Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 10: Contact

 

c. 2025 Rod ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

Instead of putting real effort into muddling over the idea of signing a record contract, or crafting a more appealing solicitation for Kookshow Baby to reply in earnest, I simply tuned out for the moment. Both mentally and emotionally. What followed this dive into detachment was an interlude of self-analysis. One where I pondered my situation from an artistic perspective.

 

The result came in a groundswell of words and images. All reflected from what I saw in the mirror, when beholding my own visage in a stark light of honesty.

 

The Breaks

 

Getting hard to walk, it is

From one end to the other, of my mobile-home crib

I never thought I’d stay here so long

But now it’s a certainty that life goes on

Goes on, it does, into the night

When darkness covers the failings of light

Like John Cena, I can’t be seen

Rip up that cover of a sheen magazine

I came this way by an accident of fate

Took a detour to Evergreen Estates

Had no idea of the lasting effects

Living low on tattoos and cigarettes

That’s the breaks

 

My body says what lips can’t pronounce

It’s a matter of bourbon doled by the ounce

I never get enough to make me feel right

But that burning keeps my fists in the fight

I’ve tried to concentrate on the glare

Of ghosts and goblins, dancing unaware

But their tricks overwhelm my eyes

Leave me crumpled under bootheels of surprise

Listen long and you’ll hear a cry

But not from me, I’m too tough to die

Old piece of leather, tanned and thick

I’ll take my medicine like blood on the bricks

That’s the breaks

 

In grade school I learned the routine

A way of thinking, dressed-up and clean

Then on the other side of that great divide

I got a consolation ticket to ride

That gaudy gift made me feel a fool

Like I had flunked out on studying rules

But when my knees hit the concrete walk

That was the moment that I learned some tough talk

I stood up straight with the wind at my back

Clutching my chest with a Fred Sanford heart attack

And when they called for an EMT

I took a wormhole, way across the galaxy

That’s the breaks

 

Don’t be shy about saying your piece

It’s just a matter of long-held beliefs

You stay true to what dwells in your heart

Or get stuck hawking junkyard auto parts

I’ve never been one to brag on myself

My game plan involves hiding on the bookshelf

Between titles, written in antiquity

Safe and silent where a lurker can breathe

I grew up quoting from Shakespeare plays

And Bible verses in the style of King James

It kept me looking like a library geek

But better that, than in a tent on the street

That’s the breaks

 

I heard a neighbor interject with a scowl

“You look like a caveman, with those fuzzy old jowls!”

And I had to laugh at her description

I damn sure fit that dirty disposition

Not that I ever had intended to slide

Into the muck of a barnyard hayride

It came naturally to take being shunned

When I smiled, that chica was stunned

Something happened after our discourse

A thunderstorm came charging, on a white horse

Meteorology, calling for a downpour

The two of us, fearing what we hoped for

That’s the breaks

 

Booming buzzards, soaring ‘cross the sky

With a portent of some pending demise

I had to disappear or be restrained

By a trophy case as yet empty of gains

I got nothing to elevate my libido

Nothing but the wrapper from a Taco Bell burrito

The memory left of that delicate feast

Kept me moving like a Bison beast

I must have appeared to take it all in stride

But getting soaked was far too much to abide

I hid under the half-roof of a PAC-MAN game

And counted passers-by in the service lane

That’s the breaks

 

Time runs out fast, I have been told

By those who lived long enough to shiver in cold

Brittle bones and muscular aches

Hanging around is all that it takes

I wanted something more grand and profound

But instead, caught a peep of hallowed ground

When I went face-first into the boardwalk track

A happening that bruised me blue and black

I won’t ever make that mistake again

Counting on peanuts, and the largess of friends

I know enough to get by on my own

Don’t need me hanging here on the telephone

That’s the breaks

 

Oddly, the line that concluded each verse of this lyric poem was a title I had used in the 1980s. For a song written while fronting a local group called Absolute Zero, In New York State. That was a near miss with fame and success, as our bassist was Andy Hilfiger, brother of Tommy the noted fashion designer. In a style typical for the Swindle orbit, I had a brief brush with optimism, and the thought of potential gains, followed by silence. Nothing productive transpired. We released one 45 rpm single, which sold very few copies. That was how it ended. I hid

 under a bridge in the city, briefly, and then made my exit.

 

Andy went on to better things, working with his family. And I returned to Ohio, with stories to tell and little else that could be quantified on a balance sheet. Yet the yield in creative energy was considerable. Rising from the ashes of an exhausted stay in the Finger Lakes Region, I reinvented myself, and found new avenues for the writing zeal that remained.

 

Such thoughts lingered as the synthetic ringtone of my Messenger app sounded, while I was outside on the front porch with a brew. When I lifted my cellular device to have a look, the image of California appeared on its screen.

 

My pigtailed princess had at long last decided to reach out from her doublewide home at the abandoned drive-in of Cult Radio A-Go-Go. She left a voice note when I did not answer right away.

 

“Rawd! Are y’all still alive, buddy? I’ve been up to my eyeballs in shit-to-do here. Tiffany has been lookin’ after her papa, so I stepped up fer extra duty! I’ve been a-feedin’ cats and doin’ program work, and all sorts of fun chores. Keepin’ these networks goin’ ain’t an easy job, I’ll tell ya! I’m plum worn out by the end of my day! Forgive me, dude! I wasn’t tryin’ to blow ya off, I promise! I been hoppin around here like a damn frog in a creek!”

 

I had already quenched my thirst with several rounds of drink. My face was flushed red, and numb. So, instead of reacting immediately, I sat still while listening to tracks from Hasil Adkins, via Spotify. His one-man plucking, and rhythmic footstomps, reverberated through the fog of alcohol that filled my skull.

 

I would call her back, tomorrow.