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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

I was in an ornery mood after sparring with T. Randall Squire.

 

From the perspective of an active, entertainment executive, what he said was undeniably logical and well-founded. Yet to use a colloquialism associated with his potential customer base, it chapped my hindquarters. I did not appreciate being hustled over the prospect of leveraging my artistic creations for the sole purpose of making a buck.

 

As I sat at the desk in my home office, this vibe continued to resonate in my skull. It grew louder and more rhythmically intense, until finally, I began to compose another tuneful creation. This time, it took on a characteristic born of defiance and the earthy, gritty, ethos of a callused cowboy, working hard to earn his keep.

 

Drinking and Jail

 

“My wife used to nag

About sipping from a brown bag

She wanted a happier refrain

But that wink and a smile

Didn’t move me a mile

It was better to sing about pain

You see the working life

Is a wrist-roll of the dice

You never know what will come to pass

But one thing stays true

When it’s quitting time for the crew

Everybody loves ‘There Stands the Glass’

 

Fights, drinking and jail

With a galvanized pail

Full of liquor, and lemonade

A happy home ain’t real

Hard times, they appeal

When a bartender’s bargain is made

 

That girl told me straight

I’d have an empty dinner plate

Because my attitude drove her away

But I just couldn’t change

What Hank Williams arranged

He only had one thing to say

Dancing to and fro

Like David Allan Coe

On a bender that lasted all week

That’s the life I have led

And it’s an ache in my head

But that’s a trophy I’m bound to keep

 

Fights, drinking and jail

With a galvanized pail

Full of liquor, and lemonade

A happy home ain’t real

Hard times, they appeal

When a bartender’s bargain is made

 

Now if you might agree

With my loving wifey

Go and find yourself a sunnier square

Play the role of a joker

With a trick-try at poker

And see how long you can linger there

I’m an old piece of leather

My hide is tanned forever

There’s no chance of me being reclaimed

So I’ll get drunk and swing fists

Maybe even steal a kiss

When a pretty woman calls my name

 

Fights, drinking and jail

With a galvanized pail

Full of liquor, and lemonade

A happy home ain’t real

Hard times, they appeal

When a bartender’s bargain is made

 

When they lay me to rest

There might not be any guests

To stand up proudly on my behalf

But I won’t shed a tear

In my whiskey and beer

Thinking about that final collapse

It’s been destined for years

I’m a man in arrears

Owing debts that I’ll never repay

But with Waylon and Willie

And that Dolly Parton filly

I’ll be fine, singing in my grave

Fights, drinking and jail

With a galvanized pail

Full of liquor, and lemonade

A happy home ain’t real

Hard times, they appeal

When a bartender’s bargain is made...”

 

I actually hesitated to post it, at first. Because I knew well what sort of reaction it was likely to evoke from my pursuer. Yet eventually, the text ended up on my newspaper blog. An entire day and night passed with no comments being offered, and no contact via my cell phone. But then, the familiar ringtone returned as I was having a cold brew on the front porch.

 

Squire exhaled loudly when I answered the call. His belly-laugh buzzed in my ear.

 

“BOY YOU’VE GOT A DAMN GROOVE GOIN’ THERE, AS THE HIPPIES USED TA SAY! THAT’S MORE LIKE IT! I COULD PRESS UP A MILLION COPIES OF YER DRINKIN’ SONG RIGHT NOW AND THEY’D FLY OFF THE SHELVES LIKE HOTCAKES AND EGGS WITH BACON! PEOPLE APPRECIATE GETTIN’ A FAIR SHAKE OUTTA LIFE, WHICH DON’T HAPPEN TOO OFTEN FER ANYBODY! THEY WANNA HEAR REAL STORIES FROM THE HEARTLAND! ABOUT REAL MEN AND WOMEN DOIN’ THEIR BEST TA MAKE ENDS MEET!”

 

I felt a familiar ache in the pit of my stomach.

 

“Sir, I appreciate your remarks. And I’ll say that it’s an uncommon pleasure to have attention paid to what I write. Frankly, I’m used to being ignored, generally. Even my own family doesn’t read what I post, very often. But this jones you’ve got for signing me to a contract with your combine doesn’t make good sense. To be clear, I’m disabled, retired, and socially inept. My fingers are stiff and numb. I can barely play the guitar anymore. Certainly not well enough to hold the interest of spectators in a concert setting...”

 

The music manager snorted and puffed on his cheap cigar.

 

“Rodney, there’s all kinds of magic we can work. You might be amazed! This ain’t the 1950s, boy! Technology has changed up everything. There are tricks of the trade I can show ya, that’d polish up yer act and make fans happy to hear yer songs played, live!”

 

I remained dubious about his promotional abilities. But decided to do a bit of negotiating, since he would not be easily discouraged.

 

“You want material to sell, so here’s a thought. What if I sign on as a songwriter for your company? You must have lots of budding, young stars waiting for a chance to get their share of fame and glory. I’ve already shown you what kind of work I can do here at my desk. This has been a lifetime project for me, something that began in childhood days. My maternal grandmother was a published poet. She got things started by sharing her own verses and prose. That authentic spirit of Mountaineer zeal has carried me forward, ever since...”

 

Squire brightened at this impulsive suggestion. He nearly spit out his reply.

 

“THAT’S MORE LIKE IT, RODNEY! Y’ALL DO SOME WRITIN’ TA GET STARTED, AND THEN MAYBE I CAN CHANGE YER MIND ABOUT THE REST OF IT! THERE’S GOLD TA BE MADE HERE, AND YER A MINER AT HEART! THAT’S WHAT I THINK! BRING ME THEM SHINY NUGGETS OF WISDOM, AND I’LL PUT ‘EM IN THE MARKETPLACE, WHERE PEOPLE WILL CLAMOR FER THE ART YA ARE MAKIN’!”

 

If nothing else, my offer seemed to have calmed him down a bit. For the moment, that was enough. What would come of our uneasy alliance, I could not predict. But at least it meant more eyes would be falling upon my material. That was something I eagerly anticipated.

“Drinking and Jail”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

My wife used to nag

About sipping from a brown bag

She wanted a happier refrain

But that wink and a smile

Didn’t move me a mile

It was better to sing about pain

You see the working life

Is a wrist-roll of the dice

You never know what will come to pass

But one thing stays true

When it’s quitting time for the crew

Everybody loves ‘There Stands the Glass’

 

Fights, drinking and jail

With a galvanized pail

Full of liquor, and lemonade

A happy home ain’t real

Hard times, they appeal

When a bartender’s bargain is made

 

That girl told me straight

I’d have an empty dinner plate

Because my attitude drove her away

But I just couldn’t change

What Hank Williams arranged

He only had one thing to say

Dancing to and fro

Like David Allan Coe

On a bender that lasted all week

That’s the life I have led

And it’s an ache in my head

But that’s a trophy I’m bound to keep

 

Fights, drinking and jail

With a galvanized pail

Full of liquor, and lemonade

A happy home ain’t real

Hard times, they appeal

When a bartender’s bargain is made

 

Now if you might agree

With my loving wifey

Go and find yourself a sunnier square

Play the role of a joker

With a trick-try at poker

And see how long you can linger there

I’m an old piece of leather

My hide is tanned forever

There’s no chance of me being reclaimed

So I’ll get drunk and swing fists

Maybe even steal a kiss

When a pretty woman calls my name

 

Fights, drinking and jail

With a galvanized pail

Full of liquor, and lemonade

A happy home ain’t real

Hard times, they appeal

When a bartender’s bargain is made

 

When they lay me to rest

There might not be any guests

To stand up proudly on my behalf

But I won’t shed a tear

In my whiskey and beer

Thinking about that final collapse

It’s been destined for years

I’m a man in arrears

Owing debts that I’ll never repay

But with Waylon and Willie

And that Dolly Parton filly

I’ll be fine, singing in my grave

Fights, drinking and jail

With a galvanized pail

Full of liquor, and lemonade

A happy home ain’t real

Hard times, they appeal

When a bartender’s bargain is made

 

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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Part of the joy in creative writing is that one can never be quite sure of the outcome, upon beginning a journey at the keyboard. Despite the best intentions with a wordsmithing project, inspiration often seems to take its own course. Thus, what appears on the page may not always be married to the strict interpretation of an idea in its embryonic form. Storylines tend to meander a bit, details rearrange themselves, and endings appear before the chronology is set. All of these truths may turn the work of a professional scribe into a thrilling, yet unpredictable experience. One that often challenges the originator to maintain an open mind, and a sharp eye toward the finish line.

 

While pondering the proposal of T. Randall Squire, I sat with my morning coffee, in the Icehouse home office. For several days I had been in a reflective state, pondering my own, Appalachian roots and childhood experiences. But with storm clouds hovering over my rural township in Ohio, and a tingle of heartburn in my throat, I became less genteel with my lyrical output. Instead, a note of introspective analysis emerged, that darkened the tone of my verses.

 

Rather than echoing the tuneful inspiration provided by Johnny Cash, I tilted more in the direction of Johnny Rotten.

 

Haunted

 

“There comes a time when the shouting begins

But right from the start

I was thinking ‘bout the very end

I’m haunted

The sun never shines

As a kid on the fringe, quite maladjusted

They shook their heads

Said, “That boy’s brain is busted!”

I’m haunted

In body and mind

 

My first baby steps were a stumble down the staircase

A fall on the floor

Balled up like a bag of waste

I’m haunted

The sun never shines

I did my best to learn, what didn’t come naturally

But that plan intensified

My exit from society

I’m haunted

In body and mind

 

My kin crouched in a corner, silent and shamed

They could not identify

From where this outlier came

I’m haunted

The sun never shines

Just to look in a mirror, gave me a fright

I hid in the shadows

Better suited for eternal night

I’m haunted

In body and mind

 

Sometimes such emotions, derail a personality

But I used them instead

For art and creativity

I’m haunted

The sun never shines

I got banished from the homestead, justly deserved

“Get the hell out of here, Boy!”

Was all that I ever heard

I’m haunted

In body and mind

 

When you gawk after giving up, the best of yourself

It’s a loving sacrifice

Turned to a pauper’s wealth

I’m haunted

The sun never shines

I didn’t want to be, a favorite in the brood

But that sidestep to the stoop

Left me lumbering along in a bitter mood

I’m haunted

In body and mind

 

The sound of laughter, should come with a smile of hope

But that noise only meant

Another trip down the slippery slope

I’m haunted

The sun never shines

Comfort and conformity come as a pair

But not on my birthday

God must have been unaware

I’m haunted

In body and mind

 

When the story is written, backpages and all

I’ll feel glad to be gone

A blank plaque on the wall

I’m haunted

The sun never shines

Don’t think of me as feeling, sorry for myself

I’ll celebrate this quantum leap

Beyond the cracking eggshell

I’m haunted

In body and mind

 

Yes, I’m haunted

In body and mind...”

 

As always, I posted this fresh manuscript on my newspaper blog. But after only a half-hour had passed, my cellular device began to ring with astonishment and scorn.

 

Country Squire was not happy with this new installment.

 

“Boy, what the heck are ya tryin’ ta do? Ruin our little agreement? That last bit of fluff y’all wrote is a damn embarrassment! It sounds like somethin’ a mental patient would scribble in crayon, at a home fer the needy!”

 

My belly had begun to ache even before I responded to his voicemail message.

 

“Sir, I get that you were somewhat shocked by my stylistic shift today, but it puts a spotlight on what I’ve been trying to relate during our previous chats. The cowboy persona just doesn’t fit me accurately. My work has always been all over the place, with regard to content...”

 

The record-label executive thumped his countertop with both fists.

 

“DAMMIT BOY, ALL YA HAVE TA DO IS GO WITH ME FER A LITTLE WHILE, AND WE’LL ALL MAKE A LOT OF DOUGH IN THIS GAME! DO YA GET IT? I NEED PRODUCT THAT’LL SELL, NOT FREAKY SHIT NOBODY WANTS TA HEAR ON A JUKEBOX OR A BIG-RIG RADIO!”

 

I was numb to his plea for accommodation. But still wanted to be polite.

 

“I liken it to a pipeline, sir. You’ve got to pump out whatever is in there, to keep things flowing. I don’t necessarily know what will come out of the spigot, but whenever I twist the knobs, that precious stream starts to splash!”

 

Mr. Squire must have been chomping on his cheap cigar. He literally growled into the phone.

 

“I SURE LIKED YER FIRST TWO SONGS. THEY WERE THE KIND OF THING WE WANT HERE AT MY COMPANY! BUT THIS HORSE-POOP ABOUT BEIN’ HAUNTED ‘N ALL, WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? WHERE DID IT COME FROM? IT DON’T EVEN SOUND LIKE THE SAME PERSON, TA BE HONEST!”

 

I nodded in agreement with his harsh critique.

 

“I’ve heard that kind of opinion for many years, so it doesn’t offend me in the least. Let’s just say that my personal makeup is complicated. I don’t follow traditional guidelines in what I write...”

 

The entertainment manager huffed and wheezed while softening his approach.

 

“Look Rodney, I’m tryin’ ta be yer friend, okay? There’s a big market out there, people are lookin’ fer tales of everyday livin’ and romance. The stuff that reminds them of their own paltry lives. Give me blue-collar ditties, or Bible lessons with a twist, and I can make this partnership work! You can get rich and so can everybody here at the label. That’s what matters, right? Everybody wants ta find their pot o’ gold!”

 

I knew that my candid response would not settle gently on his ears. Yet said what was on my mind.

 

“I honestly could not care less about making a quick dollar. My craft is worth more to me than money. I am interested in leaving a legacy for future artists to cherish and reinterpret for themselves!”

“Haunted”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

There comes a time when the shouting begins

But right from the start

I was thinking ‘bout the very end

I’m haunted

The sun never shines

As a kid on the fringe, quite maladjusted

They shook their heads

Said, “That boy’s brain is busted!”

I’m haunted

In body and mind

 

My first baby steps were a stumble down the staircase

A fall on the floor

Balled up like a bag of waste

I’m haunted

The sun never shines

I did my best to learn, what didn’t come naturally

But that plan intensified

My exit from society

I’m haunted

In body and mind

 

My kin crouched in a corner, silent and shamed

They could not identify

From where this outlier came

I’m haunted

The sun never shines

Just to look in a mirror, gave me a fright

I hid in the shadows

Better suited for eternal night

I’m haunted

In body and mind

 

Sometimes such emotions, derail a personality

But I used them instead

For art and creativity

I’m haunted

The sun never shines

I got banished from the homestead, justly deserved

“Get the hell out of here, Boy!”

Was all that I ever heard

I’m haunted

In body and mind

 

When you gawk after giving up, the best of yourself

It’s a loving sacrifice

Turned to a pauper’s wealth

I’m haunted

The sun never shines

I didn’t want to be, a favorite in the brood

But that sidestep to the stoop

Left me lumbering along in a bitter mood

I’m haunted

In body and mind

 

The sound of laughter, should come with a smile of hope

But that noise only meant

Another trip down the slippery slope

I’m haunted

The sun never shines

Comfort and conformity come as a pair

But not on my birthday

God must have been unaware

I’m haunted

In body and mind

 

When the story is written, backpages and all

I’ll feel glad to be gone

A blank plaque on the wall

I’m haunted

The sun never shines

Don’t think of me as feeling, sorry for myself

I’ll celebrate this quantum leap

Beyond the cracking eggshell

I’m haunted

In body and mind

 

Yes, I’m haunted

In body and mind

 

 

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

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

After my surreal conversation with T. Randall Squire about joining his stable of rural artists, I needed to seek comfort in the form of a cool beverage. Temperatures in my neighborhood had soared to nearly 100 degrees. So, I sat in my living room with a box fan blowing air around the crowded space. I still had moving crates stacked here and there, in addition to various pieces of castaway furniture. Relics from different periods of my past life, before disability and isolation took hold. Viewed as a whole, the household collection appeared chaotic and even obsessive. As if I might have been a hoarder of some kind, driven by a form of mental instability. Yet the truth was more complex in nature. I had persistently chased career goals until my body began to surrender. Then, with my finances ruined and allies scattering, I simply learned to exist on a level dictated by necessity.

 

I had seen my elderly father do much the same, as he survived into his 80s, while caring for my mother who was affected by senile dementia.

 

In my own terms, this battle proved to be less of a burden. Because I was the only member of my household, someone without high standards of need or want in effect. I had grown up with moving as a constant, always losing old friends and gaining new horizons. Never sitting on a spot for long enough to sink roots into the soil. This tumbleweed upbringing served to insulate me against the prejudices and hard perspectives of others. But when I finally ceased this endless rush to nowhere, it took a period of adjustment to become acclimated.

 

As companions became fewer in number, I turned toward my work. As with my pater, the desk was a refuge, and sanctuary where I could always go to find absolution.

 

While pondering the notion of penning material under the tagline of Rodney Dean, I once again felt a nudge toward rural ruminations. And what followed was a fictional story told in lyrical form. One that I suspected Mr. Squire would appreciate.

 

Aldous Crane

 

“Aldous Crane lived outside of town

In a singlewide shack

They said he became a widower

When his wife had a heart attack

But the true tale is complicated

The heart spell was his

She ran off with a neighbor

When he had no more to give

That boy did his best

But he just couldn’t pass the test

 

That split broke him in pieces

He was nevermore alive

Like an empty jar sitting out

With nothing on the inside

It left him cold and lonely

Though he smiled through each day

With his Tennessee whiskey

In pitchers of Lynchburg Lemonade

That boy couldn’t get it right

He drank a full bottle, every night

 

Aldous Crane got to be an old fool

Sitting out on his front porch

It was uncomplicated fun

Stuck right there by the storm door

Nobody came calling to check

Which he rightly did prefer

Nobody really gave a damn

And he was grateful to endure

That boy was running solo

In a backwoods part of Ohio

 

Daisy Dee saw him on a Sunday morn

And invited him along to church

She said, “Come and hear the Holy Word!”

As he dribbled down his T-shirt

“A shaggy man of your kind

Needs to be reclaimed!”

The very thought put rocks in his belly

He had no interest in being saved

That boy had forgotten how to love

He didn’t care for heaven, above

 

But she came around, near every day

And kept teaching him with verse

From her tattered copy of the Bible

And candy mints in her purse

She was too wise for a taste of liquor

And by goodness, he was not

But every visit served a purpose

They became partners in thought

That boy had a feeling that some day

They might wed, no matter what folks would say

 

Aldous Crane finally made a proposal

One that met between the halves

He said, “Give me one more drink of bourbon

And I’ll go up to Sunday class!”

That bargain changed the moment

She saw him with a different face

The moment brought a revelation

And his sorrow was erased

That boy finally figured out

That there’s a way to shed shame and doubt

 

Now that bearded bum is content

To share his happy stoop

No longer hungry in the evening

Fed on cornbread and bean soup

Daisy Dee is queen of their roost

A godly woman, satisfied

The pair cleaves unto each other

As the good book says is right

That boy finally found a special friend

Staked a claim on being born again

 

That boy finally found a special friend

Staked a claim on being born again...”

 

Unselfconsciously, I posted the song on my newspaper blog. And before an hour had passed, my cell phone chirped and squawked with notifications. Then, I heard the ringtone of a classic, Western Electric 500 begin to resound.

 

A voicemail message had been left at my number.

 

“Rodney, it’s yer pal, Country Squire again! I just read the words of that new ditty y’all wrote, and I gotta say it’s another damn winner! Boy, ya really have a knack fer gettin’ right down ta the heart of a good ol’ ballad! Plus, this time, yer inflection is more on the positive side. I’d say we need more of that, as there’s been plenty of stuff written about drinkin’ and divorce, or barroom fights and goin’ ta jail! I like a happy ending now and then. Not that we want ta get sappy about life of course. I mean, it is what it is! Workin’ folks get their hands dirty fer a reason. It’s because life in the heartland, or the south, or west, still means sacrifice and heartache! That’s the target we’re aimin’ at every day. That’s how tickets are sold and records fly off the shelves! It’s a formula that has worked for many, many years!”

 

I had to hold my stomach for a moment, after listening to his message. Though his interest came as a pleasant diversion, I had no real interest in joining his roster of talent. Anonymity gave me cover to continue my craft, unaffected by outside interference. To jump on a bandwagon of public personalities would be to surrender that protective isolation.

 

I was content in my own skin. Adopting the affectations of a manufactured persona, for monetary gain, did not seem like a bargain worthy of making on any level.

“Aldous Crane”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Aldous Crane lived outside of town

In a singlewide shack

They said he became a widower

When his wife had a heart attack

But the true tale is complicated

The heart spell was his

She ran off with a neighbor

When he had no more to give

That boy did his best

But he just couldn’t pass the test

 

That split broke him in pieces

He was nevermore alive

Like an empty jar sitting out

With nothing on the inside

It left him cold and lonely

Though he smiled through each day

With his Tennessee whiskey

In pitchers of Lynchburg Lemonade

That boy couldn’t get it right

He drank a full bottle, every night

 

Aldous Crane got to be an old fool

Sitting out on his front porch

It was uncomplicated fun

Stuck right there by the storm door

Nobody came calling to check

Which he rightly did prefer

Nobody really gave a damn

And he was grateful to endure

That boy was running solo

In a backwoods part of Ohio

 

Daisy Dee saw him on a Sunday morn

And invited him along to church

She said, “Come and hear the Holy Word!”

As he dribbled down his T-shirt

“A shaggy man of your kind

Needs to be reclaimed!”

The very thought put rocks in his belly

He had no interest in being saved

That boy had forgotten how to love

He didn’t care for heaven, above

 

But she came around, near every day

And kept teaching him with verse

From her tattered copy of the Bible

And candy mints in her purse

She was too wise for a taste of liquor

And by goodness, he was not

But every visit served a purpose

They became partners in thought

That boy had a feeling that some day

They might wed, no matter what folks would say

 

Aldous Crane finally made a proposal

One that met between the halves

He said, “Give me one more drink of bourbon

And I’ll go up to Sunday class!”

That bargain changed the moment

She saw him with a different face

The moment brought a revelation

And his sorrow was erased

That boy finally figured out

That there’s a way to shed shame and doubt

 

Now that bearded bum is content

To share his happy stoop

No longer hungry in the evening

Fed on cornbread and bean soup

Daisy Dee is queen of their roost

A godly woman, satisfied

The pair cleaves unto each other

As the good book says is right

That boy finally found a special friend

Staked a claim on being born again

 

That boy finally found a special friend

Staked a claim on being born again

 

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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

“I accept chaos, I’m not sure whether it accepts me.” – Bob Dylan

 

Friends and associates have sometimes likened my personality to that of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. And while that might be taken as an insult by many people, in my case it is decidedly accurate. Because of the split nature of my birthright and heritage.

 

A son of Appalachia, but also, a child of higher education.

 

My paternal grandfather was someone who earned two PhD certifications, and taught engineering at a university here in the heartland. Yet he maintained a garden at home, an apple orchard, and raised chickens. The rural nature of his upbringing was never erased by more sophisticated achievements. He enjoyed staying close to the soil. My father also engaged in a routine of formal education, and chose preaching the Gospel of Christ as his calling.  But his curiosity about popular culture and the human experience never waned. He could read from the Holy Bible, play his banjo in the style of old masters, and then switch to recordings made by the Brides of Funkenstein, produced under the tutelage of George Clinton. With a sideways glance at volumes of Edgar Cayce’s clairvoyant wisdom, for good measure.

 

The result for me, was a natural tendency to embrace contrasting viewpoints, without prejudice. I developed an affinity for balance and understanding in all things, over a narrow outlook of willful ignorance.

 

But that approach could sometimes confuse allies and supporters, who were used to a black-and-white separation between respective philosophical groups. I saw enlightenment in many places, even dark crevices where daylight rarely appeared. Truth, I thought, is nearly always inconvenient and unruly. Like water, the universal solvent, it eventually finds a way to break down the harsh, stoic stuff of intransigence. It wins out where no victory is possible. It glows even in a lightless void. It persists until recognized. It endures when all else succumbs to fatigue and despair. If it raises my blood pressure, and reddens my face, then generally, it must be true.

 

Some call this perspective chaotic. Even self-destructive. I call it normalcy. The paradigm I have come to accept as familiar and useful.

 

Such thoughts were foremost in my mind, as I received another call from T. Randall Squire. This time, he was forceful but pleasant, on the order of a dealership salesman attempting to move automotive product off of his showroom floor.

 

“Rodney, I’ve gotta say that yer silly ol’ pickle song struck a nerve with me. I’m well known fer bein’ able ta spot a hit when I hear it! And that’s got ‘number one’ written all over it! Now I ain’t makin’ promises, ya understand, but if y’all are willin’ ta trust me fer a spell, we might be able ta do business together. How’s that sound, boy?”

 

I sighed lightly, before offering a response.

 

“Well, I’m flattered of course, sir. The whole point of being a creative wordsmith is to attract readers, and apparently that mission has been accomplished here. But I must confess that otherwise, your interest is somewhat confusing...”

 

Squire huffed at my hesitation. I could tell that he had already made plans to promote my work.

 

“Y’ALL ARE CONFUSED? WELL DAMMIT, CLEAR THAT MESS RIGHT OUTTA YER NOGGIN! I’M A PRO IN THIS GAME, BOY! I KNOW WHAT’LL SELL AND WHAT WON’T. AND I CAN GUESS THAT YER CUT FROM THE RIGHT CLOTH! ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT, UP IN THE HOLLER, HILLBILLY BORN AND BRED!”

 

I was shy in answering this judgment of authenticity with my own opinion.

 

“Honestly, I’ve never cared much for Country Music. I’d greatly prefer Blues or Jazz, myself. Still, the roots of that upbringing are deep in my bloodline. Therefore, it is easy to go with that vibe, on occasion...”

 

The label executive snorted and laughed out loud.

 

“Y’ALL DON’T LIKE COUNTRY? WHAT THE HELL, BOY? WHAT YA WROTE IN YER SONG IS PURE, WORKIN’ MAN, BLUE-COLLAR MAGIC! NO DOUBT-ABOUT-IT! NO BULLSHIT! NO GAMES!”

 

I felt embarrassed by his words of praise. Yet attempted to sound gracious when continuing.

 

“I thank you, certainly. But really had no intention of garnering a music audience with my composition. It was simply a writing exercise at my home-office desk...”

 

Squire coughed into his fist, and then shuffled paperwork in a noisy show of discontent.

 

“I figured y’all must be a singer-songwriter. One of them dudes sittin’ in his trailer with a flat-top guitar and a notebook. There’s a damn truckload of people like that callin’ me every day! They all wanna make big money sellin’ records and doin’ shows. But the difference is, most of ‘em don’t got a thimble full of talent. They couldn’t get a crowd of grannies excited with what they project. But that ain’t the case with yer pickle song, boy. If yer willin’ ta work with me, great things can happen fer both of us!”

 

I did not know how to answer his proposition without coming off as ungrateful.

 

“Sir, I appreciate your generous assessment. But let’s be real about this, who would pay for a ticket to see someone from an anonymous township in Ohio? My three-letter moniker would make them laugh. And my tuneful output might sound clownish and fake...”

 

The professional promoter choked up as if he had a cigar in the corner of his mouth.

 

“Boy, tell me yer full name, okay? What’s it say on yer birth certificate?”

 

I paused to reflect on the legal terms of my own existence.

 

“Umm... that document is from a hospital in Columbus, our state capital. It reads, ‘Rodney Dean Ice, parents are residents of Franklin County, delivered by Dr. D.W. Coon...’”

 

T. Randall Squire began to hoot and howl as if he had discovered a gold nugget while panning in a stream.

 

“RODNEY DEAN, THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT! I’VE NEVER HEARD A BETTER NAME FER A COUNTRY MUSIC STAR! GAWDAMN, THAT’S PRECIOUS! THAT’S A DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH, WAITIN’ TA BE POLISHED UP BY A SVENGALI LIKE MYSELF! WE’RE GONNA BE RICH! LAID OUT IN HIGH COTTON!”

 

My stomach had begun to ache. For a moment, I wanted to hang up and end the call abruptly.

 

“Well, I appreciate your confidence. But I must say that you are overestimating my abilities. I haven’t played my guitar very often in recent years. I am disabled, retired, and earning a meager amount from book royalties. Honestly, I don’t do a lot except get out of bed in the morning, write at my desk, and then count the hours until it’s time for a drink!”