c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(6-24)
Shelton Swanson had been at Evergreen Estates since his days as a student at Ledgemont Elementary School. A time in the not-too-distant past when he still carried obvious traits of a childish, developing intellect. Someone learning about life by experiencing situations in his rural neighborhood on a first-hand basis. He did not question the paradigms of his environment, or the circumstances that found him deposited in such a remote and isolated community. Instead, to follow an old maxim often quoted by his maternal grandmother, he grew where he was planted.
This strategy was steeped in wisdom and care inspired by generations that went before.
Days in his young life were occupied with securing gainful employment. He worked for Giant Eagle, the supermarket chain, and also Sheetz, a convenience depot. He did odd jobs around the park, fixing skirting that had come loose, and handled plumbing issues that were not too serious. He never charged much money for these errands. It was his mission to help others as needed. He reckoned that being present and available would boost his own personal karma, and pay dividends in the future.
But in the evenings, when his slate of duties ran dry, he felt strangely alone.
On a Wednesday in June, he lingered outside as a light rain began to fall. This seasonal blessing caused his lawn to green up with a verdant hue of vitality. It swelled the wooden timbers of his deck. And streaked the concrete walkway that bordered his lot with long lines of damp gray. He breathed in this sporadic visitation of moisture with gratitude. It invigorated him, and revived his soul. Yet as he tilted sideways, against a railing by his seat, and began to reach out to friends over his cellular device, a mood of desolation began to take hold.
No one answered his calls. Not Helena, the veteran deli clerk he knew from Geneva, or Magda, the hotel service matron who led a staff in Ashtabula. Not Farken Rye, his manager and mentor at the IGA in Perry Township. Not even Rolf DeVere, his teacher at the high school which had now been closed down after a district reorganization.
He was alone in every sense. Disconnected and exiled in the moment.
This odd condition of feeling unplugged caused him to turn pale and go numb. He stared straight ahead, while breathing with a mechanical rhythm. In and out and in and out, repeatedly, in rapid succession. His eyes saw spots that were not literally in his field of vision. He grew tense and nervous. His hands trembled. Over and over, he repeated the dialing sequence through a contact app on his device. Then pleaded to be heard.
“Hello? Hello? Pick up the line, will you? Pick up already, I want to talk. I need to talk! This loneliness is crushing me, seriously! Please! Recognize me, and answer!”
The emptiness seemed to echo for an eternity. No reply of any sort came in response. He began to wilt like a thirsty flower. Going dry and desiccated and brittle, as the heat stole his life force. He jabbed at the phone screen with his index finger. Wanting and hoping for a reprieve of some sort. Desperate and damned. But still eager to be redeemed.
“Somebody answer me, please! Somebody, anybody! I can’t be the only one connected here, there must be a hundred names and numbers in my group of contacts! A hundred numbers, at least! I’m waiting to make contact!”
As he teetered on the brink of irrelevance, a ring sounded in his ear. Sorghum Klieg appeared on the display of his wireless link. She had the slim, lengthy profile of a marathon runner. With large, deep eyes colored light brown. They hadn’t had a conversation in months, or even years. Yet her response caused his insides to tingle. She spoke with a lilt in her voice, a characteristic of the bloodline from which she had sprung. A family rooted in the woods of central Pennsylvania, far from the confines of their trailer village.
“Sheltie! What’s wrong, buddy? You sound frantic, that isn’t your usual vibe. Tell me your story, you know I’m always glad to listen...”
He brushed the shaggy, brown mess out of his eyes. A ruddy flush of embarrassment made him turn pink.
“I’m here on the porch with a ginger ale, it’s so hot outside today. Really, really hot!”
Sorghum giggled and whistled. Her head nodded to a silent beat of musical energy.
“Anybody else would be drinking something stronger! Maybe beer or whiskey or vodka. But not you, buddy! Not you, no, no, no! I always thought that made you charming. An overgrown boy in a man’s body, right? I get it, you wouldn’t want to offend your mama...”
Shelton tingled from her half-baked insult.
“What, are you saying I’m a mama’s boy? Because if that’s your take, then I think you ought to stick that opinion where the sun don’t shine!”
His female opposite roared with amusement.
“Please dude, quit trying to sound like a hardass! You’re hilarious! I know it’s no fun when you’ve had a soft drink and you feel like the world has disappeared. It sucks! Pour some liquor in that glass! Just drink your mash and let the alcohol sink in! It’s okay, I’m here for you! I’m right here on the other side of this park!”
Her cohort felt emasculated and weak. But he remembered that a bottle of Yukon Jack was still in his cupboard, a leftover prize from their neighborhood Christmas party. He grew bold when pondering that it had never been opened. With a leap off of his folding chair, and a quick dive to the kitchen, he retrieved the container. Then, a hard twist of the cap loosed its contents.
He poured the Canadian liqueur into his vessel of sweet ale. And tilted his head backward, to enjoy a full swig of the mixture, with no inhibitions.
The wash of sugary spice and strong spirits soon had him panting like a dog.
“GAWDAMM, SORGIE! GAWDAMM! THAT’S JUST WHAT I NEEDED!”
Sorghum huffed knowingly, and cleared her narrow throat.
“Of course it is! Now sit there and let the juice settle your mood! I’ll be right over with a pizza and a deck of Uno cards! Quit feeling sorry for yourself! All you had to do was call a friend! You’re not a telephone orphan after all!”
No comments:
Post a Comment