Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 5: Neighborhood

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

Having revived my music groove, with renewed vigor, I began to think about how past projects in that vein had provided extra avenues for self-expression. My regular work in the home office was meaningful. Yet when creative moments took me into the realm of a storyteller-with-guitar, in the tradition of John Prine or Lou Reed, I received an extra measure of gratification. This detour centered me on the notion of writing lyrics about members of my own neighborhood, with candor and courage. Something similar to what I had done many years ago, in my basement studio near Lake Erie.

 

Charting the ill-fated escapades of those in my orbit had proved to be productive and rewarding.

 

I knew that despite the drawbacks of living in a community where rented lots and prefab homes were the norm, a unique vibe existed. One that could be tapped with a bit of poetic flair, and depicted in verse. Though many residents were transitory, arriving and departing randomly as financial needs and legal obligations dictated, some lived on-site for a long time. I had been an inhabitant of the junkyard oasis for more than 23 years. A span that still seemed impossible to comprehend or justify. But through that inglorious achievement, I had grown as a wordsmith.

 

In yonder days, I had been too soft for a genuine Blues experience. Too comfortable, too lazy. Too sheltered from the ugly truths of living beyond safe spaces and polite society. Now however, there was a hard edge to everything I wrote, and sang. My voice had the timbre of whiskey and cigarettes. My scribbled sonnets carried bruises and scars.

 

With Reed’s carefree approach to weaving a tapestry of allies and enemies into his compositions, I began to think about the world just outside of my front door.

 

Trailer Tales

 

“Dee has a fascination

With everybody else

She can’t stand to be alone

Entertainment is her upsell

She doesn’t like men 

But one gladly pays her bills

That makes an odd arrangement

She has to give him some thrills

 

Jay is a follower

She does what works

Finds friends on the streets

Outside of town, by the waterworks

She loves to play bestie

It’s her favorite role

She stands tall in the yard

Like a twisted-up beanpole

 

Ess is a black dog

Comes looking for treats

Acts like there’s no food at home

Always wants more to eat

That hound is a hustler

Like its human mom

When those paws hit the boards

There’ll be something going on

 

Bee is a good man

He’s used to carrying the load

Always helping a neighbor

Always burning up the roads

He never gets discouraged

From being played for a trick

It makes me wonder about

Living long on that bullshit

 

Gomer is a goober

Free rooms go for a mind trip

Gets used and abused

Doesn’t seem to get pissed

Personally, I would bust out

On an arrangement of that kind

But he just stays away

He doesn’t seem to mind

 

Big Mouth likes to chatter

He’s a sweaty, bald prick

Thinks he knows more of Jesus

Than any trailer park hick

Been a loser since birth

I can tell just by looking

But he gets by on budget beer

And mama’s home cooking

 

Skinny Brit is funny

She speaks well by comparison

To the regular folk

To the guards of this garrison

She must feel displaced

To have landed so far from Oz

In a horde of the hungry

A cat with no claws

 

Stoner the recluse

Barely sees the sun

He’d rather cruise on vaping

And play the welfare bum

Job skills aplenty

But he avoids work, righteously

I always wonder

How he gets by with daily needs

 

Grandpa White Hair

Rides up and down all day

Doing favors for grandkids

While they game and play

They say he’s a veteran

And I believe in that truth

A throwback to Superman

In the telephone booth

 

Granny on the porch

Is beloved by all

She works her way ‘round the roof rail

Makes me worry about a fall

She was in this township

Long before we were born

Everybody knows her name

It’s a break from the norm

 

Stray cats roam

I watch them from my front bench

Living under the empty homes

Like a gaggle of malcontents

They howl and hiss

About feline conflicts

But come around sometimes

If there’s chow in the dish

 

How I got here

Can’t be explained in a few words

From the Finger Lakes Region

To a life stuck in the dirt

After more than 20 years

I no longer keep it hid

My snake-skin has turned cold

My heart is hard like a skid-lid”

 

Having completed this personal assignment, I felt satisfied. Recording a version with my iPhone seemed proper to do, as a next step. But instead, I turned off the light over my computer, and reclined in the roller chair. A brief interlude of nothingness followed. I closed my eyes, and faded into the ether, willingly. Soon, I was snoring loudly, with both arms draped over the sides of my seat.

 

While dreaming, I pondered sharing a snippet of what I had created in an e-mail message to Kookshow Baby. I reckoned on being ignored in the moment, though persistence would not allow me to surrender so quickly. Her absence had become familiar over the past few months since I visited the west coast. So, I expected to be brushed off like crumbs from the dinner table. Yet almost immediately, her signature address popped up in one of my online accounts. She included laughing emojis, and a pair of shrugging figures with their hands held aloft.

 

Her approach was very direct, without giving any explanation for the extended absence.

 

“Gawdamm, Rawd! Y’all got some messed-up people livin’ around ya there in Ohio! Hoo boy, it sounds a lot like my mama’s friends when I was a kid! No wonder yer head ain’t on straight! That’s what ya get fer goin’ back to that part of flyover country!”