c. 2025 Rod Ice
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(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?”
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