Trailer Trash

The story takes place in the fictional town of Crossroads, Nevada, struggling to make sense of a mysterious accident just outside of town. All of this takes place as the town prepares for America's Bicentennial in 1976, retold by a popular writer reflecting on his very own experiences during that very odd week.

CHAPTER ONE MONDAY MORNING Dean Mortenson's office was located in one of the four prime squares of real estate adjacent to the intersection of Interstate 50 and Highway 93 that gave Crossroads its name. The threestory building, known locally as The Shop, served as his official office as town mayor on the ground level, as well as the local newspaper, the radio station, and a small television studio which comprised Mortenson Media on the upper floors. The fact was Dean owned about half of the town and controlled much of the rest, but few complained as everything ran relatively smoothly. Dean sat back in his chair and stared out of the large west window that faced Highway 93. He picked up a large cigar froma brass ash tray on the desk and placed it, unlit, in the corner of his mouth. He grunted and began to scribble notes on a legal pad when a blinding flash of light filled the window then quickly winked out.Dean threw up a large forearmto block the intrusion but was too late.He quickly rubbed his eyes and tried to blink away the light tracers clouding his vision. This must be what it's like to be photographed with flash bulb cameras he thought. When his vision finally returned, he could not believe what he was seeing. He immediately tossed down the cigar, maneuvered his ample frame from behind the desk, and strutted out of the office. As he passed from his inner office through the small front 4 lobby, he did not even pause to acknowledge his secretary Darla Darlene, who sat perplexed and speechless behind her Smith Corona. As Dean pushed through the double glass entry doors and onto the parking lot, a 1975 Chevy Suburban pulling a brand new 1976 31' Airstream Sovereign International Land Yacht travel trailer had just succeeded in blocking all of the parking spots fronting I50. The intense flash of light had come from the early morning sun reflecting off the shiny aluminum trailer skin.Bob Benson had already bounded from the Suburban and was heading across the asphalt towards the building entrance. He sawDean huffing towards him, and the two men met in the middle of the parking lot. "What in tarnation are you doing?" Dean practically spit. "You've taken up half of my parking!" Bob glanced around. "I don't see a big rush for your services at the moment." He tapped Dean on his chest with a finger. "But you're just theman I came to see. I want to do a special TV commercial for the Bicentennial. I was thinking a blowout sale with lots of fireworks in the background or something –maybe some American flags." Dean paused and was caught off-balance. "We can't get a TV spot done that soon, the fourth's on Sunday!" He took a deep breath and put his puffy hand on Bob's shoulder. "But I'll tell you what we can do.We can get a radio spot on air starting tomorrow afternoon, and a print ad inWednesday's edition of The Junction." Bob sighed. "Too late for the tube, eh?Well, alrighty then." TRAILER TRASH 5 Dean smiled. "Good, I'll get Darla started on the copy. Now why don't you take that wagon train of yours home and offmy street parking. And this time, unhook that silver submarine when you get there." "I'm waiting for my pad to get done. It should be finished soon." The truth was the pad had been complete for weeks now, hookups and all. Rumor had it Bob simply didn't know how to unhitch the trailer - odd for a man who owns and operates the town hardware and feed store. "Anyway," Dean continued, "come back this afternoon and look over the proofs. If you want, we can record the radio spot at the same time." It was agreed. Dean filled Darla Darlene in on the Benson ads on his way back through the lobby. He entered his office, wedged himself into his chair, and replace the unlit cigar. He had just picked up the pen to continue the scribbling when the police scanner came to life. 'Mayor Mortenson, do you copy, over?' The voice belonged to Charlie Hillman, Crossroad's sheriff, and currently the one and only law enforcement officer. Dean groaned, extracted himself from the desk, and crossed the room to where the scanner resided. Sweat now beaded on his brow and he wiped this with a handkerchief as he picked up the microphone. "I read you, what's up Charlie?" 'We've got a rollover out here on southbound 93 about a mile out of town. I've got one unconscious occupant with an apparent head wound.' "Roger, I'm heading out there now. Have you notified Elko about a possible incoming?" 6 S.M. COAN 'Affirmative. And I've called the Mitchell brothers, told them to bring the hook truck.' "10-4. I'll be there in a few." Dean grabbed his suit jacket from a stand near his office door. He sighed, it wasn't even 9AM and the outside temperature was already above eighty degrees, and it would be even hotter out on the highway. He shouted towards Darla as he rushed past her desk, "I should be back shortly, something I need to check out," and pushed through the front doors. "Alrighty then," Darla answered as she watched him go. WhatDean didn't realize was that his deep, booming voice carried like a foghorn. That, combined with the fact he seldom closed his office door, meant that Darla always knew everything going on inside The Shop. I had quickly learned that if you really wanted to know what was going on around town, you went straight to Darla Darlene. Darla was the very glue that held everything in Dean Mortenson’s world together. She was a city employee as the mayor's secretary, notary and the clerk and recorder, but she also doubled as secretary to Mortenson Media. She was single, in her late twenties, slim and attractive, and she would usually wear her blond hair up in a sort of a multi-layered bouffant. From this impressive hair mass protruded a number 2 pencil, always at the ready. She watched Dean make the left-hand turn at the intersection and waited until his truck was out of sight before picking up the telephone receiver. Dean could see the accident sight though the heat waves rising off the concrete highway long before he arrived at the scene. TRAILER TRASH 7 He saw the single cherry light flashing atop the sheriff ’s car. Eventually, he pulled past the cone zone Sheriff Hillman has so expertly set up. He watched the sheriff approach as he pried himself fromhis pickup. CharlieHillman was a tallman, about 6'2", and made to appear even taller by his off-white Stetson hat. In fact, he was a pretty imposing figure, contrasted by a charming, boyish face and gentle demeanor.He was also overtly professional and took his job far too seriously according to Dean. "Elko should be here within the hour," Charlie informed. "I don't want to move the victim in case he has other injuries, but he has a strong pulse and appears to be breathing normally." "You figure out what happened?" Dean asked as the two men walked together towards the accident scene. Charlie pointed as he explained. "The skidmarks start here and as you can see, he lost control right about there, rolled onto the side, continued to slide and ended up there." He indicated to the crumpled truck just off of the highway. "Armadillo?" Dean offered. "Probably,"Charlie agreed. "I didn't find any road kill, so we can assume he succeeded in avoiding whatever it was." "Out-of-state?" "Yup, Florida plates. I radioed them in." "Damn tourists," Dean said. "Locals always swerve to hit the pesky things. Are you sure he was the only occupant?" Charlie hesitated. "Maybe you should take a look at this." The pair walked to the back of the accident. The truck was a 1973 Datsun pickup, outfitted with a custom shell over the bed. The tailgate had been removed to allow for two swinging vertical doors, like those of delivery vans. One lower door was 8 S.M. COAN flung open at an odd angle, and the upper appeared jammed shut by the rollover. "See all of that grass or weeds or whatever’s inside there. And it's damp." Dean reached in to confirm. "But nothing else in there?" "Affirmative." "No crates or cages or anything like that?" "Negative." "Huh.” Dean peered in the back again. “What's that plastic thing?" "Looks like a water basin or something. But it's only a foot tall, so you really couldn't keep anything in it."Charlie removed his flashlight from his belt and played it around inside the truck. "Unless it was a turtle or something." "Find any turtles?" "Negative. I searched for about 100 yards around the sight and found nothing.No tracks, no blood, no turtles, no dead armadillos." Dean sighed. “Well, I can’t hang around here until the Elko boys arrive.Watch over the guy will you Charlie? Oh, and one more thing, let’s try to keep this under wraps as much as possible until we know more.”With that said, Dean returned to his truck, made a U-turn, and headed back to town. Once Charlie heard the approaching sirens, he returned to his squad car to radio to Mitchell’s service station to send the tow truck. Officer Hillman briefed the ambulance driver and EMT his assistant on the situation as he knew it. As soon as they completed business of moving the victim, he saw the wrecker TRAILER TRASH 9 approach, with Donnie Mitchell at the wheel, his thick left forearm resting half out the open window. “Morning Donnie,” Charlie said through the open truck window. “Looks like we’re in for another hot one today.” “Reckon you’re right about that,” Donnie squinted ahead, watching the two EMTs finish loading the gurney into the back of the ambulance. “That guy gonna be okay?” “Too early to say, but I think so. He’s got a big knot on his forehead, some lacerations, and maybe a broken bone or two. I plan on heading over to Elko this afternoon, so I should know more then. But first I need to get his identification for my report, and try to notify next of kin.” The sheriff removed his hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Donnie Mitchell was a large, plump man with a buzz-cut. He and his brother Ronnie were identical twins and together they owned and operated the service station located diagonally across the intersection fromTheShop. It was almost impossible to tell the two brothers apart, but the surest way was to measure the amount of grease on the overalls. Donnie was the primary mechanic and was always covered in dirt and grease. Ronnie ran the business, ordered supplies and auto parts, and made sure the two pumps had plenty of gas. For the past few years, they were required to have both leaded and now unleaded gasoline, which irritated Ronnie to no end. In addition to the filling station, the brothers operated a large salvage yard directly behind the station, much to the chagrin of Dean, who saw it as a giant eyesore. In an effort to ease tensions and keep peace, Ronnie had constructed a twelvefoot- high wooden fence adjacent to each highway to hide the 10 S.M. COAN wrecks. Donnie had adorned the walls with classic metal signs and unique hub caps creating a classic Americana decor. Once the ambulance pulled away Charlie said, “Go ahead and take the wreck to your back lot.Thefewer people who have a chance to gawk at it the better. I’ll stop by the station later and get the registration and VIN number for my accident report. I forgot to put my camera in the car this morning, so maybe I’ll take some pictures of the damage as well.” “Will do,”Donnie said as he put the truck in gear. “What’ll you reckon, armadillo?” “Probably, but I’ll wait until I talk to the young man when he regains consciousness.” Donnie looked across at the wreck, waiting for a few cars on the highway to pass so he could cross and hook up. “What’s on that decal on the door?” “I’ve already made a note of that,” Charlie said. “It’s F.W.R. in big letters and there’s a shield behind them, and a banner that says FLORIDAWETLANDS RESERVE. It’s got Florida plates too.” “Florida?” Donnie said surprised. “What the hell are they doing out this way, and what was he hauling in that thing?” “That is the million-dollar question. I will certainly be looking into that. It’s going to mean some long-distance phone calls and that’ll put a strain on my budget.”He adjusted his hat and started walking back to his patrol car. “Talk to you later Donnie.” He stopped to jot down a few more notes when an older vehicle heading north towards town slowed, then pulled onto the shoulder across from the sheriff ’s car. Charlie looked up and cursed under his breath. “I do not believe it.” TRAILER TRASH 11 A beat-up 1953 GMC pickup truck clattered to a stop in the gravel, kicking up a cloud of dust. A weathered face complete with an assortment of missing teeth protruded from the side window and peered across at the cruiser. “Morning sheriff.” Charlie Hillman crossed the highway so he didn’t need to shout at the truck. “Morning Nathan. You’re out early.” “I got some bottles to take in for refunds,” Nathan said and gestured towards the bed of the truck. “What’s been happenin’ out here?” “Nothing that concerns you.” Charlie said. He knew Nathan Poole all too well.He wasn’t interested in the accident, but whatmight have been left behind on the pavement.Nathan was a scavenger, hoarder, and purveyor of anything that might bring in some change or a cheap meal, like fresh road kill.Charlie also knew that under all of the pop bottles and tin cans in the back of the truck was a wide, flat head shovel used just for scooping up fresh road kill. He winced just thinking about it. He bent in a bit to seeNathan’s hound dog Toby sitting upright in the passenger seat. “Time for you and Toby to be on your way Nate.” “You sure there ain’t nothin’ out here sheriff?” “I’m sure Nate.” “Alrighty then.” Nathan slung some gravel as he fought the clutch and pulled back out onto the highway, heading into town.