c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(9-25)
With leaves beginning to fall, and
temperatures dipping lower at night, I had turned numb to the idea of time
progression. One day literally blended into the next, with the muted colors of
an impressionist painting. I did not keep to my normal routine so strictly as
before. Eventually, this had me raiding the refrigerator stash, when a better
choice would have been to work at my desk. Ambition was a word that I no longer
recognized. I cared little about anything, not even the creative work that had
once held so much importance in my life.
Then, a call registered on my
cellular device. The number displayed indicated an office in New York City. I
recognized it as being the home base of Bowery Beat Records, and Seely Joan Frye.
Her persistence struck me as somewhat irritating, when I had already begun to
drink. So, instead of waiting for the voicemail program to connect, I actually
answered with a gruff growl of indifference.
“Yeah? You’ve reached the Swindle
Shack! Say your piece, and hang up already!”
The entertainment professional was
shaken by my tone, yet resilient.
“Hello Rod, I hope you are well my
friend. My associates here at the label have been curious about your thought
process regarding our offer of a contract.”
I was still sober enough not to
lose control. But bristled at her confession.
“Alright, maybe I wasn’t clear
enough before. I’ll put that on myself. Here’s the deal – there is no deal! I’m
permanently out-of-service here, done with the grind. I don’t need money, don’t
need a schedule, don’t need a boss to please...”
Ms. Frye hummed to herself with
amusement.
“Right, I get your independent
attitude. That fits your personality, I think. What about the writing though,
has that continued?”
I breathed heavily, until a tickle
in my lungs evoked a loud, reflexive cough.
“I’m stalled at the moment. Too
much going on in my personal life...”
The music maven nodded and sighed,
softly.
“Look, I’d like to be candid with
you, Rod. We don’t operate like a regular business. This isn’t a large
operation, with shareholders to satisfy. We all love music, and the performing
arts. That’s our groove, to nurture the craft in all its forms. Specifically,
songwriters and those who interpret words and melodies for self-expression. My
staff is a co-op of volunteers and apprentices. We don’t chase profits, or seek
publicity. This is more of a free-form archive here, we want to tap into the
stream-of-consciousness, and document what is happening in real time.”
I shrugged while finishing a round
of pilsner.
“That’s noble of you, kudos for
your efforts...”
Frye chortled at my disinterest.
She was a veteran of the industry, and not easily turned aside.
“Let me take a different approach
on this, okay? What do you have on your desk right now? I know better than to
believe someone like yourself has shut down completely. There are always ideas echoing
from the ether. Awake, asleep, wherever and whatever you might be doing. There
is always some spark of creative zeal even when nothing else connects!”
Instead of pursuing a pointless debate,
I meekly surrendered to her insistence.
“On my desk? Right now? There’s a
notepad with lyrics jotted down this morning. Scribbling with stiff fingers,
really. I tried capturing an a cappella version on my phone, and it sounded
like, umm, shit...”
The entertainment chieftess was
stunned by my naked honesty.
“LIKE WHAT? DON’T BE RIDICULOUS!”
I decided to bargain with her, for
an early release from our meandering conversation.
“How about this? Hang up right
now, and I’ll send you the audio file...”
Ms. Frye was stunned, but
satisfied. I could hear her purr like a contented kitten.
“Yes! That’s a gamble I’ll take.
Don’t keep me waiting, Rod!”
I rubbed my face and temples,
before searching for the recording. It was a Lou Reed sort of twist on Jim
Carroll’s ‘People Who’ve Died.’ A representation of the point I had reached in
my own, mortal journey. Where fellow travelers were departing, too rapidly to
comprehend.
Goodbye Game
Lil’ Kim hit those register
keys
A clerk on duty, a marketplace
queen
She had a smile for every visit
I made
A grinning grandma, young for
her age
She posted videos of song and
prose
A surprise to see this hidden
rose
She bloomed whenever the sun
would shine
But couldn’t jump the limits of
time
Limits of time
Living on loneliness is a
goodbye game
Sunrise to sunset, a dance in
the rain
Reciting sonnets from a
stonemason’s wall
A wealth of sorrows, scratched
with an awl
Started out boldly, in a
cornfield
But Illinois soon lost its
appeal
A radio buff, a real
bunker-buster
Hit the Gold Coast in a Plinko
plunker
Terry had the groove to grow on
air
He lived a dream, upstairs/down
stairs
A hillside studio, a drive-in
play
I never considered that he’d
have to go away
Go away
Living on loneliness is a
goodbye game
Sunrise to sunset, a dance in
the rain
Reciting sonnets from a
stonemason’s wall
A wealth of sorrows, scratched
with an awl
David had a university vibe
A librarian, Dewey Decimals on
the inside
Stacked his records up the
bedroom wall
Boxes of magazines, tumbling in
the hall
I knew him for so damn many
years
Never got afraid that he’d
disappear
But with a wicked whisper of
fate
He checked out, months before
his birth date
He checked out
Living on loneliness is a
goodbye game
Sunrise to sunset, a dance in
the rain
Reciting sonnets from a
stonemason’s wall
A wealth of sorrows, scratched
with an awl
Nascar Hillbilly was never a
friend
Got tired of watching him
disintegrate loose ends
He had one skill, to piss off
the ‘hood
At that task, he was undeniably
good
Could build a mansion from
boards and sticks
Pulled out his trailer when the
irony got thick
I heard last week that he’d
passed away
Bowed my head, nothing good to
say
Nothing good
Living on loneliness is a
goodbye game
Sunrise to sunset, a dance in
the rain
Reciting sonnets from a
stonemason’s wall
A wealth of sorrows, scratched
with an awl
The Grim Reaper is a respecter
of none
He comes to call when the day
is done
I’ve heard it said that all men
must die
But so far, I’m still on this
train ride
I know statistically the gamut
can’t last
I will also be called upon to
pass
But when I slip beyond that
veil of gray
It will be after having a
moment to pray
Moment to pray
Living on loneliness is a
goodbye game
Sunrise to sunset, a dance in
the rain
Reciting sonnets from a
stonemason’s wall
A wealth of sorrows, scratched
with an awl
At the Bowery Beat offices, Seely
Joan Frye sat very still after listening. Her eyes were full of tears. So much
that it was necessary to pause, and reflect on what she had just heard. Her reading
glasses had fogged, while scrolling through e-mail messages. Yet a hint of
sadness made her feel cold. Only the glow of an idling, computer monitor
offered any comfort. Still, a nerve had been touched. She would wait for her
emotions to settle. Then, perhaps later in the afternoon, make a presentation
to the company’s assets acquisition team. This moment of opportunity could not
be ignored.
She would never accept being
rebuffed, again.