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...”
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