“Desaparecido”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

Desaparecido.

Literally, this term speaks with gruesome finality for those who have vanished in silence. It means one who has disappeared at the hands of military forces or the police, in nations where democracy and the rule of law are unknown concepts.

Yet in terms of a rural trailer park, the word carries different connotations.

I pondered this recently, while walking my Black Lab on a warm, Tuesday morning. In my diminutive world, there were many who had joined that vacant group. Gone without warning. Lost to financial ruin, relationship breakup, or incarceration for miscreant behavior. I looked over at a brown-and-tan single-wide down the street. Had there been another? My neighbor had not appeared in at least a week. Perhaps I was too hasty in judgment. Or, maybe he had simply slipped away in the night.

I recalled arriving home from work, a few years ago. My neighbors to the west had a blue box, frequently remodeled and then abandoned. A sort of Bermuda Triangle in manufactured form, from which many had never returned. Its fractured history paid tribute to the transitory nature of our park.

Those inside were a family of five, from Madison. Living for a month with no running water or electricity. A feat that seemed incredible in view of three young children being in the household. When I returned from Geneva and my ‘real job’ on a late evening in the summer, I noted that all their lights were burning. Curtains no longer adorned their windows. More specifically, they had blankets employed for this duty. Real window accessories have always seemed rare in a mobile home development.

After a couple bottles of Labatt Blue, I grew bold enough to approach the dwelling more directly. Kid toys lay strewn across the driveway. Inside, all the cabinet doors were open. A bed frame remained. And various pieces of clothing with discarded household items.

I tried the front door. It had been locked.

Over a week elapsed before the owner arrived. Likely, because it was a rent-to-purchase investment. Each night, I would come home to enjoy my cold, adult beverages, while looking at the vacated home. Eventually, the lights were no more. A neighbor spoke of seeing the family move out, under the cover of night. They begged not to be reported. Apparently, the brood was several months behind in their payments.

Fleeing to oblivion brought them rescue.

As we continued the walk, my Black Lab pawed at tall grass by a different trailer, long abandoned. His play caused me to recall another of the previous residents, an undisciplined fellow, that had joined the desaparecidos after a rocky period in our neighborhood. He was loud and shabby. Seemingly a perfect sort for life in a tin box. But his habits were erratic. He once chained his dog to a cinder block, only to have the pooch pull this bouncing bit of debris down the street. An amusing sight that he himself did not think was funny. Later, he circled the park in his van, wondering if anyone had a pool table for sale. I could not help befuddlement over who would have room for such an entertaining piece in their home.

Suddenly he was like the rest. Gone after an appearance by the sheriff’s department. Whispering neighbors said he had been found in possession of a stolen rental car, from Chicago.

Yet another family up the street was known in our community for inhabiting a long trailer with an extensive side porch toward the back. Also, for domestic disputes that sometimes attracted the local police. Once, the wife threatened her unhappy hubby with a butcher knife. On another occasion, the husband flipped his child’s tricycle in the air, demonstrating his bad temper. I had to walk by their residence on occasion when visiting my girlfriend. These encounters always made me cradle my beer carefully, in case I needed to dodge airborne furniture or human bodies in motion. After a particularly violent episode, they too were added to the lost.

Soon afterward, their battered, tin creation disappeared as well.

This procession of souls soon had me dubious about who actually resided in the park. Warmer months brought the rapidity of ingress and egress to a boil. Families would stay for a few weeks, only to vanish with the sunset. Projects were left unfinished. Empty homes still bore the traces of their past. Framed photographs, canned food, bedding, kitchen gadgets, and the like, remained.

I felt thankful for those who brought stability to the enclave. Like my neighbor across the street, a teacher of Sunday School at our local church, and a friend since my entry into the park, 16 years before.

My Black Lab did not worry himself over such concerns. He simply sniffed the ground during our brief adventure. Only the sight of a stray kitty held his attention. But as we walked, I read each lot number to myself and wondered…

Who would be the next desaparecido to go missing with the sunrise?

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