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!”