“Coming Home”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

Last curve before coming home

On a Saturday night, alone

Down a rural road, south of Lake Erie

Hard right at the four-way stop

Skidding slightly on rain-soaked blacktop

Pulse pumping with anticipation

Knowing that soon, I’ll be deep in a cold swim

A bottle of brew from the refrigerator

Until fatigue and frolic knock me out, a bit later

That’s the routine I seek

I’ve been stuck at work all week

Doing things that others might consider a chore

Managing a grocery store

Life often gets in the way, I’ve been told

When the careening arc of a career intersects with panning for gold

Full pockets and a broken heart

Praying that my truck battery has one more start

That’ll get me to town

A district of notable renown

Run like a carnival on the shore of that blue mass

Waves lapping the sand under a moonlight hourglass

I remember once, a dozen years ago

Dancing with my second wife, gliding champagne slow

We somehow slipped onto the beach, unnoticed

And capriciously had our fanciful tryst

She and that mood of making love are long gone

But the essence of loss lingers on

A twinkle of starlight that teases me as I drive

Making up for that companionship, deprived

Straight across the eastern flank, and county line marked

Until I pull in my driveway, and sit in the dark

Ripping a round out of a 12-pack

Dribbling beer over my work shirt and slacks

Up the sidewalk, stepping cautiously around reflections of the lunar orb

Tasting droplets that my clothes did not absorb

Each tickle on the tongue

Reminds me that this day is done

Home on an electric range

A sweet abode, paid for with chump change

My kingdom come

Held together with duct tape and bubblegum

Vinyl-sided and sometimes, derided

By friends who can afford a better perch

Those gifted with a more reasonable worth

I just zip up my jacket when the storms get loud

In a place like this, self-pity isn’t allowed

Just a shoulder put to the wheel

Hardwood stocks, and stainless steel

And maybe a secret kiss in the shadows

Depending on which way the wind blows

If I can see her face, yet

In this age of things I’d rather forget

Standing at the front door, aimlessly thinking

That having not yet turned the key, but here I am drinking

My shame, concealed

By the late hour, and a neighborhood brought in on wheels

Guilt is erased

I rub the beard stubble on my face

Bump against the entryway plank

Until it swings freely, musty and rank

Scrunching stale carpet strands

A residue of motor oil still on my hands

From a quick check before this journey awoke

Now I’m here at last, a solitary bloke

Free for the overnight

About to partake of my savory delight

Listen to the insect horde

Chirp out melodies that the pilgrims must have adored

While in their cabins and tents

Civilizing the outback of a frontier-for-rent

Divided into long plots of concrete, and strips of green

A mobile-home oasis where poor kids dream

Of someday living large, in an upscale tower

Where boozers and vagrants get paid by the hour

To model for art students in need of imagination

They took the RTA from Cleveland station

A longer ride than mine

Coming home from South Broadway, after working overtime

Good God, give me rest, absolution in the moment

A hand-up to touch the hem of your garment

Or failing that, to pop the top on a beverage from the icebox

Now that I’ve finished learning lessons at the school of hard knocks

Sunset holds sway at last

As the scripture said, “This too shall pass”

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Here & Gone”

 

c.2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

 

Most mornings in the Icehouse begin with coffee, toast, and groaning about muscle aches and arthritis. While watching news broadcasts on television, or catching sports hosts on Cleveland radio outlets, offering their witty prognostications. Eventually, I almost always end up in the home office, a large bedroom at the back of my home where I have an oversized Anderson-Hickey desk, two four-drawer file towers, and lots of reference material.

 

But after a recent sunrise, once my wake-up ritual had been completed, I lounged at the in-home workspace, while looking through posts online. The telephone rang as I was scrolling, and I felt grateful for this unexpected diversion. Helen, a friend who had been on the Deli crew in Geneva, at Giant Eagle, showed up on the screen via caller ID. When I heard her familiar, friendly voice, there was no hint that she came bearing any sort of bad news. Yet as I listened, a chill began to settle over my skin. Instead of ruminating about her own creaking joints, she spoke in a hush regarding someone we both knew from our time at the Ashtabula County food emporium.

 

“Do you remember a woman named Kim from the store on South Broadway? I don’t know what happened, but she apparently passed away. She always rang on the same register, number one. And also helped out with the grill outside, doing ribs and chicken and whatever. They put flowers on her lane, and a sign outside by the smoker stand...”

 

At first, the information did not connect, because there had been multiple employees with that name during my tenure as a salaried manager. And, because I still felt slightly groggy. But as my associate from yonder days described the person she wished to identify in more detail, suddenly, I latched onto her point of reference.

 

“She was one who always had a sense of humor, no matter where they put her in the store. Sort of funny and goofy at times. Always smiling! I remember that she walked to work, it wasn’t far for her, I guess...”

 

My jaw dropped, and both eyes flooded with tears.

 

“WALKED TO WORK? DAMMIT, YOU MUST MEAN, LIL’ KIM FROM THE FRONT END?”

 

Instantly, my heart shattered into many brittle pieces of woe. On more than one occasion, I had seen her pass the front windows at a veterinary clinic where my Labrador Retriever used to receive care. An animal hospital located right down the street. Once, I had to take him in for a surgical procedure, and return a few hours later. She appeared in-transit during both halves of this split visit. Bobbing her head to imaginary music, and taking in the scenery of our colorful community near Lake Erie.

 

Helen fretted over kitchen chores, while talking with her device on the speaker setting.

 

“Maybe you can figure out what happened by looking on Facebook? I haven’t been on my computer in days now. That thing just makes me mad, too much nonsense happening in the world...”

 

I knew that current team members and retirees like myself were still very active on the site. So, I logged on while she diverted our conversation to the topic of a special, three-day ad that would include staple items. Plus, salty snacks and packages of bacon.

 

“Buy two, get two free on chips. Who needs four bags of chips? Not me! But I am interested in getting packs of Sugardale bacon for $1.99 each! I’m gonna load my freezer! Except it’s already loaded! I got nowhere to put anything else!”

 

It was hard to read entries on the computer. My eyesight had become bleary, and out-of-focus while pondering that our supermarket chum had crossed over to an eternal plane of existence. Yet I persisted in searching for clues. Finally, a link to her obituary appeared.

 

“It doesn’t say much here about what occurred, just that she died suddenly. When I pulled a summer stint for Gazette Newspapers, a lady who wrote obits worked in the next room. That description got used to fill in the gaps, when she had nothing to add. Additionally, the notice states that Kim was 53. My goodness, that’s ten years younger than I am! Such a shocker! I don’t know what to say!”

 

My erstwhile cohort echoed this sentiment of disbelief.

 

“THAT’S TWENTY YEARS YOUNGER THAN ME! HOO BOY, I DON’T BELIEVE IT!”

 

Once we had finished chatting, I returned to my labor at the desk. Yet my mood had been broken. I couldn’t get dialed-in, mentally. Approximately eight years had passed, since I retired from the little depot for consumable goods. Because of its location on the main avenue between Interstate 90 and Geneva-on-the-Lake, my bygone workplace was known for brisk business patterns, between Memorial Day and Labor Day. Supervising this operation often felt like attending a holiday camp. There were bikers and hotrodders, metalheads and hippies, tourists and vacationers, and all sorts of travelers seeking out wineries and entertainment.

 

I used to joke that it felt odd to receive a paycheck for showing up every day, to join this parade.

 

Pondering the loss of Lil’ Kim made me recall a particular incident shared during a shopping trip, when I was using an electric, Amigo cart to navigate the store. I had sometimes offered segments via social media, called ‘Work Dreams.’ A curiosity created because after leaving the workforce, my subconscious mind seemed to be particularly obsessed with wandering through job adventures of all sorts. While slumbering, I would be building displays, waiting on customers, and greeting employees at new locations opened by our parent company in Pittsburgh.

 

When I had finished making my purchases on that particular day, I rolled toward the lobby with a full load in the disability cart. Its motor strained a bit to carry my own girth, and the groceries. But when I passed the first register, heading out the sliding doors, my friend spotted me in motion. In between customers, she turned and put a hand over her eyes, as if to shield her field of vision from the golden sun, overhead. Then, she called out in a dramatic voice, like a theatrical performer on stage.

 

“Work Dreams! I dreamed that I saw Big Rod shopping at Giant Eagle! He got beer and Pizza Rolls and dog treats and Doritos! Good job, Big Rod! Have a nice day!”

 

Kim was short of stature, yet grand in the dimensions of her glowing personality. I adopted the moniker from a rapper to identify her, whenever I visited the Geneva location. With glee, I would shout her nickname, fondly. Something she seemed to appreciate. Sometimes, patrons who were checking out would nod and smile. I knew that she had a creative streak, wearing festive costumes for Halloween, and sometimes posting videos of short, improvised skits or songs on her Facebook account. It was an angle on her life that I never got to explore. I always suspected that she must have been an artist at heart. Someone I could have connected with as a kindred spirit. Though I only knew her as a cashier, wife to a loving husband, mother, and grandmother. Here and gone too quickly, indeed.

 

Silently, sitting in solitude in throughout the afternoon, I said a prayer for her family. Perhaps, on the far side of the veil between here and oblivion, she will be welcomed at the Pearly Gates with good cheer and love. It is my hope that her worth to all of us will be reflected in the silver and gold features of Heaven.

 

Let trumpets announce her entry, and the Holy Father bid her welcome as a beloved soul.

 

“HEY LIL’ KIM! COME HERE AND SIT BESIDE ME!”

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Sunset Sonata”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln was considered a reprobate in his rural neighborhood of manufactured homes. Which was something of an achievement in an environment where few if any held fast to the discipline of polite society, as practiced in the outside world. Still, his inglorious reputation was something which he held like a badge of honor. It made him happy to be shunned. He preferred to be left alone, and ignored. Drunkenness, however, sometimes brought on a sense of emotional weakness. He would sit on his wooden bench, outside, and ruminate about the man he had been, before life calamities and circumstances had morphed him into a pathetic creature. One which now inhabited his mirror in the guise of a pulp-fiction protagonist. A figure blurred and scarred by wages of sin, dutifully paid in full. When these moments of introspection arrived, he normally dialed a number on his cell phone, while drinking. A contact listed under an anonymous name. Yet one who still sparkled like a diamond in his thoughts.

 

His ex-wife lived in a county closer to Lake Erie. She had their middle-class abode, a circle of loyal friends, a loving family, and the seal of approval given by a judge in the local circuit court. Pity must have motivated her in keeping the same telephone exchange for so many years. Or perhaps, a sense of curiosity about his persistent decline.

 

She never answered his calls. A voicemail program always picked up after five rings and a recorded message. Then, he would unburden himself while slobbering and spitting droplets of bourbon or beer.

 

“Hey, I know you ain’t gonna answer. That don’t matter, it’s all good. I just wanted to let you know that I’m here thinking about old times. Remembering how it used to be, right? We had simple pleasures and not much else. But that was always enough. I hope our son is doing well with his job, and herding the chickens, so to speak. Those grandkids must be getting big by now! I’d like to see for myself. But, I’m an asshole, I understand. It’s a curse, kinda like being a vampire. I can’t go out in the daylight. That’s okay though, I keep my cupboards full of juice. There’s no reason to hit the road, anyway. Take care honey, you and the boy are still in my heart. All of you are, forever...”

 

A loud beeping filled his ear before he had finished with this intoxicated plea. The time limit had run out, abruptly. So, he hit the ‘end call’ icon, and sat in silence for a moment. His face and nose tingled with high-proof spirits. Finally, he reached for a notepad that had been sitting on the porch railing, by his shoulder.

 

Scribbled verses of song filled the page. He began to sing softly, while repeating each word, expressively. In his head, a band of brothers played along, adding melody and rhythm.

 

“Trailer Country, it’s a state of mind

A dropped-off-the-ledge kind of affair

A whole neighborhood full of Walmart goods

Coolers full of cheap beer, and lawn chairs

Trailer Country, it might make you ill

If you’ve come here by taking a wrong turn

But open your mind and sit a spell

Let the pallet-wood fires spark and burn

 

Trailer Country, they call it the heartland

The middle of America where legends rule

Out all night by a singlewide, boxcar home

Getting drunk in a kiddie pool

Trailer Country, don’t bother asking for money

People here share what little they got

When your world is no bigger than the confines

Of a stretched-out, rented lot

 

Trailer Country, big women in Daisy Dukes

With a halter top patterned after a Confederate flag

Strutting up and down a street made of asphalt

Carrying potato chips in a family-size bag

Trailer Country, it’s a wild ride for the newbies

If you haven’t rolled here before, look out!

Somebody with a shotgun is lighting up the evening

Clog dancing, gonna stomp and shout!

 

Trailer Country, they show this thing on the newscasts

And poke fun at people living like hicks

Billionaires bust out bets on who’ll survive the night

Where whiskey sours come from a store-bought mix

Trailer Country, pols and pundits couldn’t give a shit

About residents who populate these avenues

Half-dressed, hopping, and emotionally stressed

By gallons of lemonade and booze

 

Trailer Country, this ain’t no cartoon show

Believe me when I say it’s a way of life, indeed

Living in the hillbilly mud of Appalachia

Light years away from big-city grifters and greed

Trailer Country, it’s a hustle for truck parts and shopping carts

Leftover junk from a flea market by the county line

Take what you need, it won’t cost a quarter

Dumpster diving is the rage when you’ve got to toe the line

 

Trailer Country, those who live here get the inside joke

They mutter and mumble in between the walls

Of homes built on a chassis with wheels in tandem

Brought from a factory, in pieces like cattle stalls

Trailer Country, nobody ever dreamed of being here

Not a single soul spun the wheel to win this prize

But it’s a place to land when Lady Luck gives you the finger

Let her curse the fate that kept you alive

 

Trailer Country, now strike up the jug band

Hoot and holler until the break of dawn

Like a big rig, cruising the lonesome highway

A freightliner forever searching, on and on

Trailer Country, roll the dice and seek redemption

Will you be blessed or cursed as you play?

No one really knows where this hell-ride is headed

So hold on tight to the steering wheel, and pray

 

Trailer Country, the gods have abandoned this patch

A plot of ground recreated in the shadow of a hill

No fortunate sons or daughters to be found

Just a breath of life sustained by whiskey and pills

Trailer Country, bootheels and driven steel

Four-wheeling through thistles and weeds sprung from the loam

Giving thanks for a full freezer and a propane tank

The grill burns hot at this manufactured home...”

 

Next door, Calista Bowe had been doing dishes by her kitchen window. But the sound of a male voice gently crooning caught her attention. She rested her soapy hands on the counter ledge, while listening. Soon, her head began to bop forward and back, to the beat that was implied. She had become very familiar with her neighbor across the yard, during a half-dozen years at Evergreen Estates.

 

The big-haired, young woman nodded and offered messy applause, when he had finished. Lincoln drifted off into alcoholic oblivion as she smiled at his snoring, snorting display of surrender.

 

“Y’all are a gawdamm riddle, old man! But I sure enjoy hearing yer songs!”

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Brass Ring”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

 

Fargo Swain had been at Evergreen Estates since a rainy night in 1985, after his Cleveland employer announced the closing of all its facilities. Plus the immediate termination of managers and workers, and the sale of properties remaining, to a Chinese firm operating in Mexico. His life collapsed with this dreadful move to clear the urban site. He was abandoned by family members, and ostracized from the social circle that once embraced him as a valued member. But while languishing in debt and depression, he found one avenue to rediscover the golden glow of daylight. It revived his sense of well-being, and humanity.  

 

In the back of a closet by the entertainment center in his living room, he located a student-size, Stella guitar that had originally been purchased by his late father, through a Sears & Roebuck catalog. A Christmas gift that had delighted his son. An instrument on which the curious boy learned to play chords and crude Blues licks, styled after heroes from the postwar south.

 

Drunkenness and staying aloof made him forget about the woody instrument for decades. But as he emerged from a fog of alcoholic abuse, the old pluckster returned by chance. A YouTube video sparked his memory, by offering a commercial he remembered as a kid. One that spoke about potential holiday gifts, including the budget product made domestically, by Harmony.

 

Still reeling from his detour to sobriety, he rummaged through the vertical space until his prize appeared, behind stacked shoes, hanging coats, and a Sanyo boom box he had bought as college student. The axe was nestled in its original, chipboard case. Dusty and dirty, yet still able to belt out tones that evoked the spirit of Robert Johnson or Leadbelly.

 

He sat on a Cotton Club crate, that once held glass quarts. And began to render song lyrics from memory. Verses that he had written on notebook paper during long nights when he had a few hours away from work.

 

“Life is hard, I’ve heard it said

It can rob a man of his heart and his head

But I never thought, that would happen to me

I found myself at the wishing well

With a pocket of pennies, and a story to tell

Devil days have brought me to my knees

Now I might sound like a fool at heart

But I’ve always been glad to do my part

I never tried to hide, from the wages of sin

All I ask is a chance at the gold

One more shot at redeeming my soul

A crow of the rooster, to let the healing begin

 

Once upon a time I was young and clean

Squeezed like the sweetness of a jellybean

By older folks who thought I’d grow up strong

But somehow my walk of life got busted

I stomped around the mean streets, mistrusted

And found that going along can turn out wrong

I should have knelt and prayed to the Lord

But I was busy with a switchblade sword

I thought that spike would cut right to the chase

Only then did I come to see

That my path was posed on a demon seed

The mirror cried while reflecting an old man’s face

 

Now I play the Blues at dawn

A weary soul, traveling on

Fingers to the frets, feet on the floor

I ready and willing to make amends

Even if it costs me some beloved friends

All I need is Monte Hall, to direct me to the door

I’ve wasted enough time on selfish pride

And this spinning, laughing, merry-go-round ride

Now I need a puncher’s chance to play and sing

Sing for my supper, so to speak

Though my boomer bones are whitewashed and weak

I’m still tall in the saddle, let me grab the ring

 

Gonna grab the brass ring...”

 

The mobile home sounded oddly silent once he had finished playing. Then, his telephone began to jingle. Betsy Adamic, who lived next door, had been lounging on her deck. A pallet-board creation, situated at the back of a long, white, singlewide abode with flower gardens at both ends.

 

“Hey buddy, I hear you over there crooning and kicking out melodies! Dang, that’s a happy sound! You haven’t jammed in years. Sometimes I wondered if you died in that longbox! Come outside, I want to hear it better! Play me something, I’m bored with the radio anyway!”

 

Fargo was embarrassed and shy from being isolated for so long. He stroked beard stubble on his broad chin. And bowed in reflection.

 

“Sorry if I was making a racket, I didn’t mean to be a pest, you know?”

 

His young neighbor whistled like a barmaid.

 

“I’ve got cold beer and smokies from that meat locker around the corner. C’mon dude, it’s a short hike across the yard! You sit in there all day by yourself, some company would do you good!”

 

Suddenly, his mood turned dark and serious.

 

“Thank you, Bee. But... no. I’ve got to work my way through this, alone. Today was the anniversary of my separation from Erie Fabricating and Foundry, Incorporated. The last flash of humanity for me and a hundred others that were still on the crew. There had been layoffs for a year at least, before the shop closed for good. That move cost the city a lot. It cost the whole northcoast a lot. And it broke up my marriage, and family. You get it? The newspapers only detail dollars and cents when something like that happens. But the real hurt, the kind that doesn’t show, that can last a long, long time...”

 

Betsy heard the receiver click, ominously. Her line had gone silent.

 

She waited patiently for a few minutes, while sipping Bud Light Lime. Then, a new tune began to echo from next door. She tapped her bare foot in time to the rhythm, and smiled.

 

“Happy Anniversary, it’s in my head

The kind of date I’d rather lose, but instead

That calendar page seems to hang heavily in my heart

Like a reminder on the kitchen wall

That makes me curse and say ‘Damn it all!’

Knowing time does nothing, but push us farther apart

Yesterday you were there at my side

A prom date and a blushing bride

The preacher said ‘Remember, till death do us part!’

But that promise couldn’t erase the stain

Of being bankrupt and stranded in the rain

Circumstances damn sure upset the apple cart

 

You’re somewhere, but I can’t name the place

Rescued by a dose of saving grace

A better thing than I could have done on my own

I’ll accept the harsh judgement of time

And my spot, standing in a soup line

If it means you finally found a happy home

Yeah, I’m a drifter by chance not choice

You can hear rattle, it in my voice

That sound of cigarettes and long nights at the bar

It doesn’t matter how the story is told

When the feeling of being bought and sold

Makes you wish like a child, upon a star

 

Wish upon a star...”

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “News Overload”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

 

Morning at the Icehouse began with overcast skies that left my kitchen oddly dark, as I was making coffee. For two nights I had been up late, on the front porch, and reconnecting with old friends via my cell phone. The first of these calls ran until about four o’clock, long after I should have been in bed. The second was more brief, just an after-dark chat which ended before midnight. Yet with a feeling of renewed vigor, I kept going. Aimlessly scrolling and searching and messaging while everyone else was fast asleep.

 

Thankfully, several rounds of caffeine blasted me out of a funk, as the new day arrived.

 

I was still groggy while clicking through channels on my television. News stories blared details of war and conflict, and political machinations, while I clutched at my stomach. I tried different networks but every avenue was full of punditry, protests and mayhem. The overload gave me a feeling of burn-out. Finally, I looked for the YouTube app and brought up a review by Bill from Curious Cars. He had landed a 1991 Cadillac Brougham d’Elegance. A stately, stoic vehicle in the American tradition of yesteryear luxury. This motorcar fix was exactly what I needed to relax.

 

Watching him roam around his land yacht with a Go-Pro camera eased my tense mood. Eventually, I forgot about the chaos of real-world conditions. My toast and wake-up juice worked their magic. Then, the phone rang as I was getting ready to take a shower.

 

Janis, my friend who now lives at a skilled-care facility in Ashtabula, seemed happy when I answered quickly. Her voice sounded strong and cheerful. I guessed that she would relate details of her breakfast and perhaps, an outside session spent enjoying a moment of cool comfort on their patio. But instead, she began to complain.

 

“I GOTTA PEE! DAMMIT! I GOTTA PEE!”

 

I nearly dropped my wireless device.

 

“What the heck, if you really needed a potty break, then why did you call first?”

 

She seemed to think that the question was ridiculous.

 

“I don’t know! Doesn’t coffee make you want to take a piss? Geez Rodbert! You’re always such a crabass in the morning! I bet it’s because you sit there watching the icky news!”

 

My jaw drooped as I sat back in the chair, battling disbelief.

 

 “As a matter of fact, I turned off that data-stream, today. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I’ve been catching up with old friends lately, and all they wanted to blab about was the sorry state of world affairs. Both declared that our way of life was in peril, for differing reasons. Each had convinced themselves that liberty and democracy were headed out the window, unless I joined their causes. You know, became a member of their philosophical tribe. I’ve never been a joiner. Never been a volunteer...”

 

My substitute soulmate cackled and rapped her fingers on the lunchroom table.

 

“Shitttt, I’ve never voted before. Have you? I suppose it’s one of those things that old people take seriously. I remember that my granny talked about voting. I think she voted for Kennedy, damn, that was before I got borned. She went to church too, some kind of methodist bunch, I think. They had picnics by the lake. That was the only part I liked. Who does that stuff now? Bored, geeky people like you?”

 

My face burned with embarrassment.

 

“Look, I don’t think there’s an age factor involved. Good citizenship should be for everybody...”

 

Janis snorted as if she wanted to blow her nose.

 

“DAMMIT, I GOTTA PEE!”

 

My pulse started to pound like a jackhammer.

 

“You said that before, go relieve yourself and call me back later!”

 

Somehow, there was a mental disconnect at work. I imagined her sitting stiffly with both legs crossed, cursing her predicament. Before long, she would be perched in a puddle. Yet I couldn’t make her brain cells link up to take action. She needed to figure it out on her own. An edgy quality swelled her voice as she kept talking.

 

“There’s a lady here named Gretel, can you believe it? What a bitch, she bummed smokes off of me yesterday, and then had a coughing fit. The nurses blamed me for sharing my stash! I won’t ever do anything nice for her again! She can kiss my fat ass!”

 

I laughed and shook my head in disagreement.

 

“You don’t have much of a booty, Ms. Mays. Trust me, that’s why your pants are always falling down. I remember your roomie joking about that! You need suspenders! Or a rope like Elly May Clampett...”

 

My friend did not get the pop-culture reference.

 

“WHO THE EFF IS THAT? SHE WEARS A GAWDAMM ROPE TO HOLD UP HER JEANS?”

 

I had to clear my throat before continuing our conversation.

 

“Didn’t you ever watch the Beverly Hillbillies? I mean like, in reruns?”

 

Janis shrieked in my ear.

 

“I GOTTA PEE! I GOTTA PEE!”

 

By now, I guessed that she must be having painful spasms. I implored her to hang up and make a mad dash for the restroom.

 

“Get off the phone and do your business! I’ll be here for the rest of today. I’m not going anywhere! You can catch me later, it’s not an inconvenience. Quit acting like an ornery kid!”

 

She continued to ramble, instead of listening to the call of nature.

 

“Granny made me wear dresses to church, that was messed up, you know? They were pink and yellow and powder blue! With tights that made my legs feel hot! I never liked wearing a dress! She would curl my hair and tie it up with a ribbon! That really chapped my ass! What was I supposed to be, a freaking baby doll? I never played with dolls!”

 

I closed my eyes and slumped over the end table.

 

“If you have an accident, the aides will scold you. Go to the bathroom. Do it now!”

 

Janis hissed and giggled.

 

“You’re such a dick in the morning! I like you better after a few beers. You have a sense of humor then, I like drunk Rodbert! At least he doesn’t tell me what to do! He just passes out on his wooden bench!”

 

I shivered from thinking that someone at her nursing home might be eavesdropping.

 

“I’m not a drunk, okay? That’s an exaggeration. What I am is concerned about you...”

 

My unconventional counterpart stood up suddenly, as if a bolt of lightning had energized her brain. Finally, her network of cerebral synapses must have connected.

 

“I GOTTA PEE! TALK TO YOU LATER, RODBERT! BYE BYE!”

 

My phone returned to its home screen. I sat relishing the silence for a moment, while pondering that my coffee cup was completely empty.

 

I had survived the morning. Now, it was time to do something productive. Like, start a load of laundry.

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here - “Opinion Noted”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

 

Telephones – I am not a fan.

 

For whatever reason in my later years, I have become someone who rarely uses the telephone for actual conversation. Perhaps because of my tilt toward writing as a meaningful career pursuit, I eschew talking one-to-one over a landline or cellular connection. It seems much easier to handle text messages, or e-mail communication. Having a safe distance between sender and receiver lets me read and respond as I choose. I prefer that buffer of safety to being hooked like a fish. For speaking audibly with another human being, I would rather see them directly. Though of course, being left alone is something I cherish above anything else.

 

A recent morning at the Icehouse reminded me of this preference. One of my friends from across the county line called to let me know about her aches and pains, and gossip a bit regarding the workplace where we had met. At first, our banter was pleasant enough, a free-form journey by rail, metaphorically speaking. But somehow, we got diverted onto a political track. I rarely, if ever, discuss my philosophy of government and citizenship with anyone. Except for a very few astute people who have mentored me along the way. I developed this shyness over wonky, lost-in-the-weeds intellectual discourse, or typical grandstanding, because confessing my distaste for being herded like a barnyard chicken has often seemed to arouse a sense of horror and disbelief.

 

Having my thought processes arbitrarily steered left or right is an experience I reject. Because it calls into question the premise of individual liberty, and also risks giving me a bad case of dyspepsia.

 

Honoria Stunt snorted and sniffled when I reacted to her rant about American democracy potentially vanishing if the wrong candidate were to be elected in our upcoming election cycle. She was someone a bit older and more experienced, a product of union environments and traditions. I have always appreciated her work ethic and discipline. But on this occasion, a spark of disagreement crackled over our electronic connection. I tried to choose my words carefully when answering her call to action.

 

“Look, I get that you don’t care for a particular candidate, or their party. I don’t either. But my take on the choice we face is different than yours, philosophically...”

 

My friend who had spent years wearing an apron and gloves, doing kitchen work professionally, was miffed. I could hear the tone of her voice rising.

 

“Different? Umm... okay. Different, how?”

 

I had to clear my throat due to allergies from the summer season.

 

“I know this might sound ridiculous, said out loud, but I think that our democracy ended for practical purposes, many years ago. I don’t trust either side. Think about it, you get opposite choices every two or four years. Left hand, right hand. Mc Donald’s or Burger King. Pizza Hut or Domino’s. Chevy or Ford. Browns or Steelers. Guardians or Yankees. Giant Eagle or Walmart. It’s a bit more complicated than that of course, but my point is that the system perpetuates itself. There is nothing more important than maintaining the overarching power structure. That means everything to the ruling class. It is why third-parties face challenges to ballot access and money. Have you heard people complain about voter suppression? The fact is, it happens every day in America. But not in the manner you might think. Our duopoly, the two major parties, fight to keep balloting channeled into one slot or the other. Anything else is considered seditious and unpatriotic...”

 

Honoria must have been scratching her gray mop of wiry, curly hair. I could hear that she was having difficulty breathing.

 

“WHERE DID YOU PICK UP CRAZY IDEAS LIKE THAT, RODNEY?”

 

I was embarrassed to explain my heritage. But tried to do so anyway.

 

“You see, I was raised in what I call a ‘two-party family.’ My father was an Eisenhower Republican. My mother, an FDR Democrat. Neither would give any ground to each other, politically. Yet they both loved this nation. They loved our traditions and beliefs. They invested themselves in helping to work for the common good. Their partisan identities were always second to faith in the republic, above all else...”

 

My former workplace associate laughed and busied herself watering potted plants, while talking.

 

“Well, all of that sounds great! You can’t be the only kid who grew up with lively debates at the dinner table. But how did you get that twisted into thinking our democracy is gone? Are you a nut or something?”

 

I sighed loudly, and smiled.

 

“You might have differing thoughts regarding my outlook, but consider this before passing judgment. Tribal rancor now rules the day. Lobbyists and elites are largely in control of governing this land, regardless of what party holds dominance. Both sides play to their base supporters. But in the end, bankers and barons and insurers run the show. When I was at the point of bankruptcy, as our financial system teetered on the brink of collapse, it became necessary to negotiate debts. Many creditors took 30 or 40 percent as a payoff, to settle my accounts. But then, the IRS said that I had to claim the forgiven amount as income. I ended up with a one-year tax liability of around $5000.00. Now, when General Motors was bailed out, I read that the cost to citizens was $10 billion in total. Think about it, do you suppose that they paid taxes on that sum, erased by our leaders?”

 

Honoria fidgeted with her cell phone for a minute, before answering.

 

“Well, I suppose not. But what difference does it make?”

 

I huffed and brought my device closer.

 

“The point is that we play the game by different rules. Things are rigged, that is no exaggeration. It happens every day. You’ll hear tired, hackneyed phrases like ‘no one is above the law.’ But in literal terms, that is just horseshit! You know it and I know it, in our hearts...”

 

She must have had tears in her eyes.

 

“Have you always had such extreme opinions? My goodness, Rodney! I used to think you were a pretty normal guy, until right now!”

 

Her candid comment had me nodding with a grin.

 

“That’s why I don’t talk on the phone, much. Except to people like you, I like to hear about your garden and that freezer in your back room, full of bargains from the surplus stores!”

 

This random interjection broke the dark mood that had colored our conversation. Suddenly, my supermarket cohort squealed and whistled with gleeful amusement. My contrarian opinions had been noted. Now, she was ready to say goodbye.

 

“SPEAKING OF MY FREEZER, I CAN HARDLY GET THE DOOR SHUT! WHY OH WHY DO I BUY ALL THIS STUFF? MY CHILDREN ARE GROWN AND HAVE THEIR OWN HOUSES. EVEN THE GRANDKIDS! IF YOU’RE OUT THIS WAY STOP BY SOMETIME! I’LL FILL UP THE TRUNK OF YOUR CAR! ADIOS, LOCO MUCHACHO!”

 

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here – “Lord Chesterfield”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

 

My week here at the Icehouse began with a surreal amount of news stories. Worldwide woes with internet connectivity, thanks to a CrowdStrike update that affected Microsoft platforms. The abdication of President Joe Biden from his campaign for reelection to office. The bombastic return of Donald J. Trump to his own quest to regain the White House, after nearly being assassinated in Butler, Pennsylvania. And in personal terms, my need to gain e-check certification for the household hauler, so that my license plates could be renewed.

 

I decided on visiting the Lake County emissions center, a favored spot during a dozen years spent living in Painesville. I thought that going to a familiar location would make things snappy. On Sunday morning, I headed north toward Madison, while enjoying the friendly, summer climate. But too soon, my breezy mood would be scuttled by circumstance.

 

There was major road work occurring at Route 20, the east to west corridor south of Lake Erie. So, when I reached that important intersection, traffic was decidedly heavy. The lanes of travel were narrow and bordered by barricades. Once I turned left, it was as if I had entered a construction project modeled after a demolition derby. There were warning signs and orange cones and paint stripes, everywhere. I lost track of my surroundings despite having been home in Ohio for over 40 years.

 

When I reached my destination at the E-Check depot, their single, self-serve kiosk was out of order. No explanation was given, only the offer of a brochure which listed other locations that were theoretically available. Otherwise, they were closed for the period. A survey of details on my cell phone did not reveal any information about services being interrupted.

 

I had become stalled in virtual quicksand.

 

Grumbling quietly, I headed through the capital city along Liberty Street, to reach Routes 84 and then 86. A path back to my rural home in Thompson Township. But I soon discovered that literally half of this connector was unavailable. The entire northbound lane had been blocked off, for paving. I meandered over bumps and irregularities with caution, until finally reaching the point where I could veer away from this Twilight Zone made of asphalt.

 

While in a dreamscape of yonder days, I had hoped to search for Lord Chesterfield Ale, a product of D.G. Yuengling & Son. But with all of the drama and confusion, my impulsive plan vanished into a haze of futility.

 

I limped home having accomplished nothing except for wasting a quarter-tank of gasoline.

 

Monday morning found me waking early, about fifteen minutes after six o’clock. I tossed and turned in bed before surrendering to consciousness. Then, made coffee and flicked on NewsNation, to hear further details of Uncle Joe’s fall from grace. There were talking heads from both major parties, from a diverse roster of news organizations and think tanks, and from real-world neighborhoods across America. Yet very little genuine enlightenment came from this parade of faux intellect. As I sat sipping java, my focus turned toward more immediate concerns.

 

What about my little Ford SUV in the driveway? How would I find the patience to wait out a perplexing disruption of cyberspace? What magic could give me patience when I yearned to get things done in a timely manner? What miracle could morph me from a quivering mass of urgency, into a calm and careful disciple of practical thinking?

 

The answer was of course, that no such elixir existed. I had to get off of my ass, and be in motion! Speed was the drug I needed. Blue skies overhead, and a landscape of greenery passing by with rapidity.

 

Then and there, I chose to visit the Geauga County E-Check location. A place that I had not used in twenty years, at least. Feeling groggy and out-of-focus, I went through Chardon for a stop at the Post Office, to mail one of my books to program host Rachel Maddow, at MSNBC. A quirky, wacky idea proposed by my mentor and musical muse Dennis Chandler, of Solon. As an adviser and confidante, he had never steered me in the wrong direction. So, despite my own misgivings, I did as he suggested. When I had finished composing my cover letter, I added a business card from my stash on top of a file cabinet, in the home office.

 

Dear Rachel.

 

I am a retired journalist, newspaper editor, and active author in a county southeast of Cleveland... Enclosed here is volume eleven (of my Trailer Park Militia Series), part of my attempt to use good-natured satire to express what life is like in my region of Ohio. There are many events depicted that actually happened, though I render them in a useful form of fiction. My intent was and is to entertain the reader respectfully, and perhaps, provoke thought and discussion.

 

I shared one of these volumes with Rep. Liz Cheney, right before she left office. Regretfully, I never received a reply of any sort. Yet it is my fervent hope that she got a smile out of reading what I wrote, if nothing else.

 

I invite you also to have a look. A character based on your important show and career appears in Chapter 25, ‘Cable.’ (Page 117.)

 

Sincere Regards,

 

 

Rod Ice

 

In honest terms, I had rarely ever watched her program. So, sending out such a package did seem a bit ridiculous. But after at least 50 or more submissions through the postal system, one more needed no justification. I figured that a scattergun strategy would serve me best. Tossing out volumes of work here and there, until at some point, I saw a positive result.

 

After mailing my big envelope, I headed toward the rendezvous with emissions testers on Auburn Road. Yet as my eyes battled the glare, I managed to miss the station entirely. I drove north until eventually reaching Concord Township, and the Fioritto Dental Center.

 

Curses flowed freely from my lips, as I turned around in their parking lot. I had passed my destination somehow, despite attentively scouring the landscape. Going back along the roadway, I saw every familiar address in reverse. Lots of residential plots, small farms, produce stands, and gardens. And finally, the official signage that had been invisible, before.

 

Getting my vehicle certified was a quick affair. The technicians were chatty and visibly bored with their work. I wondered aloud about the worldwide outage that had interrupted services of all sorts. But they had no clues to offer.

 

On the way home, I stopped in Hambden at a Sunoco Fuel oasis, and Redi-Go store, where my shaggy, creaky, hobbling presence was a familiar sight. My favorite cashier was busy ordering product in one of the snack aisles. I joked with her about being trained to perform various tasks. Something I guessed would increase her value as an employee. Her long, red hair had been pulled back into a twisty braid. I liked the stylish design of her glasses. It gave her a studious, nerdy appeal that I found compelling.

 

Driving home, I swelled with confidence over having ticked off so many items from the daily bucket list. Yet then realized that one chore had been dropped with a clumsy lapse of my mental faculties. I had forgotten to ask about Lord Chesterfield, and his green-labeled brew.

 

POTUS Joe must have heard a grandfather clock ticking, when he reached the dreadful conclusion that it was time to end his campaign for a second term. But for myself, a different timepiece split the seconds into a rhythmic pattern. A pop-pop-pop of beer cans being opened, which came later on my front porch.

 

I had purchased a case of Yuengling Premium Pilsner. That prize was enough to carry me through the rest of my day.

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Carrie Calling”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

 

It was late on a Friday morning in the Icehouse home office. After awakening at half past six o’clock, I had made coffee to clear my head. An evening of Yuengling Amber Lager and Totino’s Pizza Rolls had precipitated a restless night in bed. And grogginess with indigestion, afterward. Now, as I sat at my keyboard, the sound of a vintage rotary phone began to jingle from a shelf overhead. This unexpected tone made me sit up straight, and bark in protest.

 

“Heyy, those Western Electric 500’s aren’t connected to anything! How much did I have to drink last night? I must still be inebriated!”

 

It took a moment to get myself vertical, and in place to check the vintage devices. I had several in a dusty row, colored green, black, and tan. Plus, a variation that used push-button keys. One-by-one I lifted each handset, until a familiar voice squawked in my ear.

 

Carrie Hamglaze, my mentor and journalist influencer, was on the line and in a playful mood. I guessed that she wanted to discuss the Republican National Convention, which had just ended.

 

“What’s wrong Rodney, it took you forever to answer my call! You must be moving at the pace of a turtle!”

 

I had to rub my eyes, as they were still hesitant to focus.

 

“Yeah, I roam around with two canes for support. So, everything I do takes time to accomplish. But in this case, I was right at my desk. The issue was with getting out of this chair, I have to leverage myself upward. While being careful not to end up on the floor!”

 

My cohort from Chardon offered words of comfort in response.

 

“Oh yes, I understand. Arthritis is a brute! It won’t be any better when you reach my age, believe me! But with a bit of patience, you will endure.”

 

I was grateful for her understanding. But still curious about the unconventional mode of making a connection.

 

“Before you ask, I fell asleep last night. Everything was a blur after neighbors stopped over to chat, as I lingered on the porch. A fellow from Kinetic/Windstream also came visit, and he caught me at a moment with no inhibitions. I was tipsy and freewheeling when he asked my opinion of their internet service. I think the poor man must have soiled his underpants. I was very blunt...”

 

Carrie huffed a bit and redirected my course of thought.

 

“I wanted to ask your opinion about the pick of Senator JD Vance for Trump’s Vice-Presidential candidate. Isn’t that wonderful? Yippee, he’s a great choice, I think. Make America Great! Make America Great!”

 

I had to clear my throat before offering a reply.

 

“To be honest, it made me reflect on politicians in general. You might recall that he had some strong opinions in 2016. He mused that the Orange Man was an ‘idiot’ and a ‘moron.’ He also said that Trump was ‘America’s Hitler.’ He even offered the possibility of voting for Hillary Clinton, while holding his nose...”

 

My friend reacted with disappointment at hearing these comments repeated. Her pale, Irish skin must have been burning.

 

“Rodney, I choose to focus on the here and now! Not yesterday’s headlines! I think that you should do the same!”

 

I nodded and reclined in the office chair.

 

“That’s good advice, maybe. But I can’t get his explanation out of my head. Vance claimed that he had been hoodwinked by the media. Led astray and misinformed. Now, I know of his accomplishments, as a member of the Marines, as a graduate of Yale, studying law, and as the author of ‘Hillbilly Elegy.’ He is smart and studious, someone worthy of respect. Intellectually gifted. So, how is it that he would be tricked by the prose hucksterism of professional writers who hate the MAGA King? There are many, many individuals in the press who dislike the Mar-a-Lago Menace. Hearing him criticized isn’t uncommon. How did that tip the scales for someone like Vance? He’s not a novice, not a nebbish, not at all naïve...”

 

Carrie sighed heavily. She did not appreciate my assessment.

 

“He changed his mind, Rodney! I respect someone who can admit that he was wrong!”

 

My fingers drummed a beat on the desk.

 

“Listen, I voted for the guy years later, because I guessed that he was playing the game. Like swinging the bat, or counting balls and strikes. You know, going with the flow of voters in our state. But when he took office, I realized that my gamble at the ballot box had been wrong. I outsmarted myself. The old person morphed into something else, like a science-fiction plot on the big screen...”

 

She must have wanted to curse, but maintained her composure.

“It’s not a picnic, Rodney! They are battling for the soul of a nation! Give them the respect they deserve!”

 

My head drooped submissively.

 

“I get it, I get it. Here’s my take though, it puts me in a mind-space where I have to question what is real and what is fiction. Do our elected officials mean anything that they say? After all, our current Vice President bashed Uncle Joe in the Democratic Primaries, in 2020. Then she jumped at the chance to be his second, to join the team. What does that say about her ethics? Is it just a matter of shifting priorities, or loyalties, or conveniences?”

 

My contact descended from the Emerald Isle snorted like a prancing pony.

 

“I LOVE PRESIDENT TRUMP, AND I LOVE HIS PICK OF MR. VANCE! AMEN!”

 

I reflected on a composition from bygone years that seemed to fit the moment.

 

“The fence-hop by our Ohio Senator makes me think of a song from Pink Floyd. Maybe you’ve heard it sometime, in the past? Their lyrics are deadly appropriate. Allow me to quote them here...”

 

I scrolled until the verses appeared on my computer screen.

 

“There is no pain, you are receding

A distant ship, smoke on the horizon

You are only coming through in waves

Your lips move, but I can’t hear what you’re saying

When I was a child, I caught a fleeting glimpse

Out of the corner of my eye

I turned to look, but it was gone

I cannot put my finger on it now

The child is grown, the dream is gone

I have become comfortably numb.”

 

Carrie was flabbergasted and out of breath.

 

“That’s your premise, a Rock anthem by a British band? Rodney, your wandering mind has lost its way, I think! How do you engage with others while in such a fog of suspicion and doubt? How can you live happily in this land of the free? How can you live happily with all these questions clouding your thoughts?”

 

I closed my eyes and leaned forward, as if saying a prayer.

 

“Very simply. I call myself a Libertarian.”

 

Was my retired comrade ever really on the telephone? Or was this interaction simply a quirk of wordsmithing abandon? I could not be certain. Yet as the morning slipped into afternoon, I felt free from the cares of conflict and worry.

 

Through a miracle of imagination, our faith in free expression, hers and my own, had been renewed.

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Homecoming, Part Three”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

 

It was after three o’clock in the morning when Dean McCray reached a four way stop at the crest of Sidley’s Hill. His skin was clammy and tingled with fatigue. He had to peer carefully over the steering wheel to be certain that he was headed in the right direction. Foggy mists hovered above the landscape. But then, he saw the familiar, downward curve of Pine Trail Road. Warning signage had been posted at the intersection, about the road closure ahead. A vexing impediment to through traffic. He ignored this advisory however, and proceeded to follow the cascading slope eastward, to a row of barricades past the old ice cream stand.

 

Their rural township had long since succumbed to the night. So almost no one was on duty at the artificial barrier. A single police officer dozed in his cruiser, with a cold cup of coffee sitting on the dashboard. Two-way chatter had diminished to the point that it was at a level of radio silence. There were no hour-by-hour check-ins, or reports given. Instigators of the citizen uprising had already been apprehended and jailed. Regular folk had been shuttled to available motels around the tri-county area. What remained was an empty fortress. An enclave of pallet wood, cinder blocks, and barbed wire appropriated from a farm supply vendor.

 

Evergreen Estates had become a graveyard.

 

Dean parked his black, Ford Bronco by a culvert at the back entrance. A roadway rarely used except for emergencies, or when the main entrance to their development was blocked by new trailers arriving. On foot, he scaled the temporary fencing, then made his way between empty homes and piles of debris that had been left from the confrontation between warring factions. He could see the layout clearly, thanks to a wash of moonlight. In a couple of minutes, he managed to reach his own dwelling, a singlewide construction with tan sides and brown shutters adorning the windows. There, he paused with the 12-pack of Piels lager from New York State.

 

Sitting on his front steps, he popped open a can, and began to drink.

 

A dog barked in the distance, sounding forlorn and lonely. The sound of a diesel rig echoed, from Route 534. A road that was beyond the blockade. Crickets chirped and frogs croaked. A gentle breeze stirred the clouds. One after another, he slogged down the containers of brew. As each one disappeared, he felt more mellow. After nine, he was on the brink of falling asleep. Yet with determination, he continued until the full dozen had vanished. Then, he stood up, felt gravity tempting his balance to fail, and worked a key in the door lock.

 

Electricity had been cut when the disturbance first erupted. So, there was no light in his mobile home. He used an app on his cell phone to compensate, but tripped over things that had fallen from the shelving and cabinets. Food in the refrigerator was spoiled. A trickle of water leaked freely, from broken pipes. Though the well pumps had also been disabled with their power outage. He rummaged through rubbish and broken furniture, until finding a beloved vessel that had survived intact. A one-liter jug of bourbon whiskey from Kentucky, branded with the name Hageman's Hollow.

 

That ended his quest. He returned to the steps outside, and continued to imbibe alcoholic refreshment.

 

From deep in the distant shadows, a mock calling of songbirds tickled his ear. It repeated three times. Then, he heard a genuine voice reaching out for his attention.

 

“Deaner! You’re trespassing dude, be careful! If they spot you here, it means going to the Geauga Safety Center! You don’t want to get locked up, right?”

 

He slammed brown liquor until it burned the inside of his throat. The pain made him grin and flush with pride.

 

“Kee? Hey, if you’re here then it’s a double whammy! We’ll both get the handcuffs!”

 

His longtime friend emerged from the dark. She had wrapped herself in an old blanket for cover. It was colored in shades of camouflage green. Her hair was full of briars and weeds.

 

“I came up the back way, damn! Maybe that was a bad choice. My longbox house is toasted. They must’ve set a fire or something. I couldn’t find shit! Just a photo album with pictures of my grandma and cousins. And a tote of cassettes she had. This place was hopping, I’ll tell you! I’ve never seen the Po-Po so agitated. I think they were actually scared! People started with shooting off fireworks, but then it turned to real gunfire. The Klatka boys had flags streaming from the beds of their trucks. Aimes Hefti was in his tactical uniform, duty belt and all. I think everybody had guns drawn, but me! I don’t own one, you know? Boo hoo! Anyway, I got out of here, quick. Before the deputies started taking prisoners.”

 

Dean motioned for her to join him on the steps. Then offered to share his drink.

 

“C’mon, I know you don’t do the hard stuff, but this’ll settle your insides...”

 

The high-proof hooch made her shudder and feel sick. But it quelled her restlessness.

 

“We’ve gone through a lot in our ‘hood, right? But it’s done this time. All these redneck goobers finally effed it up completely! Granny had been here forty years, at least. I’m glad she’s in eternity, what would that old lady do? Where would she go?”

 

Her companion sipped from his bottle. He had no answers, only more questions.

 

“Yeah, and where are we gonna go? They might keep you at the motel for a week or two, but I know it won’t last. It’s a stop gap to let things cool off. I’ve heard stories about the Civil War, and how it used to be crazy with brothers fighting brothers. Is that where we’re headed? Is that our fate? Breaking bones instead of breaking bread, together?”

 

Kiki slouched over her knees. She had to ponder for a moment. Her shiny, spandex leggings were muddy and wet.

 

“Don’t talk like that, Deaner! It gives me the chills!”

 

He was tipsy and buzzed.

 

“Rousseau supposedly said ‘A drunk mind speaks a sober heart.’ Well, here you go, here’s a drunk tongue flapping. Tonight, I drove all the way home from New York State. I guess because being there bummed me out so much. Most of what I remembered is gone. People, places, familiar buildings, even my favorite pizzeria and magazine stand. I used to visit those places during every layover. But hell, they’re ancient history now! I got here to this shell of a park and realized that maybe I’d been running in the wrong direction. See, there’s nothing here for me, either. And nothing for you!”

 

The young woman scratched her head and lit a cigarette.

 

“Okay genius, you figured out your mistake. Now what? What can we do with our lives trashed and our pockets just about empty?”

 

He pounded the southern whiskey until it made his eyes water.

 

“I don’t rightly know, Kee. But whatever we do, I say we do it... together!”