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!”
No comments:
Post a Comment