Trailer Park Vignettes: “Stuck”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had been outside on his wooden bench for about an hour, when the first suspicious sighting of a citizen policeman occurred. After the usual parade of rusted minivans, pickup trucks belching diesel exhaust, and ratty, economy cars wobbling on sagging springs, a sleek, maroon cruiser passed by the end of his driveway. It was familiar only because he had seen it at a lot on the corner, about three or four trailers away. It boasted the European design of a foreign manufacturer, with aerodynamic lines, and an edgy, minimalist ethos. Things that were out of place for a rural community like Evergreen Estates.

 

The vehicle rolled past without stopping, yet was unhurried in its pace to the point of being visible and exposed, for a long time. In the passenger window, a mature woman attempted to hide her identity with dark sunglasses and a baseball cap. The logo was a winged letter G, one used by Cleveland’s American League franchise. She had the accessory pulled down tightly over her golden scalp. But the outline of her generous, glorious bosom betrayed any desire to remain anonymous.

 

Haki Speck was well-known for projecting a leggy, Rubenesque figure among the women who inhabited their park. Her beauty had aged over the course of time, but not diminished. She retained the lively, feminine appeal of a much younger individual. Something that caused many men on the property to question how she had chosen to marry a sweaty, flabby, pale lump of flesh who never reflected the charm of her bubbling personality. Linn, her spouse, was a constant agitator and unsuccessful head of a failed residential association. He would grouse about politics and social trends, while his other half breezily interacted with other people all around the development. That disparity often strained the bonds of their marriage. And made for loud arguments in the kitchen or bedroom.

 

This mysterious, premium automobile had disappeared by the time that Lincoln found his jug of Kentucky bourbon. A righteous swig of brown liquor tingled his nose and made both eyes water. But he sat silently while pondering the lagging loop made by his opponent. It constituted a curious sort of surveillance, for an unknown purpose. But served to unsettle the alcoholic nerves of its target.

 

“Why the fugg does he keep driving by here? Shit, there’s nothing to see but a crippled old man, getting drunk! That can’t be too damn interesting to watch!”

 

The afternoon was seasonally cool, reflecting the approach of fall. Leaves had begun to cascade from a tree on the other side of his singlewide abode. They fell across the long, access ramp before scattering as a sign of what was yet to come. Children on bicycles and makeshift scooters raised a clattering of skinny wheels in motion. The unsophisticated tones of Country music could be heard echoing from a distant yard. Nothing seemed unusual or out of place, except for the watchful appearance of his clandestine pursuer.

 

The aging hermit had nearly fallen asleep in his seat, when the motorized, maroon carriage once again crawled along the meandering border of his gravel drive. This time, the riding positions had switched. Linn inclined his balding skull and raised a hand, to avoid being recognized. But glared angrily as if he had some vexing chore to perform that involved keeping watch on the greater community. Specifically, on the one individual at their junkyard oasis that he considered to be an enemy and a threat to order.

 

Lincoln grumbled to himself, while chortling.

 

“You freaking dumbass! What’s the deal, man? Are you just trying to rattle my cage?”

 

By that point, the contrarian loner had consumed enough beer and booze to make his bladder yowl for relief. He struggled to his feet, hobbled to a back corner of the narrow deck, and let fly with a forceful stream of nature. The resulting wash of yellow splashed over abandoned buckets and coffee cans that were lost in the weeds. To punctuate this release, he passed wind loudly. Then, belched until brew foam dribbled into his shaggy beard.

 

This moment of protest made him stagger on the way back to his wooden perch. He almost toppled from the raised platform, but caught himself against an exterior wall, covered with cheap vinyl siding. A single disability cane skipped into the recess by his front door. But the other kept him supported enough to move swiftly to his intended destination.

 

Once he was sitting again, and steady, his hand returned to the jug of hillbilly juice. He tipped it skyward and swallowed hard. A coughing fit followed, as he shook and stomped his work boots.

Finally, he slumped into position. A pleasant detachment took hold, inspired by the 100-proof libation.

 

His eyes had closed gently, when the whirring of a refined, German motor interrupted the pause. Haki Speck was back in the passenger seat, this time riding with her head uncovered, and bulging chest pushed forward, dramatically. Almost as if she were teasing him with a reckless view of her physical assets. A gift he did not want under any circumstances.

 

Lincoln sputtered saliva and whiskey. He pounded the railing next to his bench.

 

“CUSS ME OUT ALREADY! THROW STONES OR PEPPER MY ASS WITH LEAD! DO SOMETHING, ASSHOLE! THIS IS MESSED UP! YOU KEEP GOING BY HERE, BUT NEVER DO ANYTHING! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT ALL ABOUT?”

 

Feeling desperate for enlightenment, he thumbed a Messenger app on his cell phone. While squinting to see the tiny characters, he sent a text to Darby Stronelli, who lived on his eastern flank. A person he rarely contacted, except in times of need. Her eager reply came in an instant.

 

“Hey buddy! What ya doin’ over there? Gettin’ loaded like always? That’s a good idea, I need ta pop open a drink and start a fire in my barrel! Why don’t ya come over?”

 

The senior contrarian was not in a mood for personal interaction. But wanted to know about the constant observation by their fellow resident from the corner.

 

“I keep seeing Linn and his big-haired bride gawking at me from the street. What’s the point of that? They’ve been in a holding pattern all day. Driving up one side of this dunghole, and back around on the next. I don’t get it! What’s the gawdamn point?”

 

Darby had the manner of an irritated chihuahua, especially when feeling tipsy.

 

“He wants to start up that neighborhood watch thing again, ya know? It’s got him all worked up, like last year. He even talked to the park manager about gettin’ people ta volunteer. But that ain’t my job, they can handle it on their own! And they can! I don’t own this dump! Screw their nonsense!”

 

Lincoln shrugged and continued to sip from his container.

 

“Okay, but why is Haki riding shotgun? She usually stays clear of his bullshit ideas...”

 

The middle-aged femme snorted and tapped at her wireless device, with both thumbs.

 

“BECAUSE SHE’S AFRAID HE’LL START A FIGHT WITH YER CRANKY ASS! WHY CAN’T YA GET JUST ALONG WITH EACH OTHER? YA ALWAYS HAVE TO COP AN ATTUTUDE! MAKE PEACE AND LET GO OF THE HATE! THAT’S HOW I ROLL! WHOEVER BRINGS ME BEER IS A DAMN FRIEND FOR LIFE! I’M GOOD WITH EVERYBODY!”

 

The reclusive bum ended their brief conversation abruptly. He had no interest in debating details of the enduring conflict still reverberating in their neighborhood. But, he was stuck in his prefab hovel by circumstance. Not able to escape on any level, except through inebriation.

 

“Friend, I’m no peacemaker, but by God I know how to drink!”

“Nothing”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

I have nothing, except for my pain

Dancing on a pin cushion, lumbering and lame

Better off when I can sit

Far removed from the use of a first aid kit

My failings have multiplied, numerically whole

As I have reached the age of a senior soul

Gone gray too quickly

Gone to a realm both puzzling and prickly

Does it matter if I rise in the morn?

When the grand orb glows, golden and warm

My footsteps wander as I trace a path

Stumbling over talismans from my past

There was a time when I stood tall

Able and eager to answer the call

Of ambition and sacrifice, twin quantities of worth

But now I scratch out figures, lazily in the dirt

It did not take long

To compose this epitaph in song

Hear ye, hear ye

The hours run, fleetingly

A flash of light from an instamatic cube

While I fall over the wingtips of my two-tone shoes

All the while, I realize

Listening ears have now turned aside

I am alone, yet aware

Lost in a void of silence and blank stares

As the moments expire

And this descent into the eventual comes randomly, like a wildfire

I want to lodge a protest

To feast at the fest

But what I possess constitutes a zero

With a sigh and a shrug, no season for heroes

Nothing is the name

A spin of the wheel in a gambler’s game

Jaws drop around the table

I would escape, were I willing and able

But my feet move too slowly

I have been brought to heel, the one and only

It doesn’t matter anymore

With no dealer keeping score

The words of a noted laureate, may echo from on high

But that wisdom is little more than a cracker crumb for a fly

Too insignificant to matter

As I teeter toward the hereafter

Nothing is my prize

Polished and preened for this daunting demise

Nothing I am now

Nothing shows me the why and how

Nothing gilds the arch to its keystone

Nothing plays the trumpet, and trombone

Nothing is my legal name

Nothing fits me, all the same

Nothing nags with a smattering of truth

Nothing is the omnipotent foe that no one would choose

A heartbeat of marching bands, upon the street

Boots and braces, all along the concrete

If I could find a reason to rebel

That certainty might inspire a groundswell

But trembling hands do not make amends

Knocking knees attract no friends

Only the night will obscure what is seen

Which otherwise is visible with a glimmering sheen

Too obvious for a denial

Too extensive for a case-study file

It could fill the drawer with evidence

A long-running trail of mistaken moves, and consequence

I know the tale so well

It is a lesson learned, a sorcerer’s spell

Laced up and tied with a bow

An eagle crying, “Look out below!”

Deep in a dare to dive from the edge

A cluster of clues, hidden in the hedge

The last response of a hospice subject

Nodding off on his bed, from a litany of regrets

Flesh turned chalky, pale and thin

A weeping of sweat trickles down the chin

Nothing in its wake

Stirred by the force of an unexpected earthquake

Then, breathless and still

Make of it what you will

Nothing To See Here: “Final Chapter”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

For many years, I have been a great fan of Hunter S. Thompson. The free-form work he authored as a creative wordsmith remains memorable, even years after his passing. His contributions continue to provoke and inspire. The example he set, by living out a wild and chaotic existence before the public eye, is attractive because of its uninhibited style and love for being alive. He did not waste time fretting over how he looked or sounded to those who were less able to express themselves freely. He enjoyed the pleasures of composing an American story, and crossed boundaries of legality and culture as a brave warrior for intellectual liberty. But one fact from that extensive journey still troubles me as someone who enjoys using the written word to convey emotions and ideas.

 

He chose to end this marvelous saga, before it had naturally concluded.

 

As a younger fellow, I did not necessarily fix my attention on the method of his exit, to the exclusion of other pertinent details. Having snuffed out the candle on his own, he joined a roster of notable figures that still reverberates with meaning, from literary and entertainment history. And yet, when viewed from a more mature perspective, I cannot avoid pondering his willful descent into the void with a measure of puzzlement.

 

His death evokes a question that is challenging to answer. Would I choose to slip beyond the veil, as he did, to escape the pain and woe of being a mortal subject, in a failing shell? My answer is, of course, a negative retort. Shouted long and loud at my desk.

 

“NO, NO, NO! HELL NO! HELL NOOOOOO!”

 

I am mindful of his predicament, however. It is not pleasant to exist in a cocoon of flesh that aches, throbs, swells, chills, and trembles when called upon to perform rudimentary, basic tasks. Getting out of bed in the morning, for example, requires sitting at the edge of my mattress, positioning my legs and posterior so that leverage will make it possible to flip myself forward and upright, while reaching out for the support of a sagging chest-of-drawers that stands against the opposite wall. This gymnastic trick is one of many that I perform regularly, while enduring a night of rest in the bedroom. I have learned each one through trial and error. The crowded dimensions of my home space actually play into this handicapped regimen, by having hard surfaces close in proximity to each other.

 

How would I fare in a larger, less restrictive environment? That riddle is one I thankfully, do not have to solve at the moment.

 

I navigate the floors of my boxcar residence with two adjustable canes for support. Pausing here and there to brace myself against countertops, shelving, random pieces of furniture, and appliances that are massive and sturdy. Any crevice or separation may offer a fingerhold to remain stable. I trace my steps according to need, keeping movements throughout the long chamber to a minimum. I never hurry for any reason. Not even when a visitor is carelessly rapping at my entrance door. I am mindful of spills, throw rugs, and loose sections of linoleum, whenever they appear. A clear path is, I reckon, one that is unobstructed, straight as possible, dry, smooth, and lit well at all hours.

 

Sometimes, I hear echoes of R. L. Burnside in my head. His plea to be seated in the afterlife, and given absolution, is one I understand now more than ever.

 

“I wish I was in Heaven, sitting down

Well, I wish I was in Heaven, sitting down

Lord, Angel, Oh my Lord

Wish I was in Heaven, sitting down

Take away my sin and give me grace

Take away my sin and give me grace

Lord, Angel, Oh my Lord...”

 

When in my office chair, at the far end of a couch in the living room, or out on a bench at my front porch, I have the needed stability to avoid a fall. Getting up is the chore that brings displeasure. Only when I am in motion is the balance of my bones precarious enough to be put off kilter by happenstance or carelessness.

 

Still, being awake and self-aware means having to move around my domicile, and to other destinations that are farther away. I must visit doctors and their clinics, hospitals, specified care facilities, and all kinds of other networking institutions. Rarely does anyone acknowledge the amount of personal effort it took to arrive in one piece. They simply nod while checking boxes on a clipboard or computer tablet.

 

For HST, that amount of sacrifice eventually became too great to deliver. And I certainly feel empathy for the burden that he carried. It is one borne by all who reach their golden years in a state of sentient being. With eyes, brain, limbs, and nerves, along with bodily functions, finding their own rebellious rhythms as a matter of course.

 

Hunter spoke cryptically in his farewell note. Those words continue to bring a chill, when I recite them from memory. Especially a passage about his chronological age.

 

“...67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun – for anybody...”

 

His statement causes me to become introspective. Am I bitchy? Or boring? Could it be said that I am not fun as an individual? Such assessments are judgments to be made by others, not myself. But I believe that by staying socially aloof, as I have done for years, provides a buffer between being a nuisance to others, and irrelevant as a human entity. I am two years shy of the benchmark he noted. Though no less conscious of my position as a senior citizen in the midst of a general decline. But while the flesh may show signs of weakness, I have never wielded the sort of artistic ability that is currently in my toolkit. So, I believe that it must be a tradeoff worthy of embracing.

 

One form of coherence, surrendered for another.

 

I wonder what Thompson would have made of that conundrum? Being present, with all of the negative aspects involved, might have given him a new wrinkle on creative writing. The curious charm of hobbling around among other patients, in a hospital setting. In a fellowship of medical evaluations, tests, and treatments. Had he chosen to let us stay in his orbit, as spectators and students, we might know the answer, today. And perhaps, feel emboldened to speak on our own as voyagers on a grand journey.

 

But that Gonzo manuscript was finished long ago. And with its conclusion, came an ending put into ink, far too soon for those of us who wanted to read and digest a greater body of work. He had no more to say, as an eternal sunset arrived. It was his decision to be gone.

 

I hope to continue for a bit longer, as those issues persist. And to speak about what I encounter in real time, one experience after another.

 

“King’s Petition”

  

c. 2926 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

Lord, God, King of Kings

Let me inquire about some puzzling things

If I might be so bold

As an embryo grown to an age, feeble and old

Here on the orb which you created

There are wars and conflicts, never separated

From the daily routine

In a territory where immigrants dream

And posers proudly prophecy

About things they do not realize

Are out of their hands

Reading righteously from the rolls, to recall your commands

 

Lord, God, King of Kings

Let me ask why the pendulum consistently swings

From one equilibrium to the next

Minus a discipline of sanity, and mutual respect

Seekers sort through the rubble for an awakening

Loyalists lob stones to gaily grasp the brass ring

Which tarnishes quickly in the smoky air

A foolhardy pursuit, a pointless affair

I watch this unfold with a naïve sense of awe

As the eagle swoops over, a rodent in its claw

I might have been a doubter, still

But faith in the factions is a marvelous skill

 

Lord, God, King of Kings

Let me pluck at the tenderest of heartstrings

Gently enough to reveal

What breaks a butterfly upon a wheel

I have traveled here as a consequence of birth

To inherit the value of intrinsic worth

With was beautifully bestowed

When touching the hem of your robe

But now I wonder over the pain brought to bear

About monarchs who rule, with fire in their hair

Sat on a throne upright and erect

A gilded foundation of legacies to protect

 

Lord, God, King of Kings

Let me poke at the boundary between mattress and bedsprings

Where the treasures of common folk are hidden

Where the aspirations of a laborer are often overridden

By a lack of concern

On the part of those who cause the butter to churn

Forgive me for thinking that I need to be heard

When all that I bring is a consciousness, disturbed

I cannot cleanse what was stained at the start

I have no such power, I to revive and impart

A wise disposition, to heal and explain

A trick of the light, to edify and entertain

 

Lord, God, King of Kings

Let me wander and wonder about the simplest of things

Why love is a lament for those that have none

And a blackness of night is opposite the sun

Pharisees proclaim what the scriptures have sent

While trampling on roses, as a sign of intent

Heads are scratched and eyes will roll

And a gale blows through hollow souls

Bowing priests hesitate to speak

Fearing to inflame the lame and the weak

Who have already concluded that the hour is late

With an absence of chalk on the classroom slate

 

Lord, God, King of Kings

Let me be bold enough to soar upon wings

Like a creature of the heavens, able to fly

Give me the direction to discover reasons why

Tempest and torment when we witness truth

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth

Every lesson we learn comes with a cost to be paid

And no prayerful petition will wish it away

On bended knee, and waiting

Before challenges, never abating

This is the plan set in motion to save

Those of us on a journey, from the cradle to gave

 

Lord, God, King of Kings

Let me inquire about some puzzling things

And cast a shadow, taller as the day is nigh

Embraced by your grace, and sanctified

I do not mean to offend, with this plea

I bring no blasphemy as an alternate creed

Forgive if you will, when I confess this conundrum

That keeps me off balance, considering the sum

Of blood spilled and heroes killed

On a fiery field of conquest, sadly fulfilled

Shine on us with the new revelation

That at long last, this battle is done

“Limbo”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

In limbo, of a kind

Affecting a failing body, and sound mind

Flesh and conscience, rudderless due to riddles

Like an unstrung fiddle

Questioning the worth of self

In this maelstrom of health

I had not prepared for a new escapade

A detour from life on a perpetual promenade

But the stumble of my feet

Caused a swerve to a side street

Where the shadows loom large

And cast a spell upon my heart

A gift not given to commemorate

An auspicious date

But instead, the graduation to a different tier

One governed by concern and fear

Over being awake

In a puzzling state

Dangling from threads

A fog of insufficiency loose in my head

As prophets and physicians proclaim

With the signature of my legal name

“You are healed!”

That capricious boast has much appeal

But falls short of literal facts

As I am still situated, flat on my back

On a mound of bedding, wrinkled and rolled

A number on the roster, to be prodded and polled

About my care

By attendants and aides who seem unaware

That I entered their regal realm

A traveler on a ship, with no one at the helm

Only a petition to the void, said aloud

Between opposite worlds, and drifting clouds

This ragged run toward naught

Is the lottery ticket that I bought

When rising from my chair, with open eyes

To greet the sunrise

And now I linger in unoccupied space

A viable voyager, buoyed by grace

But little else except

For the chime of homemade hanger, wildly windswept

Swaying in the breeze

While I consider that this yield has come with ease

From dabbling in indulgence

A habit held since

I lost my way

In sweet limbo, I will stay

Until freed by a necessary change of course

A defiant use of force

That will make clear the disparity between what I was and what I am

A strange, changed, rearranged man

Not a child any longer

Careful and conscious, intellectually stronger

Able to perceive

The cut of a lock and key

Fashioned from the bones of an ancestor

A proud, predecessor

Who walked the earth when it was new

Long before the age of cunning and clues

That mind held a kernel of truth, gone askew

Grains of gold, separate and few

Floating freely, on wings of a moth

A reality fashioned from patterns of whole cloth

One handed down to my lot

A group of gawkers guessing about the dramatic plot

That sealed our souls

A predisposition of genetic roles

To chart being present and aware

In the machinery of a clockwork snare

Wound tightly around its mainspring

Powered by the inspiration of ambition over everything

Pushing onward

Never deterred

From the cause specified

At the beginning of a merry-go-round ride

Twirling on an axle, deep in the center

Spoken of only by a broadcast presenter

In a review of literal events

Under a big tent

Raindrops rolling down the canvas slope

And I am a mere spectator, summoning hope

With so little to know

Evermore, hanging in limbo

 

Nobody Reads This Page: “A Journey, Interrupted” (Part Four)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

“In San Francisco – life goes on. Hope rises and dreams flicker and die. Love plans for tomorrow and loneliness thinks of yesterday. Life is beautiful and living is pain. The sound of music floats down a dark street. A young girl looks out a window and wishes she were married. A drunk sleeps under a bridge. It is tomorrow.”

 

My brief stay at Geauga Hospital felt much longer in emotional terms. That period of three days seemed to carry the weight of weeks or months being confined in my bed, and under the perpetual care of medical professionals. Yet just as I had entered the facility by chance, not choice, my exit also came swiftly. As I fretted over comfort issues, which included a hard mattress, restrictive rails, slim slips of foam for pillows, and bathroom facilities that appeared to have been designed for dwarves, gnomes, or shrunken patients with the stature of a mole, a glimmer of rescue sounded in the voice of a wound nurse who attended to my left leg.

 

“Mr. Rodney, your sore is healing nicely. I think the treatment regimen is working its magic. You should be able to transition to a home environment, very soon.”

 

I had avoided becoming eager over my release, because of the distress that would cause. Though it was impossible to shut out thoughts of my rural neighborhood, front porch, and refrigerator full of cold beverages. Most of all, I wanted to sit at my desk and work. That pursuit kept me grounded and on track, despite any cares and concerns that would arise. But without that prop in place, I teetered on the precipice of surrender. My purpose in existing had been negated by this vexing health issue. I questioned everything about being awake and alive. Did it matter that I opened my eyes in the morning? Was my presence in the continuum valid and vital? These questions were sobering to ponder.

 

They made me afraid to seek an answer.

 

A discharge coordinator for the hospital said that once I could switch to an oral antibiotic, taken in capsule form, my ability to leave would be assured. But he insisted that I learn how to bandage my legs, as part of the exit agreement. I reddened at this demand, and politely attempted to convey the limitations of my everyday routine. This humble plea for understanding only intensified his rebuke, however.

 

“Sir, I am disabled as you can see, from the two canes that keep me vertical. I haven’t been able to wear a pair of socks in several years! So wrapping my limbs will be impossible!”

 

His demeanor shifted immediately to disbelief and obvious confusion.

 

“YOU CAN’T PUT ON A PAIR OF SOCKS? BUT... WHY? I DON’T GET IT!”

 

I have always guessed that the sight of a crippled old fellow, overweight and hobbling around while panting for his breath, must be visually informative in a way that words could not accomplish. But on some occasions, that effect seems to miss the mark. This was obviously one of those moments.

 

“My joints are debilitated, and full of arthritis. I need orthopedic help. A new left hip, and two knees, probably. And, I live alone. My family is close enough, but already burdened with many other supportive tasks...”

 

The solution he offered was simple to say aloud, but more difficult to implement.

 

“What about your neighbors? Can’t they fix you up?”

 

He did not know that I lived in an isolated community where unemployment, alcoholism, drug abuse, marital disputes, and social alienation were common. I was lost in a vortex of broken dreams, exceeded boundaries, and otherworldly dimensions. Yet while puzzling over the tenuous nature of my potential escape, I landed on a notion of enlisting mutual aid from someone nearby.

 

“I have a neighbor who is both a fireman and an EMT supervisor. He would certainly have the skills needed to provide assistance...”

 

That idea caused the coordinator to brighten with optimism. He gave me a fist-bump to celebrate, and then excused himself to a meeting which was already on his schedule.

 

“Gotta run, Rodney. But we will talk again, very soon!”

 

My environment grew more quiet after that endorsement. Not in literal terms, but because suddenly, I had a measure of hope. The team watching over my needs shifted into a mode of preparation and assessment, as they readied me to depart. And I tingled with anticipation over finally achieving the stated goal of my stay. To be well enough for a restoration of liberties, and a trip to the lobby in one of their wheelchairs.

 

My niece sent her husband to offer a ride home, or a lift to retrieve my car which had been left at the ER in Geneva. This favor bolstered my spirits. He was very personable, and chattered all the way to Lake Erie. But I failed to quiz him about having my keys. The thought did not occur to me, until we had nearly reached the northern facility which was our destination.

 

“Hey, did your wife pass along my electronic car fob? She took it while I was still in my bed at Geauga Hospital...”

 

His blank reaction answered the riddle immediately.

 

“Keys? A clicker? What??? She didn’t say anything about that!”

 

I searched the glovebox of her car, which he was driving. But no such accessory was visible.

 

“Well, I have to apologize. Why didn’t I think to ask before we got here? I’ll blame that on myself. Sorry, friend!”

 

Since we had already reached the city limits, he decided to check on the status of my vehicle, in case it had been towed. But upon entering the parking lot, we saw that it was still nestled in its spot by the helipad.

 

I guessed that since we had come so far, and the SUV was still unlocked, I might as well wait for my niece to intervene. So, I thanked him for the assistance, and slipped behind the wheel of my car. Brain fog persisted in hindering my awareness, while I was sore and stiff from the medical furnishings. But being free of that unfamiliar environment, and back at the wheel of my personal beast, was invigorating. Even if I could not go anywhere.

 

A weather pattern with tornado warnings dogged me on the way home to Thompson, after the keys were delivered. This bout of meteorological mayhem struck just as I was lumbering up my access ramp. I entered my singlewide abode dripping wet, huffing for oxygen, and squinting to focus my eyes.

 

Yet as I fell into my chair, relief took hold. Despite the bluster of a passing storm, I was grateful to be back where my adventure had begun. At the conclusion of a journey interrupted by circumstance, and put right by the grace of God.

Nobody Reads This Page: “A Journey, Interrupted” (Part Three)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

“Be patient and tough; someday this pain will be useful to you.” – Ovid

 

I arrived at Geauga Hospital only days before my 65^th birthday. But more than being mindful of that significant chronological anniversary, I was struck by the fact of having reached such an important milestone without ever being housed in a care facility. My health was never a great concern during years of working as a professional writer, retail clerk, and manager. I had gathered inertia during a long life that propelled me through many experiences, including two marriages, and the publishing of over 50 printed volumes. But with my formal admission as a patient to the local medical center, I met an immobile boundary of consequences.

 

For many years, I had been a speeding train in perpetual motion. Now, I was stalled, stunned, and sapped of energy.

 

A visual inspection of my leg, at least from a personal perspective, did not tell the tale. Yet when under the microscope, the nature of my affliction became disturbingly apparent. The open wound on my left leg was infected, and critical. An immediate remedy was to pump my body full of antibiotics, and elevate the limb. This massive infusion of chemicals worked so rapidly that at first, a doctor who was on duty overnight surmised that my sore must have been cleaned at the ER in Geneva. But indeed, I assured him that they had not taken any such measures, beyond starting a regimen of IV infusions. With a sort of magic effect, the irritated flesh had begun to clear. Though I was still quite far from being healed, and released.

 

The physician did his work with an appropriate level of attention and skill. But then added a remark that made me smile, despite being groggy and uncomfortable. He spoke with an unusual amount of ironic amusement, and candor.

 

“So Rodney, they tell me you do not like Conneaut?”

 

I was somewhat disoriented by this point, after spending most of the previous day in Geneva. But the directness of his query cleared my head.

 

“My family resides here, in Hambden Township. Literally a matter of minutes from this building. Going to the eastern community of Conneaut would have been a hardship for everyone involved. I made my preference clear, but that opinion did not seem to resonate at first. However once I repeated myself, with more gusto, the message was apparently received. The woman who confronted me went running for cover...”

 

I was on a virtual carousel of nurses, doctors, assistants, interns, and aides. So, as he disappeared into the maze of patient rooms and other, mysterious departments, this grand wheel kept spinning. In a sense, I had fallen out of time, much like a traveler through the cosmos. I felt lost and listless.

 

Sadly, I could not find a comfortable spot in bed, which was perhaps predictable. This meant that actual sleep came only in brief intervals. If I did manage to shut my eyes for a moment, those precious and fleeting encounters with unconscious repose were interrupted by a request for blood, a check of vital signs, or to take new medicines.

 

At some point in the morning, I heard my roommate ordering breakfast. The specified choices sounded delicious, with eggs, bacon, sausage, and potatoes all being available. Yet my appetite had been sidelined. My belly resisted the lure of solid food, as it attempted to cope with an influx of healing fluids, ebbing through a spike in my arm.

 

This restrictive arrangement of being laid flat on a thin, commercial mattress soon had the debilitated joints in my body howling to receive mercy. I was aching for reasons that were unrelated to the cause of my extended stay. Added to this woeful mood was a sense that I had been disconnected from my own existence by circumstance. I wanted to sit at my desk and work at the keyboard. Or perhaps, to go outside, to my front porch for fresh air and comfort. But neither of these pleasant options were available.

 

I learned by observation, that the unfortunate fellow who lay on the other side of a retractable curtain that split our room was named Frank. And I heard him describe having fallen at home, with a shoulder fracture resulting. Boldly, I called out from my side of the fabric veil, to engage him in polite conversation. A strategy rooted in shared sacrifice. I reckoned that neither of us were particularly thrilled with our current predicament. But perhaps, through the art of describing our fates to one another, that burden might be lessened, at least temporarily.

 

“Hey, I can hear that you’ve had a rough ride getting here, neighbor. I can make a similar claim, myself. But as they say in the common vernacular, ‘it is what it is.’ Do you have a good prognosis for getting better?”

 

My associate on the other side said that he had been alone for several hours before being discovered at his home. He had other health concerns that exacerbated his condition, but still sounded confident enough to pursue goals of treatment and wellness. I surmised that he was about a decade younger. But most surprising of all was his reaction when I mentioned having been a salaried co-manager for Giant Eagle.

 

“I was in retail operations for 33 years. My final assignment was at a private location in Geneva, under the ownership of David Archinal. He later sold the business to Chris Piovarchy and his sons. They were already in control of the Ashtabula store, which was once held by Ernie Springer. He had been a veteran of Fazio’s, and knew my business partner Randy, in the early days of Pittsburgh moving into this market area.”

 

Frank brightened with my mention of the food emporium on Route 534.

 

“If you worked in Geneva, then you must know their personnel manager? She and I grew up on opposite sides of the same road. We’ve been friends for a long time...”

 

This coincidence made my face tingle. Despite being randomly thrown together, by different medical maladies, we had found a commonality that made us connected. That alone eased my mood, as the day unfolded.

 

I did not vocalize my thirst for a cold brew, while resting. Though with every passing hour, that craving became more intense. Coffee and ginger ale served to satisfy my desire for refreshment, temporarily. Yet I still lacked a robust appetite for anything edible.

 

A day later, someone ordered an unexpected tray of food to be delivered to my bed, in the early hours. It was far from delicious, as I had imagined, but I managed to tolerate the eggs and a cup of grapes. What I guessed must have been a bowl of oatmeal frightened me with its taste and texture. I did not bother with anything else on the plate.

 

Most of all, I simply wanted to go home. Being at the hospital was unfamiliar and challenging to accept. But, that privilege of liberation would be withheld, until the state of my leg issue had improved.