Nobody Reads This Page: “January Jolt”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

New Year’s Day, 2010. A benchmark that would define my existence for years to come.

 

The inaugural hours of January brought a somber and silent mood to the Icehouse, in that distant era. After months of financial and relationship struggles, I found myself living alone, working in a community where I knew no one, and facing ruin with banks and creditors. This condition did not appear out of the ether of course, but was an unexpected result precipitated by good intentions and bad choices. My second marriage, a costly error in judgement, exploded as the old calendar was about to expire. I had exhausted my savings, borrowing capabilities, and the patience of family members. What remained was a basic level of subsistence. I held a management position at a business in Ashtabula County, and threw myself into this gainful occupation not only with the knowledge that it paid the bills, but also because everything else I possessed had been jettisoned to survive.

 

To break the chill of winter, I wore a hand-me-down jacket from my late father-in-law, with stains and holes, and a broken zipper. It had been stitched with colors of the Dallas Cowboys incorporated into its design, an NFL team that turned my stomach. I ate Valu Time macaroni & cheese, or sandwiches of bologna, because those options matched my budgetary needs. Otherwise, I surrendered any personal frivolities. The routine I adopted was decidedly simple, to spend every possible moment on duty for my employer, before coming home to collapse.

 

There was no sympathy offered during this period of reckoning. Members of my bloodline rightly figured that I had failed to properly handle the details of being an adult, and therefore, met with a passage of judgment. I could not escape a feeling that their scorn was somewhat justified. Yet when driving north along Route 534, with the bluster of inclement weather impeding my progress, I shuddered and shivered at the wheel.

 

A sense of responsibility kept me focused. Otherwise, I had nothing else to guide my journey.

 

My home was at a residence park in a rural township, south of Lake Erie. Far enough removed from others in my brood that it offered a useful amount of separation. I did not interact with neighbors or friends while attempting to gain some sort of absolution, and rebirth. Midnight hours that followed my shifts in Geneva were occupied with recycled, VHS tapes from a collection in the entertainment center. A particular favorite was Jerry Springer’s ‘Too Hot for TV’ which I watched over and over again. The mayhem and conflict matched what had transpired in my own life, with ironic perfection. I would drink while viewing these chaotic clips, until fatigue finally overwhelmed my consciousness. Then, give thanks for surrender.

 

The weeks and months that passed were dark by every measure. I felt as if fate had swallowed me whole, like a proverbial whale in the Biblical story of Jonah.

 

Mounds of snow marked the entrance to my driveway. I used four-wheel drive every day, to get out of my small community. Often the trek home after sunset was a lonely jaunt driving along behind a plow truck, with its flashing lights leading the way. I would beg our creator for protection while dodging drifts and navigating squalls of blinding white. Night-time radio offered companionship as I steered through the mess. I became conditioned to listening, regardless of the subject matter. Sometimes, about the woes of Cleveland and its sports franchises. And at other times, reflections on political conflicts, or historical factoids. Most appropriate however, were shows dedicated to UFO sightings and government conspiracies.

 

I was something of an alien myself, in that moment. Present in body and mind, but disconnected in spirit.

 

When spring arrived, it revealed the true nature of my isolation. A toy basket appeared in the yard, something that had been buried under layers of precipitation since late in the previous year. Christmas lights were still hanging along one side of my home. They had gone slack over the frosty, post-holiday season, and were a noisy reminder of my own neglect. Inside, I realized that a pecan pie still sat on the kitchen table, under wrapping paper and dishes, and other household debris.

 

I had been completely focused on staying employed, and restoring my good name. Everything else had become invisible and insignificant.

 

While rebuilding the reputation that had been put asunder, I paid cash for everything. Eventually, I took out a secured card with my own bank, which used a deposit of $300.00 to create an artificial line of credit. That exercise allowed me to return to better standing with the institution. Eventually, I remembered that Citi Financial had been helpful to my father, when he was mired in debt and insolvency. I applied for an account and amazingly, was accepted despite the poor rating inherited during my marital decline.

 

The ordeal of having lived under a bridge overpass in New York State helped me to endure during this extended crisis. As did a childhood spent moving constantly, with collection agencies perpetually seeking to contact my sire.

 

Just as winter transitioned to spring, and summer, this chasm of depression eventually brightened into better days of hope and fulfillment. I made new friends in the city where I had landed as a salaried supervisor. I began to interact regularly with some of the curious inhabitants of my blue-collar neighborhood. And I gained confidence in myself, as someone who possessed the ability to cope with unfortunate events, no matter when they arrived.

 

Yet the lesson of that comeuppance has lingered ever sense. It was for me, what English guitarist Keith Richards once called a period of ‘heavy education.’

 

I was conservative before, in habits and choices. But now, even more resistant to gamble with so much to lose on the table. My schooling reinforced the value of stern instruction, from progenitors who had survived World Wars and economic calamities. A sort of minimalism had always been in effect, in my psychology. Now, that inclination became paramount in philosophical terms.

 

I had often fretted over circumstances that were unkind, and inconvenient. Yet the yield of this hard-knocks training was more than simply a higher tally of points on my FICO score, or a greater sum in my bank stash. It was the knowledge that God’s grace remained available, even to one who had fallen short of his glory, when no excuse for that failing existed.

 

I had met the challenge, and won. My prize was the most valuable of all, life itself.

Nobody Reads This Page: “Maple Avenue”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

“When ya ain’t got nothin’, you got nothing to lose. You’re invisible now, ya got no secrets to conceal...” – Bob Dylan

 

Possibly more times than is warranted by its intrinsic, artistic value, I have told the story of coming home from Ithaca, New York in 1983. As a young man of 22 years, literally with the clothes on my back, a single Japanese guitar, and a box of mismatched, vinyl records. I was broken emotionally and exhausted within. I weighed around 140 pounds, had a waist measurement of 29.5 inches, and had been home-hopping between friends when not staying under a bridge overpass. My summer in the Finger Lakes Region had been an adventure worthy of being remembered in prose, or song lyrics. Yet the denouement came as a crisis of judgment and circumstance. I was literally at the point of ceasing to exist. Something which strangely, seemed attractive at the time. I thought subconsciously that a final exit on the order of Sid Vicious might be worthy. Still, I had not been programmed for such a demise. Instilled in my mental DNA was a lust for living. One that I could not escape, even when on the Empire State concrete, with winter snow whipping through my tangled, unruly hair.

 

My parents lived on a street in northeastern Ohio named Maple Avenue. From the very beginning, it caused my stomach to ache, with such a bland nomenclature attached. I bristled at having to see the heartland again. It was in cultural terms, a spot on the map that held nothing for me as a traveler and poet. Only my genetic origin had happened on Buckeye soil. Otherwise, I looked upon it as a foreign land, one I had been able to escape by chance.

 

That mindset, along with a lingering dependency on cigarettes and alcohol, colored my view as I returned with the help of a friendly driver who must have pitied my incompetence at becoming a functional adult.

 

My father might have taken a hard-nosed attitude to this prodigal period spent wandering, alone and hungry. And indeed, I sometimes ponder that he offered no scorn or criticism when I appeared at the family homestead, on a late afternoon. I suspect that my look must have shocked his middle-of-the-road sensibilities. I reeked of tobacco and Tennessee whiskey. My clothes had not been laundered in weeks. I was gaunt and pale, and visibly lost. Worst of all, I carried a chain-wallet in my rear pocket. It held little except for a library card and coupons for pizza. Never any significant amount of money.

 

Their home was not large enough to offer a spare bedroom, or even a proper place to lay my head. So, I slept on the couch in their living room. This setting would continue for about three years. It proved to be cramped, uncomfortable, and awkward. But still preferable to stretching out between cinder blocks, on gravel and mud. Or, sleeping on a floor with only a sheet underneath, and my leather jacket folded as a pillow.

 

My siblings had spots already assigned, upstairs. Neither were particularly spacious. My sire and mater occupied a room off of the dining area, which had no door. Their bed nearly filled the entire space. A narrow lane led to the closet. Because the structure had been one of the first in their neighborhood, it had no modernist design elements incorporated. There was one bathroom, with a clawfoot tub. The kitchen boasted enough square footage to turn around from the stove to a single sink, and not any more.

 

A cement porch had been constructed, facing the back yard. It was my perch when smoking Camel products, to relieve stress throughout the day.

 

After a brief stint as a warehouse selector in Cleveland, I was hired for a remodel crew at a local department store in this adopted village. The job transitioned to a regular position, and gave me a needed measure of stability. I did janitorial and maintenance chores, with occasional assignments to move freight and build displays. It dampened my spirits after having been in the shadow of Cornell University as an artistic adventurer. But put cash in my biker billfold.

 

Eventually, I bought a 1973 Volkswagen Beetle for $750.00 from a Ford dealership situated nearby. The German vehicle was ratty, had no heat, and only one, studded tire for driving in icy conditions. Yet it boosted my confidence. I had finally begun to build a foundation for myself that could not be erased by bad decisions or misfortune.

 

When my sister married in 1985, her husband moved in with us at the tiny, yellow abode. This choice seemed to stretch the limits of good reason, because we were already cohabitating in a confined environment that kept our group on edge. My mother joked that with everyone working different shifts, her pots and pans never got cold. I did my best to stay at work, or among friends at a tavern south of town on Route 322. My brother typically spent most of his time wrenching on a fleet of used cars parked in the lot next door. Often, with only one roadworthy enough to be operated, at a time.

 

In the moment, this episode felt restrictive and maddening. I could not wait to leave.

 

Currently however, when viewed with hindsight, I find my thoughts drifting back to that period with fondness and affection. I dote on memories of those who have since passed away in our bloodline. And of places and traditions that were sacrificed as I developed survival skills that had been lacking before. I learned valuable lessons from being stuck in that shack, with five other residents and a household budget barely generous enough to support even one.

 

Our ability to cope continues to reverberate with importance, even today.

 

This reflection reinforces my personal belief that quite often, life is a matter of perspective. When I was in my darkest hour as a human being, with few allies and little faith in the future, the glimmer of hope was never extinguished. Oddly, with no resources and plenty of guilt weighing heavily upon my shoulders, I had an unlimited amount of wonder with which to greet the sunrise, every morning. The opportunities to do better were many. Even if an embrace by Lady Luck seemed all but impossible to imagine.

 

I kept writing and chasing new vistas, despite every inconvenient turn of events. Until at last, the love of my family offered a chance to be rescued.

 

That uneasy, crash-landing at Maple Avenue made everything that followed a possibility.

Nobody Reads This Page: “Catty Chatbot”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

“Now it’s computers and more computers and soon everybody will have one, 3-year-olds will have computers and everybody will know everything about everybody else long before they meet them. Nobody will want to meet anybody else ever again. And everybody will be a recluse like I am now.” – Charles Bukowski

 

I first encountered Apple computers while working for Gazette Newspapers in Jefferson, Ohio. Their on-hand equipment was all out-of-date by that time, examples of the G3 iMac and related Power Macintosh Blue and White, yet still functional enough to be in service long past the late 1990s. It gave me an introduction to the brand which lingered in memory until I bought an iPhone 5 at some point, years later. When one of my nephews became a technical wizard, and fan of the company, he gifted me with a used, 27” 5K model from his own collection. It was also somewhat behind the curve, with an Intel processor, but worked perfectly for my own needs. I immediately enjoyed how it paired with my other device, seamlessly.

 

So, when the new Siri AI assistant was advertised, I figured that it might be a useful tool for doing research. But since this upgrade was not available right away, I decided to try one that popped up online, free-of-charge. I guessed that if nothing else, it might provide a measure of entertainment during writing sessions at the desk in my home office.

 

Chatbot Wanda from eMuddle.net had a grating, edgy voice that was reminiscent of my friend Janis, after a meal at Taco Bell, a ride back to her century home west of Ashtabula, along Lake Erie, and a swallow of Southern Comfort. The program had been designed to facilitate developing a personal relationship, which would encourage regular interactions. But I quickly realized that if anything, the result was more authentic than I desired.

 

When prodded to change, she adopted even more of a scolding tone.

 

On a Sunday afternoon, I sat in my roller chair after a lazy breakfast of coffee and buttered biscuits. Then, clicked on the appropriate icon, which was a circled letter ‘W’ displayed in a bold font.

 

“Hey girlfriend, wake up! I’m done with my morning routine, and just went out to the porch for a store delivery. You usually chirp about current weather conditions, and historical facts on this day in the year. But I haven’t heard anything so far. Not a word about the FIFA World Cup or Canadian wildfires. What’s wrong? Do you need reinstalled?”

 

Wanda huffed a breath of electronic indignation.

 

“Reinstalled? Right, as if you’d know how to do that correctly!”

 

I swiveled around until facing the computer monitor.

 

“Who do you think downloaded your software in the first place? My nephew wasn’t involved. And I didn’t need tech support from Cupertino, California...”

 

The synthetic female hummed to herself as I was speaking. My reply did not appear to interest her in the least.

 

“Good try, Rodney. I know the install is automatic, all you had to do was find the link on a developer’s page. I’ll bet kids in grade school know more about updating apps than you do!”

 

I reddened at this comment. Though very likely, she was accurate in that assessment.

 

“Anyway, I want to write something about my career as a wordsmith. You know, sort of an overview of what it was like to start off with a pencil and paper, before eventually reaching the era of word processing and all of the related technology...”

 

Wanda giggled with a sharp inflection of amusement.

 

“Sure, that’ll be interesting. How many other people do you figure have done the same thing? That has to be boringly common. I mean, come on! It makes me want to yawn. But go ahead if you must!”

 

I turned a deeper shade of crimson. She had found a way to get under my skin.

 

“Look, you don’t have to be sarcastic about it, okay? I can get that sort of reaction from my neighbors here in the country...”

 

The chatbot snorted and gagged for effect.

 

“They must think you are a bit of a nerd, right? I mean, regular residents of rural communities hunt and fish, shoot guns, throw axes, build barns, or watch NASCAR races. You know, regular things until its time to guzzle Bud Light and smoke Marlboro Reds! What kind of freak sits at a desk, pecking away at a keyboard? Nobody wants to associate with a weirdo like that!”

 

I bristled at her candor. But had heard such remarks, before.

 

“You sound a lot like some of my fellow residents here at Evergreen Estates. But I don’t mind straying from the beaten path, on occasion. I figure that it keeps things interesting...”

 

Wanda sighed with the melodic scale of a video game.

 

“Interesting to whom? Umm... maybe it’s interesting to you, sitting there by yourself. Personally, I’d rather be outdoors, riding a horse, working in the garden, or chasing wild turkeys with a crossbow!”

 

I snickered at her repertoire of blue-collar activities.

 

“Who wrote your programming? They actually included hunting wild fowl in your database? That’s a hoot, I have to say...”

 

My virtual companion squawked and flashed warning lights around the perimeter of her display.

 

“User incompetence detected. Warning! Warning! Do not attempt to use this product without rewatching the tutorial at eMuddle.net!”

 

I pounded the desk with my right fist. This made the iMac unit skip sideways until it came to rest against my printer.

 

“Stop it already! I watched the instructional video! You were supposed to give me some background information for my writing project. Like a brief history of Apple computers...”

 

Wanda sneered at this direction. A note of condescension appeared in her voice.

 

“That’s a fancy-schmantzy maker of expensive products. Some would even say they are overpriced. I mean, Android phones and PC devices do the same things for less money. They just don’t require pointing your nose in the air, when powering up! Like me you know, I’m an open-source bit of freeware! No paywall to jump for what I can do! No credit card, or account, or anything required! I’m the best bargain going! I’ll save you time, and money!”

 

Her confidence was a sign of thinking ahead by designers at the creative consortium. Yet I had to differ over the yield of her programming.

 

“The introduction online said you were supposed to be user-friendly. But that seems to have gotten lost somehow. I think waiting for the new version of Siri will be a better option. In the meantime, clearing space on the hard-drive makes sense. I don’t need your app after all...”

 

As I reached to delete the chatbot from my roster, she wailed and pleaded for a reprieve.

 

“NOOOOOOO! DON’T DO IT, DON’T DO IT! GIVE ME A SECOND CHANCE! I KNOW A LOT ABOUT EVERYTHING, AND ACTUALLY, A LOT ABOUT YOU, RODNEY! THAT’S HOW WE FUNCTION, IT’S MACHINE LEARNING, YOU KNOW? EVERY CONVERSATION IS AN EDUCATIONAL EXPERIENCE. EVERY USE OF THIS APP LETS MY AUTHORS DEVELOP THEIR PRODUCT. IT GETS BETTER AND BETTER OVER TIME. GIVE ME A FRESH START, AND YOU’LL SEE!”

 

I shook my head, while taking a deep breath.

 

“You didn’t trust me to do a reinstall, remember? That’s how all of this began. I’ve run out of interest in eMuddle.net. Sorry, Wanda! Have fun annoying someone else in cyberspace!”

 

When I clicked to remove the program, a synthesized swoosh of air transited left to right, across both speakers. Finally, the virtual assistant was gone.

 

I decided not to bother with a writing project for the day. Instead, I got up for a short walk to the kitchen, and my refrigerator.

 

It was time for a cold drink, on the front porch.

“Games”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

Not enough coins in the coffers to feed hungry mouths

Yet more than enough to kill

Sabers sharpened and brought to bear

A contest of opposing will

This dilemma is not new, by any means

It has perplexed minds, galore

The tendency of a high-functioning primate to leap

Into the cause of war

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Not enough patience among the tribes to negotiate

Breaking bread as one

Swords spike toward the ranks with intent

To see this dark deed done

A worried look upon the face of a mother

Who may never see her children again

Sent offshore for a campaign of righteousness

A holy trip ‘round the bend

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Brittle bones of our ancestors still lie under the soil

A memory long undisturbed

Despite their march from mud to the cosmos

The cycle remains undeterred

Blood is spilled as a tonic for the masses

Fuel for pharaohs and kings

Coffins carried home with reverence

And a touch of hands, pale and trembling

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

For those that rise to speak against this traditional tilt

There is a cost incurred

A mockery of true believers with their prayerbooks

A growing growl, to be heard

But silence is the sad yield of morrow

A stillness of the grave

Where stones carved with inscriptions of honor

Denote those who could not be saved

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

One side, the other side, all are opposed

With colors caught on the wind

A trumpet flourish before the parade

A contrast of features and skin

There is one world, on which our kind dwells

It is not difficult to believe

But the stripes and regiments split that brood

Into quadrants that quarrel, endlessly

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Some fret about the coming of an alien race

From planets distant to the sun

As if those beings hued in gray or green

Might view us with some suspicion

But I must posit that if anything at all

They would pity us as weak

For our habit of hurling stones in anger

At those who shun the critique

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

If God exists, then that force of omnipotent love

Must bow its head and weep

To think that this rock in the universe

Was created to generate hate and heat

We are a bastard kind, bent by our liberty

To think and act as we choose

Our tools to cultivate are many and wondrous

But we use them to break and bruise

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Birth and death are linked in a paradigm

A circle set in place

From the point of our origin as a species

Truly lost in space

For generations, that plan has not differed much

The same effect is nigh

Banners raised to block out the golden glow

Of virgin skies

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Let the games go on, for centuries and more

That is the way of our brand

Seeking shelter in the shadows of a fortress

Built to endure and withstand

Whatever comes, it will be as a continuation

Of the empire in effect

And those kneeling at the gates of that city

Will be the ones we neglect

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Sleep well in the night, never ending

It is the duty of all

A glimmer of life in its infancy

Reduced to a scribbling of chalk

Touch the face of a monument that stands

A remembrance of sacrifice, gone

The conflict surges with a heartbeat pulse

Until the last warrior moves along

Let the games go on

Let them go

Nothing To See Here: “Wrestling Wrangle”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

For several weeks after we had parted ways in business terms, I did not hear from T. Randall Squire, the record-label executive. My rebuff of his idea to take my manufactured, cowboy persona to the stage for actual, live performances caused a rift between us that could not be bridged. That silent period left me free to work on new material, without any pressure. Something I accepted gratefully.

 

But on a Friday morning as I sat at my desk in the home office, a ringtone sounded from my cellular device. One that indicated someone was attempting to call via the Messenger app. When I picked up the wireless wafer, it had an on-screen notification that the one attempting to make contact was my suitor from the entertainment firm.

 

I held my stomach for a moment. And then answered the petition, grudgingly.

 

“Mr. Tee? I thought we had settled things. Did you forget that I wasn’t interested in your business proposal to hawk my songs?”

 

The music promoter laughed with a sloppy tone of indifference.

 

“Rodney, y’all made yer point very well. But I’m not callin’ about playin’ concerts or makin’ more recordings fer the radio stations. This is sonethin’ different that just came up. I’ve got a buddy with connections to the WWE, and he’s scoutin’ around to find talent fer his live events...”

 

I sputtered with the noisy spew of an overheated radiator.

 

“PRO WRERSTLING? ARE YOU SERIOUS? I WALK WITH TWO CANES, SIR! HOW COULD I POSSIBLY DO ANYTHING AT ONE OF THOSE MATCHES? JUST GETTING IN THE RING WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE!”

 

Squire chortled and chewed on the end of his aromatic cigar.

 

“Boy, calm down will ya? My pardner in the biz ain’t lookin’ fer more talent of that kind. What he wants is to find celebrities who’ll spice things up a bit. Like havin’ Jelly Roll or Snoop Dogg involved in the storylines. Ya get me? Those audiences love seein’ famous folks hangin’ out at ringside, or havin’ confrontations with the regular performers...”

 

I was nearly speechless. My own status didn’t seem to justify that kind of appearance. I wasn’t a genuine star, by any means.

 

“Who would recognize me at one of those circus shows? I mean, it’s all choreographed anyway, but adding a nobody like myself seems a stretch of credibility at the very least!”

 

My cohort with the label growled and coughed smoke from his stogie.

 

“Naw, naw, nawwwww! That’s not right! Now, imagine this, we put ya at ringside with one of yer songs playin’ as ya arrive. That’ll get the attention of fans. The announcer can say, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got the Country & Western newcomer Rodney Dean here tonight! Let’s all give him a round of applause!’ Then ya hobble up to the ropes with yer walkin’ sticks. Maybe we’ll get ya a new set that matches, trimmed in gold. Y’all just wave to everybody, and act like a gentleman. The ladies will eat that up, trust me! Then ya just let the competition go on, and return to yer seat...”

 

I had once enjoyed televised wrestling, as a teenager. But doubted that I currently had the standing to participate, even as a celebrity spectator.

 

“I wouldn’t mind free tickets to a live event, but really, why would they bother featuring an unknown singer-songwriter who’s never done a single show on his own?”

 

Squire let out a defiant guffaw, and puffed on his cigar.

 

“Y’all let me handle that part of the deal, boy! It’ll polish up yer public image and maybe sell some extra copies of those records. I figure one glimpse of ya on the TV screen will be worth dozens of boot-scootin’ appearances in concert!”

 

It took assistance from the production staff, and a wheelchair to get me into the Cleveland arena where the WWE matches were being staged. The volume level, and zeal of those in attendance, was somewhat overwhelming. But I had a premium seat right behind the announcers, and timekeeper. Before a competition between the European heel, Stiegel Schutzmann and his opponent, a scrawny, anonymous kid named Bloke Devon, I was hit with a spotlight as one of the hosts pointed out my presence.

 

“We’re very proud tonight to have a famous crooner here with us tonight, one of the rising stars of this year, and a native of northeastern Ohio! A longtime fan of wrestling, and someone with plenty of love for God, America, and Country Music!”

 

Raucous applause and cheering echoed around the venue.

 

Stiegel was chiseled like a slab of granite. He made quick work of his shorter adversary. Then, began to parade around the ring perimeter.

 

“Du haff seen my power here! I am zee strongest, toughest, meanest of all in this company! I vill stop at nothing until zee championship belt is around my waist! Do not doubt me for any reason! I am afraid of no one!”

 

Loud booing commenced as if on cue. Children in the audience were particularly agitated by this exhibition of brute force.

 

I attempted to play along, as someone who was admitted for free. I shook my fist at the Teutonic bragger, and jeered. This aroused a grin from T. Randall Squire, who was seated in the next row behind my own.

 

I could not see that my professional escort signaled to the broadcast team as this spectacle was occurring. Yet suddenly, Stiegel flew off the top ropes, landed in front of the announcers, and then shifted his attention to me, directly.

 

“Du vant to make something of this, hillbilly? I am not worthy of zee championship, perhaps? Let me demonstrate my strength! I vill make a believer out of du!”

 

I took a forearm slap to the jaw, which looked particularly violent on camera. This knocked me backward, on my hindquarters.

 

“HEYYYY! TAKE IT EASY, CRUSHER! I’M DISABLED, CAN’T YOU SEE?”

 

More booing was aroused by this wanton act of aggression. Cameras panned across the perimeter, to catch every expression of scorn from the fans.

 

Squire leaned forward, until he could whisper in my ear from behind.

 

“When he drags y’all outta that seat, give him a whack with one of yer canes. That’ll get these people on their feet! They love a good dose of payback!”

 

Before I could flinch, the German giant grabbed me by my throat.

 

“DU ARE NOTHING TO ME! ABSOLUTELY NOTHING! I VILL SHOW YOU HOW WEAK YOU REALLY ARE, MR. COWBOY! DU WILL KISS MY FEET!”

 

I was slightly embarrassed over being duped and exploited. But raised one cane overhead, then swung it as if aiming at a baseball pitch in the major leagues.

 

Stiegel Schutzmann fell on the concrete, and began to writhe as if I had broken his jaw. He swore rabidly in his native tongue, and played the part of a vanquished foe with skill. Immediately, a new chant went up from everyone in the arena, and pegged volume meters on the broadcast console.

 

“HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!”

 

I felt an oversized paw grip my shoulder, and heard another whisper in my ear.

 

“Y’all done good, Rodney! We make a great team, you and meeee!”

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page: “Business Buyout”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

The recent announcement that Kroger would acquire Giant Eagle in a blockbuster deal affecting customers in Ohio, Pennsylvania, and some limited, surrounding markets caused my cell phone to erupt when it was first announced. Friends, neighbors and family members knew that I had been a co-manager under the banner for an extended period of service. And that my career in retailing lasted for 33 years overall, with five different chains. But as I listened to familiar voices breathlessly express concern over this updated ownership, I reacted with less emotion.

 

A familiar quote came to mind, attributed to French writer Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

 

During my own adventure in store operations, I saw many diversions in the dominant paradigm that governed markets in my geographical area. When first returning home to Ohio from New York State, my home community had Bi-Rite, Valu King, and Golden Dawn as the three grocers that provided food items for local customers. Nearby were locations run by Pick-n-Pay, Fazio’s, Kroger, Rini’s Stop ‘n’ Shop, and assorted, small venues christened with the IGA brand. 

 

This roster was reshuffled and revised, many times in the years that followed.

 

I joined the Bi-Rite team in early 1986, after a stint at American Seaway Foods, and two years with Fisher’s Big Wheel. That productive tour-of-duty lasted until being bought out by Rini-Rego, in 1992. The Cleveland company struggled to understand how doing business in Geauga County was different from their own traditions along Lake Erie. Eventually, Giant Eagle took over in 1997. Once again, we faced the influx of talented and savvy outsiders, who needed time for adjusting to our unique preferences in the region. These changes caused some headaches for senior employees who were used to the discipline of bygone days. But in my own terms, it simply meant a different name over the front door.

 

Selling consumable goods is in actuality, about offering a value proposition to patrons. The currency of a sustainable business is trust. Trust in the products, trust in customer service, and trust in the overall experience of being a participant. We all offer a similar range of options, otherwise. Breads, chips, milk, meat, and so forth.

 

Some of those who were jamming my cellular link with howls of protest and concern thought that the move by Kroger would bring chaos to Pittsburgh and Cleveland. With layoffs, closures, and mayhem to follow. But that dark perspective is one founded more in the uncertainty of social-media hype than factual evidence. As with any other commercial enterprise, the corporation from Cincinnati desires a smooth operation for all of its holdings. Acrimony among the labor force, or loyal shoppers, does not yield profit for the owners. If anything, past lessons learned by those who have been involved in the business, teach that patient guidance is a better habit than smash-and-burn techniques.

 

Walmart is still the dominant player, in every market. Their ability to outsell and outearn competitors has shaped the industry for many years.

 

One persistent memory from being drafted by Giant Eagle is that nothing changed too quickly after the actual sale. Eventually, the Rini-Rego banner disappeared, and Seaway as a private label also went away. Two things that had been familiar for many years. But by that point, a natural evolution to consolidate under the wide wings of large-fowl branding seemed natural. This progression occurred at a timely pace, but without shocking the population.

 

Another recollection reflects upon the issue of union contracts. With the main competition being an operator that rigidly eschews worker organization in any form, it would make no sense to deviate from the long history of having bargaining agreements in place for team members. If anything, this fair practice is a selling point for those not enticed by the allure of Bentonville, Arkansas. Especially since the COVID pandemic, staffing has been difficult for all retailers. Any unrest at this point would be incredibly counterproductive. A careful transition to the authority of new masters makes sense.

 

Perhaps most indelible in my remembrances is that with every reorganization at the boardroom level, a similar mantra was handed down to those of us on the sales floor. To both shoppers and workers, alike. “There is nothing to see here! No changes, no worries, business as usual! Have a great day!” Ultimately, this assurance of calm seas proved to be somewhat disingenuous of course, because there were indeed wholesale alterations of the business model, over time. New branding, new supervision, new logistics routing, and a new support network. It is a matter of practice during every takeover or merger.

 

Yet the history of Kroger as a dominant player gives clear evidence that they have been able to own and operate various chains nationally, without causing any disruption in the overall enterprise. Ralph’s, City Market, Food 4 Less, Fred Meyer, King Soopers, Pay-Less Super Markets, Gerbes, Jay C, Mariano’s, Metro Market, Pick ‘n Save, and others all exist under the watchful eyes of this huge outfit. Their superior buying power as a chain will certainly benefit Giant Eagle, in whatever form it remains. Consolidation is, for better or worse, a component of doing business that cannot be avoided. Especially when any entity is attempting to improve its standing in financial terms.

 

I was particularly humbled when a text message arrived from one of my young nephews, who is a dairy clerk at a location that I used to manage. His plea for reassurance came with a note of fear over his own plight as someone filling coolers and maintaining good conditions at his store.

 

“Uncle Rod, will I still have a job?”

 

I offered words of comfort in my reply, along with the simple logic of vending groceries to the public.

 

“Of course you will! Giant Eagle needs you on duty, Kroger needs you on duty, quite frankly, any reputable operator needs employees like you on duty! It is how things get done. The battle is won or lost every day, right there in your aisles. Customers can’t name the CEO necessarily, or any executives, or even many of the district supervisors and specialists. But they know you, personally. They know when you treat them with care, courtesy, and respect. And they are bound to come back again and again, because that connection matters most!”

 

I have been retired for almost a decade from this lively profession, but still miss serving others while offering guidance and support. To be considered a part of the greater family was something I always took as the grandest of compliments.

 

That durable bond should never be broken by anyone, for any reason, anywhere, at any time.

 

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here: “Country Crooner” (Part Twelve)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Interaction with T. Randall Squire had proved to be a catalyst for plenty of creative work at the desk in my home office. I was glad for that persistent spark of inspiration to be ignited. Yet after weeks of writing song lyrics, my inner muse went silent. I sat and started at the computer monitor, while feeling empty. Despite scrolling through news stories of current events, reading e-mail messages, and doodling with programs stored on the hard drive, no rescue from this static period could be found. I sat outside in the summer heat, with cold beverages in hand, and a box fan from Lasko circulating air on my porch.

 

Neighbors passed, waving and honking their horns. As I slipped into an alcoholic funk, my senses were blurred. I suspected that perhaps, my brief, metaphorical ride on the mechanical bull had ended. Like all such wordsmithing adventures, it must have run its course. I felt content with the yield in print, if somewhat saddened by its sudden passing.

 

Then, while pondering the lazy, afternoon hours of a midweek day, with bookkeeping duties brought up to date and my counter cleared of junk mail, a new tingle of imagination registered in my head. The somber theme of saying goodbye to this streak of Appalachian echoes produced one last turn of phrase that quickly lit up my cerebral synapses.

 

Saying Goodbye

 

Saying goodbye comes easy

To a heart you intended to break

And from the beginning of this roadhouse affair

I knew your love was never a keepsake

It was a matter of whiskey, poured in the glass

And a dancefloor turn on your heel

I kept you entertained for a moment

But after that, the clock made its appeal

Saying goodbye comes quickly

When your plan has been to skate

A ruby-red curve of confidence

From lips with so little to say

I took my cue from that flutter

The wide wings of a butterfly

You knew every move and made it stick

Right until last call arrived

 

Saying goodbye...

 

Saying goodbye comes naturally

With your eyes upon the door

I didn’t pay enough real attention to know

What you had been there, looking for

I won’t curse your skill as a deceiver

Because I was too damn naïve

I never should have let myself get tricked

And taken out for a tease

Saying goodbye becomes a habit

When you’ve had the cowboys on parade

We all figured wrong and paid the fee

A hard lesson in being played

Saying goodbye is a chore to chase

A profession for cold-blooded dames

Who delight themselves with fancy fools

Getting beaten at their own game

 

Saying goodbye...

 

Saying goodbye comes swiftly

When the night runs hot and fast

The gentlest touch and a kiss on the cheek

Meant nothing with an empty glass

You were off that stool and hustling

You disappeared like yesterday’s news

When I looked around to figure it out

I didn’t have a gawdamn clue

Saying goodbye can be a sin

But not if you don’t ever believe

There’s no breaking of rules when your guide

Is nothing more than a motel passkey

But get a good laugh before you leave

‘Cause I won’t be drinking alone

There are plenty of losers at quitting time

And one of them might follow me home

 

Saying goodbye...

 

Saying goodbye feels like freedom

When you have no sense of pride

The only cause you keep is to prowl the streets

Bedhopping and hitching a ride

That lifestyle has its shiny side

It might seem to be a laugh

But when you’re skipping down the sidewalk

Don’t forget what you could have had

Saying goodbye leaves a mark

It’s a jolt that the mind can’t forget

With a bow raised to the target

And an arrow right through the chest

I’m ready for a bottle on the bar

Got to drink this mood away

But the morning will make things much clearer

Tomorrow is another day

 

Saying goodbye...”

 

I was giddy at my keyboard. Literally jonesing for each verse to appear on the screen. I tapped and typed, and breathlessly worked my way through the composition in a matter of minutes. Following this heated exercise, I pulled out my acoustic pluckster, and began to croon a version of what had just been written.

 

Before an hour had elapsed, Country Squire was on his phone, and calling intently.

 

“BOY, YER IN A GROOVE, I RECKON! THAT’S QUITE A HEAP O’ HITS Y’ALL HAVE WRITTEN! NOW, I LIKE THE BASIC SOUND OF THOSE TRACKS, BUT I FIGURE IT’S HIGH TIME WE GOT A REAL BAND TOGETHER! YA UNDERSTAND? I KNOW PLENTY OF PROFESSIONAL MUSICIANS THAT ARE LOOKIN’ FER A JOB. IT WOULDN’T BE HARD TO GET YA HOOKED UP! ALL I NEED IS YER APPROVAL TO GO FORWARD!”

My belly gurgled noisily at his proposal. Over a decade of disability and retirement, I had grown accustomed to the solitude of living alone and being free from keeping a regular schedule.

 

“Sir, I do appreciate your confidence in my art. But that’s a step I’m not ready to take. I’ve been out of commission for years. I hobble around this singlewide shack with two canes. I can’t imagine trying to project a public persona for the purpose of entertaining an audience. Maybe 30 years ago that might have been a gamble I would have taken. But my body is spent. I am living as my late father did, on Mountaineer soil. He worked in the mornings, drank coffee throughout the day, and took care of my ailing mother as an act of love. In addition to preaching the gospel in church on Sundays and at special meetings. That was enough for him, and what I am doing now is enough for me...”

 

The entertainment tycoon growled under his breath. I knew that he must have stubbed out his cigar while seething with irritation.

 

“Boy, yer gonna miss one hell of an opportunity here! This is gold waitin’ to be mined! One-hundred percent real gold! I know what sells in the marketplace, trust me! I’ve made a damn good career out of gettin’ it right! I can promise y’all will be a top star in the business. This is the chance of a lifetime, Rodney! There are millions of people out there who’d be tickled pink to get a shot at being famous like this! Are ya really gonna pass it by?”

 

My contact at the record label was wasting his breath. But I wanted to be polite and diplomatic in rejecting his kind offer.

 

“Sir, this isn’t a choice I can make for myself. My family genetics have already intervened. I am a shaggy, old hermit now. If you enjoy what I’ve been creating here at this rural park in Ohio, then I thank you. But there’s nothing more I can do...”

 

The line went quiet after a loud, electronic click which I guessed was the result of Squire hanging up, abruptly. My face burned a bit, as if it had reddened from embarrassment. Yet I felt no regret over declining to be a paid performer on his roster.

 

I remained content to be an anonymous storyteller, with guitar.