Nobody Reads This Page – ‘High Life’

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

A recent trip to Cantini’s in Rock Creek, Ohio came as December temperatures reached a peak that made me forget the Christmas season was so close at hand. With Old Sol glowing overhead, I pointed my aging SUV toward this destination with thirsty vibes already in effect. The neighborhood store has been a fixture in that community for many years. Though its footprint is about the size of a convenience depot, the market offers goods and services that would be expected of a much larger operator. Fresh produce, baked treats, hot foods, a generous selection of beverages, and a butcher shop all are included in their format.

 

The place reminds me somewhat of an IGA located where my late parents lived, in West Virginia. Their hometown grocery had a similar layout, with only two checkout lanes at the front. I always enjoyed shopping in that setting, which was a throwback to traditions long lost in most areas. A sense of commonality was the yield, because everyone squeezed through that restricted space, searching for edibles, drinks, and NASCAR souvenirs.

 

That charming store-down-south is long gone now, along with many members of my family. Yet the friendly food emporium in Ashtabula County remains open for business.

 

I had hoped to find pepperoni rolls still on the rack by their display case. But as usual, arrived too late in the afternoon to find them available for purchase. That missed opportunity did not lessen my craving for some liquid gold from Milwaukee, however. I spied three half-case rations of the Miller product in their cooler, and greedily took them all.

 

Loaded with stock that included frozen burritos, a loaf of bread, and a package of ground beef, my cart was heaping at the register. I leaned on the narrow handle while moving my choices to the counter, and bantered with the friendly cashier, who was somewhat amused that I would buy so much brew in one shopping trip. He thought I must have been having some sort of retiree’s function in the trailer park. Perhaps softening the mood of attractive old ladies with plentiful beverages and snacks. My explanation made him laugh out loud and nod with understanding.

 

“I stock up when the roads are clear, or when my bones are loose enough to get around! Otherwise, my time is spent watching geese fly over the porch. Which is where I’ll be when this errand has been finished...”

 

I didn’t mention being a creative writer, because such confessions always evoke a sort of befuddlement and wonder that makes me feel socially ostracized. But soon after arriving home, and putting away the bounty I had scored, I landed at the home office desk.

 

Words began to flow through the keyboard almost as if I had been subconsciously taking notes while hobbling around the rural store.

 

Hepped on the High Life

A 12-pack of bottles labeled up like days of yore

A cheap ticket to ride from the neighborhood store

It reminds me of the person I was, long before

Arthritic aches and emotional earthquakes

Ramen noodles on my dinner plate

A broke-ass bum in a post-modern dream state

 

Hepped on the High Life

A brew not distinguished or critically celebrated

A wash of hops and grains to make my woes negated

I try to remember the creed, promulgated

As I ranted while drunk

Lost in a beer funk

A stash of brew in a steamer trunk

 

Hepped on the High Life

My wallet is bare but my thirst, still quenched

Watching the sunrise from a public bench

Downtown within the urban stench

It seems not long ago that this chemical swill

Made me glad for a moment of cheap thrills

A proletarian potion that cured my ills

 

Hepped on the High Life

Girl on the moon, an advertising scheme

A familiar illustration of a femme and her moonbeam

An alternate choice to Genesee Cream

When the coins in my pocket were few to trade

I felt more grateful for this champagne lemonade

Bubbling from the bottle, when its price is paid

 

Hepped on the High Life

A Miller killer, not unlike Phyllis Diller

Or a vinyl spin of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’

A bag of ice on top makes it a chiller

I used to think that adulthood would dispense

My taste for a drink counted out in red cents

But what appeared was a reverse image in the lens

 

Hepped on the High Life

Truly tasty when Taco Bell goes before

Ground-up roadkill and sawdust swept off the floor

It makes me forget what I was drinking for

A slappy, happy fall down the stairs

Dancing with angels, unaware

Too numb to think, too blitzed to care

 

Hepped on the High Life

Strangely still able to bust out the rhymes

And wind up my wristwatch, keeping time

Less pretentious by far than a Corona with lime

My hands are dirty from wrenching on trucks

And I’ve fallen from grace, not a suitor of Lady Luck

But it’s a fair price for oblivion, where I want to be stuck

 

Hepped on the High Life

I drink in the evening, a habit accepted by some

But what about for breakfast? I might be shunned

Yet in retirement, there is no schedule for fun

I think about the tales spun off my spool

And living discretely by the Golden Rule

Now I’m a loner and an oddball fool

 

Hepped on the High Life

No gold medal hanging on a ribbon strand

No celebration for which to strike up the band

I’m swimming in suds, a solitary man

It doesn’t make me feel the least bit concerned

To hear about life lessons that I ought to have learned

I’ll still be drinking when the season has turned

 

My lazy drive to the village in Morgan Township offered a useful diversion to clear away mental cobwebs, while traveling. It also helped to fill my pantry and refrigerator. But most importantly, it set loose a creative jones that produced another column for this series.