Driving Me Happy, Chapter 9: Suspension

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-25)

 

 

My Chevette functioned well enough for a year or more, as I struggled along at Fisher’s Big Wheel, and attempted to save money in view of future needs. The support of my family meant everything. I could not have survived without their grace. But eventually, questions began to arise about the reliability of my GM econobox.

 

During a trip to the Great Lakes Mall in Mentor, I made an appointment to buy tires which were on sale, at the Firestone service center. Something that I thought would be prudent, after working long hours at my store, and having extra funds available. I waited for this task to get done by visiting a Spencer Gifts location, with my friend Tim. Their selection of novelty merchandise always seemed entertaining, and off-the-wall. Especially because I was still in my early 20’s. But before I could make a purchase, there was a loud, booming call over the public address system. An anonymous voice asked that I revisit the repair depot, immediately. When I reached their front counter a mechanic appeared, looking grim. He was dressed in uniform attire which seemed oddly clean for having been so closely involved with car repairs, throughout the day.

 

“That Shove-It is a mess, Mr. Ice! Your front-end needs a total rebuild. But we do have the parts available. It’ll take a day or two to get your car back together. But we can handle the job. The bill will be $500.00 or more...”

 

I balked while coughing. There had been no issues with the handling of my hatchback fuel-miser. So, his diagnosis was suspect.

 

“You’re serious about this? I’ll have to look around. But thanks for checking it out!”

 

The burly fellow did not take this brush-off gladly.

 

“You’ll be in a lot of trouble letting it go, trust me kid! That piece of junk is ready to come apart. You won’t find a better price on the repairs, anywhere else. I’ve seen dozens and dozens of these situations. Chevrolet makes cheap, low-end products out of recycled pop cans! Like the Vega, that one was really trashy! You can’t expect to drive their stuff forever!”

 

I repeated my comment of gratitude, and we left in a hurry. Tim cursed all the way back to Chardon. I smoked half a pack of Camel Filters, while pondering my plight.

 

At home, my brother Ronald had a sober view of this unpleasant encounter. He had been wrenching on vehicles since the age of 14, in New York. I knew that he usually kept a small fleet of cars, parked in our back yard. Something that occasionally provoked action from local law enforcement. But it meant that he had plenty of experience in assessing the condition of roadgoing machines.

 

Though younger than myself, he was taller and blessed with a greater girth. I half-wished that he had been present at the Firestone clinic. After sliding under the front end of my ailing Chevy, he spat on the ground, and shook his fist.

 

“Those people are crooks! Don’t listen to their bullcrap! Your car ain’t that bad, I’ve driven a lot worse. But have a look at how the tail sits so low. Now that’s more of a problem, I think... there’s your answer.”

 

An inspection of the rear revealed that the coil springs were broken on both sides. I guessed that it was contributing to a rough ride and bouncy behavior. Something that had likely been aggravated by my use of the T-car as a hauler for merchandise.

 

My sibling patted the roof with affection and confidence.

 

“I can take care of it, let me find what you need. We’ll do the work outside. I’m used to being on gravel and concrete! My knees are tough!”

 

When the replacement parts had been installed, I realized that this upgrade surpassed what Chevrolet originally recommended. The bland, beige sedan now had an aggressive profile. It sat like a tiger waiting to pounce, with its haunches in the air. Ron suggested getting deep-tread snow tires, since there was extra clearance available. Along with a normal set for the front. This made the squarish jalopy look even more ridiculous. But with bags of play sand in the boot, it offered a great improvement in winter traction. The only drawback was poor acceleration from a standing start. My underpowered beast was even slower, off the line.

 

By then, I had stopped fretting over the general condition of my Chevette. If it ran efficiently, and got me to work, that was enough. My wheeled mule had been the butt of jokes, no matter how it appeared. I accepted a measure of verbal abuse, as an exchange for staying within my budget guidelines, every week. In the end, it let me endure, and thrive.

 

Shortly after I remedied the suspension woes, a buzz of muffler failure appeared. The cacophony grew louder until I could barely stand to drive across town, to the department store. Amazingly, I never got a ticket from our village constables. But everyday trips became maddening. I counted pennies from my paychecks, and somehow afforded a replacement system, as a seasonal thaw arrived.

 

My baby brother had a vintage, Ford Maverick as his regular mode of transportation. Plus, a Galaxie which carried the repurposed engine from a police cruiser. A 60’s Thunderbird with lots of power, and the stylish, suicide doors. Along with an F-250 pickup truck, which had been built to carry a slide-in camper. He also owned a two-cylinder, Honda motorcycle, which sometimes got pressed into service when nothing else would start. The collection kept our family entertained. Though some neighbors on the street were not so fond of his motorized stable.

 

I originally intended to pay off the three-year loan that had been approved by Bank One, and then keep rolling for free, at least until a better driveway option appeared. But as weeks and months passed quickly, I realized that this expectation might have been optimistic. Various issues affected the cheap, Chevy product, which were common and predictable. The transmission jumped out of reverse, which meant I had to hold it in place, if backing out of a tight spot. Bulbs constantly needed to be replaced, with vibration taking its toll. The floor was disintegrating under my feet. And the sluggish performance made me wonder how long its four-cylinder powerplant might last, without being replaced.

 

By 1986, I had started to think about looking for a better work venue. Though the convenience of having a short jaunt across town every day kept me from making a move. I gambled on holding my spot in our living room, for at least another year or more. Consistency clouded my thoughts. I was too complacent, and comfortable.

 

My father shattered this mindset at the dinner table, one evening. He huffed and folded his hands, before making a declaration that no one expected.

 

“This congregation is facing financial challenges. So, I’m having a tryout in another state. If accepted, we will be moving in the spring. I actually think it will offer us a great opportunity! Praise God for all of his blessings!”

 

 

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 8: Smoke

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-25)

 

 

Owning my 1981 Chevy Chevette was a public reflection of private realities. I was sleeping on a couch in our family living room, working at the Fisher’s Big Wheel department store, and attempting to build some sort of life structure from the previous wreckage of New York. Everything in my past, friends and places and memories, became distant. In a sense, I had immigrated to a new country. A spot on the map where impractical habits were jettisoned in favor of survival. Yet one trait remained from those yonder days. An addiction I could not kick, easily.

 

I smoked cigarettes from morning until night, every day of the week.

 

My parents were somewhat offended by this dirty ritual, when I came home in 1983. But tolerated it out of love. They guessed that eventually, I would overcome my need for a psychological crutch. For the moment though, it kept me calm and focused. At home, I acquiesced to standing on a concrete porch, at the rear of our house, when having a puff. But on the road, I kept a Camel product burning between my lips, even on short jaunts to work. I would roll down my window to leave an air gap, in winter months. But always kept up my pace. When friends rode along, to go bar hopping, the interior typically became congested with tobacco fumes. I was so used to the caliginous haze that it had no effect on my skills at the wheel.

 

Eventually, when the first spring arrived, I noticed that certain people avoided lingering in my spartan vehicle, however. At first, I attributed this to the uncomfortable seats and cramped interior dimensions. But one morning, with the sunrise streaming through its cloudy windows, I realized that the puny machine reeked like a house on fire. This caused a bit of introspection, and a cleaning session, while listening to the dashboard radio. I opened all of the windows, and lifted the hatchback. This released a stinky pall of soot that was detectable, even several feet away. I emptied the ashtray, sprayed everything down with glass cleaner, and then let the jalopy sit unattended, to breathe.

 

Afterward, my GM mule felt far less dingy, and dull.

 

On duty at the store, I coped well enough when working daytime shifts. There was plenty of social interaction throughout the morning and afternoon. Sometimes, I even pulled a nine-to-nine with the manager in charge. This literally meant being present from opening to closing, a 12-hour marathon of retail endurance. I would unload deliveries, move stock from our back room to the sales floor, help customers, and perform janitorial duties. Occasionally, I even got to make bank runs with deposits from the cash office. These activities kept me distracted and occupied, two valuable effects. Yet when working overnight, the conditions reversed. I would be alone, with our display wall of Sparkomatic, automotive stereos booming, and thoughts of my own failures weighing heavily. Taking breaks only increased the ennui of graveyard chores. So, I normally chugged coffee or soda, and smoked constantly.

 

Other company employees who were similarly tasked in our chain, called this lighting-one-cigarette-with-another. The description was very appropriate. By the conclusion of my assignments, I usually had a stale, brown aroma stuck in both nostrils. This would persist as I went home, to have an off-schedule dinner of macaroni & cheese, or leftovers.

 

Being scheduled for too many of these episodes in a row meant that I couldn’t sleep for an extended period. Using the couch as a bed was not ideal, particularly with visitors passing through our house at all hours. By the weekend, I would literally be dead on my feet. Once, I started to nod out while using a high-speed buffer at the store, between checkout lanes. I was in motion, and closed my eyes, only for a second. The result put me sideways over a cash register. An unexpected shock to my system. On another occasion, I accidentally triggered a motion alarm, in the lobby. When local police arrived, I was somewhat disoriented. They seemed to realize that I had been scrubbing and waxing and such, on my own, for a long period. Therefore, being oblivious to anything else. This caused them to grin and crack jokes about my being locked inside, much like a caged animal. I shrugged and confessed befuddlement. They did not bother to call an emergency contact.

 

At quitting time, my fingers were numb. I fumbled with the ignition key and shifter in my Chevette, as if taking it on the road for a test drive. First gear was elusive. My foot slipped off the clutch while searching. This caused the economy rig to lurch and sputter, before moving. I had to flip down the sun visor, and squint, just to see through my windshield.

 

WMMS throbbed from the door speakers. I must have had the volume knob twisted completely around, but could barely hear anything. I drove home with their Buzzard Morning Zoo cranked up, to keep myself awake. The wailing noise tingled my ears.

 

During leisure hours at home, I often sat cross-legged at the typewriter, which was stationed on our coffee table. Or, drew illustrations on top of my green footlocker, which had become a makeshift desk while I had no regular place to stay. Feeling inspired by R.J. Reynolds and the Rock hits being broadcast from Cleveland, I cut out logos from empty cartons of coffin spikes, and adorned an electric guitar with these trademarks. It became my own custom version of a Les Paul twanger. This creative rendering amused those in my previous social circle. But did not resonate as well in Ohio.

 

Betty, a smart, older manager who I knew from our shared place of employment, shook her head and gestured with disbelief, when I showed her a photograph. She had been the office head for many years. Long enough that a call button on the phones simply had her name printed, with no other explanation. The art project caused her to snort. Then, she smiled and wrinkled her nose.

 

“You’re a weird fellow, Rod! But that’s okay, it breaks up the boredom around here. That’s a positive thing, I suppose. Good job! Well done!”

 

 

 

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 7: Tradeoff

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-25)

 

 

Coming back from New York was always like waking after a wild weekend of abandon, with a hangover pounding between my temples. Subconsciously, I must have imagined that by visiting frequently enough to stay connected with old friends and habits, my lost routine might return. But it never happened. Instead, each visit only sharpened my focus on the paradigm shift that had occurred. Those bygone days of begging and busking for spare change, while composing poems and wandering on the street, were gone. I wasn’t slick enough to be a hustler. Not charming enough, or personable enough. My fate had already been scribbled in chalk, on the concrete. And blurred like the leftover outline of a crime scene, fading in the rain. To survive, I had to go home again. Not just in geographical terms, but also, in spirit.

 

The Chevette made it all possible.

 

Reaching Exit 200, off of Interstate 90, felt like a brace of cold water splashing over my cheeks. On a familiar background of green, there was an indicator for Ohio Route 44, and the destinations of Chardon and Painesville, listed below. I needed to refuel my little beast on the way through town, and perhaps hit a car wash, but pangs of hunger made me impatient. I arrived at our yellow house around three o’clock. Breakfast and lunch had already come and gone, and my mother was busy organizing the cupboards. But she reheated a plate of sausage gravy and homemade biscuits, while I sat at the dinner table. Oddly, she had a scarf tied around her permanent wave, patterned in paisley. Something that made me suspect she must have needed to go outside for a moment. Her apron was dusty with all-purpose flour. She did not pry too intently into what I had been doing. Yet maternally, offered a note of concern over my absence, which spanned several days in a row.

 

“You didn’t call off from the department store, I hope? They must depend on you, after all!”

 

I nodded politely, to avoid appearing defiant.

 

“No worries, it was on the schedule. I worked overtime last week. We had to strip and wax the floors, ahead of a big ad rolling out next month. That blew the budget for my boss. He was crabby about crunching the numbers. They hound him from the company offices, apparently...”

 

My father had been in his office next door, at the Church of Christ sanctuary. But entered through our kitchen with his Pyrex coffee mug, hoping for a refill. He wore the same style of striped shirt and polyester slacks that I remembered, when leaving on my eastern excursion.

 

“Rodney! I wanted to talk about your hoss. There was no trouble getting to see your friends, I am guessing? Nothing broke, no parts fell off, none of the tires went flat?”

 

I laughed with a mouthful of the hillbilly meal.

 

“No, the thing ran great. I must have averaged 40 mpg on the highway, that’s better than my ratty VW could manage. It let me afford to make the trip without going completely broke. I got home with a few bucks left in my wallet...”

 

He was pleased at this report. It made him rock on his heels and glow with pride at my ownership of a valued asset.

 

“Okay then, here’s what I’ve got in mind. Your mom needs to visit her oldest sister in Parkersburg, West Virginia. She and your uncle are getting quite old now, their health is not so good. I think paying a call on them would lift her up, emotionally. But taking our car would be iffy at best. Better to make the run in something more common, something newer. Your Chevy hatchback would be perfect, I think!”

 

In those days, my genetic sire drove a sleek, green, Peugeot 604. A motorized conveyance largely unknown in the United States. He had grown up in a Ford family, but also was attracted to quirky, foreign makes of all sorts. This meant that during my childhood years, we had vehicles from Saab, Simca, Renault, and other manufacturers, filling the family driveway.

 

I was somewhat shocked that he would allow me to drive the French bomber. It struck me as a sort of Gallic BMW, with a 2.7 liter, V-6 motor, four-speed manual transmission, Blaupunkt 8-track stereo, and a leather interior.

 

“You’d trade the Peugeot for my Chevette? Really?”

 

The veteran minister and mechanic was sober in his assessment of this perplexing situation.

 

“You’ve got the newest ride in our household. I’d hate to get stranded in Mountaineer country with something out of the ordinary. It just makes sense. I had hoped you would agree.”

 

I was eager to pilot his luxury boat. It seemed like a bargain I would be foolish to refuse.

 

“Of course! Of course! Anything to help you both. I owe you a debt that can never be repaid...”

 

When I showed up at Fisher’s Big Wheel with the sharp, lion-crested sedan, eyes popped and heads turned. My coworkers were puzzled and incredulous.

 

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? A PEPÉ LE PEW GOAT?”

 

I had been warned that the car suffered from carburetor woes, when getting started. Dad used a trick of propping the butterfly valve open with a folded index card, so it could breathe properly. And indeed, as I was finished with my work shift, the 604’s fuel system refused to ignite. I raised the flat, expansive hood, placed a plain, paper square in its slot, and twisted the key.

 

A roar of internal combustion echoed across our parking lot. Then, WMMS-FM boomed from the sound system.

 

The spacious, cowhide seats had me sliding around while driving home. I felt rich at the wheel, peering over its long, squarish hood. The exhaust growled with European confidence. I almost wished that my GM econobox would disappear, somewhere in the hills. Though I hoped not to lose my parents as a result.

 

This exchange only lasted for a few days. Yet it made me appreciate the thrifty nature of my own daily driver. The Chevette served just as well to get me from one place to another, but did it at a fraction of the cost.  Something that mattered greatly, as I was still stuck earning the minimum wage for my humble position.

 

Still, I enjoyed riding high like Emperor Napoleon, even if only for a moment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 6: Trio

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-25)

 

 

By the time that my New York friends arrived home, I had crunched through a bag of Party Club potato chips, and downed the entire 12-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. My mouth tingled with an aftertaste of barley malt, hops, and aluminum. While my stomach growled for something more satisfying. I guessed that going out to eat might be of interest, later in the evening. Perhaps even enjoying a meal at Pudgie’s Pizza, a favored local spot for affordable grub. But when I saw the couple turn into their driveway, it was not in the wood-sided, Ford Pinto wagon that I remembered. A tidy workhorse, which was painted an odd shade of blue-green, and boasted a plaid, cloth interior. Synchronicity had taken over, instead. They now rode in something decidedly more familiar, and even, amusing to behold.

 

Paul and Mollie were in a newer version of my bland Chevette.

 

This unexpected confluence of driving choices made my jaw drop. I emerged from a stand of evergreen trees, where I had taken refuge to stay anonymous, shaking off snack crumbs and pangs of disbelief.

 

“YOU GOT STUCK WITH ONE OF THESE DAMNED THINGS, TOO? OH SHIT! WHAT A HOOT!”

 

Whenever I visited, weed and alcohol tended to dominate our activities. Generally, my cohorts would suggest that we break out a selection of vintage guitars, set up amplifiers and microphones, and plug in some sort of recording equipment. At first, this meant that a cassette deck would always be running, somewhere in the house or outside. Later, that method of documenting our jam sessions was upgraded, with a video camera. During warmer months, our performances could be heard booming from the hilltop. We were not self-conscious about causing a public disturbance.

 

But as I sat on a lawn chair tuning up for our noisemaking escapade, the sight of those twin, GM econoboxes had me stunned.

 

Paul played his familiar Telecaster, a blonde, maple-necked axe with a white pickguard. A signature appliance that I somehow deduced might have been made in the latter part of 1968. He often spoke whimsically about buying the black-market instrument from a nefarious fellow, lurking by the Chemung River. The purchase cost him $100.00, in cash. A fantastic bargain, even in yonder days.

 

I found a Kay bass to accompany him, a thick, woody plunker with two knobs and a metal pickguard. The sort of relic that seemed rare in real-world terms, yet commonplace among his arsenal of interesting junk. His skill on the fretboard was considerable, after many years of playing in local bands. So, I normally attempted to follow his lead, and occasionally, to improvise riffs with my own limited experience.

 

We plucked away for a few minutes, channeling Blues progressions and such, but our creative zeal was lacking. Finally, my shaggy pal put his tone pole aside, and gestured toward the door by his kitchen.

 

“Hey, we ought to give Migrant a call. If I’d known you were coming, he could have been here already. That guy always has a song in his head!”

 

This suggestion made me slightly uneasy. Yet also awakened a sense of curiosity about what he might have to offer.

 

Pat Kelly had been a neighbor around the corner, and a childhood vandal in the Riverside district of Corning. He and Paul literally grew up together, with each of them etching out a different arc of life. One took the path of higher education, learning to perform scientific tasks relating chemistry and biology. The other rambled around as a petty thief, persistent rogue, and eventually, a foreign traveler. Thus, his nickname was carved in stone.

 

When working together, these mismatched performers called themselves Fora and Maya.

 

I knew that the Migrant spoke fluent Spanish, was gifted as a shoplifter and con artist, and was able to spit out lyrics that were completely random, and usually based on personal experiences.

While we waited, I ended up riding back down the hill for Utica Club and Piels beer, to fortify my numbness. Mollie was also slightly inebriated, but steady at the wheel. I had to blink once or twice, to be certain that we were not in my own car. The ride was rough, and incredibly familiar.

 

Patrick took several hours to appear, with a stained shirt unbuttoned to the waist, and his mustache curled at the tips. When he rattled in from the road, it was at the helm of a two-door Chevy, very much like the pair already in place. I gasped audibly, as he tucked in, behind my little mule, and began to cackle with a note of mental illness dribbling from his lips.

 

Our trio was now complete. All of us had the same tacky, tin sedans. They were crammed into the narrow drive, like an alleyway behind a repair shop, filled with automotive casualties.

 

Paul lifted his callused hands as if at a prayer service. He declared that this visual omen had not appeared by chance. It meant we were about to receive a Rock & Roll epiphany. Something he welcomed with a sip of blackberry brandy, and a cannabis doobie twisted up fat and long.

 

“THIS IS IT! WE’RE NOT JUST PAUL AND PAT ANYMORE! NOT FORA, MAYA, AND SPECIAL GUEST, ROD! NOW, WE’RE THE THREE CHEVETTES! I DIG IT! I DIG IT! WE ARE THE THREE CHEVETTES!”

 

 My eyes were burning from clouds of marijuana smoke. I lined up empty beer cans on the beige hood of my vehicle, until they spanned the distance like members of an honor guard. Eventually, a gentle breeze sent them rolling down the natural incline, into a deep ditch by the culvert. None of my contacts paid attention, however. We were far enough out of the city environment to be free of property inspections, and watchful eyes.

 

Migrant found a set of bongos, and tapped out a rhythm that matched tuneful chords, lazily strummed by our talented, hippie friend. He rocked from side to side, in the manner of Ray Charles or Stevie Wonder. Then, started to wail about past sexual conquests, and tall, cool cans of Budweiser. I wondered timidly if anyone in the area was close enough to decipher the meaning of his demented, musical rant. Though I guessed that even if they were offended, only someone with a brave heart and strong constitution would approach our shoddy venue, without a police escort.

 

Mollie stood in the background, holding her camcorder on one shoulder. The patience she carried, as always, was worthy of praise. Nothing ever seemed to knock her off balance. She was like a den mother, watching over capricious children. While fumbling my way through the song, I saw her nodding like a metronome, keeping the beat.

 

I guessed that she must have been very, very stoned, indeed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 5: Identification

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-25)

 

 

My father thought that owning an efficient, spartan vehicle like the 1981 Chevette was a step toward finally becoming a rational adult. Something he figured was long overdue, because I had reached the age of 23, without charting a clear path toward the future. Despite my flirtation with television broadcasting, through a university program, I earned no academic credit. I had little job history of any kind, except for working with a friend who did blacksmithing for a living. In the eyes of family members, who held formal degrees and positions of respect in the educational system, I was a failure. So, even this minimal jump forward pleased him greatly. But having my mobility secured only caused me to fixate more passionately on an irrational, personal desire.

 

I wanted to go back to New York, and play Rock & Roll!

 

Part of the reason that I crash-landed in Ohio was because of that impractical goal being my top priority. For a time, I pursued a lifestyle of danger and rebellion, finally ending up under a bridge, downtown. But my courage faded quickly. With winter in effect, and my leather jacket not insulated enough to stay warm, I surrendered. It crushed my spirit and offered a dose of humility that I was not yet ready to embrace. Still, a hot meal in my belly and a spot on our couch in Chardon, revived my positive outlook.

 

The GM econobox made it possible to revisit my beloved territory in the Finger Lakes, with a minimal investment of cash. I headed east along the Southern Tier Expressway, once, twice, thrice, and even four times, during 1984. There were practice sessions with bandmates, recording attempts, and eventually, projects created to harness the artistic energy that had me writing new songs. By the next year, I hunkered down in a basement studio with professional musicians, and produced tapes that were, at least in the context of a long-distance partnership, coherent enough to share with others.

 

But a favorite activity remained jam sessions with my mentor and spirit guide, Paul Race of Corning. He and I had first met at Chennel 13 in Ithaca. A place where I studied and volunteered as a learning exercise. My own youthful intellect paled by comparison to his knowledge of popular culture, and skills demonstrated when playing guitar. He immediately became a hero that I emulated willingly. Though as an outcast in his 30s, shaggy and overweight and occasionally combative, he was not well-liked by everyone. Despite his own achievements in the classroom, he carried no pretentiousness. He did not try to affect an air of sophistication, or self-importance. He did not condescend to anyone. Indeed, had I not known of his perfect attendance and good grades, at the institution founded by Ezra Cornell, I might have thought him to be a common laborer. I respected his forthright, honest approach to living. And his zeal for collecting. His home was literally a museum of 20^th Century artifacts, with stories attached to each trinket, bauble, and tchotchke.

 

I chose to willingly endure regular work shifts at Fisher’s Big Wheel, with fellow associates squawking about petty distractions and other interpersonal disputes. Because the yield was a pay packet that could fill my tank, and unleash the potential of new adventures. Traveling from Geauga County, near Lake Erie, to the driveway of my contrarian chum, only required the investment of a few dollars. Once I had reached that temple on the hill, there would be unlimited opportunities to drink and feast and indulge myself in acts of rebellion.

 

After several of these excursions had taken place, I showed up unannounced, on a weekday, when my schedule got changed abruptly. This leap into the driver’s seat seemed like a blessing at first. I was giddy when crossing the border into Pennsylvania, with my attention focused on reaching the Empire State. I arrived much earlier than usual, with the sun still shining and summer temperatures baking the asphalt. But upon leaving my car, and looking around, I realized that neither Paul, or his wife, were at home. This perplexed me for a moment, until I arrived at a solution, by thinking critically. I would have to wait for their return, patiently, but that sacrifice did not need to create a hardship.

 

I was never sober for long, when at the rustic bungalow of my friends. So, what I needed most was something cool in liquid form, and a bit of luck.

 

There was a P&C supermarket in Painted Post, near where I had exited the highway. I shopped briefly for salty snacks, and then lobbed a 12-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon into my buggy. The veteran cashier was polite enough at first, but then took note of my longish hair, wire-rimmed spectacles, and goatee. She asked for identification, which I produced on cue. But then snorted with disdain, and a note of rejection.

 

“I can’t take this, sir! It’s an out-of-state license! I need something from here!”

 

I was befuddled by her tone. Mentally, I had already begun to taste the low-buck refreshment.

 

“Really? I don’t have anything else. Could you call a manager?”

 

The supervisor on duty was an archetype of grocery discipline. Lanky, grizzled, and graying. He wore a white shirt, dark trousers, a skinny necktie tucked into the front, and a plastic badge with his name under a company logo. He looked weathered like an old piece of wood, left outside for too long.

 

“We accept New York forms of I.D. here, don’t you have something from college, maybe?”

 

I sighed loudly before trying to explain. The displaced, Milwaukee brew was already starting to turn warm.

 

“See, I used to live in Ithaca, down by the high school. But that ended several months ago. I still come back to stay in touch, my friends are outside of town. This is all I have though, I’m on my home dirt now, you know? Back in Ohio...”

 

He must have wanted to hide in his office. The debate left him appearing visibly bored.

 

“Yeah okay, I get it. Make your purchase, dude. I’ll override the block. Have a good day!”

 

His subordinate huffed while ringing up my libation. She was snippy and sour when taking my payment. Yet it didn’t matter enough to spoil the moment.

 

I was going up the hill again, to get buzzed!

 

 

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 4: Birthday

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-25)

 

 

Being back home in Ohio, after my blitzkrieg adventure in New York, was a stunning reversal. I had gone from the young age of 17, running with a cultural wolf pack populated by individuals that were all more experienced and on the cultural fringe, to a status much less special. At 22, I dropped precipitously from the sky, like David Bowie in ‘The Man Who Fell to Earth.’ Going back to my native soil represented enough of a challenge, on its own. Yet tooling around in a frugal, underwhelming hatchback deepened my sense of gloom. It nullified the identity that I had worked so hard to earn.

 

The Chevette put me metaphorically back at square one. A place that I never wanted to be, on any level.

 

Working at Fisher’s Big Wheel #69, a department store run from corporate offices in Newcastle, Pennsylvania, placed me in the midst of a different crowd. My new peers were uninterested in much of what I considered to be important. They focused on basic gratification, rather than any intellectual or artistic pursuits. They did not aspire to any great goals of making art, effecting social change, or achieving enlightenment. Instead, they guzzled Miller, Busch or Budweiser beer, played pool or darts, and went hunting for woodland animals. They owned fishing boats with expensive rods and reels. They piloted oversized, land barges which belched smoke and burned diesel fuel as if in a battle to conquer territory with military supremacy.

 

None of this was unfamiliar of course, as I had been born in Columbus, our state capital. A point on the mapß only a few hours away. But it revived emotions long forgotten. It put me once again into the bullseye of a personal dilemma. How could I, as the poor son of a Christian pastor and author, find a safe place among the masses? I often felt as if a spotlight were shining in my face. Something used not to signify any glory, but instead to indicate being examined in a harsh light of suspicion. I did not quite fit into the pegboard, no matter how many times the attempt was made. Driving a dopey, dusty, tin-box-on-wheels left me feeling naked and exposed.

 

Looking into the rearview mirror brought a sense of introspection that I loathed. It raised questions that I did not want to ask, or answer. Queries that I might have avoided, if driving a Mustang or Camaro, or Barracuda. Perhaps even a Triumph TR6, MGB, Austin Healey 3000, Sunbeam Alpine, Saab Sonnett, or maybe, a Karmann Ghia.

 

In those yonder days I was fixated on mobility. Because my brood had been raised in a transitional environment, where we were always expecting to move from place to place. I had no sense of being part of any larger group. I did not claim any geographical spot as a hometown. My thinking did not align with any religious denomination, or political party. I considered myself to be a world citizen. Though in truth, I was very much a product of Midwestern anonymity. A kid from Ohio, steeped in innocence. A spiritual babe among those who were better-grounded and nimble.

 

My GM microcar brought all of these flaws to the fore.

 

In the interest of self-preservation, I tried to forget about what had preceded my crash. When opportunities for social interaction appeared, I often took them just to be connected. Not because I held anything in common with those on the crew at work. Otherwise, I might have completely disappeared as member of the community. I reckoned that such isolation was not healthy. So, while plotting a return to my beloved Finger Lakes, I accepted this chore as necessary.

 

The Chevette made it easy. I could afford to zig and zag, across my county and beyond. Without having to justify my presence as an outlier.

 

One particular occasion to interact came as a friend on the team was about to celebrate his birthday. He regularly patronized a blue-collar tavern on Mayfield Road, south of town, named the Chardon Inn. A bar operated by Jim & Gloria, who were known to everyone in the region as owners of a welcoming venue for good cheer and refreshment. It was a humble establishment, gritty, gregarious, and unrefined. With a long counter in the front room, and pool tables by a jukebox, in the back. I had never mastered the skills required to compete in that table game, but it didn’t matter. Once our group started a ritual libation, generally something that would last until the wee hours, everything became comfortably foggy. Their truncated menu was simple, perfect for ordering when already numb from boozing. They offered frozen pizza from a countertop oven, or hot ham and cheese sandwiches.

 

If my adopted cohorts noticed that I was awkward and out of place in this environment, they never vocalized that sentiment.

 

“My friends are the best friends

Loyal, willing and able

Now let’s get to drinking

All glasses off the table!”

 

Tim was in the hardware department at my store. He also served on the township fire brigade, and was an EMT, an Emergency Medical Technician. His father repaired mower engines for a living. I liked his command of everyday tasks. He knew how to survive on a practical level that I had not learned while among students and scholars around Cornell University. So, his lead was easy to follow.

 

A credit arrangement had been made beforehand, and we ran up a tab over the course of our celebration. The total, pondered a day or two later, was staggering. Three cases of beer, and 75 shots of hard liquor.

 

I left that rural watering hole around three o’clock in the morning. With jocular bursts of wild inebriation echoing behind. My journey home was a dash heading straight north. There were few, if any, other vehicles on the road. I was still sober enough to steer straight ahead, and keep my car puttering along in third gear. Though going any faster had my eyes watering and head spinning. I might have called for a rideshare, if anything of that sort had existed at the time. Yet I stayed between the lines while in motion.

 

After trekking all the way to Chardon, I reached a stoplight at the south end of our village square. Lurking there in the shadows, at a repurposed fuel depot, was a Ford Crown Victoria, painted black and white. I could see that the police officer must have been very bored. His head tilted forward slightly, and he remained oblivious when I crested the hill. I broke into a sweat while waiting for the signal to change from red to green. That click of the electrical relays seemed to take several minutes. Long enough that I imagined myself being dragged from the driver’s seat, in handcuffs. I panted and gasped while clutching the wheel. And, invoked a petition to the Holy Father, for mercy.

 

My parental hub on Maple Avenue was within walking distance, just past the community center. All I needed was a dab of grace. A fortuitous roll of the dice, and perhaps, an angel’s pat on the shoulder.

 

When the light glowed with an emerald hue, I was nearly paralyzed. The little Chevy lurched as I worked its clutch pedal with my foot. But I did not stall the motor. Strangely, there was no reaction from the constable in his cruiser. He must have been envisioning a break from his work duties, and possibly, an early breakfast. Something that was unavailable at such a late hour, in our quiet burgh.

 

When I finally entered the family residence, through our back door, my father was boiling coffee in an enameled pot on the stove. I shuddered a bit while covering my face. Because he was already awake, it seemed certain that I must have fallen asleep in the driveway. I had to wonder if he had surreptitiously crept over the gravel, and spied me snoring while slumped on the dashboard. Still, it did not cause an incident. Once he had filled his mug with the black brew, there was a pause as we both endured a standoff of sorts, in the kitchen. Then, he smiled broadly. One sentence spoken aloud was my indictment.

 

“How are you feeling this morning?”

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 3: Nightclubbing

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-25)

 

 

Owning a tan, four-door Chevette did nothing to enhance my own appeal as a potential dating candidate, or object of romance. Yet by being so cheap to own and operate, it let me escape the confinement of my family home. I had returned from New York with the clothes on my back, and a few meager possessions. A literal example of the biblical, prodigal son. But the household environment where my parents lived was so limited in size, that even finding a place to sleep presented a challenge.

 

I spent around three years on their couch. Napping with a jacket over myself in daylight hours, and folding out this convertible furnishing at night. The living room had tall windows that were not sealed well. So, it stayed cold throughout winter months. I used an electric blanket to warm the bed before crawling under its covers. All of this depended on my work schedule, which varied widely. But I was grateful to be given any sort of accommodation.

 

While my weekly paycheck did not stretch too far, it was enough to keep the hatchback mule tanked up and ready for off-hour adventures. I took every opportunity to get away from home, whether that meant extra duties on the job, or leisure activities with newfound friends. In a sense, I regressed socially, out of need. After spending time with college graduates and teachers in the Finger Lakes, studying and learning at a frantic pace, that paradigm quickly reversed. I now found myself having reached twenty-something in calendar years, yet with the sort of relationship climate I might have experienced long before. This backwards evolution meant that the GM econobox suited my needs, perfectly. Though with every roll out of our driveway, I felt a sense of personal shame.

 

In those days, our community in Geauga County had not grown much since its time being established as a rural capital. Those who were interested in some sort of nightlife were forced to head north, to places like Mentor, Willoughby, and Eastlake. With the thrifty habits of my bargain-basement Chevy, however, this wasn’t difficult to afford. I began to travel frequently.

 

Tim and Tom were two associates who I had met at the department store in town. The former of this tag team drove an Eddie Bauer edition of the Ford Bronco II. The latter had a Pontiac Grand Prix, with a V-8 motor rumbling under its hood. Both vehicles were stylish and capable, and attracted lots of attention wherever we went for entertainment. All three of us were single, ambitious, and looking for female company. Though as the oldest, and least financially secure, I was the odd fellow out, in this trio. My chums liked to boast about their vehicles, and adult toys like guns and gear for hunting and fishing. I had only the fuel-sipping slowpoke as an asset, plus a couple of Japanese electric guitars, and some vinyl records. My ability to brag was slight. This meant that generally, I played the role of someone destined for the friend zone.

 

Still, it was preferable to sitting on the ragged couch at home, counting pennies.

 

During a particular outing in the winter, our region had experienced several feet of lake effect snow. When we arrived at Spanky’s, a popular venue for rockers and kids, there were mounds of the frosty, white stuff piled everywhere. While drinking, we managed to get a few big-haired, young women to visit our table. Then, Timothy swelled with a rush of alcoholic courage surging in his veins.

 

“This weather doesn’t bother me at all! Nah, I got a rig to handle that, no matter how bad it gets! As a matter of fact, I parked on a big heap left by a plow truck, just for a kick! That shit doesn’t scare me! Not even a little bit! Even a Jeep can’t do what my Bronco does!”

 

Thomas had a slender build compared to my other friend, but he was tall enough to stand out above others who were lost in the crowd. He nodded and smiled while listening to the description of four-wheel-drive prowess. Then sat his brew aside, and started riffing on a different tangent.

 

“Yeah, my buddy really gets around in the snow! But the car I own has one hell of a sound system. Big speakers in the back, and a cassette player. And it moves like a cheetah, on the highway! I can burn rubber, from here to Cleveland! People in high school called it my pimpmobile! It’s a champ at the drag strip, running hot all the way!”

 

I knew his claim of racing dominance was nonsense. Yet with the keys to my Chevette hidden under layers of seasonal clothing, I had no right to join in their cocky competition to impress our guests.

 

When last call had arrived, and the taps ran dry, we adjourned to the club parking lot. Both friends had a crowd of followers on their heels. I watched the sparkling shades of pink and blonde disappear, as arrangements were made for meeting up at Denny’s, an all-night eatery down the boulevard. Something that my empty wallet would unfortunately not support. So, before I could twist a key in my door lock, everyone was gone. I ended up alone, scraping ice off of the mirrors, and using a long-handled brush to prop the gas pedal of my automobile. Being deadly cold outside, the motor refused to idle smoothly. I used this hillbilly improvisation to get it up to operating temperature, while waiting in the dark.

 

Eventually, I realized that my bladder would never hold during the trip back to Chardon, and Maple Avenue. But Spanky’s had closed for good, while I fiddled with the accelerator. Feeling jumpy and irritated, and somewhat buzzed from quenching my thirst, I knelt in front of the beige bomb, purposefully. The angular hood shielded me from being too conspicuous. Not that anyone would have paid attention at such a late hour, especially with another storm on the horizon.

 

The radio crackled and shot sparks as I drove home. This meant that I switched it off abruptly, and finished the trek in silence. In the morning, I would realize that the previous owner had replaced blown fuses with wads of aluminum foil. They must have gotten tired of attempting to address persistent issues with the wiring harness.

 

My familiarity with T-car ownership was only beginning. Too soon, I would realize that there were many other design flaws to be confronted, while at the wheel. Though with few options to consider, it didn’t matter much.

 

I was stuck with my Chevette. And it would make me regret that purchase, for years to come.

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 2: Trivial

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-25)

 

 

My 1981 Chevette arrived as a low-mileage, one-owner, used car, bought while working at a local department store in the Ohio community where I lived. It held the promise of being thrifty, practical, and a choice made with future goals in mind. Where my antiquated, rusty Volkswagen had been a nod to past traditions, surrendered when I left New York, the minimalist Chevrolet carried an air of personal discipline and utility. I intended to use it wisely. And soon found that its convertible cargo space, with a rear hatch and fold-down seat, meant that I could carry lots of stuff, like a small pickup truck.

 

To advance my career, as someone retained after serving on our remodel crew, I volunteered for extra assignments whenever those opportunities would arise.

 

With the Christmas season approaching, my boss at Fisher’s Big Wheel wanted to transfer copies of the Trivial Pursuit game from a nearby spot. This particular product had become very popular with customers. And somehow, a sister depot in the retail chain had acquired many more examples of the item than needed. I was always looking for extra labor hours, and so he picked me immediately as a potential carrier. In particular, because I had upgraded my mode of transportation to the T-car workhorse from General Motors.

 

It was the first time that I had felt good about owning a ‘Shove-It.’

 

Our general manager spoke like a door-to-door salesman, making his pitch to sell a vacuum cleaner, gym membership, or set of steak knives.

 

“Hey Rod, I need a favor! Okay? Are you up for a road trip? I need you to visit a link in this chain. They’ve got merchandise we could use, down Route 44 at another one of our locations. All you’ll have to do is drive. The receiving crew in Streetsboro will load your car. We want to be ready for prime days coming up before things get really crazy, in December. What do you think? Can you do it? Will you do it?”

 

I envisioned being liberated from janitorial duties, and cruising over the tarmac with my radio tuned to WMMS, a Cleveland powerhouse. Heavy Metal tunes booming from my Sparkomatic speakers, and the wind toying with my long, shaggy, unbrushed hair. It seemed like an opportunity to get academic credit for skipping school. Or being paid for taking an extended break from work. Either way, a bargain I could not refuse.

 

Despite the fall season, it was sunny and clear as I headed out on this adventure. I managed to find the unfamiliar address without much difficulty, rolled around to their loading dock, and sat patiently as a team of employees assessed the hauling capabilities of my vehicle. I had expected to run a dozen boxes or more back to my home base in Chardon. But the inventory specialist on duty set my mind reeling with her inflated estimate.

 

“We need to move 100 copies of the Trivial Pursuit game. Something really screwed up our order. Are you ready for that kind of load?”

 

By the time they had shoehorned that unexpected quantity of goods into my Chevette, the spartan mobile was squatting low on its haunches. Its smallish tires looked deflated. As I slipped the car into first gear, it shuddered and shimmied before moving. Getting up to operating speed took even longer than usual. I observed that the exhaust note sounded oddly low, and labored.

 

Initially, I managed to do well once out on the road. Since being away from my store meant having a measure of liberty never enjoyed while within those concrete-block walls, I was in no hurry to return. Yet on the way. I had to make a panic stop, when someone in the flow of traffic decided to turn impulsively, at an intersection. As I hit the brakes, inertia took over. The mass of cargo onboard shifted forward, bending the thin construction of my seats like a pro wrestler’s grip. And, sending a cascade of loose boxes tumbling over my shoulders. I steered hard and kept both hands on the wheel. While staying focused on my direction between the painted lines, and deep, rural ditches. There were games all the way up to my windshield. Thankfully, nothing spilled out of the open windows. But my composure had been rattled.

 

I puttered through the last few miles before reaching home, at a turtle’s velocity.

 

My boss was candid and amused about the mess, when I backed up to our rear entrance. He stood tall and lanky, with his narrow tie flapping in the breeze. When he realized what had transpired with my load of games, his eyes went wide.

 

“Geez, oh man! What happened, Rocket Rod? Did you swerve to miss a freaking deer? That little shitbox must’ve been shredding rubber to get stopped! Woo boy, what a scene! You’ve got bruises on the back of your neck! No really, I’m not kidding! Oh well, at least we got our games! Go have a smoke, and a pop! You’ve earned it! You did your duty for the day! Good job, buddy!”

 

After hitting the time clock, I sat out in our parking lot. Metal pinging sounded from under the hood of my wheeled mule. It had been pushed to its limits by this random task. I burned through a half-pack of Camel cigarettes, while settling my nerves. Then, turned the ignition key once again.

 

My house on Maple Avenue was just over the hill. There, my mother would have a meal cooking on the stove, and coffee brewing on a side counter. I looked forward to catching a nap on our couch, in the living room. A friendly spot that doubled as my bed, overnight. Everyone in the family worked different shifts at that point, so there was always someone coming, and going, no matter the time of day.

 

My pay envelope would be fatter, with the holidays approaching. Something that I owed to a stroke of luck, and my Chevy Chevette.

 

 

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 1 – Bugged

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-25)

 

 

When my family first moved to the Finger Lakes Region of New York, in 1978, there were still many air-cooled Volkswagen varieties on local roads. Beetles, and their progeny, were a familiar sight. This fit the Bohemian ethos of our new home, a place known for institutions of higher learning like Cornell University and Ithaca College. And for citizens that were artistic, progressive, and willing to embrace a worldview different from that of the heartland.

 

But when I crash-landed back in my native Ohio, some five years later, it quickly became apparent that driving such a relic from the Hippie Era was something that did not fit the Midwestern paradigm. In my quaint outpost, south of Lake Erie, there were more pickup trucks prowling local streets than anything else. I guessed that this was partly the yield of living in a region that regularly experienced bouts of snow that were deepened by our proximity to a large body of water. But also, the rural character of Geauga County, something that was in flux with immigrants coming from Cleveland, still held to old norms of transportation. So, much like carrying a pocket knife, or a driving around with toolkit, or gun rack onboard, it was a sign that an old bromide regarding seedling nuts still remained in effect.

 

“The acorn does not fall far from the tree.”

 

In my native, Buckeye realm, poor people drove these 4x4 haulers. Rich people drove them as well. Everyday mothers and fathers, and teachers, and their students, all drove them, loyally. Oldsters and youngsters and anyone in between. There were jacked-up, big rigs running on oversized tires, tiny, Japanese variants that barely had enough cargo area to load a plastic storage tote, and even Jeep versions with beds that were stubby and all but useless. What seemed to matter most was being a member of the tribe. Those who drove plain sedans and economy cars were condemned to languishing in anonymity. Unless, of course, they were behind the wheel of something like a Corvette, Firebird Trans Am, Camaro, or vintage, Tri-Five Chevrolet.

 

My white, 1973 VW stood out as a rolling counterpoint to this way of thinking. In my former neighborhood, it would have been celebrated, and perhaps, even revered, as a sign of cultural rebellion. Yet with too many miles on the odometer, a sagging floor pan due to rust and abuse, and a motor long past the point of useful service, it simply puttered around in a pitiful display of mechanical exhaustion. The 1600 cc, flat-four powerplant would overheat and stall, generally at inopportune moments. When I was far from any sort of rescue, or ridesharing assistance. There was no heat in the winter. The gas pedal had broken, as did its replacement from a dealership in Mentor, situated to our north. I ended up finding a plastic roller with a hole in the center, a castoff, spare part that was in a box of junk by my father’s tool chest. This worked well enough when stuck on a metal peg attached to my vehicle’s accelerator linkage. Though it meant getting used to the odd feel of a circular disc turning under my right shoe.

 

I had only been back in Ohio for about eleven months, when the need to upgrade became painfully obvious. Even members of my household agreed. After years of lacking discipline, and wandering from one bad situation to another, I had managed to inhabit our homestead for nearly a year. I held a regular job, something that had been beyond my grasp while living in the Empire State. Now, I needed to complete that metamorphosis by purchasing a modern appliance for daily transportation. Something that would get me to work, and elsewhere, without busting my personal budget. A mode of transportation made in America, practically designed, and acceptable at every level of the social strata.

 

I dutifully browsed through options without buying anything, basically to please my parents. These near-misses included a Honda Civic with a rotted muffler, and a Dodge station wagon much like the Country Squire behemoths that populated our own family driveways. I thought of buying a new vehicle of some sort, but could not afford the payments. Eventually, a 1981 Chevy Chevette appeared at our Pontiac dealer on Water Street, literally within walking distance of my adopted house. It was three model-years old, had low mileage on the dashboard gauge, and was a five-door version, with the hatchback design so familiar to those of us in North America.

 

We negotiated with Phil Vaughan, a veteran salesman who liked that my genetic author was a Christian cleric. He spent much of the session talking about Jesus and the Holy Bible, and issues of faith. But when it came time to nail down a firm price, with my ratty Volkswagen being taken in trade, suddenly, this faithful disposition evaporated. With teeth clenched and his fists on the desk, he pitched a hard bargain. Financing would be difficult, because I had no credit history, and my father carried many red flags over his own money management skills. So, we were at his mercy. I had no down payment. Desperation set the tone for our bargaining.

 

Somehow, despite these faults, I managed to get a loan approved through Huntington Bank.

 

Upon leaving the lot, I looked backward one time to see my decrepit VW being pawed over like a decaying animal carcass. The sight turned my stomach. I felt undeniably sad to be surrendering that important part of my personal identity. Yet the beige Chevette felt like a luxury car compared to that venerable hunk of Teutonic tin. It had carpeted floors, a cloth interior, an AM/FM radio in the dash, a rear defroster, and enough power to cruise at 70 mph on the highway. I soon recorded 40 mpg as an average of fuel consumption, better than any figure achieved by my worn-out, German coupe.

 

My Chevette went against the grain of family traditions, being a GM offering, instead of some wild foreign make, or a product of Detroit’s Ford Motor Company. We had seen vehicles by Renault, Saab, Simca, and Peugeot in our yard, over the years. Along with a Corvair Greenbrier van, and a diesel Golf. This latest acquisition was bland and boring. But it promised to yield the qualities that I needed as a low-buck laborer.

 

My pockets were empty. But my heart was full of hope. That provided a compass reading for the future. I was ready to go forward, and prosper.