Nobody Reads This Page: “Artist, Undercover”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

During my career as a salaried, retail business manager, I had to face difficult situations on a regular basis. Because it was literally part of the job description, I did not think too much about having that sort of responsibility. It was simply what I had been called upon to do, for the purpose of earning a regular paycheck. My employer required someone with a steady hand on the wheel, and an ability to balance priorities and obligations with a sense of human empathy. It was important to never lose sight of the fact that I not only represented a commercial operation, but also those on the roster, who were all equally important in the eyes of a loving creator.

 

Sometimes however, my patience was tested when executing the duties of a supervisor. And while I attempted to show genuine concern in every instance, regarding specific needs, ultimately the greater whole took precedence over any one individual. Including, as it were, myself and family members who sometimes complained that I was unavailable for them, because of this specialized occupation.

 

One perplexing chore was to receive word that a member of the crew had ‘called off’ and would be unavailable for a scheduled shift. This task was never a happy one to execute. But sometimes, it could be maddening when a replacement had to be arranged, and few were qualified and available. One instance of that sort that still lingers in mind, even today, was with an overnight clerk in our bakery department. A scruffy, black-eyed runt of a man, who looked pale and fearful of too much human contact. He seemed to hold a nearly perfect position, being present in a part of the 24-hour cycle when no customers were shopping, and only basic preparations were necessary. He would arrive at midnight, in a wrinkled uniform, power up the donut fryer, and begin his routine. We rarely interacted, except perhaps with a passing wave as both of us were busy in different areas of the building.

 

Apparently, this shy individual had a nagging kind of stomach malady, and he would sometimes need to miss work, while recovering from nausea. We had standards in place relating to these happenings, but instead of providing a fair amount of notice, his woeful calls would ring through as I was completing our closing process for the business cycle. I always did my best to cover his absences, generally by having to wake his boss who would be scheduled to begin his own day at four o’clock in the morning. With a sleepy grumble, our department manager would agree to start two hours early, and then, hang up abruptly. I never felt good about having to pester him on behalf of anyone.

 

Eventually, this issue swelled in the number of hours missed. It became so predictable that I found myself cringing each night, when preparing to announce that final purchases had to be made at our front registers. Due to slim staffing and a poor pool of potential candidates from which to hire additional clerks, we stayed with the same plan in place. That guaranteed grumpy episodes in the wee hours, and chaotic results in our display cases.

 

Finally, I had reached a terminal point of patience. When I was paged for a late call via our telephone system, and the familiar gripe about indigestion sounded in my ear, I balked. A serious mood took hold, as I spoke firmly and without emotion.

 

“This is the bottom line, friend. Either you show up tonight, or we will have a meeting with the store owner, tomorrow morning, to discuss your retention as a member of the crew. I think he and your department boss have been very forgiving. And I am sympathetic to anyone with health concerns, having plenty of them in my own family. But I am here, the overnight grocery team is here, the janitors are here, and you need to be here. I can’t say it more plainly than that, this situation has to end.”

 

There was a long pause as I listened to the rapid cadence of his breathing. Then, a short, simple reply.

 

“Okay Rod, I’m coming in...”

 

Somehow, after this metaphorical throwing-down-of-the-gauntlet, he became more dependable. I did not have any further issues with him, personally. But later, perhaps as a gesture of goodwill, he asked me to stop by his work station before leaving for the night. When I did, he produced an illustration rendered in charcoal pencil. An expressive, artful portrait of Mother Theresa, the Catholic nun and missionary.

 

“I just wanted to show you this, it is what I do in my spare time. I don’t have many friends, so this hobby keeps me busy. When I finish a portrait, it gives me a feeling of accomplishment. Like I have done something that really mattered.”

 

His revelation left me stunned. I drove home that night in silence, without any music on the radio, or rambling thoughts about my day echoing from the ether. This stunted, unshaved wreck of a man had suddenly transformed himself into a seeker of beauty and fulfillment. I was humbled to the point of a wordless stupor, with only guilt and amazement for companionship. It seemed very dark as I headed home to Painesville. Not only outside, with the sun having dropped below its natural horizon, but also, within my soul. Like everyone in the facility, I had not seen the baker for who and what he was, after hours. Perhaps that mattered more than I realized, as someone in a position of authority. Sadly, we never had a chance to discuss the disparity in real time.

 

In short order, the business changed hands. We never saw each other again, though I reflected on our unusual relationship while managing stores for other owners, around northeastern Ohio. My occupation lasted until disability and physical challenges brought that streak to an unexpected halt, in 2016.

 

My workplace tale came to mind recently, as I sat enjoying a cold brew after finishing a book manuscript in the home office. Like the anonymous, midnight clerk I had encountered, my own place in the neighborhood was somewhat murky and ill-defined. Did anyone take the opportunity to read what I posted online? Or had available, through publishing venues such as Amazon? I doubted that either was likely, despite long hours spent creating new material.

 

As with the troubled member of our crew in Geauga County, I had become invisible. But just as he did, I took comfort from having added my own, artistic contribution to the continuum.

 

For him and for myself, that mattered.