Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 12: Encouragement

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

I had been at the desk in my home office throughout the morning. Busy with straightening out a personal checkbook, reading a backlog of postal mail, and sorting through story chapters saved on my computer. But as I saw the clock approaching a polite hour of afternoon, my mouth began to feel dry. I wanted a drink, and some fresh air. Before I could struggle out of the creaky, roller chair however, a ringtone sounded with electronic immediacy.

 

Yarl Trite, my long-time associate from the Finger Lakes Region of New York, had decided to call at an unusually early hour. Compared to most of our mutual friends from that area, he was exceptionally motivated and healthy. Still collecting recorded music, seeing shows, and interacting online with performers and artists about their work. I raised an eyebrow while answering, as his timing did not fit the normal pattern of our conversations. But upon hearing his voice, I recognized that no explanation was needed.

 

He wanted to know all the details about my prospective agreement with Bowery Beat Records.

 

“Hey buddy! I figure you must’ve gotten a call from that lady in the Big Apple by now. How’d it go? Did her label make an offer? Are you gonna put a band together? Or maybe head west and work with those Old Drunken Buzzards you’ve talked about, in Seattle?”

 

I had just finished a breakfast of coffee and pepperoni rolls. The latter being a treat from one of my favorite family stores in Rock Creek, across the county line.

 

“Yeah, I did hear from her. We had a very short chat. I think she may have been pissed off by my uncooperative vibe...”

 

There was a short pause before he could continue.

 

“Pissed off? Why? Did you play hardball about getting a big share of royalties?”

 

I chortled slightly, and scratched my shaggy beard.

 

“Hardball? Nah, nothing of that kind. I admitted to being indifferent about turning my creative pursuit into a moneymaking venture. You know, a job...”

 

Yarl pounded his fist on the tabletop where he was sitting.

 

“WHAT? YOU BLEW OFF HER PROPOSAL?”

 

I felt embarrassed, but confident in my decision.

 

“Look, I haven’t had a real employer in nine years. No schedule, no payroll number, no HR department to please, none of that. I don’t even own an alarm clock. The outside world doesn’t exist in my lane. It’s a lost horizon now. I do my thing when it suits me...”

 

My erstwhile hero sputtered and hacked while listening to this explanation. Then, politely changed the subject.

 

“Okay, never mind then. So, I see you’ve been picking up some CDs, by the outlaw weirdo Hasil Adkins. That’s a good thing, to hear you’ve finally got the jones for collecting again!”

 

I had only purchased one disc, which was marked down from its original cost, and offered with free shipping.

 

“Did you know that one of the Norton Records releases has a letter from President Richard Nixon on the back? Apparently, Senator Robert Byrd forwarded him an album at some point in 1970. Tricky Dick actually wrote a letter of thanks, in return. He must have been completely mystified by that crude-ass stomping and howling. I think it is frigging hilarious...”

 

Yarl sighed and buzzed his lips.

 

“Yeah, probably. I don’t quite get your fascination with that guy, but his stuff is amusing!”

 

I bowed my head as if in a confessional, at church.

 

“It’s a bloodline thing. I’ve got deep roots in that part of the country. My ancestor from Europe settled around what is now the city of Morgantown. One of his sons, through whom I trace my lineage, was a principal founder of Barrackville, West Virginia. I don’t talk about it too much, because some people get rowdy with insults and such. But it’s there in my psychology. Adkins appeals to me on the level of being creatively insane...”

 

His reaction betrayed a measure of disbelief.

 

“What, you’ve got hillbilly roots? I mean, I knew you were Midwestern, that goes without saying, Rod. But damn, mountain folk too?”

 

My explanation must have sounded like an admission of guilt. Yet I spoke proudly about the genetic pool from which I had come.

 

“Our culture is so much more homogenized now, thanks to the internet. That means that a creeping blandness has overtaken everything, everywhere. I liked having more regional differences, you know, the curious and idiopathic rise of unique traditions. That’s what Adkins reflected. He wasn’t on a mission to imitate popular ideas, but instead, to write his own story, in a dialect of the hills...”

 

Yarl coughed and wheezed.

 

“If you say so, buddy! To me, what he made was mostly noise. Like rattling cans in a recycling bag, you know?”

 

His description made me grimace, but also nod with understanding.

 

“There’s a movie you ought to see. It was called ‘The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia.’ Directed by Julien Nitzberg, and produced by Johnny Knoxville with Jeff Tremaine, you know, the Dickhouse guys of Jackass fame. The storyline emanated from Boone County, the same geographical spot that sired Hasil, himself...”

 

My Empire State cohort was puzzled by the long title that I recounted.

 

“Where did you see that one? I’ve never heard of it before!”

 

I had to sort through memories for recollection.

 

“It was available via a library service, in cyberspace. The movie dates back to 2009, and I caught it a couple of years later...”

 

I could hear keys typing at a computer workspace. Yarl was searching online for clues.

 

“It says here that the film was picked up by Roku at some point. You can grab a look at their content channel. Okay, you hooked me with that suggestion. I’ll have to check it out!”

 

After our conversation had concluded, I was ready for a meal of country-style ribs from my Weber grill, and a bowl of fresh salad. As I gnawed on the pork bones, curiosity inspired me to visit the aforementioned app on my television. It only required a few clicks to find what I was seeking. Then, music of Hank III and Deke Dickerson filled my ears.

 

I passed out in the living room, about two hours later. My Gildan work tee had been stained with grease and Ranch dressing. An open brew sat on my side table.

 

Adkins, Yarl, and the Whites had all provided encouragement for future writing projects. A gift for which I was grateful. But in that moment, I wanted nothing but the comfort of oblivion. And a long snooze in my favorite chair.