“Games”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

Not enough coins in the coffers to feed hungry mouths

Yet more than enough to kill

Sabers sharpened and brought to bear

A contest of opposing will

This dilemma is not new, by any means

It has perplexed minds, galore

The tendency of a high-functioning primate to leap

Into the cause of war

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Not enough patience among the tribes to negotiate

Breaking bread as one

Swords spike toward the ranks with intent

To see this dark deed done

A worried look upon the face of a mother

Who may never see her children again

Sent offshore for a campaign of righteousness

A holy trip ‘round the bend

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Brittle bones of our ancestors still lie under the soil

A memory long undisturbed

Despite their march from mud to the cosmos

The cycle remains undeterred

Blood is spilled as a tonic for the masses

Fuel for pharaohs and kings

Coffins carried home with reverence

And a touch of hands, pale and trembling

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

For those that rise to speak against this traditional tilt

There is a cost incurred

A mockery of true believers with their prayerbooks

A growing growl, to be heard

But silence is the sad yield of morrow

A stillness of the grave

Where stones carved with inscriptions of honor

Denote those who could not be saved

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

One side, the other side, all are opposed

With colors caught on the wind

A trumpet flourish before the parade

A contrast of features and skin

There is one world, on which our kind dwells

It is not difficult to believe

But the stripes and regiments split that brood

Into quadrants that quarrel, endlessly

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Some fret about the coming of an alien race

From planets distant to the sun

As if those beings hued in gray or green

Might view us with some suspicion

But I must posit that if anything at all

They would pity us as weak

For our habit of hurling stones in anger

At those who shun the critique

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

If God exists, then that force of omnipotent love

Must bow its head and weep

To think that this rock in the universe

Was created to generate hate and heat

We are a bastard kind, bent by our liberty

To think and act as we choose

Our tools to cultivate are many and wondrous

But we use them to break and bruise

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Birth and death are linked in a paradigm

A circle set in place

From the point of our origin as a species

Truly lost in space

For generations, that plan has not differed much

The same effect is nigh

Banners raised to block out the golden glow

Of virgin skies

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Let the games go on, for centuries and more

That is the way of our brand

Seeking shelter in the shadows of a fortress

Built to endure and withstand

Whatever comes, it will be as a continuation

Of the empire in effect

And those kneeling at the gates of that city

Will be the ones we neglect

Let the games go on

Let them go

 

Sleep well in the night, never ending

It is the duty of all

A glimmer of life in its infancy

Reduced to a scribbling of chalk

Touch the face of a monument that stands

A remembrance of sacrifice, gone

The conflict surges with a heartbeat pulse

Until the last warrior moves along

Let the games go on

Let them go

Nothing To See Here: “Wrestling Wrangle”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

For several weeks after we had parted ways in business terms, I did not hear from T. Randall Squire, the record-label executive. My rebuff of his idea to take my manufactured, cowboy persona to the stage for actual, live performances caused a rift between us that could not be bridged. That silent period left me free to work on new material, without any pressure. Something I accepted gratefully.

 

But on a Friday morning as I sat at my desk in the home office, a ringtone sounded from my cellular device. One that indicated someone was attempting to call via the Messenger app. When I picked up the wireless wafer, it had an on-screen notification that the one attempting to make contact was my suitor from the entertainment firm.

 

I held my stomach for a moment. And then answered the petition, grudgingly.

 

“Mr. Tee? I thought we had settled things. Did you forget that I wasn’t interested in your business proposal to hawk my songs?”

 

The music promoter laughed with a sloppy tone of indifference.

 

“Rodney, y’all made yer point very well. But I’m not callin’ about playin’ concerts or makin’ more recordings fer the radio stations. This is sonethin’ different that just came up. I’ve got a buddy with connections to the WWE, and he’s scoutin’ around to find talent fer his live events...”

 

I sputtered with the noisy spew of an overheated radiator.

 

“PRO WRERSTLING? ARE YOU SERIOUS? I WALK WITH TWO CANES, SIR! HOW COULD I POSSIBLY DO ANYTHING AT ONE OF THOSE MATCHES? JUST GETTING IN THE RING WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE!”

 

Squire chortled and chewed on the end of his aromatic cigar.

 

“Boy, calm down will ya? My pardner in the biz ain’t lookin’ fer more talent of that kind. What he wants is to find celebrities who’ll spice things up a bit. Like havin’ Jelly Roll or Snoop Dogg involved in the storylines. Ya get me? Those audiences love seein’ famous folks hangin’ out at ringside, or havin’ confrontations with the regular performers...”

 

I was nearly speechless. My own status didn’t seem to justify that kind of appearance. I wasn’t a genuine star, by any means.

 

“Who would recognize me at one of those circus shows? I mean, it’s all choreographed anyway, but adding a nobody like myself seems a stretch of credibility at the very least!”

 

My cohort with the label growled and coughed smoke from his stogie.

 

“Naw, naw, nawwwww! That’s not right! Now, imagine this, we put ya at ringside with one of yer songs playin’ as ya arrive. That’ll get the attention of fans. The announcer can say, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got the Country & Western newcomer Rodney Dean here tonight! Let’s all give him a round of applause!’ Then ya hobble up to the ropes with yer walkin’ sticks. Maybe we’ll get ya a new set that matches, trimmed in gold. Y’all just wave to everybody, and act like a gentleman. The ladies will eat that up, trust me! Then ya just let the competition go on, and return to yer seat...”

 

I had once enjoyed televised wrestling, as a teenager. But doubted that I currently had the standing to participate, even as a celebrity spectator.

 

“I wouldn’t mind free tickets to a live event, but really, why would they bother featuring an unknown singer-songwriter who’s never done a single show on his own?”

 

Squire let out a defiant guffaw, and puffed on his cigar.

 

“Y’all let me handle that part of the deal, boy! It’ll polish up yer public image and maybe sell some extra copies of those records. I figure one glimpse of ya on the TV screen will be worth dozens of boot-scootin’ appearances in concert!”

 

It took assistance from the production staff, and a wheelchair to get me into the Cleveland arena where the WWE matches were being staged. The volume level, and zeal of those in attendance, was somewhat overwhelming. But I had a premium seat right behind the announcers, and timekeeper. Before a competition between the European heel, Stiegel Schutzmann and his opponent, a scrawny, anonymous kid named Bloke Devon, I was hit with a spotlight as one of the hosts pointed out my presence.

 

“We’re very proud tonight to have a famous crooner here with us tonight, one of the rising stars of this year, and a native of northeastern Ohio! A longtime fan of wrestling, and someone with plenty of love for God, America, and Country Music!”

 

Raucous applause and cheering echoed around the venue.

 

Stiegel was chiseled like a slab of granite. He made quick work of his shorter adversary. Then, began to parade around the ring perimeter.

 

“Du haff seen my power here! I am zee strongest, toughest, meanest of all in this company! I vill stop at nothing until zee championship belt is around my waist! Do not doubt me for any reason! I am afraid of no one!”

 

Loud booing commenced as if on cue. Children in the audience were particularly agitated by this exhibition of brute force.

 

I attempted to play along, as someone who was admitted for free. I shook my fist at the Teutonic bragger, and jeered. This aroused a grin from T. Randall Squire, who was seated in the next row behind my own.

 

I could not see that my professional escort signaled to the broadcast team as this spectacle was occurring. Yet suddenly, Stiegel flew off the top ropes, landed in front of the announcers, and then shifted his attention to me, directly.

 

“Du vant to make something of this, hillbilly? I am not worthy of zee championship, perhaps? Let me demonstrate my strength! I vill make a believer out of du!”

 

I took a forearm slap to the jaw, which looked particularly violent on camera. This knocked me backward, on my hindquarters.

 

“HEYYYY! TAKE IT EASY, CRUSHER! I’M DISABLED, CAN’T YOU SEE?”

 

More booing was aroused by this wanton act of aggression. Cameras panned across the perimeter, to catch every expression of scorn from the fans.

 

Squire leaned forward, until he could whisper in my ear from behind.

 

“When he drags y’all outta that seat, give him a whack with one of yer canes. That’ll get these people on their feet! They love a good dose of payback!”

 

Before I could flinch, the German giant grabbed me by my throat.

 

“DU ARE NOTHING TO ME! ABSOLUTELY NOTHING! I VILL SHOW YOU HOW WEAK YOU REALLY ARE, MR. COWBOY! DU WILL KISS MY FEET!”

 

I was slightly embarrassed over being duped and exploited. But raised one cane overhead, then swung it as if aiming at a baseball pitch in the major leagues.

 

Stiegel Schutzmann fell on the concrete, and began to writhe as if I had broken his jaw. He swore rabidly in his native tongue, and played the part of a vanquished foe with skill. Immediately, a new chant went up from everyone in the arena, and pegged volume meters on the broadcast console.

 

“HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!”

 

I felt an oversized paw grip my shoulder, and heard another whisper in my ear.

 

“Y’all done good, Rodney! We make a great team, you and meeee!”

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page: “Business Buyout”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

The recent announcement that Kroger would acquire Giant Eagle in a blockbuster deal affecting customers in Ohio, Pennsylvania, and some limited, surrounding markets caused my cell phone to erupt when it was first announced. Friends, neighbors and family members knew that I had been a co-manager under the banner for an extended period of service. And that my career in retailing lasted for 33 years overall, with five different chains. But as I listened to familiar voices breathlessly express concern over this updated ownership, I reacted with less emotion.

 

A familiar quote came to mind, attributed to French writer Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

 

During my own adventure in store operations, I saw many diversions in the dominant paradigm that governed markets in my geographical area. When first returning home to Ohio from New York State, my home community had Bi-Rite, Valu King, and Golden Dawn as the three grocers that provided food items for local customers. Nearby were locations run by Pick-n-Pay, Fazio’s, Kroger, Rini’s Stop ‘n’ Shop, and assorted, small venues christened with the IGA brand. 

 

This roster was reshuffled and revised, many times in the years that followed.

 

I joined the Bi-Rite team in early 1986, after a stint at American Seaway Foods, and two years with Fisher’s Big Wheel. That productive tour-of-duty lasted until being bought out by Rini-Rego, in 1992. The Cleveland company struggled to understand how doing business in Geauga County was different from their own traditions along Lake Erie. Eventually, Giant Eagle took over in 1997. Once again, we faced the influx of talented and savvy outsiders, who needed time for adjusting to our unique preferences in the region. These changes caused some headaches for senior employees who were used to the discipline of bygone days. But in my own terms, it simply meant a different name over the front door.

 

Selling consumable goods is in actuality, about offering a value proposition to patrons. The currency of a sustainable business is trust. Trust in the products, trust in customer service, and trust in the overall experience of being a participant. We all offer a similar range of options, otherwise. Breads, chips, milk, meat, and so forth.

 

Some of those who were jamming my cellular link with howls of protest and concern thought that the move by Kroger would bring chaos to Pittsburgh and Cleveland. With layoffs, closures, and mayhem to follow. But that dark perspective is one founded more in the uncertainty of social-media hype than factual evidence. As with any other commercial enterprise, the corporation from Cincinnati desires a smooth operation for all of its holdings. Acrimony among the labor force, or loyal shoppers, does not yield profit for the owners. If anything, past lessons learned by those who have been involved in the business, teach that patient guidance is a better habit than smash-and-burn techniques.

 

Walmart is still the dominant player, in every market. Their ability to outsell and outearn competitors has shaped the industry for many years.

 

One persistent memory from being drafted by Giant Eagle is that nothing changed too quickly after the actual sale. Eventually, the Rini-Rego banner disappeared, and Seaway as a private label also went away. Two things that had been familiar for many years. But by that point, a natural evolution to consolidate under the wide wings of large-fowl branding seemed natural. This progression occurred at a timely pace, but without shocking the population.

 

Another recollection reflects upon the issue of union contracts. With the main competition being an operator that rigidly eschews worker organization in any form, it would make no sense to deviate from the long history of having bargaining agreements in place for team members. If anything, this fair practice is a selling point for those not enticed by the allure of Bentonville, Arkansas. Especially since the COVID pandemic, staffing has been difficult for all retailers. Any unrest at this point would be incredibly counterproductive. A careful transition to the authority of new masters makes sense.

 

Perhaps most indelible in my remembrances is that with every reorganization at the boardroom level, a similar mantra was handed down to those of us on the sales floor. To both shoppers and workers, alike. “There is nothing to see here! No changes, no worries, business as usual! Have a great day!” Ultimately, this assurance of calm seas proved to be somewhat disingenuous of course, because there were indeed wholesale alterations of the business model, over time. New branding, new supervision, new logistics routing, and a new support network. It is a matter of practice during every takeover or merger.

 

Yet the history of Kroger as a dominant player gives clear evidence that they have been able to own and operate various chains nationally, without causing any disruption in the overall enterprise. Ralph’s, City Market, Food 4 Less, Fred Meyer, King Soopers, Pay-Less Super Markets, Gerbes, Jay C, Mariano’s, Metro Market, Pick ‘n Save, and others all exist under the watchful eyes of this huge outfit. Their superior buying power as a chain will certainly benefit Giant Eagle, in whatever form it remains. Consolidation is, for better or worse, a component of doing business that cannot be avoided. Especially when any entity is attempting to improve its standing in financial terms.

 

I was particularly humbled when a text message arrived from one of my young nephews, who is a dairy clerk at a location that I used to manage. His plea for reassurance came with a note of fear over his own plight as someone filling coolers and maintaining good conditions at his store.

 

“Uncle Rod, will I still have a job?”

 

I offered words of comfort in my reply, along with the simple logic of vending groceries to the public.

 

“Of course you will! Giant Eagle needs you on duty, Kroger needs you on duty, quite frankly, any reputable operator needs employees like you on duty! It is how things get done. The battle is won or lost every day, right there in your aisles. Customers can’t name the CEO necessarily, or any executives, or even many of the district supervisors and specialists. But they know you, personally. They know when you treat them with care, courtesy, and respect. And they are bound to come back again and again, because that connection matters most!”

 

I have been retired for almost a decade from this lively profession, but still miss serving others while offering guidance and support. To be considered a part of the greater family was something I always took as the grandest of compliments.

 

That durable bond should never be broken by anyone, for any reason, anywhere, at any time.

 

 

 

 

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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Interaction with T. Randall Squire had proved to be a catalyst for plenty of creative work at the desk in my home office. I was glad for that persistent spark of inspiration to be ignited. Yet after weeks of writing song lyrics, my inner muse went silent. I sat and started at the computer monitor, while feeling empty. Despite scrolling through news stories of current events, reading e-mail messages, and doodling with programs stored on the hard drive, no rescue from this static period could be found. I sat outside in the summer heat, with cold beverages in hand, and a box fan from Lasko circulating air on my porch.

 

Neighbors passed, waving and honking their horns. As I slipped into an alcoholic funk, my senses were blurred. I suspected that perhaps, my brief, metaphorical ride on the mechanical bull had ended. Like all such wordsmithing adventures, it must have run its course. I felt content with the yield in print, if somewhat saddened by its sudden passing.

 

Then, while pondering the lazy, afternoon hours of a midweek day, with bookkeeping duties brought up to date and my counter cleared of junk mail, a new tingle of imagination registered in my head. The somber theme of saying goodbye to this streak of Appalachian echoes produced one last turn of phrase that quickly lit up my cerebral synapses.

 

Saying Goodbye

 

Saying goodbye comes easy

To a heart you intended to break

And from the beginning of this roadhouse affair

I knew your love was never a keepsake

It was a matter of whiskey, poured in the glass

And a dancefloor turn on your heel

I kept you entertained for a moment

But after that, the clock made its appeal

Saying goodbye comes quickly

When your plan has been to skate

A ruby-red curve of confidence

From lips with so little to say

I took my cue from that flutter

The wide wings of a butterfly

You knew every move and made it stick

Right until last call arrived

 

Saying goodbye...

 

Saying goodbye comes naturally

With your eyes upon the door

I didn’t pay enough real attention to know

What you had been there, looking for

I won’t curse your skill as a deceiver

Because I was too damn naïve

I never should have let myself get tricked

And taken out for a tease

Saying goodbye becomes a habit

When you’ve had the cowboys on parade

We all figured wrong and paid the fee

A hard lesson in being played

Saying goodbye is a chore to chase

A profession for cold-blooded dames

Who delight themselves with fancy fools

Getting beaten at their own game

 

Saying goodbye...

 

Saying goodbye comes swiftly

When the night runs hot and fast

The gentlest touch and a kiss on the cheek

Meant nothing with an empty glass

You were off that stool and hustling

You disappeared like yesterday’s news

When I looked around to figure it out

I didn’t have a gawdamn clue

Saying goodbye can be a sin

But not if you don’t ever believe

There’s no breaking of rules when your guide

Is nothing more than a motel passkey

But get a good laugh before you leave

‘Cause I won’t be drinking alone

There are plenty of losers at quitting time

And one of them might follow me home

 

Saying goodbye...

 

Saying goodbye feels like freedom

When you have no sense of pride

The only cause you keep is to prowl the streets

Bedhopping and hitching a ride

That lifestyle has its shiny side

It might seem to be a laugh

But when you’re skipping down the sidewalk

Don’t forget what you could have had

Saying goodbye leaves a mark

It’s a jolt that the mind can’t forget

With a bow raised to the target

And an arrow right through the chest

I’m ready for a bottle on the bar

Got to drink this mood away

But the morning will make things much clearer

Tomorrow is another day

 

Saying goodbye...”

 

I was giddy at my keyboard. Literally jonesing for each verse to appear on the screen. I tapped and typed, and breathlessly worked my way through the composition in a matter of minutes. Following this heated exercise, I pulled out my acoustic pluckster, and began to croon a version of what had just been written.

 

Before an hour had elapsed, Country Squire was on his phone, and calling intently.

 

“BOY, YER IN A GROOVE, I RECKON! THAT’S QUITE A HEAP O’ HITS Y’ALL HAVE WRITTEN! NOW, I LIKE THE BASIC SOUND OF THOSE TRACKS, BUT I FIGURE IT’S HIGH TIME WE GOT A REAL BAND TOGETHER! YA UNDERSTAND? I KNOW PLENTY OF PROFESSIONAL MUSICIANS THAT ARE LOOKIN’ FER A JOB. IT WOULDN’T BE HARD TO GET YA HOOKED UP! ALL I NEED IS YER APPROVAL TO GO FORWARD!”

My belly gurgled noisily at his proposal. Over a decade of disability and retirement, I had grown accustomed to the solitude of living alone and being free from keeping a regular schedule.

 

“Sir, I do appreciate your confidence in my art. But that’s a step I’m not ready to take. I’ve been out of commission for years. I hobble around this singlewide shack with two canes. I can’t imagine trying to project a public persona for the purpose of entertaining an audience. Maybe 30 years ago that might have been a gamble I would have taken. But my body is spent. I am living as my late father did, on Mountaineer soil. He worked in the mornings, drank coffee throughout the day, and took care of my ailing mother as an act of love. In addition to preaching the gospel in church on Sundays and at special meetings. That was enough for him, and what I am doing now is enough for me...”

 

The entertainment tycoon growled under his breath. I knew that he must have stubbed out his cigar while seething with irritation.

 

“Boy, yer gonna miss one hell of an opportunity here! This is gold waitin’ to be mined! One-hundred percent real gold! I know what sells in the marketplace, trust me! I’ve made a damn good career out of gettin’ it right! I can promise y’all will be a top star in the business. This is the chance of a lifetime, Rodney! There are millions of people out there who’d be tickled pink to get a shot at being famous like this! Are ya really gonna pass it by?”

 

My contact at the record label was wasting his breath. But I wanted to be polite and diplomatic in rejecting his kind offer.

 

“Sir, this isn’t a choice I can make for myself. My family genetics have already intervened. I am a shaggy, old hermit now. If you enjoy what I’ve been creating here at this rural park in Ohio, then I thank you. But there’s nothing more I can do...”

 

The line went quiet after a loud, electronic click which I guessed was the result of Squire hanging up, abruptly. My face burned a bit, as if it had reddened from embarrassment. Yet I felt no regret over declining to be a paid performer on his roster.

 

I remained content to be an anonymous storyteller, with guitar.

 

“Saying Goodbye”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

Saying goodbye comes easy

To a heart you intended to break

And from the beginning of this roadhouse affair

I knew your love was never a keepsake

It was a matter of whiskey, poured in the glass

And a dancefloor turn on your heel

I kept you entertained for a moment

But after that, the clock made its appeal

Saying goodbye comes quickly

When your plan has been to skate

A ruby-red curve of confidence

From lips with so little to say

I took my cue from that flutter

The wide wings of a butterfly

You knew every move and made it stick

Right until last call arrived

 

Saying goodbye...

 

Saying goodbye comes naturally

With your eyes upon the door

I didn’t pay enough real attention to know

What you had been there, looking for

I won’t curse your skill as a deceiver

Because I was too damn naïve

I never should have let myself get tricked

And taken out for a tease

Saying goodbye becomes a habit

When you’ve had the cowboys on parade

We all figured wrong and paid the fee

A hard lesson in being played

Saying goodbye is a chore to chase

A profession for cold-blooded dames

Who delight themselves with fancy fools

Getting beaten at their own game

 

Saying goodbye...

 

Saying goodbye comes swiftly

When the night runs hot and fast

The gentlest touch and a kiss on the cheek

Meant nothing with an empty glass

You were off that stool and hustling

You disappeared like yesterday’s news

When I looked around to figure it out

I didn’t have a gawdamn clue

Saying goodbye can be a sin

But not if you don’t ever believe

There’s no breaking of rules when your guide

Is nothing more than a motel passkey

But get a good laugh before you leave

‘Cause I won’t be drinking alone

There are plenty of losers at quitting time

And one of them might follow me home

 

Saying goodbye...

 

Saying goodbye feels like freedom

When you have no sense of pride

The only cause you keep is to prowl the streets

Bedhopping and hitching a ride

That lifestyle has its shiny side

It might seem to be a laugh

But when you’re skipping down the sidewalk

Don’t forget what you could have had

Saying goodbye leaves a mark

It’s a jolt that the mind can’t forget

With a bow raised to the target

And an arrow right through the chest

I’m ready for a bottle on the bar

Got to drink this mood away

But the morning will make things much clearer

Tomorrow is another day

 

Saying goodbye...

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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

I hadn’t been completely honest with T. Randall Squire, which he probably knew without having to put it into words. As a son of Appalachia, I had a natural connection with Country & Western music, and the art of storytelling via musical compositions. It was indeed, part of my heritage. A pursuit long practiced by mountain folk, from the dawn of their immigration to this continent as refugees leaving foreign lands. So, while I did not hold much affinity for the modern evolution of that earthy genre, its roots were my own. That is why, after every impulsive detour into dark caverns of free expression, I always returned to the fertile soil from which I was born.

 

At my desk, this habit once again produced an expressive, sorrowful ballad of a fall from grace.

 

Wages of Sin

 

“A clock on the wall says you’re leaving again

I should have known it was a matter of time

But I have enjoyed the feeling

Of keeping you around, to ease my mind

Comfort had me chasing after shadows

When the truth, could plainly be seen

So when you walk out that door on Monday

It won’t come as a surprise to me

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

I had a wedding ring on my finger, once

And a vow taken to the heart

I never intended to cheat on that deal

But circumstances drove us apart

She got a burr right under her saddle

A prickly bit of bad advice

That told her to take, control of the odds

And drive a wedge between man and wife

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

That strategy worked well enough to ruin

Everything we had as a pair

Pretty soon when I looked at her picture

No magic was lingering there

We split on an evening when she locked me out

It wasn’t something that I had expected

But with my clothes in a trash bag, waiting

I realized our romance had been neglected

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

That’s why I’ll take this free ride for fun

‘Cause it’s all I’ve got left at the end

I could use a kiss and a warm embrace

Now that I’ve got a room at the Days Inn

My wife is somewhere feeling happy but hurt

A combination I don’t suggest

She got a court-ordered code of justice

And I’m the one stuck with this mess

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

You’re mighty young and pretty, girl

Perhaps a better friend than I deserve

But since you don’t know where I started out

Maybe we can work our way ‘round the curve

Come to me when you’re ready for a cowboy

And I’ll be your ticket to ride

Take your money from the night stand

Give me a wink as you say goodbye

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through...”

 

I took out my flat-top acoustic, and fumbled through a demo of this tune, with my voice sounding somewhat hoarse, and strained by emotion. The result was another short video, posted on my YouTube channel. I knew what would follow, and anticipated hearing from my entertainment contact before too many hours had passed.

 

Country Squire left a voicemail message on the phone that mocked me openly. I could hear a ring of satisfaction in his voice. Raucous laughter echoed in my ear.

 

“I TOLD Y’ALL, DAMMIT! IT’S IN YER BONES, BOY! YA CAN’T JUST SHED THAT HERITAGE LIKE A SNAKE SQUEEZIN’ OUTTA IT’S SKIN! YER A GAWDAMN HILLBILLY AT HEART!”

 

I bristled slightly at being given such a restrictive label. But of course, his admonition met the test of literal truth. That upbringing had been a strong component of my life, as a child, and beyond.

 

On WKKY in Geneva, I heard an entire block of songs supposedly authored and performed by Rodney Dean, the rising star. Real information about his identity was conspicuously absent. As were any details of upcoming shows in the area. I suspected that my cohort at the record label would soon want to negotiate about future appearances in public. Yet my actual skills had diminished greatly over time. Disability and retirement redefined who I was as a person, with a reclusive lifestyle being the yield. I could never hope to sustain a career on stage.

 

Fortunately, this eventuality did not present itself right away.

 

I took some comfort in remaining anonymous, among neighbors and friends in my rural area. Despite hearing my work on radios around the community, and streaming on cellular devices, no one suspected that I had any connection with this mysterious persona. I was safe and invisible on my porch. Able to drink peacefully, during the afternoon hours, once I had completed working in my home office.

 

The newspaper blog drew an increasing amount of web traffic, as did my video site. Both of these things elevated my standing in search results on platforms like Google, Bing, Dogpile, and Duck Duck Go. But the cloak I wore stayed intact. It gave me the ability to engage in making art without the pressing consequences of too much public exposure.

 

My only regret from this unspoken bargain was with the realization that most of my material held no value for those interested in popular culture. My books, magazine articles, and internet posts continued to languish in obscurity. I was a non-entity, lost in the vastness of cyberspace.

 

Still, that tradeoff kept me busy at the desk. And, drinking outside when my creative labor for the day was finished.

“Wages of Sin”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

A clock on the wall says you’re leaving again

I should have known it was a matter of time

But I have enjoyed the feeling

Of keeping you around, to ease my mind

Comfort had me chasing after shadows

When the truth, could plainly be seen

So when you walk out that door on Monday

It won’t come as a surprise to me

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

I had a wedding ring on my finger, once

And a vow taken to the heart

I never intended to cheat on that deal

But circumstances drove us apart

She got a burr right under her saddle

A prickly bit of bad advice

That told her to take, control of the odds

And drive a wedge between man and wife

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

That strategy worked well enough to ruin

Everything we had as a pair

Pretty soon when I looked at her picture

No magic was lingering there

We split on an evening when she locked me out

It wasn’t something that I had expected

But with my clothes in a trash bag, waiting

I realized our romance had been neglected

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

That’s why I’ll take this free ride for fun

‘Cause it’s all I’ve got left at the end

I could use a kiss and a warm embrace

Now that I’ve got a room at the Days Inn

My wife is somewhere feeling happy but hurt

A combination I don’t suggest

She got a court-ordered code of justice

And I’m the one stuck with this mess

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

You’re mighty young and pretty, girl

Perhaps a better friend than I deserve

But since you don’t know where I started out

Maybe we can work our way ‘round the curve

Come to me when you’re ready for a cowboy

And I’ll be your ticket to ride

Take your money from the night stand

Give me a wink as you say goodbye

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through