Trailer Park Vignettes: “Porch Encounter”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had never been particularly adept in social situations. He chafed at having casual interactions with other residents at Evergreen Estates. The sort of bogus chatter that seemed to interest other inhabitants of his mobile-home oasis was a chore to endure. He preferred to be drunk and alone, with no interference from those who lived along his crumbling street. Yet throughout the long days of summer, people continued to pass by the end of his gravel driveway. Either on foot, pedaling along with bicycles or riding electric scooters, or at the wheel of rusty, ragged vehicles that were all long past their intended span of use. He would snort and wave when confronted, or sometimes pretend not to notice their presence, at all. A fog of alcohol kept him shielded from being pulled into boring and banal conversations. Though sometimes, being exposed was completely unavoidable.

 

When these rare incidents occurred, he would clutch at his belly, and groan quietly.

 

Late on a Monday afternoon, he took a seat outside on his front porch, after sorting through postal mail and checking accounts via a desktop computer in the home office. His mouth had already begun to salivate for the taste of southern whiskey, and a cool beverage to serve as a chaser. But he was barely able to get through one round of refreshment before a young woman appeared at the foot of his access ramp. She had the unadorned appearance of a wandering waif, with long, stringy hair in a dirty shade of blonde. Her apparel looked to have been sourced from a thrift store. And she seemed not to know too much about the neighborhood.

 

“Howdy there bud, I see y’all havin’ a drink by yerself. Don’t it get lonesome sittin’ there with nobody ta talk to?”

 

The reclusive oldster shook his head, and chortled.

 

“Ma’am, you must be new around here. Most everyone knows enough to keep their distance from me...”

 

The plain-faced female smiled with a look of feigned innocence.

 

“I came here in January, so yes, I am new to tha park!”

 

Lincoln gestured with his right hand, as if giving a salute.

 

“In that case, you’ve got my sympathy. I don’t know what made you move to this hole in the ground, but if it was desperation, then brace yourself for that condition to become considerably worse...”

 

The anonymous woman widened her eyes, and looked around as if she were lost.

 

“I’ve got to say this is better than tha last place I lived. I was in a shelter run by the City of Painesville. That halfway-house was overcrowded, stinky, and noisy. I couldn’t even pee in private!”

 

The shaggy hermit grinned with his mouth pulled tight against misaligned, yellow teeth. Then, he punctuated his confession with a foamy belch of Miller Lite.

 

“I pee off the back of my deck. The trash bin is a blind so nobody gets offended...”

 

The wandering waif sat on a set of neglected, fiberglass steps that flanked the wooden ramp.

 

“Anyway, my name is Shondra Leigh. I’ve been told ta stay away from yer trailer, but just now, you really looked like someone who could use a friend!”

 

The disabled biker coughed high-proof liquor from his throat, and cursed.

 

“FRIEND? YOU’VE GOTTA BE KIDDING, MA’AM! I DON’T HAVE MANY FRIENDS, AND THE ONES I DO HAVE DON’T LIVE IN A TRASH DUMP LIKE THIS! THE ONLY REASON I’M HERE IS BECAUSE I AM DIVORCED, DISABLED, HUMILIATED, AND FLAT-ASS BROKE! THIS PLACE IS A HUMAN GRAVEYARD, WHERE PEOPLE COME TO NURSE BROKEN HEARTS AND SHATTERED DREAMS. AND BY GOD, THAT’S WHAT I’M DOING RIGHT NOW...”

 

Inexplicably, Shondra giggled at this harsh assessment of the rural community.

 

“Y’all sound like a freaky movie character! But I get it, sometimes ya lose yer faith in people. Not me though, I always think there’ll be a brighter side to tha day if ya keep lookin hard enough! That’s why I’m here, ta say hello! I like ta meet new dudes!”

 

Lincoln wanted to raise his middle finger. But guessed that such a reaction might draw tears from his impulsive visitor. So instead, he simply continued to swig bourbon from his jug.

 

“I’d offer you a taste of this swill, but you’ve got the look of someone who no longer partakes...”

 

The quirky femme nodded to affirm this insightful statement.

 

“Y’all are right, buddy! I’m clean and sober fer nine months, and gonna stay that way. But thanks anyhow. I appreciate the thought.”

 

The graybeard loner pointed to a vintage singlewide, across the street from his own dwelling.

 

“Granny Maylene lives over there, she’s precious to everybody in this park. Go knock on her door, she’d be glad to get some company, I bet. If you want to hear some stories about this township, she’s got more than a few...”

 

Shondra rolled her eyes and grimaced as if she was being kicked to the curb.

 

“What, are y’all tryin’ ta get rid of me, Mr. Link?”

 

The weary misanthrope leaned forward, over his knees. He glared with indignation.

 

“HOW’D YOU KNOW MY NAME, MISS? ARE PEOPLE AROUND HERE FLAPPING THEIR JAWS OR WHAT? IF SO, THEN SCREW THEM!”

 

The young woman folded her arms, defensively.

 

“Man, y’all have a reputation in this park apparently. But that don’t scare me a bit. I like ta meet folks who are a little bit different. They make things interesting, ya know?”

 

Lincoln stomped the floorboards with one of his canes.

 

“GAWDAMN IT! I’M TIRED OF THESE BASTARDS SLINGING MUD AT ME! I DON’T BOTHER ANYBODY, AND DON’T EXPECT THEM TO BOTHER ME! LET ME GET DRUNK IN PEACE!”

 

She curled her lip and took a step backwards, as if wanting to make a hasty retreat. Her tiny hands had begun to tremble.

 

“Geez, there’s no need ta get yerself all riled up, dude! I’ll take yer advice and skedaddle! Have a nice day, buddy! I’ll see ya later!”

 

After Shondra had departed, the solitary boozer sat staring blankly at his reflection in the storm door. He looked every bit of 65 years old, and more, with scars and age spots dotting his skin. The thought of having company on his porch had rattled his nerves. It put him in a situation that was uncomfortable, and perplexing.

 

Yet for a moment at least, he had forgotten about his own physical ailments and limitations.  The experience cleared his head of worry, and evoked echoes of what it had been like to have companionship throughout the day.

 

That alone was worth enduring an uneasy moment of kindness. He hoped that, in time, she might come again.

 

Nothing To See Here: “Dream State”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

An odd change in my retirement years has been that I now look forward to dreaming overnight. These episodes are truncated in length due to other needs I encounter while slumbering, because of disability and the aging process. Yet I find that they offer a release from the cares and woes of my daytime existence. Generally, I am always younger, able-bodied, and gifted with the sort of station in life that used to permit traveling, investments, and even spoiling myself at times with prizes of a sort that were not strictly necessary. But certainly enhanced my sense of being content with what I had earned through years of hard work.

 

Still, the self in these unconscious visions is usually naïve by comparison. Someone not attuned finely enough to the fate that had been proscribed by genetics and family disposition. When pursuing career goals in my 30s and 40s, I had less peripheral awareness, and more of a focus on the bullseye. I held the cause of advancement as my raison d’etre for living. Other concerns were not allowed to interfere with that mission. So, I did not prepare myself for what would arrive in the decades that followed.

 

Disability and isolation hit hard, when yonder days arrived.

 

During a recent trip through this imaginary realm, I met myself in person. With a difference in chronological age of around 30 years in effect. The conversation that I shared... that we shared... proved to be interesting and informative. Though ineffective in changing the timeline that had already been written.

 

Rodney 35 – “Hey you look familiar, man! Are you a relative or something? I know there are distant cousins all through the heartland, even in Oklahoma! We’ve got strong genes apparently! We all look alike!”

 

Rodney 65 – “Well, yes. I am a relative of sorts, you might say...”

 

R 35 – “I notice you get around with two canes. My father does that, he’s a wreck after years of farm labor, mechanical repairs, and going into the ministry. He’s always so tired! I never want to be a worn-out piece of leather! I wouldn’t ever do that to myself!”

 

R 65 – “Right. I am familiar with your back story. It’s easy to tag disabilities as something that only affects senior citizens. But depending on how one has treated their body, such ailments may arrive sooner than you might expect...”

 

R 35 – “Not for me! I get around quite a bit. There’s not any time to sit still. We hustle at my workplace, and I stay busy when going home. Lots of projects in the queue, all the time!”

 

R 65 – “I used to be that way, but eventually the genetic disposition of our family caught up with me. It happened more quickly than I expected. About 25 years faster than with my dad...”

 

R 35 – “That’s a bummer, dude! I wouldn’t want to live like a cripple!”

 

R 65 – “Friend, in time you might discover that words such as that are hurtful, and unnecessary. ‘Cripple’ is demeaning especially for someone who inherited their condition through sacrifice and dedication. It’s not the kind of reward that anyone would seek...”

 

R 35 – “Yeah, yeah, okay. I get it. That wasn’t a zing at anybody, I just look at those people and shake my head. My dad struggles to do much of anything. He can’t ride a motorcycle anymore, or stand to drive for long distances on vacation jaunts. He sits at his desk with coffee and reads for entertainment. That is too damn boring for me, I want to be on the go! Gotta go, gotta go!”

 

R 65 – (Nodding reflectively) “Yes, I remember how it used to be. I do miss the adventures that we used to have...”

 

R 35 – “WE? WTF MAN, WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? WHO IS WE?”

 

R 65 – “Sorry. A slip of the tongue...”

 

R 35 – “So, who did you say was your ancestor? You’re on a branch of my family tree?”

 

R 65 – “Umm, yes. My bloodline began with an immigrant from Europe, about 1700. His name was Frederick...”

 

R 35 – “Hey that’s cool. Mine was the same. We must be cousins, however many times removed, right?”

 

R 65 – “I was descended through a character nicknamed Indian Billy. He had been a captive of indigenous peoples, but escaped and prospered afterward...”

 

R 35 – “Wow, I’ve heard stories like that. It must be part of the family groove!”

 

R 65 – “My grandparents lived on the southeast side of Columbus. They had an old farmhouse with no running water or central heating. It was interesting to visit as a child. I learned a lot about the world as it was before any of us kids were born...”

 

R 35 – (Looking stunned) “Columbus? Yeah, I know that city. I used to go there every year on Thanksgiving. And sometimes on summer vacation.”

 

R 65 – “I miss that place very much...”

 

R 35 – “I couldn’t live without it! That patch of ground is the home I never had anywhere else. We were always moving during my upbringing. Moving, moving, moving! That farm will stand forever!”

 

R 65 – “Forever is a long time, friend. But yes, we were constantly moving...”

 

R 35 – “YOU DID IT AGAIN!  WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE? THAT IS CREEPY, DUDE! CREEPY AS HELL!”

 

R 65 – “Have you ever considered how you might look in the distant future? Or what it might feel like to hobble around as an old grump? With aches and pains, and stiff joints making every step a challenge to endure?”

 

R 35 – (Taking a deep breath) “Screw any of that! I’m good as I am, there’s no need to be old and tired, that’s not my thing. I won’t let myself get run down like that!”

 

R 65 – (Laughing loudly) “If you only knew what was coming... but it is better that you don’t.”

 

R 35 – “WHAT THE DEVIL DOES THAT MEAN? IT’S BETTER THAT I DON’T KNOW WHAT?”

 

R 65 – “Just keep working to support your immediate family. They need you, friend. Your wife and her son, your sister and brother, and everyone...”

 

R 35 – (Clearing his throat) “What was your name, man? I don’t remember hearing you say it out loud. Tell me your name!”

 

R 65 – (Smiling gently) “It isn’t important, really. Just accept that I am someone who knows the road you are treading as we speak...”

 

R 35 – (Turning angry) “YOUR NAME, DAMMIT! TELL ME YOUR FREAKING NAME!”

R 65 – (Shrugging with a sigh) “Speak your own, and it will be said...”

 

R 35 – “DON’T GIVE ME A DAMN RIDDLE! WHAT IS YOUR EFFING NAME!”

 

I woke up with moonlight streaming through the bedroom window. My C-PAP machine continued to pump air even after I took off its cumbersome mask. I sat on the edge of my mattress for a few minutes, attempting to clear thoughts of what had transpired. The encounter had been too realistic to simply forget as I headed to the bathroom.

 

My own words echoed while facing the mirror image I beheld, attempting not to yawn.

 

“If you only knew what was coming... but it is better that you don’t.”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Coping Mechanism”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln never enjoyed doctor visits. They placed him in a situation where life choices made without much forethought were given a level of scrutiny that he did not enjoy. Under that spotlight of analysis, he was forced to choose between offering honest admissions about his habits, or defeating the purpose of medical care by practicing obfuscation. Neither option was appealing. More than anything, he relished the opportunity to be done, and freed from the demands of such examinations.

 

At home, within the rustic perimeter of Evergreen Estates, he felt more comfortable as an inhabitant of the continuum.

 

His body balked at cooperating with this arrangement, however. Now and then, offering reasons for a closer look by experts in the field of medicine. Many of these causes were related to the process of aging. Though a few were lifelong woes brought on by diet, alcoholism, and a general lack of physical activity. He was the embodiment of modern, American decline. Obese, shaggy, unable to walk normally, struggling with his vision and balance, and often cranky if not drinking shortly after the hour of noon.

 

Neighbors had their coping mechanism – to stay away unless some quirk of fate drew them close for a specific purpose. The old hermit also had his own strategies for survival, which were straightforward and obvious. He was drunk almost every day. But with a buffer zone between his own singlewide trailer, and others on the street, this did not present a problem. Only when his love for privacy was not respected did issues arise.

 

Disability had caused him to move slowly and with deliberation, when walking. He appeared barely able to stand or perform basic chores in his ragged abode. Yet upon being triggered, his skill with metal canes was admirable. He could swing with the force of a major-league batter, aiming to send a baseball far past the outfield fences.

 

This meant that anyone who underestimated his ability to defend himself quickly realized the mistake of their assessment. Teeth might be loosened, or jawbones fractured. Offenders learned never to challenge the contrarian loner, again.

 

The only foe he could not vanquish, by any means, was genetics.

 

With a square-cornered bottle of Tennessee whiskey, he sat on his wooden bench and scrolled through a pre-visit assessment on his cell phone. Something that had become familiar before every encounter with a health professional in his care network. The queries were nagging and probative. Each line of text made him growl while drinking his liquor.

 

“Do you use tobacco products? If not, were you formerly a smoker? If so, when did you quit?”

 

Lincoln sputtered while struggling to remember.

 

“Dammit, I gave up my Camel shortys in 1986. That was a lifetime ago! Same for cigarillos and the pipe. All of that mess is crazy expensive now...”

 

“How many times per week do you exercise? Do you have a gym membership?”

 

The cranky boozer laughed loudly while considering that he used to lift weights, in New York.

 

“Gym membership? Hell, I can hardly get out of bed in the morning nowadays!”

 

“Do you have a family history of heart disease, cancer, diabetes, or other afflictions?”

 

That question made him turn red with irritation. He shouted at the wireless device as if someone were listening.

 

“Of course I do, both my parents came from Appalachia! I’m a gawdamn hillbilly! We grew up on fried bologna, hot dogs, and pepperoni rolls. What would you expect? Biscuits and gravy were a staple in my mother’s kitchen. Lots of fried potatoes and cheesy macaroni...”

 

“How many alcoholic drinks do you have in a week?”

 

He bristled at the last entry. It was a sore spot to ask about brewed and distilled concoctions. With his right hand trembling, he entered a quantity of six per week.

 

“That’s close enough, okay? Don’t ask me again!”

 

With his container of brown juice half empty, a mood of calm took hold. He slouched on the wooden bench while pondering the upcoming appointment, at a clinic in Geneva. As always, he would give a good report of his own condition, despite having failed joints, arthritis, swelling in his limbs, constant soreness, weakening vision, incontinence, spells of vertigo, and bouts of insomnia. None of those nagging problems mattered when he was inebriated, content, and at home. So, in some sense at least, he had not prevaricated when saying that they didn’t exist on his personal radar. Though giving an admission of these troubles might have helped him to be diagnosed more correctly, overall.

 

He had long ago given up on seeking the comfort of human companionship, or contact. Being blitzed and alone was enough to make him feel glad to still be alive.

 

At the physician’s office, closer to Lake Erie, he found a seat by the receptionist’s window. The wait time was far longer than specified, officially 15 minutes in duration. But he was used to the delay in processing. When called to an exam room, he smiled and shuffled along with his walking sticks.

 

The attendant must have been somewhat amused by his appearance, a sort of mash-up between Santa Claus and David Allan Coe. He had not seen a barber in years, and never used his razor. Various shades of gray and white infused his facial hair. He was oddly pale, tanned, and crimson, in alternate bands of exposure.

 

When the doctor arrived, in her white coat, she was predictably cheerful and stern at the same time.

 

“How have you been, Mr. Lincoln? Any falls at home? Any new issues to report?”

 

He had been losing sensation in his extremities for the past few months. Getting up from a chair meant calling upon God for mercy and grace. Lately, his legs and feet burned as if he had been out in the sun for too lengthy of a stay. Yet he did not complain.

 

“I’m great, getting plenty of things done at home. One of my neighbors is about the same age, and in a similar condition to myself. We could almost be brothers. And he will come around sometimes to hustle a beer, and complain about being bored. Can you imagine that? Being bored? That’s never a worry for me as I’m at my desk every morning. And out on the porch, every afternoon! I’m good with that!”

 

Returning to his car was a chore. He counted every step along the hallway, through the clinic lobby, and down their curved sidewalk. Getting behind the wheel involved grabbing the roof with his right hand, while holding the door jam for leverage, and swinging his ample body into position. Once that task had been accomplished, he sat still for a moment, just to catch his breath.

 

A reminder card was in his T-shirt pocket. Three months until the next appointment. Three months until he would once again act healthy, well-adjusted, and sociable. Three months until he would attempt to hide the progress of Father Time in breaking down his faculties. Three months until he would hobble down his access ramp at home, and brave the uncertainty of a world in which he was no longer a willing participant.

 

Three months of pork rinds, cheeses, beef smokies, pickles, and adult refreshments that tingled his nose and throat.

 

Three months of being neglected, but happy. 

“The End”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

The end 

I see it when peering down my leg

Trousers pulled up from the ankle

This is where others in the bloodline

Were caused to tread

None of them going gladly into that abyss

That chasm of affliction

Into which I have now descended

I had hoped to be spared

By some work of chance

Perhaps a gift of grace, undeserved

But now I am at the precipice

Swollen feel standing flat

Toes gripping the edge

As I look down

Down, down, down

Into the void below, which beckons

Offering a Siren call

One I would like to resist by choice

But hear despite my own plea

To be deaf

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page: “End Game”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

“Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately, it kills all its pupils.” – Hector Berlioz

 

The subject of mortality is one that generally makes human minds tread with caution when pondering that divide between worlds. It represents a rite of passage from which no one has ever escaped, except for the Biblical figure of Christ Jesus. Death is a happening spoken about in literature and song, and portrayed artfully in dramatic scenes that depict its coming as a dreadful and smothering event. Yet for this writer, a proverbial end of days has recently become more serious in nature. Not because it is something which I fear out of hand, but owing to the realism which it now holds as a known entity that will ultimately bring down the curtain on my own, precious, final act.

 

With disability and fatigue ruling each day, I have begun to feel the cold breath of this terminal figure teasing my neck from behind. The shadows cast by its approach are visible now, and sobering to view. I no longer think of myself as a sentient being with unlimited hours of life in reserve. The truth of chronology is more and more evident, as I stumble forward in time. Every ache and throb, and tingle of weary flesh offers a reminder that the hourglass is indeed running out of sand.

 

I am a mere 24 months away from the age at which Hunter S. Thompson decided that his own journey had lasted for long enough to be fully satisfying. A realization that sent him spiraling toward destiny, and, the veil between one side of the mirror and another.

 

“No more games. No more bombs. No more walking. No more fun. No more swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun – for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax – This won’t hurt.”

 

From my own perspective, I cannot imagine choosing a final exit from an earthly existence. If anything, it would be my choice to write about the transition in real time. Yet I no longer have the gentle illusion of immortality as an aide to provide comfort. I can gaze with anticipation toward the gathering hues of a sunset in progress, and see what is about to descend.

 

The end game, in all of its sorrowful splendor, is almost nigh.

 

A quote from Dracula, as written by Bram Stoker, lingers in memory when such thoughts are top of mind.

 

“To die, to be really dead, that must be glorious!”

 

I do not know of course, whether being snuffed out like a flickering candle might be worthy of celebration, or terrifying. No adventurer who has managed to wholly traverse that gap has ever returned to give testimony about the realm beyond. Still, there have been visions received through circling close to that lifeless condition. Tales of greeting those who have already passed, or deities who offer welcome and peaceful rest.

 

But for myself, while sometimes fretting about poor vision, sore joints, swollen limbs, and a persistent, burning sensation on my skin, I remain in the camp of those who cling to the notion that life itself is the ultimate gift, and should never be surrendered without battling the Reaper. Every breath taken brings me closer to the target which I have pursued for so many years. To fulfill my mission as a wordsmith and seeker of knowledge.

 

Only the passing of my sister, last October, altered this positive perspective.

 

My beloved sibling was someone who lived a life centered on her Christian faith. She held fast to her marriage vows, and doted on her husband, children, grandchild, and all of us in the bloodline. Her kind nature never dimmed even when circumstances were inhospitable. Only the curse of cancer could still her beating heart. When it did, I felt changed by the loss in many ways. Most of all, by the revelation that a scythe of vengeance could swoop so near to my own spot, while standing silently nearby.

 

I would have sacrificed myself to save her, if that had been possible. But no such bargain was offered as I watched my closest kin quickly decline and die. The genuine agony of that fateful collapse was having to bear witness, in the aftermath. I did not want to continue onward, alone. Nor did any of us who had been in her grand orbit. But that certainty was sealed.

 

To visit her grave touched my soul with regret and sadness. And it also reinforced the belief that too soon perhaps, the rest of us might follow.

 

Oscar Wilde spoke of it lovingly, as a moment to be reached in reflection.

 

“Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.”

 

Yet in my personal thoughts, it is an empty void left for those of us who are on this side of the great partition. A vacant seat at the dinner table. An unused cushion on the couch. An unoccupied space in the driveway. A hand not held by another.

 

Will I go willingly, at the end? Or with courage and boldness? That claim is one I have yet to make. Because until the moment arrives, I will stay busy working toward the deadline. Creating, caring, and casting my lots as they may fall. Rolling the dice. Pitching pennies against the wall. Placing bets on my own ability to endure and prosper.

 

Until that square on the calendar is in effect, I won’t spend too much time considering the continuing slog toward my mortal conclusion. I figure that a better chore is that of unraveling the mystery of being here initially, as an inhabitant on this brilliant, blue ball in outer space. Yet while sitting at the desk, I will not deny that the shade thrown by that bringer of woe is right over my shoulder. Creeping nearer with every tick of the clock.

 

Until that judgment is passed, the game will continue.

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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Offering my acoustic rendition of the beer song from yonder days was intended to dampen interest in the mysterious career of Rodney Dean. I looked upon it as being something of an outlier, compared to other lyrics written over the years. A sort of attempt at blue-collar comedy that might have been welcome on Hee Haw. But fan reaction online was immediate, and overwhelmingly positive. My contact at the record label, T. Randall Squire, had pegged it right. The hillbilly character I had unwittingly created was one that consumers of Country Music were willing to embrace, once they had been assured that this shaggy crooner had not been birthed from an artificial intelligence program.

 

My virgin account on TikTok received thousands of hits after the live performance.

 

For the professional promoter who was hawking my material, this yield was a sign of bigger and better things to come. Yet for me, a different sort of reaction was aroused. One that found me going blank at my desk. Any interest in continuing the charade I had sired was gone. I quit writing for several weeks. And therefore, had nothing relevant to post on my newspaper blog.

 

Internet speculation grew about what had transpired. Some thought that I must have entered a treatment program for alcoholism. Others figured that I wrecked my pickup truck, and had been institutionalized for rehabilitation. One persistent thread on Reddit even suggested that I had been involved in a love triangle, and been shot in a fit of jealous rage.

 

But the strongest reaction came from my entertainment contact. Having waited through a long stretch of weeks and months, he finally messaged my cell phone with an angry rant about lost revenue and missed opportunities.

 

“GAWDAMN IT BOY, WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YER SENSE OF THE ZEITGEIST? WE HAD A TIGER BY IT’S TAIL, AND YA DECIDED TO LET GO! I DON’T GET IT! YER LEAVIN’ MONEY ON THE TABLE! THAT’S A SIN IN MY BOOK! WHAT THE DEVIL IS WRONG WITH Y’ALL?”

 

I was amused that he actually included the word ‘zeitgeist’ in his voicemail. I was still grinning when returning his call.

 

“Sir, I’m done with this little farce of ours. It was a hoot to play my guitar and sing for an online audience, but that is as far as it goes. I’ve exhausted my repertoire of cowboy tunes for the moment. I’d rather go in a different direction now. This is becoming a bore...”

 

Squire started coughing as if he had choked on his cigar.

 

“NAW, NAW, NAW, NAW! DAMMIT BOY, Y’ALL KNOW BETTER ‘N THAT! YER APPALACHIAN BLOOD IS STRONG! I KIN FEEL IT IN EVERYTHING YA WRITE! THAT’S PURE REALISM RIGHT THERE, AND IT’S WHAT PEOPLE ARE LOOKIN’ FER! THERE’S SO MUCH POP GARBAGE OUT THERE, BULLSHIT SLUNG AROUND BY FANCY PRODUCERS AND STUDIO HACKS! WHAT YER OFFERIN’ LISTENERS IS SOMETHIN’ GENUINE! RUDE AND CRUDE, AND RAW! THAT’S WHAT WE NEED, MORE HEROES FROM UP THE HOLLER! YA CAN’T QUIT NOW!”

 

I had a feeling of gravel churning in the pit of my stomach.

 

“Sir, there’s nothing real about me as a cornpone songwriter. I studied through Cornell University, I wrote for a national magazine, and I had a prosperous career as a business manager. All before my life fell apart maybe, but that was the foundation for what came later. I used to be clean-cut and erudite and all of that...”

 

My friend the music mogul burst into a spasm of raucous laughter.

 

“I GET IT! I GET IT! Y’ALL MADE A FEW BUCKS AND THEN THAT HOUSE OF CARDS CAME CRASHIN’ DOWN! IT LEFT YA BROKE AND DIVORCED, AND LOOKIN’ LIKE A DAMN FOOL! THAT’S THE REALISM, BOY! HEARTBREAK AND LONELY NIGHTS! GETTING’ DRUNK AND FIGHTIN’ WITH YER NEIGHBORS! MAYBE EVEN GETTIN’ DRAGGED OFF TO THE HOOSEGOW BY YER SHERIFF! YEARS AGO, PORTER WAGONER USED TO WRITE ABOUT THAT SHIT! NOW IT’S YER TURN! DON’T GET OUTTA THE SADDLE JUST YET!”

 

I was oddly uninterested in his sales pitch. Being disabled and retired had given me a new perspective on living.

 

“Sir, I’ll just say it plainly, you’ve got mad skills as a talker, but none of that connects with me right now. I don’t need money or fame, or the glare of a spotlight. My ambition died a long time ago. I hobble around here in my singlewide trailer, drink beer in the afternoon and evening, and generally ignore everything else. If somebody stops by to share a brew, that’s great. If not, I’m content to be by myself. I don’t care about being sociable, or popular. And I certainly have no interest in becoming a music star, on stage!”

 

His voice morphed into an edgy growl over the virtual telephone line.

 

“Rodney, yer not thinkin’ clearly! I don’t want ya to dump this confabulation of ours so lightly. Let it sit in yer head fer a little bit. I kin keep stringin’ the listeners along fer a while. Let me work my magic. Meanwhile, get back to writin’ songs and recordin’ them at yer desk!”

 

This time, I had settled on making a break with the record label that would last. His argument did not change how I felt.

 

“No sir, with respect, I will pass. I’ve run dry with the sort of material you want. My wandering days out on the road are long gone. I can hardly walk now, even with my canes. My body is a high-mileage wreck. I’m at the end of a wild ride, and glad that it is nearly over, to be honest. I’ve had some interesting experiences...”

 

Squire paused while stubbing out his stogie. Then, began to whisper over the wireless connection.

 

“I know yer type, boy. Y’all kin say that stuff right now, and think ya mean it, too. But there’ll come a day when ya get that tickle of inspiration in yer noggin. It might happen at any time, anywhere. That spark will light yer ass on fire again. And y’all will be scribblin’ out new words and new melodies. That’s when I’ll be there, waitin’ and watchin’ fer a second start to happen. Count on me! I will damn sure be there!”

 

Once our conversation had ended, I sat on my porch with a jug of Kentucky bourbon. A burn of high-proof liquor lingered in my throat. And my head drooped low, as I pondered the words still echoing in memory. The words my music mentor had so wisely spoken.

 

Because, I knew he was right.

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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Other than having a very basic familiarity with social media sites, I did not know much about the business of streaming content via internet connections. Because of my place as a late member of the ‘Baby Boom’ generation, such things were not really on my personal radar. I still looked upon content creation in terms of print media, and physical recordings. Though I also knew that such a narrow view of the world was one quickly passing into the realm of antiquity. But for my contact at the record label, this handicap was not in effect.

 

T. Randall Squire seemed to have an uncanny sense of every avenue to promote music and entertainment. And he was keen on making my work available to a greater audience.

 

With some assistance from a young nephew who possessed insight into technical matters, I was able to install the TikTok app on my cellular device. Then, I propped up the phone vertically on a section of porch railing, and took my guitar in hand. From the bench, I intended to broadcast a short selection of tunes from my catalog. But as this impromptu concert was about to begin, I felt myself trembling with anxiousness. Once, a few years earlier, I had written about a character who pursued a similar leap into the realm of performing for public consumption. But that fictional adventure had been easier to process, with the benefit of artistry offering a comfortable measure of detachment. Now, I realized that upon clicking the link stored on my wireless accessory, I would be visible to a vast audience of unseen spectators.

 

This spark of revelation made my stomach ache. I was about to be completely exposed to an anonymous crowd of onlookers, with no barrier between us except for the virtual space from my vantage point to their own.

 

With the sage advice of a seasoned veteran, Squire coached me to put worries about my performance aside.

 

“Y’all are gonna be fine, boy! Don’t let it get under yer saddle. See, it’s just like playin’ fer friends in the neighborhood. Nobody will bust yer chops or jeer while ya sing. As a matter of fact, I reckon they’ll be hootin’ and hollerin’ and dancin’ up a storm! None of ‘em has ever seen ya live, before. They don’t have any idea who ya really are! This is a chance to make yer first impression as an up ‘n comin’ star! If it pans out, then y’all will be set fer bigger things! Like a tour of honky-tonk bars, or even the Grand Ole Opry!”

 

I wanted to vomit. My fingers had turned numb.

 

“I’m a shaggy, old hermit you know? I can’t think that anybody will be too interested in what I’ve got to offer...”

 

When the connection had been made, I saw myself on the screen. Then, a mood of humility took hold. I paused before plucking out some simple chords, and looked straight into the digital camera.

 

“Friends, my name is uh... Rodney Dean. I live in a little residence park south of Lake Erie, in Ohio. I’m disabled, retired, and to be honest, not someone who’s spent much time thinking about being on stage in front of people. The truth is, my angle on all of this has been writing for newspapers and magazines. But I’ve always had a love for music, and the culture of Appalachia. So, I scribble out song lyrics now and then. Nothing I have ever created is too difficult to wrap your ears around. I’m not one for complicated melodies or classical sophistication. My upbringing was with members of the family playing down-home, earthy tunes about real events and the lives of working folks. That’s what got me started on this habit of putting words onto paper. If you have a love for that kind of thing, then I hope you’ll be pleased with what I am about to sing, right here and now...”

 

I could see that comments were scrolling below my image, on the screen. But without the benefit of reading glasses, those lines of text were illegible.

 

“Anyway, let’s start with one I wrote a very long time ago, while living with my first wife and her son, in Painesville. This is a ditty about the familiar habit of drinking cold brew for refreshment and relaxation. I never intended it to be taken seriously. However, you might say that I imagined this to be a jukebox anthem, like something one could expect to hear from a Country Music personality like Garth Brooks...”

 

“Gonna drink me a couple twelve-packs today

You know I’ll darn sure kill the case

Yes, I’ll drink those little, 12-ounce bottles

To chase the blues away

Then I’ll go to the store and buy me some more

Bring it on home to here

I’m gonna take me a swim in a sudsy river

Of Blue Ribbon Beer!

 

Sitting with my friends and some Wiedemann’s

Or maybe a quart of Blatz

Then I’ll swig some Bud or Miller Lite

Until I run out of cash

Then it’ll be time to clear the fridge

And drink everything left behind

A single bottle of Busch or Steel Reserve

Until I’m drunk and blind

Now I don’t need no fancy swill

A blue-collar taste is fine

You can keep your damn Corona

Served with a wedge of lime

I’ll ride till dawn with a 30 rack

Of Genesee Cream Ale

Or Yuengling Amber, chilled up just right

On ice, in a galvanized pail!”

 

My contact at the entertainment company huffed cigar smoke while listening. Then he pounded his workspace with both fists.

 

“GAWDAMN, THAT FELLER REALLY FIGURED IT OUT! LISTEN TO THAT Y’ALL! I KIN HEAR THE CASH REGISTERS RINGING! WE’RE ALL ABOUT TO BE RICH!”

 

I was too busy with this amateur improvisation to notice that a small group had gathered at the end of my driveway. Yet when they began to clap rhythmically to the cadence of my strumming, I could sense that the moment had taken on a character of celebration. Familiar members of our trailer contingent swelled in number, as I continued to croon about becoming inebriated.

 

From his distant office, T. Randall Squire sent a string of messages to my device, in capital letters.

 

“THAT’S IT BOY, THAT’S IT! KEEP GOIN’ DON’T QUIT WHILE YER AHEAD! SING TILL YA CAN’T SING NO MORE! SING TILL YA BUST YER LUNGS! SING UNTIL THE MILLIONS OF BUCKS START POURIN’ IN! WE’RE IN THE MONEY! WE’RE IN THE MONEY!”