c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(11-25)
Confession: I don’t have a clock of any sort in the front bedroom. Because, in my current state of disability and retirement, there is no need to be anywhere on time.
To paraphrase Elvis Costello, “Everything (now) means less than zero...”
At the beginning of Monday morning, I awakened around half past six o’clock. There was a misty wash of gray in my front window, that seemed to beckon with the rainy start of a new day. Something I met eagerly, despite the seasonal bluster, because I had crashed early after a long Sunday of pro football competition, and disappointment. Our hometown franchise, located in Cleveland, had once again provided a lackluster show on the field. With quarterback chaos and failure on public display. This was a particularly unwelcome result, as the rival club from Pittsburgh had already notched a win for themselves. It meant that sports traitors in the neighborhood would be boasting, bragging, and beating their chests. And that I had no ability to escape their treason.
Fortunately, I had gotten drunk enough that this familiar yield of woe barely registered, mentally. And I would dive back into my liquor reserves, before any of these bleating beasts approached my refuge on the porch, outside.
First, however, I needed to clear the lingering fog from my head. This process would make it possible to get inebriated once more, later in the afternoon. With a full crescendo from sobriety to drunkenness obliterating my dark mood. I hated being conscious for too long. That state of uninhibited awareness allowed me to behold the ruin of my mobile-home neighborhood, and its population, with no protection. I did not want to be naked in that sense, for too long.
My television was already tuned to WOIO, Channel 19. The team of Vida Nuñez and Dartell Jackson sat behind a news desk painted orange and brown. Both hosts on the broadcast were dressed in appropriate attire for the hour. They were smart and sharp, and stylish. But not too outlandish for the robot cameras to follow. As I poured a first round of black brew into my mug, a report about future plans for our local NFL franchise echoed in the living room. But the segue from a previous story turned my stomach.
I heard the female anchor relating details of a meeting with Cleveland Mayor Justin Bibb.
“We were told today that the city has a sweeping plan in place for reorganizing the metropolitan school district. A task made necessary by tight budget restrictions. As parents are well aware, funding has been an issue in Ohio for many years. Taxes are unpopular, and spending has been constrained by a lack of resources. There aren’t many options left to elected officials. So, the mayor says, he will close down facilities in need of repair, and consolidate classes. He admits that these choices are not easy to make. But, he says, they are necessary...”
Jackson showed little emotion when taking the handoff from his co-host. Though he attempted to breezily change from one subject to the next.
“In other developments relating to our area, Mayor Bibb has dropped his opposition to the Browns move out of their stadium on Lake Erie. A new sports complex in Brookpark will offer premium services not seen before in this part of the state. Owners Jimmy and Dee Haslam are grateful for the support of lawmakers that will ease the financial burden of this relocation. The billionaire duo believe that having an investment made by our government makes lots of sense in the long term. It is the kind of partnership seen all across this country, with fans wondering about the cost of PSL licenses, and tickets, in years to come...”
I slammed my stoneware cup on the kitchen counter. Coffee spilled over my T-shirt, and on the floor. The noise shook my prefab walls.
“Ugh! Screw those kids in classrooms with no heat and no hope, right? Just keep handing out favors to a guy and his wife, who’ve already got deep pockets! To hell with the rest of us, our problems don’t count...”
A stray cat hunting for rodents on the porch outside, went running for cover. I could see its frenzied retreat through the window over my sink.
As I sat down at one end of my couch, juggling a cell phone and toast, there was a notification chirp from the wireless device. Someone had posted on the Evergreen Estates Facebook group. This registered as a line of text in my personal notifications. But before I could scroll through the list, another annoying squawk indicated that my neighbor to the east had also lodged a word-missile in this direction.
“LINK, HEY ARE YA AWAKE OVER THERE, OLD DUDE? GO OUT TO YER RAMP, LINN SPECK IS IN HIS YARD, RUNNIN’ OFF AT THE MOUTH! AND HE IS! I GUESS THAT NOTICE GOT HIM ALL JACKED UP. HE SAYS ITS SO-CIAL-ISM COMIN’ TA CALL, I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT IS, REALLY. BUT EFF IT, HE’S KINDA STRANGE ANYWAY. FAT AND SMELLY, AND BALD, BUT AT LEAST HE BRINGS ME BUD LIGHT WHEN I’M OUT AT THE PARTY BARN!”
Still feeling slightly groggy, I staggered toward my front door with both canes. Upon entering the square space of my inset porch, I could hear him shouting and cursing. In the background, his wife was pleading for calm.
Haki was still in her nightgown. She seemed to be desperate and confused.
“Honey, people can hear you up the street! Come back inside, we don’t want to start a riot this early in the morning!”
Her spouse was barely dressed. He wore a stretched-out pair of gray sweatpants, and a sleeveless hoodie. His overfed belly was half-exposed. Both garments were soaked with perspiration, despite the lingering cold.
“LOOK, THIS DAMNED NOTICE SAYS WE HAVE TO JOIN SOME KIND OF PEOPLE’S COLLECTIVE TO STAY IN THE PARK. WHAT THE HECK IS THAT NONSENSE? LIKE JOINING THE COMMUNIST PARTY IN RUSSIA OR CHINA TO KEEP FROM TAKING A BULLET? I GUESS, THANKS TO ONE OF THEIR FIRING SQUARDS? I DON’T GET IT! THIS AIN’T NEW YORK CITY, OR SEATTLE! THIS IS GOD’S COUNTRY HERE, I THOUGHT! YOU KNOW, MAGA COUNTRY! HOLY COW, WHAT IS HAPPENING TO AMERICA? LIBTARDS DON’T RUN THIS COMMUNITY!”
I took a seat on my wooden bench, and kept drinking coffee. It was still too early to connect with the trailer-park stream of consciousness. I needed to clear my head, and palate. Then, perhaps, some sense of reason would steady my nerves.
Otherwise, it would be time to start drinking, again.
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