c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(6-24)
All I needed was a case of beer.
It had been a lazy, Tuesday afternoon in the Ice Household. One that followed a dinnertime mashup of chicken parts, baked and fried, before being combined with Ramen noodles, and green onions. Something that kicked off the week as I watched WWE wrestling while enjoying a cool beverage. But in the morning, I found my kitchen in a messy state. And plenty of chores left for another day. So, after seasoning my carbon steel wok, and putting it away, I took clothes from the dryer and folded them dutifully, on my bed. Then checked the refrigerator to assess what was on hand.
Quantities of staple items like bread, eggs, and butter looked acceptable. A quick survey of my cupboards echoed this happy report. I had enough goods on hand to survive, at least until need and necessity made me eager to venture down Rock Creek Road, once again. But a single, nagging deficiency spoiled this moment of satisfaction. My cardboard case of Yuengling brew had nearly run empty. This violated a canon rule of life in a mobile home community, which I had always followed with religious fealty.
“Never start drinking unless you have enough to finish!”
The weather forecast for Ohio had been somewhat grim, recently. Advisories for an elevated heat index and dangerous outdoor conditions were being broadcast on every television channel, and via radio and social media sites. Normally, I would’ve ignored such dramatic bulletins as something designed to keep viewers and listeners bound to their devices. Yet a power surge and momentary outage had already rattled my nerves. Drinking coffee at an earlier hour had caused me to sweat and fume. So, I had fans circulating air from a single cooler in the window.
Local meteorologists predicted several days at 100 degrees or more, something slightly unexpected for June, and not at all common by the shoreline of Lake Erie. I figured that some would opine that it was evidence of climate change taking effect. While others would urge consumers to curtail their use of electric power. I did not fret over the hot spell, or my ability to cope. Yet seeing a meager number of cans in my fridge caused a genuine state of alarm. So, I rapped one of my canes on the floor, in a show of determination.
“Dang it, by all that is holy and righteous, I’ve got to get more Ying! So help me, God!”
I found clean clothes and made myself presentable enough for a short trek to Trumbull Locker Plant, which was just a short distance from my trailer oasis. With a bit of arthritic hobbling, I worked my way from the front door, down a wooden access ramp, to my car. The black SUV was glistening in a powerful glow of unrestrained sunlight. I paid little attention to the dry, dusty conditions. And the desiccated pop of gravel under my athletic shoes. But when grabbing hold of the roofline, to swing my body into place behind the steering wheel, suddenly, there came a revelation of sorts about the marvel of solar energy. A force streamed through outer space and our planetary atmosphere, with gusto. It had me questioning my own preferences for dark apparel and automobiles.
Why did I like having a black wagon, so much?
My right hand was singed immediately, when touching the metal surface. The sting caused me to reflexively jump backward, cursing and stumbling, and desperate to keep my footing. I spouted a series of four-letter words that were thankfully drowned out by the clatter of a garbage truck, performing its weekly absolution for our neighborhood.
“WOW! THIS LITTLE RATTLEBOX IS LIKE A ROTISSERIE OVEN!”
When I tried to back into the driver’s seat instead, the loose stones in my driveway almost caused an accident. I began to slide forward, out of position. Then spun around to catch myself. Finally, I grimaced and grabbed the roof again. Then plopped into place, behind the windshield. The entire vehicle shook on its suspension. A wobbly bounce of tires and springs had me feeling like someone at an amusement park.
I pounded the dashboard with my fist. It also had reached a temperature far past my comfort zone.
“ALL I NEED IS A CASE OF BEER! WHY DOES THIS HAVE TO BE SO FREAKING HARD?”
On the way to my intended destination, I had every window rolled down, and the sunroof pulled back. Rushing wind toyed with my ears, causing a booming vortex to form inside of the vehicle. The cell phone in my pocket was ringing, but I couldn’t hear it calling out for attention. Janis, my friend from Ashtabula County, was calling to chat about her continued confinement in a skilled-care facility. She hit my number several times in a row. Yet her persistence yielded nothing. I was lost in a daydream of desert sands, and suffering from dehydration.
Only one thing kept me on the road. A need to restock my refrigerator, and know that my daily intake of adult refreshment could commence!
I felt like a firewalker performing in a circus environment, while going inside the meat emporium, and purveyor of convenience goods. But a brief dive into their beverage cave offered relief. The cool blast of that artificial environment brought a sense of calm I needed. At the register, I was greeted by one of the owners, who had been working on filling his cases. We hadn’t seen each other in months, maybe even a year or two. So, my appearance must have been unfamiliar. Having foregone trips to a barber shop, or the use of a razor for personal care, I now had the look of a mountaineer. Gray and shaggy, and very much in keeping with the hillbilly bloodline of my ancestors. Yet the rasp of my voice jogged his memory.
“Hey Rod, good to see you man! Stay cool, brother! Take it easy!”
Outside, I found that the drive from my boxcar community had cooled things off, an act of mercy that I appreciated. Getting inside the diminutive, 4x4 rig was not so difficult as before. But as I buckled up, and turned the ignition key, my wireless device sounded once again.
Janis left a message this time, with a snarl of resentment at being ignored.
“WHAT’S THE DEAL, RODBERT? DID YOU MELT IN THIS HEAT? QUIT STALLING, AND ANSWER YOUR PHONE!”
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