“Carrie Calling”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-17)

It had been a long Wednesday at the Ice Household.

My brother-in-law was at Geauga Hospital after a weekend of cardiac issues. I had been busy dividing my time between this family crisis and typical duties of summer. After we were assured of his recovery, I took out my Weber grill to celebrate. Then, rain in the forecast offered reason to mow the yard, just before sunset. Already bent from my hectic week, and with a full stomach, I pushed on to finish the day with determination. The grass was thick from neglect. I finished the work in about an hour. Then… my body rebelled.

I could barely walk.

Both knees and my left hip sang a song of defiance. My back was twisted and bowed. I struggled inside, to my living room chair. Water from the fridge offered refreshment. But as I heard the neighbors celebrating around their fire pit, my plight became evident. The day was done. I fell asleep for a few minutes, still fully dressed. Then, crawled to bed, where I sprawled on top of the covers. There would be no beer or conversation for me, tonight. Fatigue, once again, was my master.

I dreamed of an old telephone booth. Ringing over and over. Each time that I picked up the receiver, there was no one on the line. Only a dial tone. Then the phone would jingle once again. This mad ritual happened several times. My frustration grew.

“Hello?” I shouted in the booth. “Hello? Hello?”

Suddenly, I was standing in the kitchen. My cell phone had been on the charger. It was 3:30 in the morning. Only the light over our stove provided any comfort. My Black Lab snored loudly from his spot on the linoleum floor. I had the device in my hand.

“Hello? Hello?”

My friend Carrie Hamglaze had called. Her laughter exploded the silence. “Rodney! Are you awake?”

She was still something of a local celebrity, having been a teacher, award-winning tennis coach, elected official and local journalist. Everyone in the county seemed to have at least one story with her as a central figure. She had even been in the Maple Festival parade on numerous occasions. At one time, we were both columnists for the same newspaper.

I shook off the dream clouds in my head. “Carrie! Do you know what time it is?”

She was amused. “Yes, I do know the time. How have you been, my friend? I saw your posts on Facebook. Is your brother-in-law okay?”

I started to make coffee.

“Yes, his doctor said it was something of a miracle,” I replied. “He had blockages in every artery leading to his heart. Fortunately, he happens to be one of those individuals who was born with an extra pathway for the blood to flow. That may have saved his life.”

“They called 911 for him?” she asked.

“No,” I explained. “He was stubborn. Wanted to avoid missing his Grange meeting. From there, he drove himself to Geauga UH. A crazy risk to take. They were furious.”

Carrie sighed heavily on the phone.

“So, where are you living now?” I wondered out loud. “Not in your car, I hope?”

“Rodney!” she squawked. “I am staying with friends since leaving my home in Chardon. But the night air was irresistible. At the moment, I am up on the square. The courthouse is glowing with electric light. You should see it! Maybe I can get a picture with this phone...”

“Never mind,” I smiled. “Aren’t the police curious about your presence at such an early time?”

“This isn’t my first visit in the wee hours,” she admitted. “They actually offered to bring me coffee, a few minutes ago. A thoughtful gesture! It is 64 degrees here. Very comfortable weather to sit on a bench and reflect...”

I nodded, wordlessly. Her spirit remained strong.

“But what about you?” she quizzed. “Are you keeping up the Geauga Independent online newspaper?”

“Actually, I was just watching old episodes of the ‘Morton Downey, Jr. Show’ on YouTube. He was entertaining to hear in the 1980’s. Sort of like a precursor to Trump. With a bit of Jerry Springer thrown in for good measure. Red meat for the political right, New York style. Plenty of bombast. It often got out of control. He chain-smoked through every episode. I just saw him interviewing various musicians from that era. Ace Frehley of KISS, Joey Ramone, some Rock critics from the city. He could shift gears quickly. It worked for awhile, until the seemingly false claim of being attacked by a gang of skinheads.”

“Skinheads?” she exclaimed.

“He appeared from a public bathroom at San Francisco International Airport with a swastika crudely drawn on his face,” I observed. “He said the gang told him that now he was one of them. But the symbol was backwards, as if it had been drawn while looking in a mirror.”

“Interesting!” she said.

“He later ended up on radio, with WTAM 1100, here in Cleveland,” I recalled. “After an attempt to revive his broadcast on CNBC. But the show did not last. He walked off the air one night. I was in my basement in Painesville, assembling record shelves. Listening to every word.”

“So he retired after that?” she whispered.

I bowed my head. “Mort died in 2001. He had already lost a lung to cancer. The brash style had evaporated by then. His smoking habit proved to be fatal.”

“Well,” she concluded. “At least your brother-in-law’s affliction was not the same. Glad to hear that he survived and will endure.”

“Indeed,” I said. “No credit to him. The cardiologist observed that he is a ‘Very, very lucky man.’ A prolonged heart attack over the weekend and still he remained combative. He was in the midst of this when he arrived at the hospital.”

Carrie laughed to herself. “I haven’t seen him at the public library, as of late. He used to be there every day. Always bringing his laptop.”

“He has been quite gray, lately,” I admitted. “Washed out. Looking like a ghost. Taking all sorts of medications and home remedies. Now everything makes sense. He should’ve seen a doctor months ago. But he refused to cooperate.”

“Of course,” she laughed. “But… the nice policeman has my coffee now. Good talking to you, Rodney. Don’t miss the next meeting of the Geauga Roundtable!”

I tried to change the subject, but my phone went dead. Our conversation was at an end!

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent