c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(7-26)
Interaction with T. Randall Squire had proved to be a catalyst for plenty of creative work at the desk in my home office. I was glad for that persistent spark of inspiration to be ignited. Yet after weeks of writing song lyrics, my inner muse went silent. I sat and started at the computer monitor, while feeling empty. Despite scrolling through news stories of current events, reading e-mail messages, and doodling with programs stored on the hard drive, no rescue from this static period could be found. I sat outside in the summer heat, with cold beverages in hand, and a box fan from Lasko circulating air on my porch.
Neighbors passed, waving and honking their horns. As I slipped into an alcoholic funk, my senses were blurred. I suspected that perhaps, my brief, metaphorical ride on the mechanical bull had ended. Like all such wordsmithing adventures, it must have run its course. I felt content with the yield in print, if somewhat saddened by its sudden passing.
Then, while pondering the lazy, afternoon hours of a midweek day, with bookkeeping duties brought up to date and my counter cleared of junk mail, a new tingle of imagination registered in my head. The somber theme of saying goodbye to this streak of Appalachian echoes produced one last turn of phrase that quickly lit up my cerebral synapses.
Saying Goodbye
Saying goodbye comes easy
To a heart you intended to break
And from the beginning of this roadhouse affair
I knew your love was never a keepsake
It was a matter of whiskey, poured in the glass
And a dancefloor turn on your heel
I kept you entertained for a moment
But after that, the clock made its appeal
Saying goodbye comes quickly
When your plan has been to skate
A ruby-red curve of confidence
From lips with so little to say
I took my cue from that flutter
The wide wings of a butterfly
You knew every move and made it stick
Right until last call arrived
Saying goodbye...
Saying goodbye comes naturally
With your eyes upon the door
I didn’t pay enough real attention to know
What you had been there, looking for
I won’t curse your skill as a deceiver
Because I was too damn naïve
I never should have let myself get tricked
And taken out for a tease
Saying goodbye becomes a habit
When you’ve had the cowboys on parade
We all figured wrong and paid the fee
A hard lesson in being played
Saying goodbye is a chore to chase
A profession for cold-blooded dames
Who delight themselves with fancy fools
Getting beaten at their own game
Saying goodbye...
Saying goodbye comes swiftly
When the night runs hot and fast
The gentlest touch and a kiss on the cheek
Meant nothing with an empty glass
You were off that stool and hustling
You disappeared like yesterday’s news
When I looked around to figure it out
I didn’t have a gawdamn clue
Saying goodbye can be a sin
But not if you don’t ever believe
There’s no breaking of rules when your guide
Is nothing more than a motel passkey
But get a good laugh before you leave
‘Cause I won’t be drinking alone
There are plenty of losers at quitting time
And one of them might follow me home
Saying goodbye...
Saying goodbye feels like freedom
When you have no sense of pride
The only cause you keep is to prowl the streets
Bedhopping and hitching a ride
That lifestyle has its shiny side
It might seem to be a laugh
But when you’re skipping down the sidewalk
Don’t forget what you could have had
Saying goodbye leaves a mark
It’s a jolt that the mind can’t forget
With a bow raised to the target
And an arrow right through the chest
I’m ready for a bottle on the bar
Got to drink this mood away
But the morning will make things much clearer
Tomorrow is another day
Saying goodbye...”
I was giddy at my keyboard. Literally jonesing for each verse to appear on the screen. I tapped and typed, and breathlessly worked my way through the composition in a matter of minutes. Following this heated exercise, I pulled out my acoustic pluckster, and began to croon a version of what had just been written.
Before an hour had elapsed, Country Squire was on his phone, and calling intently.
“BOY, YER IN A GROOVE, I RECKON!
THAT’S QUITE A HEAP O’ HITS Y’ALL HAVE WRITTEN! NOW, I LIKE THE BASIC SOUND OF
THOSE TRACKS, BUT I FIGURE IT’S HIGH TIME WE GOT A REAL BAND TOGETHER! YA
UNDERSTAND? I KNOW PLENTY OF PROFESSIONAL MUSICIANS THAT ARE LOOKIN’ FER A JOB.
IT WOULDN’T BE HARD TO GET YA HOOKED UP! ALL I NEED IS YER APPROVAL TO GO
FORWARD!”
My belly gurgled noisily at his proposal. Over a decade of disability and retirement, I had grown accustomed to the solitude of living alone and being free from keeping a regular schedule.
“Sir, I do appreciate your confidence in my art. But that’s a step I’m not ready to take. I’ve been out of commission for years. I hobble around this singlewide shack with two canes. I can’t imagine trying to project a public persona for the purpose of entertaining an audience. Maybe 30 years ago that might have been a gamble I would have taken. But my body is spent. I am living as my late father did, on Mountaineer soil. He worked in the mornings, drank coffee throughout the day, and took care of my ailing mother as an act of love. In addition to preaching the gospel in church on Sundays and at special meetings. That was enough for him, and what I am doing now is enough for me...”
The entertainment tycoon growled under his breath. I knew that he must have stubbed out his cigar while seething with irritation.
“Boy, yer gonna miss one hell of an opportunity here! This is gold waitin’ to be mined! One-hundred percent real gold! I know what sells in the marketplace, trust me! I’ve made a damn good career out of gettin’ it right! I can promise y’all will be a top star in the business. This is the chance of a lifetime, Rodney! There are millions of people out there who’d be tickled pink to get a shot at being famous like this! Are ya really gonna pass it by?”
My contact at the record label was wasting his breath. But I wanted to be polite and diplomatic in rejecting his kind offer.
“Sir, this isn’t a choice I can make for myself. My family genetics have already intervened. I am a shaggy, old hermit now. If you enjoy what I’ve been creating here at this rural park in Ohio, then I thank you. But there’s nothing more I can do...”
The line went quiet after a loud, electronic click which I guessed was the result of Squire hanging up, abruptly. My face burned a bit, as if it had reddened from embarrassment. Yet I felt no regret over declining to be a paid performer on his roster.
I remained content to be an anonymous storyteller, with guitar.
No comments:
Post a Comment