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c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(9-25)
With leaves beginning to fall, and temperatures dipping lower at night, I had turned numb to the idea of time progression. One day literally blended into the next, with the muted colors of an impressionist painting. I did not keep to my normal routine so strictly as before. Eventually, this had me raiding the refrigerator stash, when a better choice would have been to work at my desk. Ambition was a word that I no longer recognized. I cared little about anything, not even the creative work that had once held so much importance in my life.
Then, a call registered on my cellular device. The number displayed indicated an office in New York City. I recognized it as being the home base of Bowery Beat Records, and Seely Joan Frye. Her persistence struck me as somewhat irritating, when I had already begun to drink. So, instead of waiting for the voicemail program to connect, I actually answered with a gruff growl of indifference.
“Yeah? You’ve reached the Swindle Shack! Say your piece, and hang up already!”
The entertainment professional was shaken by my tone, yet resilient.
“Hello Rod, I hope you are well my friend. My associates here at the label have been curious about your thought process regarding our offer of a contract.”
I was still sober enough not to lose control. But bristled at her confession.
“Alright, maybe I wasn’t clear enough before. I’ll put that on myself. Here’s the deal – there is no deal! I’m permanently out-of-service here, done with the grind. I don’t need money, don’t need a schedule, don’t need a boss to please...”
Ms. Frye hummed to herself with amusement.
“Right, I get your independent attitude. That fits your personality, I think. What about the writing though, has that continued?”
I breathed heavily, until a tickle in my lungs evoked a loud, reflexive cough.
“I’m stalled at the moment. Too much going on in my personal life...”
The music maven nodded and sighed, softly.
“Look, I’d like to be candid with you, Rod. We don’t operate like a regular business. This isn’t a large operation, with shareholders to satisfy. We all love music, and the performing arts. That’s our groove, to nurture the craft in all its forms. Specifically, songwriters and those who interpret words and melodies for self-expression. My staff is a co-op of volunteers and apprentices. We don’t chase profits, or seek publicity. This is more of a free-form archive here, we want to tap into the stream-of-consciousness, and document what is happening in real time.”
I shrugged while finishing a round of pilsner.
“That’s noble of you, kudos for your efforts...”
Frye chortled at my disinterest. She was a veteran of the industry, and not easily turned aside.
“Let me take a different approach on this, okay? What do you have on your desk right now? I know better than to believe someone like yourself has shut down completely. There are always ideas echoing from the ether. Awake, asleep, wherever and whatever you might be doing. There is always some spark of creative zeal even when nothing else connects!”
Instead of pursuing a pointless debate, I meekly surrendered to her insistence.
“On my desk? Right now? There’s a notepad with lyrics jotted down this morning. Scribbling with stiff fingers, really. I tried capturing an a cappella version on my phone, and it sounded like, umm, shit...”
The entertainment chieftess was stunned by my naked honesty.
“LIKE WHAT? DON’T BE RIDICULOUS!”
I decided to bargain with her, for an early release from our meandering conversation.
“How about this? Hang up right now, and I’ll send you the audio file...”
Ms. Frye was stunned, but satisfied. I could hear her purr like a contented kitten.
“Yes! That’s a gamble I’ll take. Don’t keep me waiting, Rod!”
I rubbed my face and temples, before searching for the recording. It was a Lou Reed sort of twist on Jim Carroll’s ‘People Who’ve Died.’ A representation of the point I had reached in my own, mortal journey. Where fellow travelers were departing, too rapidly to comprehend.
Goodbye Game
Lil’ Kim hit those register keys
A clerk on duty, a marketplace queen
She had a smile for every visit I made
A grinning grandma, young for her age
She posted videos of song and prose
A surprise to see this hidden rose
She bloomed whenever the sun would shine
But couldn’t jump the limits of time
Limits of time
Living on loneliness is a goodbye game
Sunrise to sunset, a dance in the rain
Reciting sonnets from a stonemason’s wall
A wealth of sorrows, chiseled with an awl
Started out boldly, in a cornfield
But Illinois soon lost its appeal
A radio buff, a real bunker-buster
Hit the Gold Coast in a Plinko plunker
Terry had the groove to grow on air
He lived a dream, upstairs/down stairs
A hillside studio, a drive-in play
I never considered that he’d have to go away
Go away
Living on loneliness is a goodbye game
Sunrise to sunset, a dance in the rain
Reciting sonnets from a stonemason’s wall
A wealth of sorrows, chiseled with an awl
David had a university vibe
A librarian, Dewey Decimals on the inside
Stacked his records up the bedroom wall
Boxes of magazines, tumbling in the hall
I knew him for so damn many years
Never got afraid that he’d disappear
But with a wicked whisper of fate
He checked out, months before his birth date
He checked out
Living on loneliness is a goodbye game
Sunrise to sunset, a dance in the rain
Reciting sonnets from a stonemason’s wall
A wealth of sorrows, chiseled with an awl
Nascar Hillbilly was never a friend
Got tired of watching him disintegrate loose ends
He had one skill, to piss off the ‘hood
At that task, he was undeniably good
Could build a mansion from boards and sticks
Pulled out his trailer when the irony got thick
I heard last week that he’d passed away
Bowed my head, nothing good to say
Nothing good
Living on loneliness is a goodbye game
Sunrise to sunset, a dance in the rain
Reciting sonnets from a stonemason’s wall
A wealth of sorrows, chiseled with an awl
The Grim Reaper is a respecter of none
He comes to call when the day is done
I’ve heard it said that all men must die
But so far, I’m still on this train ride
I know statistically the gamut can’t last
I will also be called upon to pass
But when I slip beyond that veil of gray
It will be after having a moment to pray
Moment to pray
Living on loneliness is a goodbye game
Sunrise to sunset, a dance in the rain
Reciting sonnets from a stonemason’s wall
A wealth of sorrows, chiseled with an awl
At the Bowery Beat offices, Seely Joan Frye sat very still after listening. Her eyes were full of tears. So much that it was necessary to pause, and reflect on what she had just heard. Her reading glasses had fogged, while scrolling through e-mail messages. Yet a hint of sadness made her feel cold. Only the glow of an idling, computer monitor offered any comfort. Still, a nerve had been touched. She would wait for her emotions to settle. Then, perhaps later in the afternoon, make a presentation to the company’s assets acquisition team. This moment of opportunity could not be ignored.
She would never accept being rebuffed, again.
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