trashy,” she finally said. They were almost back at the car now. Melissa turned to look back down at the park. “It’s poor, and made for poor people. For country people, for people who do not know how to decorate a condominium, or how much to tip a Maitre D’.” She turned to look at the faint glimmer of St. Catharines, a few dim lights visible through the trees. “This city probably does not even have concierges! How do people know where to eat?”
Chuck shrugged, unlocking his car and getting in. “I guess they just find a place they like and go there.” He pulled out of the driveway, Melissa still fighting to get her seatbelt on. “Besides, it’s a business, a business that will make money. Right now, that is a good thing.”
“I guess so.” She looked coldly out at the city as they drove back to the highway. “Maybe you should just sell it.”
“I had thought about that, but who would really want to buy a tailor park? It’s not exactly a hot property. Besides, if we ran it to maximum capacity, it will make some serious money.”
“We?”
“Well, me I guess. Robert will take are of things, I said I would come back on the weekend and make sure everything was all right.”
“You want us to spend our weekends there?”
Chuck sighed heavily. “Look, honey, I just lost the only father I never had, and became the owner of a trailer park. I don’t have all the answers, all right?” He tried, and failed to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “I am not sure what will happen next. All I know is that one way or another, that land will turn us a profit.” He considered mentioning the emergency fund, butt decided against it. “We will figure it out somehow.” They drove on silently, rounding the curve of Lake Ontario, scarred as it was by the nightmarish, industrial playground that was the city of Hamilton. Factories and oil refineries turned the black night pitch, spewing darkened clouds into the sky. “At least we don’t live here,” said Chuck, trying to lighten the mood. Melissa turned to look at him, the fires from the refineries dancing in her eyes, turning coal black a warm golden, like inverted marigolds, shining though the night. “It’s so horrible,” she gasped. “It’s almost wonderful.” On that note, they drove on in silence, returning to Toronto late, late into the night.
