“High School - Happy Dazed”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

 

A shy and awkward kid, in Pennsylvania at the riverbank

As the 70s decade dutifully put us in a Disco trance

A leisure suit in polyester, with wide lapels

Glam and glitter, with Pet Rocks to sell

All these trappings of social excess

Like a spray-paint veneer of artificial happiness

Failed to form a foundation for one kid

I was that oddball, too inept to flip my lid

But American Graffiti had set the tone

On my turntable, long hours spent alone

I wore those vinyl grooves deep into my skin

Zipped up a motorcycle jacket to my chin

I had only one prize to show for a crown

A Fonzie T-shirt from the Kmart in town

It paired with a model kit, also from that store

A Triumph Trophy scrambler, a bonus reward

Black boots with silver buckles ‘cross the arch

Teachers thought I must have had a Rock & Roll heart

I drew pictures in my notebooks, all day

Of hopped-up hot rods, and bobbed cycles on the highway

It surely must have come as no surprise

Happy Days pegged the meter, when I had to stay inside

I’d catch every episode, and commit it to memory

A better world, I thought, than my adventure in modernity

Jukebox jams and a doo wop brigade

I convinced friends to join this parade

A group, ‘The Four Quarters’ sang at football games

We did ‘Duke of Earl’ and ‘Silhouettes’ on the radio, WKPA

I pursed my lips and threw back my head

Boomed the basslines, like a vocal slab of Wonder bread

My partners harmonized and added to this roleplay

Girls in our class were puzzled, but listened anyway

For one year, we were a sensation on the home turf

An added attraction to the pigskin perks

Instead of longing for a coin-flip to the good

I channeled Wolfman Jack, out at Kennywood

That howl of cigarettes and fame was reborn

If only in the glimmer of a teenage swarm

After graduation, the Fonz garb faded

Adulthood arrived, and childish joys abated

My shirt ended up in a chest-of-drawers

No one at home knew what I had saved it for

I rediscovered it, years later when my father passed away

While sorting sadly, through the family estate

That grin of confidence bolstered my mood

A vibe unvanquished by the age of our brood

I could no longer do the sock-hop dance steps

But those sweet melodies retained their effect

We were twenty years behind that Bell Curve

Willfully wandering away from the herd

A slicked-back pompadour, made from the shag

Of a naïve nebbish with duct tape on his book bag

Even in a new century of light

I’ll hang on to that groove of 50s delight

Amid the era of Clapton, Frampton, and such

People thought I was sadly out of touch

But the style of a Bel Air, rolling on steel wheels

Never loses its timeless appeal

Rubber streaks, all the way down my boulevard

The fashion framed in a reflection of art

Girls in Poodle Skirts, dudes in leather duds

And one lonely student, with a grade average above

I was never cool enough to join the schoolhouse jet set

But that period, I will never forget

Study hall detention, and heartache hurts

But I knew what my presence at the desk was worth

With that printed, S.S. Kresge cloth, over my head

I went from sore loser, to a victor instead

Fonzarelli was my adopted form

For one brief instant, I was a hero, reborn 

 

 

“Diner Dash”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

Chicken fried, with a gravy slop

A diner meal, at a West Virginia truck stop

A visual cue for release

A gastronomic trip through bacon grease

Black coffee, on the side

A pause in the midst of a backroads ride

Flathead chopper at the curb

On a stool at the counter, got what I deserved

 

The morning dew came with an icy twist

Seasons changing as I flex my wrist

Colors bright, along the mountain ridge

No need to keep my attitude hid

The modern world has teetered off its pin

No longer able to wind and spin

For that reason, I’m glad to get fed

In a place where the mood runs from blue to red

 

Say a good word about the Lord, if you can

While loggers stack loads of timber by hand

This is a destination, too often missed

A break in the tree line, at the edge of a cliff

I used to be convinced that nothing changed

No matter where a drifter rides this range

But now as my hair has streaks of gray

I realized that there is another way

 

Boots up and rolling, in the breeze

Big cylinders beating out a cadence of need

Running hot into the sunset, without fear

When the day is finished, I’ll give thanks for a cold beer

I might have been this way with childhood luck

When grandpa held the wheel of a Studebaker truck

But that memory has faded over time

It’s hard to keep those moments in mind

 

A Mountaineer ethos rules the road

Where the brave are bold, and fools fear to go

Up the side of a craggy ledge

Tires spinning at the world’s rocky edge

Upon reaching the summit of that peak

I look down on creation with relief

And behold what a loving God must have built

Free from heartache, gloom and guilt

 

My throwback meal settles like a stone

In crevices of my stomach, long left alone

Those gobs of flour and fat fill the void

Left from lingering too long in a kingdom, destroyed

It is better to take my place again

Shunned by the goodness of neighbors and friends

Once I hit top gear and fly to the sun

There’ll be a reward when this journey is done

 

Kickstarter curses make spectators aware

A tickle of gasoline fumes fill the air

Straight pipes rattle, like a shotgun song

The time has come, to righteously move along

I never intended to stay for a fortnight

Traveling quickly, my burden is light

Bare knuckles, in an open-fingered glove

This is the life I lead, my labor of love

 

Leaving town like a phantom possessed

Stoked and satisfied with a bandit’s fleeting happiness

I own nothing but my soul and my name

That alone brings first prize in this carnival game

Hail the dawn, meek and gentle when it comes

A mood of humble grace, and gratitude won

If my ride should end when the clock goes still

I’ll be grateful for climbing that hill

Nothing To See Here: “Football, Forgotten”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

 

“The thing about the NFL is nobody cares. Nobody feels bad for you. Nobody feels sorry for you... They don’t care if you’re hurt. They don’t care if you don’t feel good. You have a bad call. Play goes against you? No one cares. You’ve got to play. You’ve got to win.” – Greg Olsen

 

I first became aware of professional football as a kid in the 1960s.

 

Because I was the son of a theologian and scholar, someone with no interest in athletic competition, the likelihood that I would find myself attracted to such things was slight at best. Yet with tales of gridiron glory coming from the maternal side of my brood, a bloodline decidedly blue-collar and earthy, I was attracted to the budding sport in ways that defied being quantified. The primitive physicality of moving a laced pigskin from one end of a regulated field, to the other, seemed logical. Even when my own ability to conceptualize and comprehend had barely grown past the stage of an infant.

 

Those yonder days were experimental and evolutionary. Though NFL history had already encompassed years of competition, the upstart AFL had offered a different slant on the game that was undeniably popular. In addition, the rise of broadcast television as an important medium made their product available to many viewers that had never attended an event in person. The eventual result came as an epiphany for team owners and league officials. Cooperation was key. Creating what would become the Super Bowl, and merging the two distinct factions into one united entity, made good business sense. I watched all of this happen through eyes that were wide and youthful. With no pretense of past habits or traditions holding me back. It was easy to embrace this new paradigm. And I did so from afar, as the Ice household moved again and again, during the course of my upbringing.

 

Some members of my family latched onto the Cincinnati Bengals franchise, because they were already followers of Reds baseball. The Paul Brown creation quickly had a lively fanbase in Columbus, our original point of origin, in addition to their home market. But as we meandered from state to state, I watched eagerly without any specific loyalty to one group over another. In Virginia, a friend from who had arrived from Florida followed the Miami Dolphins. When outside of Pittsburgh, classmates in school worshipped the Steelers. Though they viewed me with suspicion, being a native of Ohio. In New York, I had friends who spoke of the Buffalo Bills with admiration and fealty. Or perhaps, the Jets and Giants, though both were distant from the Finger Lakes, culturally and geographically. Finally, upon returning to my native soil, I landed near the shore of Lake Erie. There, I settled on the Cleveland Browns as my focal point for enjoying the sport, in earnest. That decision, a product of circumstance, sired an adventure of joy and sorrow that continued for decades to come.

 

For those in that notable population center, or Cuyahoga County, and across the northcoast, historical facts relating to the team have become legendary. Bernie Kosar is a literal patron saint to those who have suffered for their faith. Otto Graham, Jim Brown, Lou Groza, and so many others have become immortal in memory. The spiritual battle between loyalists who refuse to trade their honor for the cheap allure of championship rings and bragging rights, and traitors who have adopted out-of-town clubs to heal their disappointment, continues to blaze. Yet most recently, with a new season underway, I have realized that the inspirational experience of watching these modern-day gladiators going to war, has faded. After many rounds of losing, losing, and losing again, I have lost the tingle of excitement over playing the role of a sideline participant. In its place, numbness and indifference have filled this void. Instead of a vital play-by-play on the radio, I hear the Ramones track, ‘I Don’t Care’ streaming from my wireless device.

 

“I don’t care (He don’t care)

I don’t care (He don’t care)

I don’t care about this world

I don’t care about that girl

I don’t care (He don’t care)

 

I don’t care (He don’t care)

I don’t care (He don’t care)

 

I don’t care about these words

I don’t care about that girl

I don’t care (he don’t care)

 

I don’t care

I don’t care...”

 

For the first time since my youngest days, I now feel nothing as a spectator.

 

Any attempt to chart the point at which this transition occurred has failed. Red Right 88, by proxy? The Drive? The Fumble? Art Modell babbling doublespeak and disinformation, before moving the original Browns to Balitmore? Ownership changes, coach and front-office firings? Quarterback chaos? Injuries and humiliation on the field? The headline saga of Baker Mayfield, and his prosperous ressurection, elsewhere? The foolhardy and disastrous trade for Deshaun Watson? I have endured them all.

 

Something different accompanied the start of play for this most recent season, however.

 

A metaphorical lightning bolt struck from the heavens. With a gaggle of signal callers on the roster, and flagging hope for improvement on the turf, suddenly, I found myself inactive as a patron. Cold and dead on the inside. Peering at the dual screens of my television and phone with barely a hint of bygone emotions lingering. It represented a change that was most unwelcome. One certainly not accepted with grace.

 

On Sunday, listening to press conference in the aftermath only deepened my gloom. The familiar mantra of having to do better... to do better... to do better... had worn thin by repetition. I had heard it so many times that the phrase stung my ears. I had to slap both sides of my head to clear the static. Only then could I think clearly, and consider leaving the league behind.

 

“DO BETTER? DO BETTER? WE’VE GOT TO DO BETTER? WE’VE BEEN HEARING THOSE EXCUSES SINCE THE TEAM RETURNED IN 1999! WHEN THE HELL DO THINGS ACTUALLY GET ANY BETTER? WHEN, WHEN, WHEN?”

 

A faint memory of my fandom must have still been in effect. Because despite watching yet another defeat occur in real time, I still craved pizza and hot wings. And an adult libation. Lots and lots of cold, refreshing beer. That in itself was enough, I reckoned.

 

I was still a fan. At least of filling my belly.

Nothing To See Here: "Opposites Day”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-25)

 

 

Politics is the one subject which I never settled upon with any great certainty of faith and philosophy, as a budding human intellect. Having grown up in a two-party environment split evenly between belief-chasms, I became, perhaps by necessity, agnostic. Not a member of one tribe, or the other, in totality. I found it easy to see good, or failings, on both sides. This middle ground left me stable in terms of outlook, yet alone generally, as a functioning member of the voting populace. To observe candidly and with sobriety about such things often seemed akin to being a small fellow who observes, metaphorically, “The emperor is naked!” Few if any rewarded this kind of even balance with cheerful expressions of kinship. More likely were raised eyebrows and shrugs, offered with suspicious snorts of indifference. But it was the path that I took, by choice.

 

This narrow strip of real estate is where I still live today, in heart and mind.

 

On a recent afternoon, while basking on my inset porch in the autumn glow of a Wednesday, I was approached in succession by two different neighbors. Both were outside, and also enjoying the unseasonably mild temperatures. The first was someone I knew well, but rarely saw in my rural development. A lanky, grizzled Army veteran and professional carpenter, walking his cantankerous, young pooch for pleasure and relaxation. His own longbox dwelling was situated at the back of our shared property. So, we typically encountered each other only by chance, and in brief moments of passing on the street. Or pausing for a look at the community mailboxes.

 

I noted without comment that he was wearing a camouflage cap adorned with a bold, promotional logo for our current presidential administration. And it did not take long for our conversation about respective families, old chums, and workplaces, to veer into a minefield of ballot-box opposition. He quickly began to beat his chest about watching the Newsmax television channel, and spouted all sorts of conspiracy theories relating to the economy, Covid vaccines, healthcare insurance, and a myriad of other concerns.

 

In a different setting, I might have expressed some strong opinions about these issues. But I was enjoying a cold brew, and a gentle breeze of changing meteorology. Thus, I simply listened and nodded at appropriate intervals. His stream-of-consciousness chatter came at me like the hard retort of an assault rifle. Offered without hesitation, shyness, or inhibition. When he had finished with this citizen rant, a smile of satisfaction spread across his gritty complexion. He bowed slightly, tugged at the leash of his black canine until it literally danced upon white paws, and bid me adieu.

 

Somewhere in this hurried confessional, details about contacts that we held in common were inserted. It made me glad to have endured the odd encounter, to learn these things and as a result, be better informed.

 

A second session of lively banter resounded soon afterward, as a closer neighbor appeared from around the front corner of his own prefab shack. A resident of the park known to be willfully anonymous and standoffish, in a pleasant and inoffensive way. He had the generous girth and stature of someone in my own family. I often considered that he looked much like my younger brother, who had been a trucker and shade-tree mechanic. He too had similar skills, mixed with the blue-collar ethos of a working stiff. This made him loyal to a more liberal slant on domestic politics, one steeped in distrust of religious institutions, financial networks, and corporate employers. Central to his perspective was a virulent disdain for the one who had been praised, only a moment before.

 

After finding an open chair by my trash bin, and bumming a few free rounds of drink, he launched into a boisterous sermon about the evils of capitalism, and the exploitative nature of government hierarchy. As with my previous guest, I could find cause to applaud and agree, or alternately, an inspiration to voice dissent, depending on the grounds he covered. But with an abundance of self-control in effect, I simply swigged my suds, and played the role of a spectator.

 

All the while, what I really wanted to do was start my Weber charcoal grill. Thick-cut pork chops and whole chicken wings were waiting in the refrigerator. A bounty I had scored at Giant Eagle, earlier in the day.

 

By the time our informal meeting concluded, the sky overhead had begun to fade from bright blue into tones of gray and black. I rushed to start a tin chimney filled with briquettes, while checking the hour on my cell phone. As was customary, the ignition of grilling fuel did not take long at all. I reclined on my wooden bench with a dull ache reverberating through both legs, an indication that hours had elapsed since this static session had begun. Yet having maintained a measure of decorum, and spanned the divide between opposite poles of ideology, I felt relieved. No brawling was necessary.

 

I had earned the right to barbecue my meal, and feast when that joyful preparation was complete.

 

While breathing the smoky aroma of soot that wafted upward from my kettle appliance, a third inhabitant of the oasis approached. A spiky-haired, young kid who often paused at my access ramp to recount tales of his workplace in the county seat. He was on the crew at a megacenter outlet with hard goods and foodstuffs. One gifted with plenty of customer traffic, but also, a goodly amount of headaches and sales-floor conflicts. Thankfully, I had never known of him to take a political stance of any kind. And he provided lawn care when needed, throughout the summer months. He did not enjoy the taste of alcohol, so I knew that what remained of my beer stash would be safe. His only protest came when drawing near to the active grill. It made him sputter and cough, and eventually, retreat slowly to find relief.

 

My young helper did not linger long, after clearing his throat and seeking the comfort of a T-shirt tail, over his face. I was grateful for this mood of brevity. Finally alone, I pondered the evening with a last sip of pilsner. Then, I raised my cool refreshment in an appeal to the heavens. And gave thanks for the good fortune to be alive and well in an environment where civil discourse diversity was the norm. Even if it came in the guise of downtrodden folk who were living in the hinterland of northeastern Ohio, on concrete slabs rented by the month.

 

This was the soil from which I sprang, as a seedling. One made of clay, stone, and dirt. Of hard labor, excellence attained, and perhaps, a final endorsement for the power of debate, dissent, and democracy.

 

Amen to that, amen forever.

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 15: “Goodbye”

 

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.

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 14: “Overload”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

Hearing from Kookshow Baby had been a surprise. Yet the news she conveyed threw me off balance. I could not conceive of Cult Radio A-Go-Go being left without its founder at the helm. Though by example, Terry DuFoe had provided a durable template for the media cooperative that I suspected would endure and thrive, into the future. This faith in the inevitable cycle of life was something I expected to depend upon for decades to come. But instead, it lasted approximately one week.

 

Then, my co-host from days at Channel 13 in Ithaca, New York, passed away after a long illness.

 

I first met David in 1978. He was known for working at the Tompkins County Library, and also for being connected with ‘The Guru’ who was our coordinator at the station. Upon being introduced, we had a long conversation about music. A subject that both of us held as most important in our lives. In the days, weeks, and months that followed, I came to realize that we were two strong individuals with wholly dissimilar backgrounds. Likely to have never been friends, if not for our shared love of tonalities and rhythms. This lone interest brought us together. On the air, we were a lively team, corralling a crew of correspondents and instigators that kept each episode vital and interesting. But in everyday life, our cooperation yielded a kinship of brotherhood.

 

We stayed in touch long after I returned home to Ohio, in 1983.

 

Both of us went through a succession of career woes, marriages and divorces, and the hardship of aging. Because he was older, his challenges seemed to appear more quickly. Yet his pure affinity for concerts and record collecting never waned. He battled diabetes for at least 30 years. And still never surrendered the passion for lyrical artistry, as a result. Instead, the difficulty of getting around seemed to sharpen his focus.

 

He and my radio mentor in California had graduated from the mortal plane, a mere eight days apart.

 

Briefly, my wordsmithing jones was nullified by these twin developments. I couldn’t do much of anything expect drink. So, I spent long hours on my front porch, staring into space while a rotation of Punk and 60s Garage tunes streamed wirelessly, via Spotify. These sessions sometimes lasted until long after sunset. I would swat mosquitos and belch, crush empty cans, and rock in place, on my wooden bench. Finally, I received word that a former neighbor, someone who was cantankerous, loud, and often obnoxious when living at the back end of my street, had died unexpectedly. That jolt broke my static mood. I had heard many times that such events generally come in threes, in a triple-strike of fate and consequences.

 

That was the last bowling pin to fall. Now, my emotional overload had dissipated, at last.

 

I tried to call my pigtailed counterpart on the west coast, but predictably, she did not answer. I guessed that her own routine had been exploded, and would perhaps, never return to a lasting state of rest. She would be busier by far than ever before. With cats and guests, online networks, and household chores, and her own, vintage doublewide abode, all on the property of their abandoned drive-in theater. I did not envy her predicament. Though there was a tingle of affection in my heart for the idea of rejoining her for more movie watching and country-fried cuisine. A fantasy that lingered, despite being situationally improbable and generally impossible.

 

My brother, sister, and close companion, Janis, had all landed at skilled-care facilities around our area. My brother-in-law had senile dementia. I was functionally disabled, and hobbled by a lack of mobility. These factors meant that in a sense, I was rooted to my spot. Yet able when at my desk, to imagine, and write freely.

 

To stay safe from the gloom of mortal finality, I wrote a tribute for David, which was posted online. In particular, I recalled an after-hours jaunt to the border with Massachusetts, from our home base at that time, in the Finger Lakes Region.

 

A group from the United Kingdom, called Gang Of Four, still echoed in memory. Their use of feedback and aural bombast, over a pounding bassline, provided a proper soundtrack. Both on the road many years ago, and now, as I reflected on the death of my eccentric pal.

 

“Woke up this morning, desperation AM

What I’ve been saying, won’t say them again

My head’s not empty, it’s full with my brain

The thoughts I’m thinking, like piss down a drain...

 

And I feel like a beetle on its back

And there’s no way for me to get up

Love’ll get you like a case of anthrax

And that’s something I don’t want to catch...”

 

I was grateful to have my mental block lifted, at last.

 

Questions of all sorts persisted in the days thereafter. What sort of funeral arrangements had been made for my chum, if any? What would become of his collection, which was considerable, and massive in scope? Who would honor his legacy, beside the few of us who had remained vigilant in our friendship? Ultimately, what would keep his trove of knowledge and experiences from vanishing, forever?

 

I had already faced such ponderous queries when our mutual bandmate and advocate, Paul Race, had passed away in 2014. And when my own father did the same, in 2018. Both had amassed huge libraries, and been dependable for wise words, when needed. A vacuum that could not be filled existed in their wake.

 

By comparison, my own limited talents and resources were not so impressive. But I took their stories as examples of how I should proceed, in reverse. I needed to do better. Though in the moment, I felt arguably weak and overwhelmed.

 

Salvation came in the form of an opportunity to send out more books from the household stash. With late-night TV rattling corporate cages from coast-to-coast, and in Washington, I was inspired to offer some of my fictional, trailer-park volumes as a sign of comedic valor. I reckoned that satire remained a valuable tool. One not yet taken away by any government edict or societal norm.

 

I visited a favorite postal depot in Rock Creek, a few miles from my rural home. One with ground-level access that comported well with my failed hip and knees. The clerk there was familiar, and cheerful upon seeing my shaggy, slumped-over profile in her doorway. I reckoned she must have been assigned to the small outpost from Cleveland, or another more metropolitan area. Though it did not matter. I always enjoyed seeing her on duty.

 

“Y’all sendin’ out more books, boy? Good fo’ you! Dang, all these packages goin’ here, there, and everywhere! Ya must be busy in that office of yers! But that’s a good thing, right? Keep them fingers movin’ and yo’ eyes on the prize!”

 

 

 

 

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 13: “Pizza”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

I had been at my desk throughout the morning, sorting through unread postal mail, and tackling neglected chores. Odd jobs that were tedious and tiresome. Yet important to address. A yawn of indifference sounded, as I remembered leaving the coffeemaker on, in my kitchen. Something that, by now, would have boiled the caffeinated beverage down to a rude residue of black mud. But as I was about to struggle out of the roller chair, a ringtone chirped from my cellular device. One associated with the Messenger app. An indication that I was about to speak with someone outside of my usual group of contacts.

 

A facial profile of Kookshow Baby appeared on the screen as I answered.

 

“RAWD! HEY, Y’ALL KNOW I BEEN BUSY AS HECK LATELY! BUT I GOT A SPARE MINUTE TO TALK RIGHT NOW. PICK UP YER DAMN PHONE!”

 

I wheezed a bit while leaning back in the chair. Her insistent demand, after weeks of no contact at all, rattled my composure. Still, I was curious about any details that she might have to offer.

 

“Yeah, what’s up? I’m here in the home office. You caught me early enough that I haven’t started drinking yet. Maybe that’s a good thing...”

 

The radio queen seemed shaken. Her voice hushed to the level of a whisper.

 

“It’s Terry, I got to tell ya some awful news. Y’all know he’s been in the hospital, in Los Angeles, right? Well, that feller has been one tough son-of-a-gun. But there’s only so much a body can stand. He’s ridden his last rodeo, I’m afraid. That dude is off to the great beyond now, with Roy Rogers and the Lone Ranger!”

 

I was stunned to the point of a brain freeze. I could not see, hear, or think.

 

“WHAT???”

 

Kookshow had started to sob, openly.

 

“It’s over, Rawd. It’s all over. The movie credits are rolling. El fin, cowboy! It’s the end!”

 

I could barely breathe. A stray yield of coffee dribbled from my shaggy beard. I slammed both fists on my desktop. This forceful act toppled an Elvira figure that was next to the iMac computer.

 

“What’s it been, three years, battling? He’s a strong guy, a genuine ox of a man. I figured this was just another setback, like what happened before...”

 

My west-coast cohort sniffled and sneezed into a checkered handkerchief.

 

“I could sure use a friend right about now. Why the hell did y’all go home to Ohio, Rawd? I’ve been mindin’ the ranch all by myself. Cats and streaming platforms, and stacks of old videodiscs and tapes, everywhere! It’s more’n a woman can handle by herself. Even a crazy filly like me!            Gawdamm!”

 

I had no coherent reply to provide.

 

“So, you’re at the abandoned drive-in by yourself?”

 

She had begun to croak like a feminine frog.

 

“Yes, dammit! I’m just tryin’ to be a help, not a hindrance, Ya know?”

 

Suddenly, I had become very thirsty. Sobriety did not fit the moment.

 

“My neighbor with the 18-wheeler hasn’t had any runs out west in a few months. That was my ticket to ride. Otherwise, I can’t cover a coast-to-coast run right now...”

 

Kookshow blubbered sorrowfully, before clearing her throat.

 

“I know, I know. Y’all are stuck back there in flyover country! It’s a shame though, ‘cause I’d be happy to see yer ugly mug in my trailer window. I need a companion. Things ain’t never been this lonely at the CRAGG compound! My heart is a-breakin’ fer Tiffany!”

 

I needed a deep breath to settle my nerves.

 

“Let me go see the trucker again. Who knows, maybe he’s picked up some new assignment. I’ll be in touch, you can count on it...”

 

The headstrong femme was silent for a brief interlude. Then, she ended our conversation with an unexpected interjection, and a click of the call icon.

 

“I LOVE Y’ALL, RAWD! YA BIG, DUMB, HILLBILLY ASSHOLE!”

 

I had been in my chair for so long that getting up presented a daunting, physical challenge. So, before meeting that task, head-on, I finished the lyric verses that were still on my monitor. An extra measure of emotion flowed from this poetic exercise, as I finished.

 

Drink and Pizza

 

Drink and pizza, fortified for days

A restless rascal, alone for an extended stay

Not much on my plate, but a banquet of consequence

Tired and testy, overworked in a sense

Though I haven’t strayed much

Haven’t felt a woman’s touch

For so long

 

I’ve become accustomed to this routine

A cryptic cry of phantasmic dreams

When the tremors wake me from my rest

Then I know, I have passed the final test

Sitting on the edge of my bed

Hands clasped over both sides of my head

I hear a song

 

There is a tone of difference on the breeze

An opportunity that God himself has seized

Setting off vibrations in the heavens

As the cuckoo clock above strikes eleven

The hour is late, I know

Banished as I am, to linger here, below

I soldier on

 

If, by being present in this play

My role is justified by what I pause to say

Then the author has shown a kinder tilt

Respecting how this old bag of bones was built

A tackled tickle of the mechanical wheel

A jumped tooth for the gears to appeal

I hear the gong

 

I might have done my best if there was time

I had that goal, firmly in mind

But with the sunset coming in haste

I realized that protesting was a waste

Better to bow before the oddsmaker’s curse

I can do no better or worse

I’ll get along

 

I read it once, at school, long ago

That the scourge of sin is a short-distance stone’s throw

And I believed what the text had proclaimed

But in the end, it’s all the same

Starting gates swing and slip

But the race, is decided by a coin flip

From the grasp of King Kong

 

My cage is unlocked, easy to nab

A longbox hovel, sat upon a concrete slab

Out in a distant spot, away from the crowd

A safe space for thinking out loud

A taste of alcohol is my friend

A cool companion, on which I may depend

Without a magic wand

 

Time and distance, mean no more

The calculations only cause me to be bored

I have become one with the dirt and stone

Living in this junkyard oasis, alone

I don’t take it as a judgment, passed

More like a back-row seat, in a college class

A quiet push for a pawn

 

Helter Skelter, here comes the glow

Of another cycle with wisdom to bestow

Learning to live within my means

A meal of fate cooked up, like rice and beans

Eyes narrowed, peering at the sun

My education has only begun

And the day is gone