Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 11: Hesitation

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

As the summer season was nearing its end, I languished in a daze of muted emotions and a stalled drive to accomplish meaningful tasks. Days were cooler than normal, with many nights that followed dipping into the middle 40s. This pattern made drinking on my porch pleasant and inviting. While sleeping in my bed was now comfortable. A better option than passing out on my wooden bench, or the sofa, inside.

 

With Labor Day having arrived, music manager Seely Joan Frye lit up my cellular device, providing an impulsive bit of cheer that I did not expect. During a particularly long episode of outside refreshment, I had fed the stray cat who lived under an empty trailer across the street, both of the canine pets next door, and flooded my kidneys with a wash of hops and grains. So, when picking up my wireless wafer, I held it gingerly. My sense of balance had been compromised. I did not want to topple out of my seat.

 

The company chieftess intoned a greeting that was bright and convincing.

 

“Rod? This is your friend in New York City! I’ve been enjoying a glass of wine at home in my apartment, for the holiday. But curiosity has kept me on edge. May I send you some legal paperwork? Have you thought about making a deal with us? Have you considered the potential benefits of signing with Bowery Beat Records?”

 

I sputtered beer and spit. Doritos crumbs dotted my shaggy, gray beard.

 

“In a word, no. I haven’t...”

 

My blunt remark deflated her ego. The slick sales pitch fell flat.

 

“NO? REALLY? YOU’D STAND TO MAKE A HEFTY PROFIT FROM YOUR MATERIAL. UMM... WE’D STAND TO MAKE A HEFTY PROFIT, THAT IS! I CAN TELL HOW VALUABLE YOUR RECORDINGS WOULD BE IN THE PUBLIC ARENA. TRUST ME, I KNOW THIS BUSINESS VERY WELL! RADIO HAS TURNED BLAND THESE DAYS! IT’S ALL ABOUT STREAMING REVENUE, AND MERCHANDISE SALES! FANS HUNT FOR YOUR RELEASES AND SPEND MONERY FREELY! THIS IS AN OPPORTUNITY THAT MIGHT NEVER COME AROUND, AGAIN! DON’T BE A FOOL!”

 

I had to take a deep breath, and a swig of the suds in my drinking jar.

 

“It’s not a matter of doubting your abilities, or knowledge. Quite honestly, I just don’t care about making money...”

 

The commercial steward was stunned by my indifference.

 

“DON’T CARE? YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT HAVING MORE IN YOUR POCKETS THAN DRYER LINT? YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT FILLING YOUR WALLET AND BANK ACCOUNT? YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT HAVING A NEST-EGG THAT’LL KEEP YOU COVERED FOR MANY YEARS TO COME? YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT PEOPLE HEARING YOUR CREATIONS, ALL OVER THE WORLD???”

 

My cheeks were burning, bright red.

 

“No, I don’t...”

 

Ms. Frye was flabbergasted. I could hear her seething over our cellular connection.

 

“Rod, Rod, Rod. I’ll ask you again to give this deal a fair shake. We pay generous royalties, or should I say, our clients do, when we have popular work to offer. I’ve personally watched every video on your YouTube channel. They are damned impressive! I must say that the songs you’ve written are gritty, hard-core documents! The kind of blue-collar poetry that modern artists don’t create, anymore. A lot like Hank Williams or Woody Guthrie, or others from their generation! There’s a market for honest, down-to-earth songwriting. It’ll sell, it’ll sell! Trust me! I’ve been in this business for 30 years and more! I know how to spot a winner! A diamond in the rough!”

 

I nodded while rummaging through a 30-pack that was sitting by my feet. Being compared to entertainment legends made me feel embarrassed. I guessed that she must have been attempting to close the sale by heaping praise on my name.

 

Yet in truth, I was still an unknown quantity. A nobody for hire.

 

“Listen, let me say it again, there’s no argument here over your capabilities. I’ll take you at your word, ma’am. My friend Yarl says he’s bought some of the titles on your label. Props to you for running a group that seeks out talent where the big conglomerates don’t look. I get your business model. It’s a good strategy, I think. As a matter of fact, I like it a lot...”

 

She sighed with satisfaction at my endorsement.

 

“THAT’S GREAT! THEN LET ME SEND YOU A CONTRACT!”

 

I laughed through bubbles and foam.

 

“Look, I’m an old, disabled hermit. Getting to the end of my access ramp is a chore that puts me out of breath. I haven’t had a job in nine years. I don’t pay any taxes. I don’t own an alarm clock. I don’t have any bosses. I honestly don’t give a fuck about life, being loved, or anything. I do my wordsmithing routine every morning, at the home-office desk. And then spend the rest of my day drinking until oblivion snuffs out the daylight...”

 

Seely Frye seemed to lose her voice, and continuity of thought. What I heard in my ear was much like the chirping of a cricket. Then, she croaked out a plea for acceptance.

 

“Rod, be reasonable, will you? Please be reasonable! Please!”

 

My beer stash was getting warmer. The call to my phone had become a tiresome distraction. But, I wanted to maintain a veneer of civility.

 

“Okay, here’s a thought. Catch me in the morning sometime. I’ll be more agreeable with coffee in my belly, instead of alcohol. Even my neighbors know to stay away when I’m doing a deep dive at the household bar. I run like the trains, always on time. Bullshit knocks me off my schedule...”

 

My long-distance contact had reached her limit of patience. She surrendered with a bullish snort of frustration.

 

“Gotcha, Rod! Thanks for listening at least. I’ll be in touch again, it’s guaranteed! Count on it!”

 

After an electronic click that signified her exit, I slumped over my knees. Every joint in my body had begun to ache. I felt exhausted despite having done nothing for several hours, except lifting full cans, and crushing the empties.

 

Anything else could wait. I was in a mood to drink.

 

 

 

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 10: Contact

 

c. 2025 Rod ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

Instead of putting real effort into muddling over the idea of signing a record contract, or crafting a more appealing solicitation for Kookshow Baby to reply in earnest, I simply tuned out for the moment. Both mentally and emotionally. What followed this dive into detachment was an interlude of self-analysis. One where I pondered my situation from an artistic perspective.

 

The result came in a groundswell of words and images. All reflected from what I saw in the mirror, when beholding my own visage in a stark light of honesty.

 

The Breaks

 

Getting hard to walk, it is

From one end to the other, of my mobile-home crib

I never thought I’d stay here so long

But now it’s a certainty that life goes on

Goes on, it does, into the night

When darkness covers the failings of light

Like John Cena, I can’t be seen

Rip up that cover of a sheen magazine

I came this way by an accident of fate

Took a detour to Evergreen Estates

Had no idea of the lasting effects

Living low on tattoos and cigarettes

That’s the breaks

 

My body says what lips can’t pronounce

It’s a matter of bourbon doled by the ounce

I never get enough to make me feel right

But that burning keeps my fists in the fight

I’ve tried to concentrate on the glare

Of ghosts and goblins, dancing unaware

But their tricks overwhelm my eyes

Leave me crumpled under bootheels of surprise

Listen long and you’ll hear a cry

But not from me, I’m too tough to die

Old piece of leather, tanned and thick

I’ll take my medicine like blood on the bricks

That’s the breaks

 

In grade school I learned the routine

A way of thinking, dressed-up and clean

Then on the other side of that great divide

I got a consolation ticket to ride

That gaudy gift made me feel a fool

Like I had flunked out on studying rules

But when my knees hit the concrete walk

That was the moment that I learned some tough talk

I stood up straight with the wind at my back

Clutching my chest with a Fred Sanford heart attack

And when they called for an EMT

I took a wormhole, way across the galaxy

That’s the breaks

 

Don’t be shy about saying your piece

It’s just a matter of long-held beliefs

You stay true to what dwells in your heart

Or get stuck hawking junkyard auto parts

I’ve never been one to brag on myself

My game plan involves hiding on the bookshelf

Between titles, written in antiquity

Safe and silent where a lurker can breathe

I grew up quoting from Shakespeare plays

And Bible verses in the style of King James

It kept me looking like a library geek

But better that, than in a tent on the street

That’s the breaks

 

I heard a neighbor interject with a scowl

“You look like a caveman, with those fuzzy old jowls!”

And I had to laugh at her description

I damn sure fit that dirty disposition

Not that I ever had intended to slide

Into the muck of a barnyard hayride

It came naturally to take being shunned

When I smiled, that chica was stunned

Something happened after our discourse

A thunderstorm came charging, on a white horse

Meteorology, calling for a downpour

The two of us, fearing what we hoped for

That’s the breaks

 

Booming buzzards, soaring ‘cross the sky

With a portent of some pending demise

I had to disappear or be restrained

By a trophy case as yet empty of gains

I got nothing to elevate my libido

Nothing but the wrapper from a Taco Bell burrito

The memory left of that delicate feast

Kept me moving like a Bison beast

I must have appeared to take it all in stride

But getting soaked was far too much to abide

I hid under the half-roof of a PAC-MAN game

And counted passers-by in the service lane

That’s the breaks

 

Time runs out fast, I have been told

By those who lived long enough to shiver in cold

Brittle bones and muscular aches

Hanging around is all that it takes

I wanted something more grand and profound

But instead, caught a peep of hallowed ground

When I went face-first into the boardwalk track

A happening that bruised me blue and black

I won’t ever make that mistake again

Counting on peanuts, and the largess of friends

I know enough to get by on my own

Don’t need me hanging here on the telephone

That’s the breaks

 

Oddly, the line that concluded each verse of this lyric poem was a title I had used in the 1980s. For a song written while fronting a local group called Absolute Zero, In New York State. That was a near miss with fame and success, as our bassist was Andy Hilfiger, brother of Tommy the noted fashion designer. In a style typical for the Swindle orbit, I had a brief brush with optimism, and the thought of potential gains, followed by silence. Nothing productive transpired. We released one 45 rpm single, which sold very few copies. That was how it ended. I hid

 under a bridge in the city, briefly, and then made my exit.

 

Andy went on to better things, working with his family. And I returned to Ohio, with stories to tell and little else that could be quantified on a balance sheet. Yet the yield in creative energy was considerable. Rising from the ashes of an exhausted stay in the Finger Lakes Region, I reinvented myself, and found new avenues for the writing zeal that remained.

 

Such thoughts lingered as the synthetic ringtone of my Messenger app sounded, while I was outside on the front porch with a brew. When I lifted my cellular device to have a look, the image of California appeared on its screen.

 

My pigtailed princess had at long last decided to reach out from her doublewide home at the abandoned drive-in of Cult Radio A-Go-Go. She left a voice note when I did not answer right away.

 

“Rawd! Are y’all still alive, buddy? I’ve been up to my eyeballs in shit-to-do here. Tiffany has been lookin’ after her papa, so I stepped up fer extra duty! I’ve been a-feedin’ cats and doin’ program work, and all sorts of fun chores. Keepin’ these networks goin’ ain’t an easy job, I’ll tell ya! I’m plum worn out by the end of my day! Forgive me, dude! I wasn’t tryin’ to blow ya off, I promise! I been hoppin around here like a damn frog in a creek!”

 

I had already quenched my thirst with several rounds of drink. My face was flushed red, and numb. So, instead of reacting immediately, I sat still while listening to tracks from Hasil Adkins, via Spotify. His one-man plucking, and rhythmic footstomps, reverberated through the fog of alcohol that filled my skull.

 

I would call her back, tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 9: Hazy

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

After wallowing for days and weeks in thoughts of Kookshow Baby, Seattle’s Old Drunken Buzzards, and the NYC music company Bowery Beat Records, I needed some sort of diversion to clear my head. Normally, a first choice would be to sit on my front porch, imbibing beverage alcohol in some form. Yet when I decided to have a cook out with my Weber, kettle grill, the smoke and tantalizing aroma attracted too much attention. I had gotten a deal on Five Star premium hot dogs and country-style ribs, at a local purveyor of foodstuffs in Geneva. A friendly depot situated near the lake. But that feast represented a bounty that could not be hidden. In addition to attracting the attention of neighbors, it also had canine pets and stray cats visiting my safe space. More foot and paw traffic than I desired.

 

As a diversion, this interlude worked for the moment. But I needed a quieter, more relaxing break from thoughts of distant contacts and business opportunities.

 

Finally, in the wee hours of a Thursday morning, I logged onto my eBay account. I figured that scrolling through entries for beer signs, concert shirts, vintage books, and such would offer the sort of mental escape I needed. But with a hint of barbecued frankfurters still hanging in the air, I happened to type in search terms that related to that common delicacy.

 

As a result, new entries popped up in my timeline for recordings by the oddball guitar hero from rural West Virginia, Hasil Adkins. There were at least four compact discs that I had never seen before, on independent imprints.

 

Hasil Adkins, Live in Chicago

Pravda Records

Product ID: 24046081232

 

“The Haze recorded live at Chicago’s legendary Lounge Ax. No overdubs, just Hasil Adkins’ one man band cranking out song after song of whiskey soaked insanity. These legendary 1992 performances are classic, bizarre... Haze originals and covers. A document of a true original.”

 

Hasil Adkins, What the Hell Was I Thinking

Fat Possum Records

Product ID: 3046066006

 

“Tracks: Your Memories/Ugly Woman/No Shoes/You’re Gonna Miss Me/Beautiful Hills/Stay With Me/Somehow You’ll Find Your Way/Gone Gone Gone/Up on Mars/Talkin’ to My Lord”

 

Hasil Adkins, Look At That Caveman Go!!

Norton Records

Product ID: 3065755

 

“The one-man band and his happy guitar, recorded live”

 

Hasil Adkins, Achy Breaky Ha Ha Ha

Norton Records

Product ID: 3046063274

 

“Tracks: Put My Guitar Away Mommy/White Dove/Leaves in the Autumn/I Still Miss Someone/Gonna Have Me A Yard Sale/Twenty Eight Years/River of Jordan/It’ll Be Me/Will You Miss Me/Song of Death/Of Course Not/She Thinks I Still Care/I Hear a Sweet Voice Calling/Tomorrow I’ll Still Be Loving You/You Win Again/Turn Around”

 

Not surprisingly, I wanted every one of these audio artifacts. In addition to more rarities that were listed. But at the moment, I was financially depleted, and already falling deep into credit-card oblivion. So, instead of making any purchases, I logged off and fell asleep in the desk chair.

 

From the netherworld of slumbering visions, a snappy, snare rhythm and the clap of a hi-hat sounded as I was snoring. I could hear the psychobilly strains of ‘Chicken Walk’ and ‘She Said’ echoing across the cosmic divide between this world and the next. In addition to his frightening classic which references decapitation, ‘No More Hot Dogs.’

 

Then, stanzas of verse began to appear in my head. I awakened while still sitting at the keyboard. Though stiff and groggy from this brief siesta, I started to type out a literal interpretation of what had just transpired, while it remained in focus.

 

The Haze

 

When I go out for good

I’ll be singing my anthem

Like a rowdy, raucous kid

I’ll be jamming those chords

Through a reverb-spring roar

Just like Hasil Adkins did

 

One foot on the drum pedal

One hand plucking strong

No need to keep it hid

You’ll hear a wild dog bark

Down at the trailer park

Just like Hasil Adkins did

 

I might have been out of line

That’s what the preacher said

He damn near flipped his lid

But when he opened the good book

And had another look

It was just what Hasil Adkins did

 

God help me, friends

I took a break at the auction house

Yelled out with my bid

A Boone County troubadour

On the porch of a country store

Just like Hasil Adkins did

 

Hotwired and out of gas

I barely made it home

Down the mountain on a greasy skid

But when the hillbilly stomp

Turned into a backwoods swamp

It was just what Hasil Adkins did

 

That fingerstyle fool

Made it up on his own

Doing things that the law forbids

He cranked up a tube-amp shock

Sitting on a cinder block

That’s what Hasil Adkins did

 

How that country freaker

Ever got to be famous

I can’t say without being glib

But I’m always on the job

If we’re playing down at Pine Knob

Just like Hasil Adkins did

 

Hot dogs and such

Chicken walk and a push-in

It made him sound like a whiz kid

But he was making a spoof

That’s the God’s honest truth

That’s what Hasil Adkins did

 

They say he inspired

A generation of troubled folk

Who wanted to get rid

Of stale, stammering downbeats

And busking on the main street

Just like Hasil Adkins did

 

Maybe I took it lightly

That swim through deep water

He hit the ocean like a giant squid

But once the rhythms went raw

Like teeth on a buzzsaw

It was just what Hasil Adkins did

 

I won’t tell you twice

One time fits the moment

Came rockin’ right out of his crib

He hammered strings and howled

A crazed country fowl

That’s what Hasil Adkins did

 

When I hear he’s an unknown

It’s gets me feeling righteous

Everybody ought to cut that jib

His style was inspirational

Boneshaking and sensational

That’s what Hasil Adkins did

 

Out from under a rock

He didn’t need to be trained-up

The music he made was a coin flip

Take it, or leave it

If you can believe it

That’s what Hasil Adkins did

 

Frets start a-buzzing

When he’s ready to testify

Joy juice, and tobacco spit

Take your place at his feet

Make this day complete

That’s what Hasil Adkins did

 

The world is poorer

To know he is gone

But they made a minstrel from his rib

A towering plucker

A 6-string mother-trucker

That’s what Hasil Adkins is

 

That’s what Hasil Adkins did...

 

 

 

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 8: Contract

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

The offices of Bowery Beat Records in New York City was a busy place, even against the backdrop of a metropolitan area known all over the world. Their focus on new-age entertainment used a business model that was thoroughly modern and timely. No one involved in the operation had any illusions about tackling the dominance of dinosaur labels and their huge, legacy catalogs. Yet by providing access to streaming services, one-off releases, and sharp promoters of live events, nationwide, they were a factor of consequence in the marketplace. Indie artists flocked to their label with the sort of ingenuity and eagerness that had long ago disappeared from the rosters of competitors. In addition, they scouted talent wisely. At isolated venues in every state, where rhythms of social upheaval and creative zeal were strong. Where audiences received the joyful exuberance of yonder days, in prodigious quantities. And where unique noises and protestations could be heard that shattered stale paradigms of art and public behavior.

 

Seely Frye was the mastermind of this work-in-progress. But she considered herself to be more of a guide than a leader. A library scholar, channeling work already brimming with value and importance.

 

I had been awake for about an hour, when she dropped an invitation at my Messenger account. Something that made me remember her previous attempt at making contact. A full pot of coffee had barely affected the gloomy grayness inside my head. So, as I read her virtual note, over and again, a sense of disbelief took hold. The thought that someone, somewhere, would watch one of my homemade YouTube videos, and be moved enough to reach out with a proposed contractual agreement, seemed quite ridiculous. Yet she included a number where I could reach her, for further discussion.

 

I bristled at the confident tone of this bold gesture. Most likely, a sales pitch from the dirty underbelly of hucksters and hawkers who liked to troll naïve troubadours and their bandmates. But when checking with my long-time associate Yarl Trite, in the Finger Lakes, I received confirmation that BBR was indeed, a legitimate enterprise.

 

My pal was a record collector, and veteran of hundreds, even thousands, of Rock, Jazz, and Reggae performances. A fellow who had figured out the trick to enjoying physical longevity, while maintaining a fresh attitude toward being alive.

 

He left a quick response after I had called, and missed making contact.

 

“Hey Rod, I got your voicemail. Bowery Beat is real, I have some of their releases. Like a CD box set from Salamander Sacrament, they’ve got a big following in Maryland, I’ve heard. Or Atomic Gelatin, that bunch broke up after playing at CBGB in the 70s, and reformed about five or six times afterward. They actually have a few titles on 8-track tape, believe it or not. Maybe intended as a spoof on Record Store Day, I don’t know. But I thought it was hilarious. Worth checking out, if you’re still into that kind of stuff. Now, who called you from their headquarters? A woman named Frye? I think she’s a distant cousin to Martin Fry who was in the group ABC, but her branch of their fam dropped the letter e, for whatever reason. Trust me though, they’re legit. Shit buddy, I don’t figure you get ten hits on your video channel from anybody in Ohio. You’re practically anonymous out there. Let her talk! Give the lady a listen, what can you lose? It can’t be much fun sitting in that singlewide trailer!”

 

My face reddened a bit upon hearing his jab about my home residence. But what he observed made good sense. So, as the morning brightened with more caffeine and a break in the clouds overhead, I reached for my cellular device.

 

The line rang several times, before being picked up by an automated answering service. When I punched in a client number to their personnel exchange, I got another series of tones. Then, a soft, buttery voice filled my ear. I could nearly catch the tickle of her breath with each spoken word.

 

“This is Ms. Seely! How may I help you today?”

 

I have always been awkward in social situations, particularly when making a cold call. My mouth had turned salty and dry. I actually wished for a brew from my refrigerator.

 

“I umm, am responding to a message you left here. This is Rodman Swindle, I live in a county near Cleveland, south of Lake Erie...”

 

I heard a squeak of recognition. Followed by a deep breath and a tapping of nails on a desktop.

 

“SWINDLE! IS THAT YOUR REAL NAME? FOR FUCK’S SAKE, TELL ME IT’S NOT A MADE-UP PRANK!”

 

I sighed heavily. My lips tasted like sand and dust.

 

“Yeah, that’s a genuine handle there... not a joke. I got teased quite a bit in grade school!”

 

Frye sharpened her tone as if concentrating on a job list for the day.

 

“I’ve been trying to find you for a few weeks. I must say that your footprint on social media is very limited. That made my staff surmise that you weren’t a young songwriter, to be blunt. Those kids are more savvy about the trade. They know a lot, right from the get-go. Their promotional strategies are really very interesting!”

 

I wasn’t sure if her comment was intended as an insult, or a compliment.

 

“Well, yes... I’m in my 60s, if that means anything.”

 

The record maven laughed and whistled before continuing her hustle.

 

“Okay, I can appreciate that, Rod. With such things in mind, let me get right down to business. My label makes its bones from innovation. We operate differently than the ancients. Our promotions, our concerts, our product line, everything is based on artistry. It’s a matter of mining a groove, do you understand? That might be doing pop-up shows on a street corner, or grabbing photo-ops where they are least expected, or even collaborating with inspired vandaleros and their spray-paint canvases, wherever they might be...”

 

I had become lost in her terminology.

 

“Vandaleros? Who? What?”

 

Frye was amused by my cluelessness. She snorted and rustled paperwork on her desk.

 

“They are urban activists. Performance artists, of an aggressive and energetic sort. I think we need to have a real meeting, Rod. How long would it take you to get here... to New York City?”

 

My stomach had begun to ache. What I really wanted was a cold beer, and a quiet interlude on my front porch, alone. Yet now, that seemed unlikely to transpire.

Nobody Reads This Page – "Grandma’s Example"

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

“Therefore if you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any common sharing in the Spirit, of any tenderness and compassion, then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and of one mind. Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of others. On your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus: Who being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage; rather, he made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death – even death on a cross!” Philippians 2:1-8 (NIV)

 

I have often written about the example provided by my maternal grandmother, who lived with us at different periods in her life, after becoming a widow. Her presence in our household had a great influence on my own path, both in terms of intellectual and spiritual development, but also as a fledgling writer. She was a rural entrepreneur and a family matron, yet incredibly humble in every way. Her selfless approach to living inspired me as a child, and has remained meaningful, ever after. Her sense of rhythm and cadence in poetic verse sparked an interest in following that lead into creative work of my own. I owe her a debt that can only be repaid by staying active, with my pen.

 

That journey continues, even today.

 

Recently however, I pondered that the baseline she set for us was now being reflected in one of my siblings, instead of wordsmithing charted in ink. During a quiet celebration for my sister and brother-in-law, upon the 40^th anniversary of their wedding day, I lingered in a murky sense of irony and detachment. She had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, which her oncologist said was on the march throughout her body. And her husband was lost in the twilight of senile dementia. An affliction we had already seen overtake my late mother. These challenges muted our joy with a sense that reality is often a cruel taskmaster.

 

My kindred counterpart was no longer the robust, cheerful figure that I had come to take for granted, over the years. Her stance was stooped, and her gait was slow and ponderous. She looked oddly frail and weathered, gaunt in the face, but with limbs swollen for some reason. I could detect that participating in our minimalist gathering was a chore she endured out of loyalty. A moment of togetherness much needed for all of the brood, but one that left her feeling fatigued.

 

Yet as I sat sharing conversations across the room, in a round-robin exchange of news and notes, and polite nonsense, my kindred opposite reached beside her lift chair, for a package. It appeared to be from an online vendor such as Amazon, Walmart, or another purveyor of various goods. She ripped open the bag with some effort, rummaged through the resulting mess, and produced a bottled condiment which carried the image of a character from a Canadian television program. One that I followed as a fan.

 

“Coney Island Saucery Presents – Trailer Park Boys, Ricky’s Smokes Let’s Go Hot Sauce. A smoke forward hot sauce featuring infused hemp hearts, bright middle tones, and a warm lasting scotch bonnet heat.”

 

Before my career as a salaried, retail manager had ended, I often thought that actor Robb Wells and I looked enough alike that we might have been distant cousins. Though my modern appearance had evolved into something more akin to what most people would associate with dwelling in a cave.

 

I was caught by surprise when receiving this small gesture. Because of course, it was her day to shine, not my own. And also, because of the dark undertones that permeated our pizza fest. The moment still glowed with importance and cheer. Yet a cold crispness hung in the air. A realization that mortality would visit our genetic group, just as it has done since the beginning of time itself. On a schedule set by circumstance, rather than logic or reason.

 

I was moved to reflect on the lessons of Grandma McCray, and how losing her when I was only a youthful spud of eleven years, seemed indefensible and wrong. Now, my grandnephew was predestined to suffer a similar indignity. One charted by fate or perhaps, the celestial omnipotence of a higher being. For some in our bunch, there was cause to wonder about the goodness of that supreme force, and how such events were arranged in the cosmic timeline. But for my closest relative, in terms of chronology, no doubt over Bible truths had been aroused. She remained steadfast in her faith. Wholly grounded in the belief that love is eternal, because it is a reflection of the gift given by our creator, in terms of salvation and an eternal reward.

 

Just as in the familiar, scriptural story of crucifixion and finality, my sister had mustered a sort of courage that made her bedrock philosophy even stronger than before. One of sacrifice and service. Of truly placing the well-being of her husband, siblings, children, grandchild, neighbors, fellow parishioners, and associates, above herself. Even at a time when many would speculate that a gray mood of self-interest might be warranted. Perhaps, even desirable as a sort of defense mechanism when witnessing the prospective end of days, approaching.

 

I had been somewhat overwhelmed with our emotional interaction, particularly because of my own bent toward staying isolated, and busy at the desk. So, I did not properly react at first to the bottle of pepper extract. I placed it in a pocket door of my refrigerator. Possibly with the notion of sampling it on tacos or fried potatoes, or some random, home-cooked feast.

 

But then, weeks later, I woke at an early hour before sunrise, with the meaning clear and present in my head. This venerable, queen fowl of our gaggle had thought of me instead of herself, even at a moment so dire and deeply distressing. The expression I felt was one of kinship, and kindness. As stated in those hallowed pages of yore, ‘becoming obedient... to death.’ But with an unflagging zest for living, and for sharing the familial bond that had always made our connection so meaningful, and enduring. My beloved sister, now a grandmother in her own right, had manifested the same love I saw as a wide-eyed kid, in central Virginia. It represented an achievement worthy of praise.

 

It gave me assurance that somewhere beyond the golden gates of eternity, Lulu McCray would be proud, and pleased.

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 7: Connection

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

Like much of the atmosphere in our junkyard oasis at Evergreen Estates, I attributed the zig-zag course of my humble existence to isolation and beverage alcohol. Having a regular schedule imposed by gainful employment had kept me on track. A beneficial part of working to earn a regular paycheck, away from my personal domain. Yet with that routine scuttled by forced retirement and disability, suddenly, I found myself cast adrift.

 

At the Swindle Shack, in modern times, clocks and calendars had little meaning.

 

Even the images that passed through my head during hours of restful slumber had become fractured by this new paradigm. I dreamed in fragments, rather than full chapters. Often without a literal timeline to bind these visions together. Personalities and settings were subject to change at a pace of frantic revelation. I would wander through cascades of color against a backdrop of light or pervasive darkness, sometimes lost and seeking direction. On other occasions I was combative, flailing at ghosts and demons without purpose. With each jog in the mindstream making me dizzy.

 

Kookshow Baby would appear as I slept, now and then, to chide me for lapsing into willful loneliness. Her witty asides burned my ears with a torrid sting of truth. She would stroke her long pigtails, and pout with puffy, red lips, offering a kiss of defiance.

 

“Y’all say it’s a bummer bein’ stuck in Ohio by yerself, boy? But who went home when he coulda stayed in Cali? Who passed on workin’ with Terry and Tiffany DuFoe, at the abandoned drive-in, and Cult Radio A-Go-Go? Who turned cold, when a strong, young woman like myself was ready to let ya into her doublewide world? It was yer call, buddy! Don’t moan and groan about it, now! That trucker pal of yers knew the way home, he didn’t need anybody to ride shotgun! Y’all did this thing to yerself!”

 

After being confronted through such hallucinatory episodes, I would wake up sweating and out of breath. Often sitting on the edge of my bed for a half hour before gathering the courage to roll over, and go back to sleep.

 

The result was an artistic point of view unlike my earlier work. I embraced themes rarely touched upon, before.

 

Urban Intelligencer

 

Cigarettes traded, first

Then bombshell bits and butcher knives

The urban intelligencer said

“How am I gonna stay alive?”

He carried a baseball bat

Across the spare tire in his car trunk

He figured breaking glass and bones

Would show he was done being a chump

The first swing made him a star

Nobody ever tried to push him so far

 

He came out of Cleveland

Right down by the lakeshore

Grew up getting robbed at daylight

Until his calluses couldn’t feel sore

He was numb and stooped

Lived in that vehicle, or a camping tent

His wild eyes were hot and bright

He sat drinking rotgut, at 99 cents

After years of that mental abuse

He was less human, and more fermented juice

 

He needed a change, quick

From this solemn, sad, state of affairs

Went out to a rural encampment

But that kind of world wasn’t his lair

Ended up at a trailer park

Miles from where good people gleam

Stuck in a longbox on wheels

Just another bland, human sardine

It made him bitter enough

But he had felt that street vibe, protecting his stuff

 

A neighbor with lots to say

Started giving him her opinions

He bared his teeth like a badger, crazed

The bitch went running in another direction

Soon enough, he had no friends

No one dared to get close

But even from a distance there was a smell

Of sweat and bourbon from his clothes

He didn’t crave companionship at all

Spent his days staring at the trailer walls

 

Eventually that baseball bat

Found its way into his hands

He sat out by the front porch, waiting

For any fool with a wish to be slammed

Eyes peeled of their onion skins

Ready to look deep into the dark

He was the odd man out

At the mobile village park

Many rumors started to swirl

They figured he was lonely without a steady girl

 

Then came a day of reckoning

He woke up from an outside nap

Started cursing and spitting

And tugging at his trucker cap

The commotion carried far

They could hear it up and down the street

He belched and crushed cans all day

Sat there kicking and stomping his feet

He was armed with his post of shaved wood

Shouted, “I wish a motherfucker would!”

 

Then a bullet from next door let fly

Some domestic dispute got out of hand

A sheriff’s deputy had to quell

A fight between a woman and a man

Both of them were quarreling

In a way that threatened the public peace

Gunfire shattered the Walmart radio

The Country tunes rudely ceased

That urban immigrant was felled

Went face-down, right where he dwelled

 

Nobody knew him well enough

To fill out a burial claim

His body stayed abandoned with the county

No request filed, for his remains

All around those clustered lots

There was a shared sigh of relief

The whole neighborhood was glad

To be rid of their boorish, drunken beast

A cranky, crabby malcontent

Off to eternity, the poor bastard gent

 

With a matter of months, elapsed

The mobile box got a new resident

Some other hopeless, hapless rube

Living on a slab of cement

Stuck inside a single-wide

Like letters in a postal slot

Coughing phlegm and Marlboro reds

Shooting Bud Light, and sniffling snot

That was a better match, by far

Than the old dude who had been living in his car

 

No tears were cried as an afterthought

The memory was forgotten

Nobody gave a shit about

What a work of fate had begotten

Gossip said that the urban man

Had been planted in an unmarked grave

Up the hill at a township field

Where veterans and grandparents were laid

It was all for the best

Like cracked eggshells, left in an empty nest

 

On a Monday morning, while checking e-mail accounts, I noted a message sent via the LinkedIn website. A spot on the internet long forgotten as my regular career ended abruptly, years earlier. A recruiter named Seely Joan Frye had posted a comment on my page, under a link to YouTube content. Her response was breathy and effusive.

 

“Rod, are you still active as a songwriter and performer? I am with a record label in New York City, and we are looking for new talent. Our business model is timely, we focus on submitting product to streaming services and online radio outlets. The dinosaurs hawk legacy material, while we want to mine for gold as yet untapped. If you have any interest, please contact me immediately! I promise that you won’t be disappointed!”

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 6: Hard

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

Working on song lyrics evoked the sort of individualistic vibe that comprised a response to years of struggle during the 1990’s. At that distant point in time, I had been married, raising a son with my first wife, and working long hours in a retail shop. Eventually, after a change of ownership, I had ended up on third shift, permanently. The toll it took on my personal life was considerable. But most vexing of all was the constant fatigue of going without regular sleep. Days off vanished into collapse.  I became alienated from friends and family members. When on duty with my employer, there was a constant badgering from management at all levels. So, when I did find a moment to put a pen to paper, what flowed onto the page was often stark and strikingly authentic. Tough prose, offered as if being dispensed from a knife’s edge.

 

Revisiting such memories from a modern perspective, I reflected on surviving that period, and finding relief in the grace of a loving creator. What came from the ether was more of a poetry-slam product, than purely musical. Yet the yield was still worthwhile.

 

Hard Times

 

Hard times, a bitter pill

Like weary Sisyphus, rolling his rock up a hill

I find myself bored with kicks and thrills

The last gasp of a waning day

Comes as I watch the sun fade to gray

I know that the poet has no reason to stay

At the edge of darkness, I find

The words of Dusty Rhodes come to mind

“Remember hard times!”

 

At the dawn of tomorrow anew

I stand there with mud on my shoes

Confident over cashing in gold doubloons

The reward of this faithful exchange

Is little better than a handful of grain

But preferable by far, to doubt and disdain

Here’s a detective’s uncovered clue

Words from Bob Dylan still ring true

“When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose!”

 

Now this observation might seem suspect

It would be easy to debate what I project

To behold this gold nugget like a flittering flyspeck

But past the limit of a roadblock gate

There’s a better path to another twist of fate

A crooked creek dug into sandstone and slate

When I read words on a cereal box

I remember that Hunter said he knew the school of hard knocks

“Trust in God, but row away from the rocks!”

 

Hard times, never far from the possible

They linger long enough to turn silver dull

And make dents in the Titanic’s hull

I want to run away but that choice was spent

Fretting over the worth of a lonely, red cent

Now I’m homed in a big box, sat on the cement

It’s time to fold the cards, you must see

In the words of a bard from antiquity

“Speak hands, speak hands for me!”

 

I take no pleasure in retelling the tale

Of being born in the belly of a whale

Yet that origin gave me strength to prevail

I swam across a metaphorical divide

Left in place by a creator on the downside

Pure and postured like an amusement park ride

I remember that a Rolling Stone proclaimed

Mick Jagger was his name

“I was ‘round when Jesus knew his doubt and pain!”

 

Hard times, enough of a default

Making ends meet at the corner-store vault

For a pack of smokes and a 40 of malt

It’s no walk through a garden of grace

When the cold winds whip at an uncovered face

Winter lasts forever, summer for a day

I recall James Brown keeping it free

Dispensing truth, rhythmic and funky

“We’d rather die on our feet than live on our knees!”

 

I don’t have much more to offer but that

A children’s rhyme like your Cat in the Hat

A strong aftertaste left, from Ramen and sprat

Turn back your clocks to comprehend the perks

Of celestial bodies, spinning far beyond the earth

A loose speck of dust, the key to rebirth

I heard it with my good ear, pressed to a tin cup

Churchill shook his fist at naysayers mistrust

“Never, never, never give up!”

 

This peering into the past seemed particularly timely, as water woes struck the development of mobile homes where I lived in Ohio. Inexplicably, our system had experienced a total shutdown, three times in two days. For myself, living alone, the inconvenience was slight. I had managed to do a minimal load of laundry, and a round of dishes, in between these unexpected interruptions. But for neighbors with families and typical job responsibilities, the hardship was much more pronounced. When I looked at a Facebook group dedicated to park residents, the attitudes and language displayed burned my eyes like a salty brine.

 

Threats of legal action, seeking to get local media outlets involved, or outright violence, were many. The general mood was explosive. I had to put my phone aside, after scrolling through the plethora of posts and comments.

 

On my porch outside, I found a respite from this verbal conflagration. With a cold brew in hand, I started my Weber charcoal grill. In the refrigerator were three flavors of homemade bratwurst, and some whole chicken wings. I felt confident in readying myself to cook a worthy feast that would take my mind off of our current troubles, and feed any visitors, if necessary.

 

While drinking, one of the feline strays on my street decided to visit in hope of receiving a treat. A small, shy tabby with distinctive, white paws. I had nicknamed the cat Boots Kitty, and kept appropriate vittles on hand for when he chose to skip up my access ramp. Then, after the wandering runt was done filling his belly, another click-clack of animal nails sounded from the driveway edge. This time, a neighbor’s Black Lab appeared, also in search of edible handouts. While seeking more refreshments from the kitchen, I rummaged through my cupboards for some canine delectables. Then, returned to the wooden bench.

 

The brats were an assortment of marked-down items from the meat case of my favorite grocer in Geneva. Tickled with Italian seasonings, hoagie spice, and chorizo. The last of this trio produced a particularly tempting aroma, while grilling.

 

From across the street, a fellow member of the community paused by his Dodge minivan, and gestured with a hungry expression. His appetite seemed to match those of my animal companions.

 

“You got that kettle going, eh? Good for you, man! I’ll be right over!”