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 20th 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!
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