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.
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