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.
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