Driving Me Happy, Chapter 13: Decision

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-25)

 

 

With five of us living on Maple Avenue, four adults and a baby, my sister served well as a house mother. She kept things in order. Meals were available throughout the day and night, clothes were washed, and the residence was stocked up with supplies. During this period, I finally had a space of my own to inhabit. Yet was rarely present, because of persistent work duties. When the opportunity came to join a separate crew that would scrub and wax floors every week, at the supermarket, I accepted immediately. We were paid a flat fee of $50.00, no matter how long this process took. It was a bargain for us, and the store owner. Typically, we could complete our tasks in a couple of hours. The team would meet on Thursday evening, after our regular closing. We ate deli sandwiches, and drank soda, while listening to WMMS radio, over the public address system. The relaxed atmosphere was more comfortable than dealing with customers and stocking shelves. A pleasant break from our normal duties.

 

The Chevrolet sedan served well to get me across town, and back again. Otherwise, I did not travel much. It’s thrifty, minimalist appetite for fuel let me get caught up on expenses, and actually save money for the future. Something I had been trying to do for over two years. But living in such close quarters with differing needs and ambitions made us somewhat distant from each other. I suspected that this partnership of convenience would not last forever.

 

At the time, I was dating Betty, our office manager at Fisher’s Big Wheel. A capable woman who was older and more experienced than myself. She had a young son from her previous marriage who was cheerful and good-natured. Eventually, we became close enough that the possibility of cohabitation was discussed. She rented a home in the country, outside of Chardon. A privilege given because her father worked for Bass Lake Community, the property owner. It was at the bottom of a long slope, situated on a gravel road.

 

My siblings were restless, but not eager to separate because of financial pressures. Still, we all needed more room to live. My brother chafed at the restrictive limits of being in a regulated community. His collection of high-mileage automobiles sometimes aroused the ire of neighbors and notable figures in our town. Though it kept him, and the family, always in motion. Once, I had been confronted by a village police officer, about needing a lesson in fleet maintenance. He observed that I had been a public nuisance and an irritant. But when I explained that the deeds he detested were sins committed by a younger member of our brood, instead of myself, his face contorted with horror.

 

“THERE’S MORE THAN ONE OF YOU? GOD HELP US! GOD HELP US ALL!”

 

My brother-in-law and sister were busy raising their daughter, and craved a measure of privacy. It was the kind of peaceful environment they deserved. But being cramped by the limitations of our aging structure made this undertaking a challenge. There was little room for comfort. All of us had to make sacrifices, to endure.

 

Amazingly, I was the oddball in this equation. I only came home to get the mail, and sleep. Otherwise, my home address meant little, other than providing a geographical point of reference.

 

Late in the year, I got an ultimatum of sorts, from my love interest. She said that the relationship we shared was stalled unless I agreed to move in, and take a role as part of her household. This shocked me at first, and then caused an episode of introspection and self-analysis that I wasn’t yet ready to handle. I knew that my siblings had sometimes been late in paying the rent. So, guilt tempered my thoughts. But I wanted to be ready when another paradigm shift arrived. Memories of homelessness and ruin in New York were very fresh at that moment. I ruminated over the dilemma for several weeks. Finally, in December, I loaded up my hatchback Chevrolet and declared an intention to make the jump, proactively.

 

“Look, everybody, this is it. I have to step out on my own, right now, or get stuck in a rut. You know I’ve never been good at planning ahead. I should have enrolled formally at Cornell University, when we were in Ithaca. There were enough chances to do that, and I never took them seriously. Now look at my life! I wouldn’t be here if not for messing up so badly. It’s the truth, I won’t try to make excuses. The one shot I have at finding success is pairing with someone who is smarter, stronger, and more stable. This woman I met at the department store is all of those things, and more...”

 

This choice was well-founded, and charted my future path for years to come. It left me feeling intensely sad, however, as I pondered the sight of my car, while standing on our concrete porch by the back yard. The Chevette, for all of its faults, had been purchased with a co-signature from my father. His endorsement made the loan a possibility. I had no credit history, and little time at a regular workplace. His faith in me, despite years of bad behavior and disappointment, made the difference. Now, it seemed that I was repaying him with an abdication of responsibility. I stared out the doorway for a long time. My stomach ached. When leaving, I was silent. Everything had already been said. There were no invocations of prayer, or good luck, offered. I had emotionally graduated from the status of a capricious child, to that of a grown man, inheriting a legacy of freedom. And, the burden guilt that followed. I had to think clearly for a change, or tumble into an abyss of lingering darkness.

 

My face reddened with embarrassment. Then, I went outside for the last time.

 

It was the first instance where I could remember feeling grateful for having a pair of Chevette keys in my pocket. The bland, boring, box-on-wheels had given me a second start that I desperately needed. Every day from that moment forward, would be a new adventure. An opportunity to put right what I had foolishly allowed to go wrong.

 

 

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 12: Dealership

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-25)

 

 

The events that upset our family household on Maple Avenue, and rewrote the paradigm of my gainful employment, would have been magnified by dumping the Chevette. But just before that seismic shift occurred, I tried to work a deal with Lawson Ford, a local dealership on the north edge of town. It was a bad idea, and one that came at the wrong time.

 

Friends like Tim had sleek, capable vehicles of all kinds. His Bronco II, an Eddie Bauer edition, made my plain, beige hatchback look like a pile of recycling cans waiting to be scrapped. This disparity left me feeling unworthy at every turn. I was a car guy at heart, raised on Floyd Clymer manuals, and road tests written by Tom McCahill for Mechanix Illustrated. So, the idea of driving around in a bland box on wheels made my stomach ache. Whenever we went out for local music events, or carefree drinking, I always ended up looking foolish. Though being at the wheel of a thrifty sedan made lots of sense.

 

Many neighbors and workplace contacts had trucks, Jeeps, or other SUV varieties. That caught my attention as someone with rural roots. My father had been born in Kentucky, and my mother, in West Virginia. The thought of owning a rig that could haul freight seemed undeniably appropriate. And it fit the minimalist, practical mindset preached to me by members of the brood.

 

While my compadre from Big Wheel was getting a warranty checkup for his 4x4 hoss, I saw a blue, bare-bones Ranger in the showroom. This product line had only been marketed in America for a couple of years, so it was still something fresh and new at the time. I reckoned that it was a choice which would fit my lifestyle. And a salesman saw that glimmer of interest in my eyes, immediately.

 

“Hey kid, you like this thing? Tell me what you’re driving now. We’ll give a good trade-in allowance here, on anything in decent shape!”

 

I coughed and cleared my throat. What I really wanted was a cigarette break, outside, to think more clearly. Yet I tried to sound confident.

 

“I’ve got... umm... a 1981 Chevy Chevette. The four-door type, you know, without air conditioning...”

 

The dealer representative reeked of cheap cologne. He had the appearance of a minor-league hustler, someone who had written thousands of loan applications and printed out many invoice statements. There was little genuine emotion in his voice, other than the zeal for conquest. But the mention of my car visibly rattled his nerves.

 

“A Shove-It? I mean, Chevette? Yeah, those were popular a few years ago. Our Escort is a much better option, in my opinion. But I can work with you! Let’s sit down and I’ll crunch some numbers!”

 

We went to his desk, in a far corner of the room. There were telltale coffee rings around its perimeter, and lots of paperwork stacked everywhere. I saw award plaques on the wall, behind his seat, indicating years of competent service. It gave me some hope that a deal might actually be possible.

 

“I’ve got a few bucks saved, not much. My Chevrolet is in great condition though...”

 

The sales hound tweaked his thin mustache, and tapped at an adding machine.

 

“You’ve paid off the balance, right? That shouldn’t have cost much.”

 

I had to confess that my bank obligation wasn’t yet satisfied.

 

“Well, no actually...”

 

He shrugged and spun in his roller chair.

 

“What kind of down payment were you considering? Five thousand? Four? Three? Or maybe two thousand?”

 

I held my breath before answering. My black, Harley-Davidson T-shirt had turned damp with perspiration.

 

“Umm... five hundred is all I’ve got.”

 

This declaration made him exhale forcefully, and laugh out loud.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it! We’re not talking about buying a Lincoln here, you’re a regular dude. Let me speak with the general manager! He’s got to approve anything we negotiate.”

 

The automotive specialist disappeared into a side office, and soon returned with more papers.

 

“If your history with Bank One looks good, and we get conformation of current employment, I can push this through. There’s a special running right now on the bottom-end trucks. We’ve sold all of the expensive ones already. You’re looking at a manual transmission, four-cylinder motor, a basic radio, and not much else. But I figure that’s just what you need! There’s nothing like owning a brand-new Ford! Nothing at all!”

 

I looked over his sales order, and there didn’t seem to be a figure included for my Chevette. Instead, he had simply rolled over what I still owed.

 

“Umm... this looks wrong to me... I get no value for my trade?”

 

The salesman grimaced and cracked his knuckles.

 

“Look kid, we can’t get much of anything for what you’re driving. It sucks, right? But I’ve got to be honest about it. My boss won’t give more than $500.00 for that puddle jumper. Put that with your down payment, and it doesn’t add up to much. I can’t work miracles, okay? Just remember, if you don’t give me something to hold the Ranger, it’ll be gone by the time you get back here, again!”

 

Impulsively, I decided to plunk down a deposit, and sell the GM T-car, myself. This choice eventually brought a round of personal humiliation, and surrender. I put homemade ads on the billboard at Fisher’s Big Wheel, and other businesses around our community. My thought was to let someone take over the monthly payments, with no benefit for me, other than getting out of the bank agreement. But there were no takers.

 

The tin-can Chevy had become an orphan that no one wanted to adopt.

 

After a week or two had passed, I crawled back to the dealership, with my chin on the ground. The exercise had been a learning experience. Now, I had to consume a feast of crow. I admitted my personal defeat, apologized for wasting time, and got a full refund, thanks to my humility.

 

Shame dripped from the tailpipe of my Chevette, when leaving their parking lot. Fortunately, this moment of failure turned out to be a blessing. With upheaval at home, and on the job, I fared far better without the added expense.

 

A chance at the glory of purchasing a new ride would have to wait.

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 11: Moving

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-25)

 

 

By the beginning of 1986, I had made peace with being back in Ohio, sleeping on the couch in my family’s living room, and working at Fisher’s Big Wheel. This balance on the precipice of a cliff was odd and uncomfortable. Yet enough time had elapsed that familiarity nullified fears about losing myself. I was surviving for the moment, and that gave me enough confidence to continue. A frugal lifestyle kept me safe, and sane. While the structure of a functioning household let me remain centered.

 

I had paid on my Chevette loan for over a year, and the bland, bare-bones econobox was still running. The total agreement with my lender was for 36 months. I reckoned on satisfying the amount in full, and then moving forward, financially. There was logic in this optimistic outlook. Yet with the new year in effect, things came apart quickly.

 

My parents were set to move at the beginning of April. So, brother, sister, and I had struck a bargain with the church to rent their vacated house, temporarily. The deal satisfied everyone. But it meant that I needed a better income to cover the bills. I applied at two grocery depots in town, and interviewed with managers at both businesses. Everything was in boxes as I stayed by the telephone, for a hiring call. A capable truck arrived with light snow still on the ground, and our furnishings started to disappear. I was given a bedroom upstairs, my first in nearly three years. Work on the street made getting in and out of the driveway difficult. All of these events soon had my head spinning. I gambled that somehow, it would come together before homelessness returned.

 

After covering basic expenses, I had been stumbling through each week on a ration of pennies. Now, that income stream would not be sufficient without help. I got a side job doing cleanup work at the Kent State University branch, in Burton. Meanwhile, the Bi-Rite supermarket in Chardon notified me that I had been given a part-time position. After accepting this offer, I got a second call from the Valu King near my department store, with a similar pledge of employment. I stayed with the first choice, and ended up working seven days per week, between the school and groceteria. The arrangement made sense, in budget terms. But it greatly increased my travel routine.

 

The little Chevrolet started to show signs of wear, almost immediately. I had to park on a side street, blocks from our home, as construction continued. Then, the vehicle needed repairs which I had no time to accomplish. Some networking with friends kept me mobile. But a week elapsed before I could even get my car to the repair shop. Since my personal life was minimal in character, being so busy did not present a problem. But eventually, I began to lose track of things. My sister and her husband had their first baby. My brother seemed to burn through jobs like changing his shirt, or grimy blue jeans. Schedule changes at the last minute caused havoc and sometimes, disappointment. I was in motion, constantly.

 

My thrifty mule grew more rebellious during this period of readjustment. It stalled and sputtered when cold, and ran raggedly, upon getting hot. Carburetor fiddling did not seem to fix this malady. A wiring problem caused the radio to work intermittently. The shifter knob fell off in my right hand, despite being repeatedly tightened down with a set screw. The car rattled and buzzed, and rode hard.

 

Finally, the boss at our local grocery store reached his limit with my persistent unavailability for extra hours. He was an oversized, gruff fellow, originally from Pennsylvania. Tall despite a natural slouch in his profile. I was called to the cash office one afternoon, and he stood stiffly, wearing a tie tucked into his sweatshirt. With a cigar stub crimped in one corner of his mouth.

 

“You’ve been working two jobs to make ends meet. Is that right, Brother Buck?”

 

I had no idea where his unique idiom of speech had originated. Yet he used the nickname frequently, in conversations of all kinds. He was the most senior of five individuals in the building, named Robert.

 

“That’s right, Bob. I’m really busted!”

 

His rough demeanor softened a bit when I confessed my condition of poverty.

 

“Okay, well here’s what the owner thinks. No more busting your ass at two jobs, you can do it all right here. He’ll give you more hours than you can handle! How about that? We saw on your application that you did some janitorial work at the other plaza. We need second operator for the floor scrubber. And the front-end manager wants you to be his junior. You’ll bag groceries and load orders, get carts, and do whatever the hell else we need! How does that sound?”

 

I had been trying to decide whether to eventually quit at the university branch, or the food emporium. His declaration of faith made the choice an easy task. I nodded and trembled, feeling somewhat sheepish, but grateful

 

“Alright, that works for me, sir. I’ll give my notice to the supervisor at Kent State. Thank you! Thank you very much!”

 

My start times throughout the week now varied with each day. I literally worked first, second, and third shift, regularly. This fractured routine soon became familiar. But as before, I started to lose track of my personal life. The late jaunts to Mentor for music and drinking ended. Instead, I switched to a seedy tavern which was accessible through an alleyway behind our store, called the Chardon Beverage & Bar. A vintage watering hole, frequented by members of the crew because of its convenient location. It did not appear to have been remodeled in my own lifetime.

 

After working an early shift in the summer, I slipped outside with the sun still shining brightly. A blessing of fate that I received with joy. But confusion struck as it became apparent that I had locked the keys in my Chevette, earlier that morning. I had to steal a wire hanger from our coat rack, to break in again, surreptitiously.

 

Our business owner arrived as I was doing this difficult deed. We rarely saw each other, but I always wanted to make a good impression. He typically wore a fedora hat, dress shirt and tie, and polyester slacks. The sight of me sweating and cursing, while poking through rubber insulation around the door glass, made him pause, shrug, and then disappear without making any comments.

 

I left feeling embarrassed, exhausted, and ready for a cold brew. I hoped that at least one of our crew members was already at the bar.

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 9: Christmas

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-25)

 

 

Working at Fisher’s Big Wheel matched my lifestyle as a prodigal son who had to seek refuge on his native soil. Something done to escape homelessness and ruin. Yet for being a member of the crew in such a spartan environment, I was treated well by the company. Every year, associates were given a turkey or ham for the holiday season, and also invited to attend a party held at the Grandview Country Club, in Middlefield. This event was a high point of our year. And, a welcome chance to forget, for a moment, my own displacement from New York.

 

My Chevy Chevette was easily the least valuable of vehicles parked at this venue. Barely noticed in the mass of sporty coupes, customized pickup trucks, luxury cruisers, and classic cars. One might have thought that I showed up to celebrate there, by mistake. But having an evening free for fun and social interaction was welcome. I carried a reputation of being an outlier in our store. An oddball on the team. So, to enhance this perception, I showed up in vinyl trousers that had the look of black cowhide. Though my dancing skills were sorely lacking, I tried to participate, anyway. Tim, my closest friend at the workplace, was also present. This meant that a friendly competition ensued, regarding our ability to outpace one another, with alcohol. He was blessed with a Czech ancestry, while my own was German and Scotch-Irish. That gave both of us a natural ability to imbibe with gusto.

 

We had done some sort of gift exchange, and the young cashier who drew my name bought a set of novelty glasses with ladies who lost their skimpy attire as a cool beverage was added. She whistled and whooped upon seeing me open the set. Then demanded that I give one of the vessels a demonstration run. When this magic act commenced, our general manager began to chortle like an old perv at a strip club. His wife, who lingered in the shadows, was not entertained. Graciously, however, she remained out of the spotlight.

 

“There you go, Rocket Rod! That’s just perfect! Gawdamm! Absolutely perfect!”

 

Once, the corporate offices had sent a us security agent who was tall, blonde, and leggy. She looked nothing like a store detective, which of course, was the intention. Tim and I had found a leather miniskirt for her, at a mall shop, in Mentor. When she received this tribute, it caused her to immediately buy a pair of nylons while on duty, and strut around the sales floor, watching for pilferers.

 

The vibe at our Xmas bash reminded me of that memory from yonder days. Our chieftain displayed a reaction quite similar in character.

 

“You guys are great! Really great! Really great!”

 

Eventually, our lead supervisor became inebriated enough to drop on his knees, and then spin around with the energy of a cartoon character. This made his spouse gasp and cover her mouth. Tim and I decided to grab at his ankles, and increase the velocity of this improvised show. The result was chaotic and wild. But it gave the disc jockey we’d hired enough inspiration to crank up the volume of his sound system.

 

I was nearly deaf from the rhythmic pounding. But suddenly, my cohort yelped for attention, after returning from the bar.

 

“Hey, that son-of-a-bitch said he doesn’t have any Jack Daniel’s! It’s in another room, a higher-class side of the club, I guess. What do you think of that?”

 

I had turned numb and jovial, despite owning GM’s cheapest roadgoing mule. And Tennessee whiskey was my personal favorite. So, both of us charged the drink attendant, as he was serving guests. There was an expression of disbelief on his face as my stocky friend slurred out a demand for better options from his stash.

 

“You’ve got Jack Dee somewhere other than here? C’mon dude, give it up! Quit playing games! I don’t want bottom-shelf piss! Don’t be an asshole!”

 

The barkeep was pale and lanky. He appeared to be very tired, and on the edge of expelling us from their establishment. But I intervened with a gentler note of diplomacy.

 

“This is a cash bar to make extra money, right? Well then, why not get a bottle for us? Our dollars spend the same. The owners would agree, I’m sure...”

 

My logic must have made him visualize their register drawer bulging with legal tender. He located a jug of the hillbilly juice we wanted, and began selling shots shortly afterward. It was a victory for commerce, but also, the end of my endurance.

 

In another hour, I had wandered outside for some cool, fresh air to clear my head. The boyfriend of a stock clerk who worked daytime hours was in his Monte Carlo, passing around marijuana joints to the crowd. I kept my distance in case the sheriff might make an appearance. But additionally, because I knew that sampling his proffered weed would only increase the difficulty of getting home, over the rural, unlit landscape. A bit of sobriety was in order. Coffee, and ice cubes rubbed on my forehead, were remedies that I sought.

 

Following a typical pattern, I ended up alone on the hood of my plain, economy sedan, when our night had concluded. An exodus of revelers happened quickly, as I watched. Tires squealed, exhaust fumes bellowed, and cheers resounded. Then, I was in the driver’s seat, with both hands on my steering wheel. Arms straight out, and locked in position.

 

“Okay, here we go. Let’s do this, Shove-It! Just find your way back to Chardon. Everyone at home must have gone to bed hours ago. I’ll sneak in the back door, so they don’t hear anything. Maybe I’ll even sleep in the bathtub!”

 

My clothes were soaked with beer, liquor, and champagne. I did not want to confront my parents while being so obviously unprepared.

 

On Maple Avenue, the mood was decidedly quiet. I parked behind our two-story shack, and had a cigarette before pulling on the door latch. The windshield began to frost over, almost immediately. Across our back yard, I could see that a light had been left on, in the kitchen.

 

When I awakened, a couple of hours later, there was a hint of sunrise brightening the sky. I shivered and shook before realizing that my energy had waned, upon reaching home base. I never made it inside. Now, I would need to explain myself, over breakfast. With the entire brood listening and offering their own critique.

 

My Chevrolet hatchback provided no protection from this dreaded moment of judgment. Yet at least it had gotten me where I needed to go, safely.

 

That, by itself, was enough.

 

Marilyn Song 2-23-25

 

“Marilyn Song”

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-25)

 

What ya gonna do about Marilyn?

The one with those perfect eyes

Her heels are high

They tease the sky

With curves you can’t deny

What ya gonna do about Marilyn?

A playful cat that’s gone astray

She likes to purr and play

It gets me crazed

It turns my night to day

 

What ya gonna do about Marilyn?

The one who lights a fuse

She’s a writer’s muse

Leather, lace, and boots

An all-nighter on the boob tube

What ya gonna do about Marilyn?

Can’t get her out of my heart

A big, beautiful start

Like chocolates from a push cart

A kiss of roses in the dark

 

She’s a star on Broadway

An ohh to my kay

A dancer on the big stage

A chance at a new day

A video queen

An actress stealing scenes

A roll of change in my jeans

She’s a prize

She’s a prize

On YouTube at: https://youtu.be/N_lllBlvuio?si=2k3sGKoInO8Y54n0

“Those Eyes” (For Marilyn Mayson)

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-25)

 

 

Caught off guard

Scrolling and watching

She comes to me

Like a tick-tock talking

Telling the time

Putting her imprint on my mind

Bountiful and busty

Dangerous curves ahead

She makes me short of breath

And long on love, instead

That lady friend, unknown

A siren calling from my cell phone

Oh, Those eyes

Those eyes

 

I found her first

In a modeling photoshoot

Thought she was cool and fresh

An overload of cute

But beyond usual charms, fulfilled

Her gaze made me still

In every portfolio

Of images displayed

There was that optic rush

A laser of winking marmalade

It touched me deep

Speaking in a dreamscape, when I sleep

Oh, those eyes

Those eyes

 

Something enduring

Followed that primal connection

She kept returning

Like a lover’s infection

A kiss when waking

My earth was quaking

No matter the character

That she portrayed

I felt an electric charge

Of leaping beyond the waylaid

This was no coincidence for me

We had bonded for eternity

Oh, those eyes

Those eyes

 

Now I find myself

Seeing stars collided

Her art and appeal

The zeal of watcher, provided

A charge to the pulse

A ship sailing on a velvet hull

I might not have touched

That skin so pale and pure

I might not understand

With a nature, demure

But she’s lingering like a scent

Of roses and peppermint

Oh, those eyes

Those eyes

 

It matters little

That we are travelers afar

A glamour gal in Vegas

And a wordsmith with guitar

A pairing unexpected

That leaves the universe affected

Still, I feel the caress

Of fingertips, gentle yet sharp

I know the rule

Of a seeker, set apart

This inspiration is enough

I will stand on trust

Oh, those eyes

Those eyes

 

Be well, friend

This is my wish at dawn

Both of us singing softly

Of a force taught by Obi-Wan

To comprehend the all

Is a crinkled leaf, yet to fall

You on your astral plane

And I, humbly below

Gladdened by a giddy glitch

Warmed by the afterglow

Together, we came

Now I cherish the flickering flame

Oh, those eyes

Those eyes

Driving Me Happy, Chapter 10: 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.