c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(6-26)
“I wasn’t a misanthrope and I wasn’t a misogynist but I liked being alone. It felt good to sit in a small space and smoke and drink. I had always been good company for myself.” – Charles Bukowski
Sitting on my front porch with a cool, alcoholic beverage always seems to be a mixed experience. One that highlights characteristics of myself that might be more tolerable, if hidden by the anonymity of a crowd environment. I sometimes liken it to standing in front of a bathroom mirror, because being situated directly across from the storm door at my home entrance means beholding a familiar reflection in the glass. One of a fellow bent and stumbling along, with physical infirmities and persistent mental lapses into creative fantasy.
Regardless of the situation, this reflective pane tells all.
While on my wooden bench, sipping brew and squinting at a cellular screen, I often ponder that others at surrounding lots in our neighborhood must not possess a similar reflective frame in which to observe themselves. Because their words and deeds predictably fail to match with a chronological record on file, at the back nexus of my brain. Such disparities can be puzzling at first to encounter, but only grow more confounding and perplexing over time.
Finally, when in a pleasant cocoon of inebriation, those truths speak loudly. And I nod at their relevance.
Was I told that an agitator down the street had been pilfering monies supposedly saved for a charitable organization? The charge reddened my face when made, because it was vocalized from someone close enough to be aware of literal facts. Yet soon afterward, I saw the same individual sharing refreshments and music with the one who had been charged as a sinner. Later, favors were bestowed. Yard work and light construction on their rented property. Did this indicate a lack of concern over character or integrity? Or had the initial accusation been carelessly tossed out, with no corroboration?
I could not be sure. But after enough rounds of hops and grains, it did not matter.
On another occasion, I was told about a stimulus benefit that brought surplus funds into the household. Used for the purpose of expanding the occupied dwelling with an outdoor annex. I reckoned it was a chance opportunity to be enriched and benefit accordingly. A literal roll of the dice, with wonderous results. Not something that anyone could criticize, for its nature alone. Yet once again, in later months and years, the story morphed into a plea for an updated recollection. Instead of a lottery win via government action, the tale became one of hard work, savings, and sacrifice. Both accounts were not able to coexist, easily.
Had my memory failed me, I wondered? It was impossible not to doubt myself, just a little.
But when I looked into the mirror, my own image remained constant. A mile-marker that indicated how long and far I had traveled from my origin point. It did not shade the visual clues with any rosy perception of generous fiction. Instead, the harsh light of introspection stayed true to form. So I had to think that my memory did not tell lies.
That shock of authenticity put me off, while drinking. Moreover, it meant that despite struggling to see what awaited on my phone display, I began to send queries into the vastness of cyberspace. Messages that were perhaps ill-advised in view of my compromised consciousness, but still worthwhile and just.
“I remember that you once said this... and now you are out in public, doing the opposite. Doesn’t that reveal a conflict, either in your supposed timeline, or your veracity? Meanwhile, remember how we argued over a new contact here for residents, and you now stand as an advocate for the one you used to despise? What does that mean to me as a bystander? And to them, as a giver of trust?”
The reaction was not hard to gauge.
“No, no, no, no! You got it wrong, mister! You got it all wrong! Very, very wrong!”
Some of this verbal chatter was lost in translation via electronic means, I admit. And the balance became diminished through a progression of beverage cans, emptied and crushed.
“Two-four-six-eight. Now I am in a sorry state! Nine, ten, eleven, they say that there is no beer in heaven!”
Some sort of sober analysis might have straightened out my befuddlement over shifting tales and conflicted claims. Yet I did not have the capacity, at that moment to fret about details, or pass judgement. Still, upon returning to the mirror, my own aura of truth continued to resonate. I was shaggy and gray, ungroomed, unwashed, and pockmarked by aging. This sharper image made me turn again to questioning those in my immediate environment.
Didn’t they receive the same sort of epiphany when peering deeply into the looking glass, at their own persona? With a chime of cathedral bells in the distance, calling out to be heard and believed?
Having stuffed my orange, safety vest with cold cans of refreshment, I returned to the porch. Then, streamed a familiar dance tune from yonder days. It had been playing in my head throughout this dubious experience. An artifact written by Ian Burden, Jo Callis, and Philip Oakley. The Human League had included it on one of their releases in the early 1980s.
“The water shines
A pebble skips across the face
A dozen times
Then disappears, not a trace
Left behind
The thrower turns and walks away
A change of mind
Another start, a brand-new day
You know I’ll change
If change is what you require
Your every wish
Your every dream, hope, desire
Here comes the mirror man
Says he’s a people fan
Here comes the mirror man...”
By that hour, I had enough alcohol flowing through my bloodstream that it was easier to accept this lyrical admonition. As the messaging flow abated, and I fell into silent repose, this lone tangent struck the target. For myself, the mirror had a chilling effect of sorts, putting my own faults and failings on display as they existed. But possibly, for those mainstream inhabitants to the east and west along my street, that portal had a different power. One that allowed them to change their beliefs and preferences freely, as the mood demanded.
A fog of brewer’s magic brought me understanding. Ultimately, what I had been seeking under the cover of a self-imposed distraction.
Alternative facts, the bane of many, were now in effect at my rural outpost in the pines. Up was down, down was up, while left and right exchanged their usual orientation. And there was no longer a distinction between obfuscation and studious research.
Therefore, I had only one mission left on my agenda. To continue getting drunk.
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