c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(6-26)
“The writer must believe that what he is doing is the most important thing in the world. And he must hold to this illusion even when he knows it is not true.” – John Steinbeck
Writing professionally is a career fraught with private joy, and public disappointment. In all of my years sitting in front of a notepad, typewriter, or keyboard, this dichotomy has remained in effect. I sometimes feel a tingle of inspiration awakening in my gut, while creating a useful manuscript of any length or kind. Yet when attempting to describe that experience to someone else, or to show evidence of what I have done to others who are not given to such pursuits, the effect typically falls flat.
A recent encounter with someone at my residence park, located in a rural district near Lake Erie, reinforced that perception as one founded on factual evidence.
I was in the process of depositing my monthly check for lot rent, at our community office. A hub of activity that is generally unstaffed and empty in the evening and on weekend days. Making that short trek is a chore I take seriously, because of past evictions that affected some of my neighbors who were less disciplined in their habits. A certain sense of accomplishment always follows the slip of my envelope into our drop-box slot. Yet as I turned on my heel to walk clumsily back up the side driveway, a loud harrumph of someone clearing his throat resounded.
Fargo, the portly, balding maintenance man had been sitting in his Japanese truck, fiddling with knobs for the radio. I suspected that something must have been wrong with his reception, but did not inquire for clues. This brush-off seemed to cause an insult that I did not intend. So, he made an effort to engage me in conversation before I could escape.
“Hey Rodney, how’ve you been there, buddy? Ya keepin’ busy during this heat wave? It’s a scorcher out here! Too hot for ridin’ around in the golf cart and fillin’ potholes with gravel like I normally do!”
I smiled politely, and nodded.
“It’s not so bad really. I’m at my desk in the morning and then come out to my porch with a fan going to keep things cool...”
He was puzzled by this brief description of my habits. With the result that our interaction stalled as he shook his head.
“Sittin’ at your desk? Okay, what is that all about? Are ya watchin’ baseball or Netflix or somethin’ else?”
I sighed before making the poor decision to answer in literal terms.
“No, no, I’m a writer you see...”
Fargo stared blankly at me, while chewing his bottom lip until it turned red.
“You’re a rider? What, you ride a bicycle in this heat?”
I cringed visibly, and corrected him in a civil manner.
“A writer. You know, someone who writes poems and stories...”
Our repair chief was even more confused after hearing this brief explanation.
“WRITE? YOU LIKE TO WRITE? UMM, OKAY, SO WHAT KINDS OF THINGS DO YOU WRITE? LIKE STEPHEN KING OR THOSE GUYS, YOU WRITE?”
That particular query has never been pleasant to hear. Because providing a competent response means listing subjects and interests that usually cause eyes to glaze over, and feet to shuffle from side to side with disinterest.
“I wrote a newspaper column for sixteen years, locally. So, my first book was a collection of those documents. They touched on all kinds of things, history, music, pop culture, theology, government, and the like...”
He reacted with a groan and a grin. Then uttered a phrase so familiar that it hit like the point of an arrow.
“Ha, ha, ha, alright! But are ya makin’ any money offa that work?”
For someone with an artistic bent, those words were a poison pill. But I did my best not to appear offended by having my labor of love trivialized to the point of a commercial exchange.
“Well, I get royalties every month. But that isn’t the reason I started...”
Fargo sputtered sweat and phlegm, while widening his eyes.
“Sure that’s great, do whatever gets ya jazzed, right? It’s a free country!”
I really wanted to get in my own car, and leave quickly. But he had blocked the drive with his own vehicle. So our chance encounter continued.
“It’s a tradition in my family. We’ve got many authors and teachers, and professors in my bloodline...”
Now, the maintenance fellow arched his back and swayed on his work boots.
“WELL HOW ABOUT THAT CRAP? I COME FROM A BUNCH OF BRICKLAYERS AND STEELWORKERS, AND PLUMBERS! SO, THERE YA GO! I FIGURE THOSE ARE GOOD CAREERS TA HAVE!”
I shrugged and gestured to show affirmation.
“I agree completely. My brother is a retired trucker and an amateur mechanic...”
The chunky taskmaster brightened a bit upon hearing this revelation.
“So at least that boy worked for a living! Ya gotta do what ya gotta do, right? Not everybody gets ta take it easy!”
My face sagged a bit, with a mood of impatience taking hold.
“I think every pursuit has value. That makes for a vibrant society, where interdependence betters all of us...”
Fargo chortled at my exhortation, as if it lacked the gravity of a sports report.
“Sure, sure, ya musta been the apple of yer mama’s eye I suppose. All fixed up with a newspaper job and a fancy office and all that shit!”
I could hear my stomach beginning to gurgle. Thirst had me craving a vessel of Irish whiskey.
“I only had an office once, out of three different newspaper companies. And that was in a space at the back of a cinder-block building, on a side street. Not exactly plush, or cozy. Otherwise, I worked from home or out of my car...”
My persistent contact was amused by this confession of minimal rewards.
“THAT’S IT? YA SIT AT A DAMN DESK ALL DAY AND DON’T GET NO PERKS FOR YER TROUBLE? WELL, I’D RATHER BE RUNNIN’ AROUND ON MY GOLF CART! EVEN ON A HOT DAY LIKE THIS!”
Mercifully, his cell phone rang before our unexpected interlude could continue. I hobbled to my SUV with both disability canes skipping over the gravel.
“Have a good one, friend! Stay hydrated, the sun is on full-blast today!”
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