Trailer Park Vignettes: “Coastal Connection” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

Jessica Decosta Breen had lived her early life on the precipice of sanity. More as an episode of performance art than a journey to fulfillment and adulthood. She traveled frequently, had many romantic partners, and friends from every corner of the world. Yet upon having her first child at the age of 27, a son who was energetic and curious about everything, her focus shifted out of necessity. She was no longer simply a gypsy adventurer and vagabond. Now, she had become something more demanding and consequential, by far.

 

She was, due to an accident of happenstance, a mother.

 

Her move to accept that role did not come immediately. While changing diapers and feeding baby formula, she continued to drink copious amounts of vodka or vinted concoctions. And smoke marijuana or hashish whenever it became available. She painted portraits for extra money, and designed jewelry for friends. Waiting on tables at local restaurants when this stream of income proved to be unreliable. Underneath the rebellious flair of a creative femme, however, was something more sturdy. She had learned to be self-reliant at an early age. Therefore, she always kept mentally attuned to every situation, thinking ahead of the game like a chess-master at the board.

 

But her encounter with Townie Link, a teenaged drunk and music addict, happened idiopathically. They met through a mutual friend with whom she stayed, while on a vacation trip back to her former home in New York State.

 

Lincoln was wide-eyed, skinny, reckless, and full of confidence that outstripped his abilities. Yet authentically talented in a sense. His Appalachian background did not mesh well with an existence among performers, poets, and malcontents in the shadow of Cornell University. So, despite prancing around on stages in the area, with a motorcycle jacket and boots, he never felt completely comfortable. That tension kept him teetering like someone affected by vertigo. But it also gave him a personality that could at times be charming to behold.

 

Jessica took him into a side bedroom, during a party where she was celebrating. Perhaps as much out of curiosity as anything else. She wondered how he would respond to an older, experienced woman who had already seen both coasts of the continent, and the old world of Europe.

 

The spark between them was genuine. Each one complimented the other. Almost instantly, they became a couple, living in conditions of squalor and profligate behavior. Clubbing, sitting in at recording sessions, and keeping late hours that defied normalcy and parenting.

 

Link reckoned they were minor stars in the Rock & Roll constellation, mirror images of Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen. It was a role he eagerly adopted, while manufacturing a timeline for himself out of whole cloth. He claimed to have grown up on the hard streets of Pittsburgh. Before coming to his new home, for an apprenticeship in television broadcasting. An escapade that irritated police officers, judges, and elected officials in their city. But yielded very little actual notoriety, along with dropping out before earning a formal degree.

 

His adoptive girlfriend was entertained for a moment, while the lure of loud guitar riffs, wine, whiskey, and cocaine held sway. But then, they were stuck in a hillside house with four apartments. A structure poorly maintained and sparsely furnished. They were broke and ruled by a chaotic ethos. Neither of them could settle on a stable routine of any kind. Meanwhile, the needy howl of a developing infant continued to resonate. He was perpetually hungry and cranky, and craving attention.

 

Finally, Jessica realized that the partnership she had initiated was out of step with her altered responsibilities as a parent. She had to prioritize her young seedling above all else. Or surrender to the reality that her authority as a custodial mater would be stripped away in legal terms. Yet in her former home, among the creative outcasts and visionaries, that would never occur.

 

She told a series of convincing lies, while stashing funds in her dresser drawer. Then, as she and her male companion were drinking and smoking away an evening in the fall, she announced her true intentions with a confession of inconvenient truth.

 

“Townie, I have a plane ticket to fly back to California, with my son. We leave next Monday morning, my soul-sister Sage is coming to pick us up at six o’clock...”

 

Lincoln reacted by excusing himself to the bathroom. He had imbibed over half a gallon of potent, red juice. Sorrowfully, he stared into the mirror over their sink, frowned and grimaced, then turned to the wall and lashed out with his right fist. This righteous blow scattered plaster and wooden trim around the small space. When he exited with a bleeding paw, to explain this noisy interlude, his voice had risen to the sound of a wounded lion’s roar for relief.

 

“YOU’RE GOING BACK TO CALIFORNIA? WELL, I’LL TELL YOU WHERE I’M GOING, HONEY! DO YOU WANNA KNOW? I AM GOING STRAIGHT TO HELL!”

 

Their relationship continued in silence, until the airport rendezvous had transpired. After that wordless farewell, he was once again a vagrant bum, on the sidewalk. With no job, place to stay, or advocates left to offer comfort. He had alienated every friend in the city. And emptied every bottle in his possession. A chain wallet hung meekly at his hip, bare and useless, except for carrying an expired license and coupons for pizza.

 

Now, the senior mom relived this bygone adventure while considering the queries of her daughter. Who was her real father? The question burned her ears with a toxic resonance. She had been stoned, dizzy, and intellectually compromised until that moment of clarity, some four decades earlier. She could not be sure of anything before+ her escape to the gold coast. Lovers? Partners? Chance encounters? They had been many and numerous. Her only interest had been to seek pleasure and gratify herself. Anything else turned her stomach as being decidedly square and out-of-touch.

 

Only the call of motherhood planted her feet solidly on the ground.

 

In Cali, she realized that her belly was growing again. With the gift of another child, soon to follow. And new alliances forming, as she skillfully navigated through circumstances, to rebuild her life in view of the Pacific Ocean.

 

Townie Link no longer existed in her mind, or heart. But as she looked into the face of her daughter, lovingly, an odd vibe made her lips tremble. There in the eyes of her offspring was the look of someone else, someone very far away. Not only in terms of chronology, but also, geography.

 

A forgotten man that she never intended to remember.

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Coastal Connection” (Part One)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

At Evergreen Estates, stories of failed relationships, lost careers, and shattered dreams were so common that their abundance had created a pervasive mood of disinterest among residents of the park. Few cared to hear such tales of woe expressed in public. And fewer still embraced flowing tears and groans of sorrow in private sessions around a seasonal campfire. To be suffering in silence, so far removed from the flow of a more metropolitan population along Lake Erie, was considered to be unremarkable. So familiar and ubiquitous, that it literally turned people numb.

 

For that reason, men like T. C. Lincoln simply kept to themselves, in a reclusive fog of inebriation.

 

Any memory of having been part of a mainstream, social order had long ago been surrendered. The shaggy hermit could barely recall standing in front of his bathroom mirror with an electric razor. Or wearing starched, white shirts, and crisp, patterned neckties. When speaking, his hillbilly brogue hid a measure of sophistication that had been plunged deep into a morass of darkness. He made no effort to be pleasant, or approachable. Instead of the fine soaps and colognes of his youth, he now reeked of stale beer and bottom-shelf whiskey. Along with budget cigars that were sold in cardboard boxes with the imprint of makers without any intention of providing a quality product.

 

His life no longer mattered to anyone, least of all, to himself.

 

Yet in his wake, artifacts of a different age had been strewn around the landscape. Bits and pieces of himself with the surreal expression of a Dada art pioneer. Each of these remnants carried some meaning that had not been apparent at the time. But when viewed with hindsight, left impressions that somehow affected others to alter their own paths for the better.

 

None of these connections were revisited, after the fact. Expect for a chance revelation that occurred on the California coast, many miles away from the rural loam of Geauga County, Ohio. In Santa Barbara, Amanda Breen was successful, pretty, and sociable to a fault. She was the daughter of a 1960s relic, who had been wild and creative, and the product of a university professor and his literary spouse. Her brother lived in various cities along the western edge of the North American continent. A vagabond in the spirit of their shared bloodline. Ever curious and full of wanderlust.

 

Upon becoming a late mother, at the age of 40, she gained an interest in DNA research. And with this new cause in mind, began to hunt through her own genetic markers, for clues about their notable brood. She discovered Quaker relatives in Pennsylvania, German immigrants who had arrived from Europe during the 1800s, and many historical tangents to pursue. But while pondering the strong eyes and distinctive build of her young son, she realized something that was unsettling and inescapable.

 

Her own profile did not match that of her brother, or the dashing pater that had always claimed to be her sire. So, some factor in the research had gone amiss, she initially believed. Yet when repeated several times over, the results did not differ. Her true progenitor was some anonymous male from the past. An individual that even her mother could not identify, for certain.

 

Finally, Amanda cornered the hippie queen at her home in Tehachapi. With the result that quickly, both women were wailing like barnyard cats in the glowing moonlight of a summer evening.

 

“Mom, the clinic says that Dad isn’t my real father! And neither are any of your old boyfriends who participated in their tests. Do you understand how that makes me feel? I’m an orphan now! I need to know where I came from, once and for all!”

 

Jessica Decosta Breen grimaced slightly, and shook her lengthy, white curls in protest at being confronted so directly. Her eyes lowered in a gesture of sincere regret.

 

“Honey, I think there must have been some kind of mistake. You know those mix-ups happen all the time! Of course your dad is who and what you’ve always believed! Why would he lie to you? Why would I lie to you? I can’t be any more honest than that!”

 

The blonde entrepreneur was not satisfied by this claim of ignorance.

 

“Dammit, the genealogy doesn’t match! The report I got says that my father must have been partly Caucasian Euro, but also of indigenous ancestry. Likely Cherokee and Shawnee! There are databases all over the country now, artificial intelligence has made it easier to sift through digitized documents and registries...”

 

Jessica huffed at this measure of trust in scientific analysis, without more corroboration.

“Dear, you need to calm down and think this through. It doesn’t matter who contributed to your DNA profile, really. You are a grown adult now! Not a little kid! And definitely not an orphan. You can see by our similarities that I am your real mother!”

 

Amanda threw back her head defiantly, and then pinched her generous nostrils.

 

“But, where did this nose come from? It looks a lot like something you’d see on a native chieftain! Not the kind of perky, little schnozzle for a chick like you!”

 

Her mater shuddered and scowled.

 

“STOP TALKING LIKE THAT! YOU’RE MAKING ME FEEL ILL!”

 

The slender female stood with hands on her hips, and an expression of discontent twisting her mouth.

 

“Mom, who did you ever know with a beak like this? There must have been somebody along the way. Here in Cali, or maybe when you still lived in New York!”

 

Jessica clutched at her stomach, while engaging in a moment of silent nostalgia. Then, her eyes closed and a new confession ebbed from the ether.

 

“There was a boy in the Finger Lakes Region, in Ithaca... I think he was 19 at the time. He dressed in a Biker style, as if he wanted to be a Rock star. I was older by a decade, already a single parent, a veteran of the art scene, a designer, a waitress, and a groupie with bands around the area. Not so practical and settled down as I am now! He had a charming disposition, as a poet and a writer, but still acted oddly naïve for someone living on the street. We shared two different apartments, so I got him wine and cigarettes when there was money in my handbag. You could say he was good company on long, hot nights in rooms with no furniture, and a mattress on the floor!”

 

Amanda smirked while swinging her bottom in a circle.

 

“Good company? That’s all he was, not a partner or a legitimate boyfriend?”

 

Her mother flushed with embarrassment. It was not a memory that she cherished over time.

 

“I dumped him to move back here. Both of your grandparents wanted us to get married. But that wasn’t in the cards for me. I couldn’t hack his impulsiveness. He didn’t seem to care about anything but his antique typewriter, and a small collection of vinyl records. And, one pawn-shop, Japanese guitar that was missing strings and other parts. I honestly thought that he needed to grow up! He was too much of a child for someone like me! But we did have fun for a while, at least...”

 

Her daughter chilled at this vivid description. Then, folded her arms and hardened her approach.

 

“So, what ever happened to that guy? You left him alone on the streets, with nothing but his flannel shirt and a leather jacket?”

 

Jessica yowled with a feline inflection in her voice.

 

“I HOPE HE TOUGHENED UP A LITTLE BIT! I LIKED HIS SWEET TALK BUT NOT ALL THE BULLSHIT THAT CAME ALONG WITH THOSE CUDDLES AND KISSES! HELL, I MANAGED TO SURVIVE THE HARD TIMES! IF THIS CHICA COULD DO IT, THEN SO COULD HE!”

 

 

 

 

 

“Desk Chair”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

A nap in my desk chair

Teetering backward on a bevel, unbalanced

Tempting fate and the random result of chance being challenged

I might have fallen, except

The groggy gyroscope kept me in check

On the edge of a dreamscape void

Lightly able to confess being annoyed

With the blandness of my own existence

I sputter and yawn

Breathing in the noxious air of an unseen self

One which I usually keep on the bookshelf

So as not to offend

This far side of the sphere, better left unexposed

Cratered by the imprints

Of rumors and casual hints

Dropped in my wake

This condition has persisted for long enough to learn

That the ashes of antiquity perpetually return

When eyes close

And the night is nigh

And though I might imagine myself

Restored to a measure of emotional health

The yield is never such

I always seem to run aground at the shoreline

Hull on the rocks, and casualties in mind

This is the way I have gone

Like reading chapters from Hollywood Babylon

Each segment a sorrowful song

Sung by voices that now constitute only silence and whispers

Lives large and fantastic

But burned out in a rush

Their saga makes me glad for anonymity

My name evoking no joy or remorse

Simply a guidepost along the course

Of a journey into the realm of nothingness

The mirror is blank

Strangely crisp and cold is this reflective plank

When I peer forward for clues

Squinting at myself, with an ironic smile

To find some trace of what will come, afterwhile

I can hear the footsteps

The rattle of a keyed lock and hasp

Which arthritic fingers soon will clasp

With a turn and twist

When the door opens, in a sudden release

I will be here, on the edge of my seat

Reclining, headfirst, into a mental sweep

A clearing of clutter from the timeline, complete

A screen saver on the monitor

Flying, compact cars from a yonder age

Bars bending from a zoo animal’s cage

Clowns riding on oversized, rubber balls

And the essence of an internet meme dispersed

A sweet taste of chewing gum

Stuck in my throat

A confection, powdery and pathetic

The last thing I could remember before succumbing to anesthetic

Nearly toppling my throne from its wheels

A blister of red on my cheeks

The experience, an exercise in mortal defeat

Whether from failed pride or the force of gravity

Snapping to a vertical stance

Testing the elasticity of my athletic pants

With a tug at the seams

A curse and a groan

At my workspace, still half-awake, and alone

Yet now on the other side

Of that carousel ride

Content to be unaware

Of how it was that I zipped through the wormhole

Into a crevice of my soul

Mermaid & Walrus Revisited: “Old Dogs”

  

c. 2026 Cheryl Keller, Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

Mermaid Opinion:

 

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks - or something like that.  Boy, “they” always seem to have quite a lot of insight into, well, just about everything.  I’m not sure “they” have all the infinite wisdom “they” claim to have, but those sayings at times can hit pretty close to home.  As I get older and work my way towards the end of my career, I can see some truth in those words “they” say about age, but I think it has more to do with the “new tricks” than the “old dog”.

 

I am a firm believer in, and staunch advocate for, experience over book smarts.  You can have multiple degrees neatly hanging on the walls of your office in those distinguished black document frames, and still be lost in the building.  It’s good to have the outline to the paper with those accolades, but the body paragraphs can’t be filled in and developed without putting time in and getting your hands dirty.  I know I sound as if I am not a fan of higher education, and that couldn’t be further from the truth.  If someone is fortunate enough to be able to have that as a life option, knowledge is never wasted and college can give people that jumpstart needed, as well as some tools that will definitely help once they enter the workforce.

 

But, when it comes to being successful at work, time is what you need.  Time to learn, time to grow and ultimately, time to thrive.  Developing competency with on-the-job training is essential to success.  Learning how to adapt overall skill sets to the task at hand; the industry at hand does not always come easy for everyone.  Book learning and lecture hall learning does not always prepare people, nor help them when they land their dream job.  Being able to utilize that knowledge and make it work for you in a working environment is key, and it is critical knowing that walking into that new workplace, diploma in hand, is only half the battle.  That other half, if not more, is what you learn boots on the ground.  And that is where your veteran employees come into play - aka, the “old dogs”.

 

Smart new employees know who to cozy up to during their training or probationary period.  Even if their HR department is exceptional and their training is scheduled and mapped out in detail for them, learning which coworkers have the experience and the historical insights should be number one on their to-do list.  Those “old dogs” are going to have that organizational knowledge that isn’t captured in any company policy, process or procedure.  Companies tend to do a poor job at documenting that information floating around in the heads of their long-term employees that can be so beneficial to have once they are long gone.  Unfortunately, they figure out what they are missing when they need it the most.

 

As an “old dog” myself, having my career surpass 30 years at the same company (I still can’t believe that), I have quite a bit of knowledge filed away between my ears that isn’t documented anywhere and it has its own system of retrieval.  Sometimes retrieval is quick and easy and other times not so much; and sometimes that ease and speed depends on who’s asking; insert growl here.  As the years have passed, and my experience has grown, I have often been challenged with learning new tasks or adding to my perpetual plate.  Sometimes it was undertaken with excitement and other times it came frustratingly without choice.  Or as a co-worker once called it, I was “voluntold” for the new assignment or responsibility.  Never once though did I feel as if I was incapable of learning the “new trick”, but there were absolutely times where I felt that I didn’t want it.  So, to speak to “they” who say “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks...” I think it’s important to recognize the assumption in that statement, because it may just be that Fido doesn’t need nor want to learn the new trick.  He could simply just be content with where he is. 

 

Woof, Woof!

 

Walrus Response:

 

My aquatic cohort has a particular knack for hitting every target dead-center. And she has done so here, once again, as someone with a wealth of business experience. I must confess to being slightly envious of her run with a single employer for such an extended period, as someone who labored for five different commercial chains, in addition to three newspapers and one national magazine. I cannot imagine the clarity and sense of purpose generated by serving in an institution to the point of literally becoming a fixture, and a valued point of reference. It causes me to cheer over her intellectual prowess, and endurance.

 

But to the issue at hand, I do agree with her two-part proposition.

 

First, as an unenrolled seeker, wandering around Cornell University and interacting with those were better attuned to the process of receiving a formal education, I witnessed the disparity between those earning a veritable wall hanger, and those who actually grew from spending time in a classroom environment. Some simply seemed to desire having a badge of honor to pin on their chests. And the result was little more than a smarmy amount of arrogance. While others blossomed from the fertile loam of higher learning. In the end, I reckoned that it all came down to the sort of person they had been before any induction into the student body. A human head can be dutifully crammed with facts and figures, but the heart is harder to influence. Therefore, some remain stuck in a doom-loop of irrelevance, even after being granted an opportunity to soar beyond the horizon.

 

I would take someone with a strong work ethic over any pretender with a sheaf of newly-minted degrees.

 

Second, as Mermaid rightly points out, it is quite often an old dog who accepts extra tasks and responsibilities within any organization. I have heard some observe, ‘Give a busy person something to do, and it will get done!’ This mantra might seem counterintuitive at first, but bears up well under careful consideration.

 

Those who are unwilling to push limits are in the end, often unwilling to better themselves, and their company.

 

As an example, I recall meeting a fellow during my television apprenticeship, who had earned a degree in communications from a crosstown school in my part of New York State, Ithaca College. Yet instead of finding employment in his field, and earning an income from those acquired skills, he instead was an applicant for welfare assistance. That conflict puzzled me as a young teenager. I pondered what he lacked to have fallen into destitution, and despair.

 

In another instance, during my career as a salaried retail manager, I visited the Painesville location of our parent chain. There, during a lunch break with other participants in training, I met a woman in charge of their Health & Beauty department. She spoke about receiving graduates from a notable business program in Pittsburgh, who were immediately promoted to supervisory positions, and sent to various locations like her own. But the rub was in their complete lack of real-world experience. Union clerks with a meager amount of educational accolades had to guide these naïve candidates with care and understanding.

 

These old dogs proved their worth, despite being overlooked from the beginning.

 

My worry, in those yonder days, and now as I reflect on what my friend has written here, is over the inevitable cycle of hiring and retirement. As those veterans exit with their gold watches and wishes of good cheer, who will take over? Who will carry the torch for future generations? Who will continue the quest for excellence and achievement?

 

That is a query I could not answer, when still in the workforce. And I have no better insight, as a retired fellow tapping away at my keyboard.

 

Nothing To See Here: “Mirror Man”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

“I wasn’t a misanthrope and I wasn’t a misogynist but I liked being alone. It felt good to sit in a small space and smoke and drink. I had always been good company for myself.” – Charles Bukowski

 

Sitting on my front porch with a cool, alcoholic beverage always seems to be a mixed experience. One that highlights characteristics of myself that might be more tolerable, if hidden by the anonymity of a crowd environment. I sometimes liken it to standing in front of a bathroom mirror, because being situated directly across from the storm door at my home entrance means beholding a familiar reflection in the glass. One of a fellow bent and stumbling along, with physical infirmities and persistent mental lapses into creative fantasy.

 

Regardless of the situation, this reflective pane tells all.

 

While on my wooden bench, sipping brew and squinting at a cellular screen, I often ponder that others at surrounding lots in our neighborhood must not possess a similar reflective frame in which to observe themselves. Because their words and deeds predictably fail to match with a chronological record on file, at the back nexus of my brain. Such disparities can be puzzling at first to encounter, but only grow more confounding and perplexing over time.

 

Finally, when in a pleasant cocoon of inebriation, those truths speak loudly. And I nod at their relevance.

 

Was I told that an agitator down the street had been pilfering monies supposedly saved for a charitable organization? The charge reddened my face when made, because it was vocalized from someone close enough to be aware of literal facts. Yet soon afterward, I saw the same individual sharing refreshments and music with the one who had been charged as a sinner. Later, favors were bestowed. Yard work and light construction on their rented property. Did this indicate a lack of concern over character or integrity? Or had the initial accusation been carelessly tossed out, with no corroboration?

 

I could not be sure. But after enough rounds of hops and grains, it did not matter.

 

On another occasion, I was told about a stimulus benefit that brought surplus funds into the household. Used for the purpose of expanding the occupied dwelling with an outdoor annex. I reckoned it was a chance opportunity to be enriched and benefit accordingly. A literal roll of the dice, with wonderous results. Not something that anyone could criticize, for its nature alone. Yet once again, in later months and years, the story morphed into a plea for an updated recollection. Instead of a lottery win via government action, the tale became one of hard work, savings, and sacrifice. Both accounts were not able to coexist, easily.

 

Had my memory failed me, I wondered? It was impossible not to doubt myself, just a little.

 

But when I looked into the mirror, my own image remained constant. A mile-marker that indicated how long and far I had traveled from my origin point. It did not shade the visual clues with any rosy perception of generous fiction. Instead, the harsh light of introspection stayed true to form. So I had to think that my memory did not tell lies.

 

That shock of authenticity put me off, while drinking. Moreover, it meant that despite struggling to see what awaited on my phone display, I began to send queries into the vastness of cyberspace. Messages that were perhaps ill-advised in view of my compromised consciousness, but still worthwhile and just.

 

“I remember that you once said this... and now you are out in public, doing the opposite. Doesn’t that reveal a conflict, either in your supposed timeline, or your veracity? Meanwhile, remember how we argued over a new contact here for residents, and you now stand as an advocate for the one you used to despise? What does that mean to me as a bystander? And to them, as a giver of trust?”

 

The reaction was not hard to gauge.

 

“No, no, no, no! You got it wrong, mister! You got it all wrong! Very, very wrong!”

 

Some of this verbal chatter was lost in translation via electronic means, I admit. And the balance became diminished through a progression of beverage cans, emptied and crushed.

 

“Two-four-six-eight. Now I am in a sorry state! Nine, ten, eleven, they say that there is no beer in heaven!”

 

Some sort of sober analysis might have straightened out my befuddlement over shifting tales and conflicted claims. Yet I did not have the capacity, at that moment to fret about details, or pass judgement. Still, upon returning to the mirror, my own aura of truth continued to resonate. I was shaggy and gray, ungroomed, unwashed, and pockmarked by aging. This sharper image made me turn again to questioning those in my immediate environment.

 

Didn’t they receive the same sort of epiphany when peering deeply into the looking glass, at their own persona? With a chime of cathedral bells in the distance, calling out to be heard and believed?

 

Having stuffed my orange, safety vest with cold cans of refreshment, I returned to the porch. Then, streamed a familiar dance tune from yonder days. It had been playing in my head throughout this dubious experience. An artifact written by Ian Burden, Jo Callis, and Philip Oakley. The Human League had included it on one of their releases in the early 1980s.

 

“The water shines

A pebble skips across the face

A dozen times

Then disappears, not a trace

Left behind

The thrower turns and walks away

A change of mind

Another start, a brand-new day

 

You know I’ll change

If change is what you require

Your every wish

Your every dream, hope, desire

 

Here comes the mirror man

Says he’s a people fan

Here comes the mirror man...”

 

By that hour, I had enough alcohol flowing through my bloodstream that it was easier to accept this lyrical admonition. As the messaging flow abated, and I fell into silent repose, this lone tangent struck the target. For myself, the mirror had a chilling effect of sorts, putting my own faults and failings on display as they existed. But possibly, for those mainstream inhabitants to the east and west along my street, that portal had a different power. One that allowed them to change their beliefs and preferences freely, as the mood demanded.

 

A fog of brewer’s magic brought me understanding. Ultimately, what I had been seeking under the cover of a self-imposed distraction.

 

Alternative facts, the bane of many, were now in effect at my rural outpost in the pines. Up was down, down was up, while left and right exchanged their usual orientation. And there was no longer a distinction between obfuscation and studious research.

 

Therefore, I had only one mission left on my agenda. To continue getting drunk.

Nobody Reads This Page: “Going Down Slow”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26

 

 

A recent hospital visit to check for signs of intestinal cancer put me in a sober state that seemed to linger for several days afterward. Not because I feared that the Grim Reaper was about to claim another mortal life from my bloodline, but simply as a matter of perspective. I had come upon the precipice of 65 with a measure of disability in effect, yet still felt very able to create material such as the text included on this page. A genuine offering of ruminations written with the knowledge that my product might well become invisible to the naked eye, upon being posted in cyberspace. As ever, I remained aware that the true worth of creativity is measured in doing, not in any recognition or praise bestowed after the fact.

 

“L’art pour l’art as said by the French– making art for art’s sake.”

 

But certain queries that met my ears during this medical experience offered a sharpened focus on the value of being alive, and mindful of that gift’s fragility as it tarnishes over time.

 

Before being put under anesthesia, I was poked and prodded by nursing professionals who handled their chores with care and concern. I expected to feel a probative pricking of needles, while being monitored and assessed. And to be questioned about my identity, purpose for visiting, and other relevant details in an effort to confirm full awareness of the situation. But when asked about my own mental disposition, this general calm was stirred by moments of sheer introspection and irony.

 

A young aide with a clipboard approached my bed and smiled through her checklist with a dutiful sense of detachment.

 

“Are you in pain on a regular basis, Mr. Rodney? Do you ingest OTC or prescription medications to handle that problem?”

I had to grin as my debilitated status was quite obvious.

 

“Yeah, my old bones ache, though it’s nothing out of the ordinary for someone at the point of retirement. And I almost never pop pills for a purpose of numbing the hurt...”

 

Her quiz proceeded with a deeper investigation into personal details.

 

“Are you a consumer of alcohol? Like wine, whiskey, or something else?”

 

I answered in the affirmative, so as not to be struck by lightning for having lied boldly in the presence of my doctors and Almighty God.

 

“Yes, I like to drink beer on my porch in the afternoon...”

 

The clerical steward continued checking off entries with her pen, while listening.

 

“Are you a consumer of recreational drugs?”

 

I reacted more quickly to this particular inquisition. My response was in the negative.

 

“No, not at all. As a matter of fact, on a recent day at home, one of my neighbors offered to share his stash of CBD gummies while I was sipping a round of Miller Lite. His proposition surprised me to the point of exhaling loudly, shaking my head, and declining in a polite manner. I could not be certain of his substances, or their origin, at any rate. And wondered a bit over his ability to procure such concoctions, despite struggling to pay monthly rent in our rural community. But it did not matter. As a general rule, I preferred to stay with a gentle regimen of hops and grains, instead...”

 

She was amused by this brief recollection. But persisted in finishing her paperwork.

 

“Are you plagued by thoughts of self-harm, or harming others, Mr. Rodney?”

 

I had to gasp just a little, before regaining my composure. Some might observe that a lifestyle centered on eating fried okra, potatoes, sausage, and bologna, paired with cornbread, or biscuits and gravy, might indicate a certain lack of attention to longevity. Yet I never viewed such habits as being harmful, at least in the short term. With regard to lashing out at others, I had been moved on occasion to ponder swinging one of my stability canes at neighbors who were not sufficiently respectful enough to avoid piercing the bubble of my personal space, on a quest to vent their unwelcome opinions. But a natural amount of self-restraint always kept me from engaging in physical aggression, and having to be taken away to jail.

 

“No to both of those. I am content to be quiet and alone, with my work or relaxation.”

 

The perky assistant made a broad swipe with her writing instrument, and then concluded the bedside interview.

 

“So, how do you feel about having this procedure today?”

 

I did not hesitate to answer honestly. Though my face must have reddened while thinking.

 

“Prepping for this exam is not a happy experience, of course. But I would choose it easily over what I saw my late father endure. He ended up with recurring issues, a colostomy, and a limited quality of life. None of that was pleasant to witness. I’ll stay with cold brews on my wooden bench, and an occasional handful of pork rinds...”

 

The facial expression of my taskmaster was mixed, after I had finished. She might have been wondering about my Appalachian habits, or shaggy appearance, as clues to unspoken truths. Or maybe, was just entertained to see a graybeard fellow like myself, lounging in an ill-fitting, hospital gown, while reflecting on living out a simple routine in the country. Whatever motivation was at work kept her in a cheerful mood.

 

“Very good, Mr. Rodney. The care team will be with you, shortly!”

 

I tend to have music running through my head on a regular basis. A trait closely associated with the brood into which I was born. So, while stretched out under the bedsheet, I wandered into a reflective spin of St. Louis Jimmy Oden, and his classic, Blues composition from 1941.

 

“I have had my fun

If I don’t get well, no more

I have had my fun

If I don’t get well no more

My health is failin’ me

And I’m goin’ down slow

 

Please write my mother

Tell her the shape I’m in

Please write my mother

Tell her the shape I’m in

Tell her to pray for me

Forgiveness of my sin

 

Tell her, ‘Don’t send no doctor’

Doctor can’t do no good

Tell her, ‘Don’t send no doctor’

Doctor can’t do no good

It’s all my fault

Didn’t do the things that I should

 

On the next train south

Look for my close home

On the next train south

Look for my close home

If you don’t see my body

All you can do is moan

 

Mother, please don’t worry

This is all in my prayer

Mother, please don’t worry

This is all in my prayer

Just say your son is gone

Out of this world somewhere.”

 

My own downward spiral was very much in effect, though made more comfortable by a discipline of creative minimalism. Like my departed sire, I only wanted to be well enough for laboring at the household desk, and occasional interaction with those in my isolated community. Anything else was a bonus I did not seek or expect.

 

A slow ride to oblivion, unhurried and gradual, was the prize I sought every day. Literally, ‘Going down slow.’

Geneva Go Round – “Guilty Gut Check”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

Five years, gone...

 

My second colonoscopy happened at Geauga Hospital, a familiar venue in a convenient location. A health depot situated in Geauga County, which is not far from the Cleveland metropolitan area. Yet removed by a sufficient distance that its characteristics were different in many ways deemed to be attractive for residents moving out in search of an escape from urban congestion. My sister and brother-in-law both provided support. Meanwhile, I reckoned that those in our brood who had already passed on were watching prayerfully, from their vantage point in eternity. Doctors and nurses worked their magic with great skill. The actual experience, as expected, was mostly in preparation for this scope of the hindquarters. All prep, and very little needful work done on the laboratory bed.

 

At that spot in my personal timeline, I was able to receive a positive diagnosis, despite a family history of intestinal cancer. And, won the right to go 60 months until my next gut check. A reward for which I was very grateful. The respite was for so long a period that I figured it would span the ages, chronologically. But as with my life routine in retirement, everything seemed to progress at a rapid pace not yoked to the march of literal time.

 

My sister passed away in October of the previous year. My brother-in-law battled with senile dementia, and finally landed in a local nursing home. As these events transpired, I slid deeper into disability, while still maintaining a fighting spirit and upbeat attitude. Eventually, only my niece was available to handle family needs, face-to-face. I did my best to avoid adding to her burden as the new hub of our group.

 

When my general physician spoke about the anniversary of this important procedure arriving, it did not come as a surprise. I had felt the date creeping up from behind, ominously. Chilling me with a sense of dread and anxious anticipation. Meekly, I listened to her appeal that the exam be scheduled immediately. And I agreed to have the procedure occur at a different facility, believing that an Uber or Lyft vehicle would be needed to get me there and back home again. My doctor had relocated her office to the city of Geneva, a place where my own career as a retail business manager concluded in 2016. So, I was not unfamiliar with their care center.

 

I got a confirmation notice via the MyChart app on my cell phone.

 

One roadblock to this test developed however, when I read their guidelines for visiting the team. A demand that some person who was related, or friendly enough to be dependable, was present on the day things happened. This scuttled my plan of action, and caused some concern. Briefly, I thought about driving myself to the hospital, and surrendering the keys to my car. With a caveat that I would wait patiently until given a sign of ‘all clear’ by one of the representatives that were on duty.

 

That impulse proved to be unworkable, of course.

 

In the interim, my niece volunteered to play the role of chauffeur. A task that made me feel guilty, and yet comforted in the balance. It was the proper arrangement for what needed to be done. Therefore, I did not argue too much. Because the colon-check had already been scheduled, I let the details stand as they were with no alterations. Still, an additional measure of shame arrived when I realized that it was her 40^th birthday.

 

I had reached the zero hour. There was no time to linger in regrets.

 

When the countdown period arrived, and dietary options became restricted, I found myself unconsciously perusing food reviews online. Each one caused me to sigh and salivate. A cheerful, curious woman who custom-ordered a bucket of Chicken McNuggets with 100 pieces. Another female critic who compared burgers available from competing chains. Recipe queens, amateur cookers, and shaggy, backwoods chefs in denim overalls. All of these creative views kept me on the edge of my bench, at the front porch.

 

When the final 24 hours arrived, only clear liquids were proscribed. I chafed at ingesting water and sports drinks before the SuTab prep pills. And finally surrendered to temptation. Against the advice included with my messages on the University Hospitals app, I hammered several rounds of Miller Lite in a blissful moment of sin and disobedience.

 

Once I began the final steps to prepare my innards, things settled down a bit. Somehow, I was able to sleep approximately four hours, in between doses.

 

Limited mobility has kept me close to home in recent years. So, the trip to Geneva was accomplished with a bit of difficulty getting in and out of my niece’s Subaru crossover. Then, similar woes manifested themselves as I struggled inside, rode an elevator to the second floor, and got to a bed that was waiting. Every move, every transition, every roll and turn, and twist had me slightly off balance. I noted with irony and amusement that a wristband bearing the imprint of ‘falls risk’ had been put on my left arm.

 

Those who took care of my needs were predictably kind and professional. The setting at Geneva UH was friendly and conducive to healing. I liked the intimacy of their setup. Having a more limited footprint seemed to evoke a sense of familial charm.

 

While in the room where my procedure was about to take place, I asked if the doctor or her staff had ever seen a ‘King of the Hill’ episode which referenced father Hank having a gut check of his own. My query must have confused them at first, because a moment of silence elapsed, before laughter resounded over the beeping and buzzing of analytical machinery.

 

A mindful member of the care team responded eventually, by saying that a ‘Full House’ installment had once featured actor Bob Saget undergoing such an exam, on camera.

 

That was the last thing I remembered. The anesthetic took hold as I wandered into oblivion.

 

Upon returning home, I felt groggy but grateful. Navigating my access ramp proved to be a chore. I had exhausted the muscular ability of my legs to remain useful. A plop in my desk chair followed, with a lazy interlude of snoring soon in effect.

 

Internet service had been interrupted by a bluster of Mother Nature’s wrath, while I prepped for the colon scope. Now, my computer monitor remained blank. Yet it did not matter too much, as I continued to teeter on the precipice of slumber.

 

Hank Hill beckoned from the other side of a cartoon veil.

 

“Y’all shut them eyes, son! It’s time ta get some sleep!”