c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(7-26)
As a new week began, I found myself stuck for material while working at the desk. Hours passed from morning to afternoon, as I sat staring into the empty void of my computer monitor. Then, as is so often the case, a word progression came to mind.
“If I took a leg up to the saddle, and sat tall, against the sky...”
This brief epiphany opened the portal. I stiffened in my roller chair, and started to peck away at the keyboard. Four verses of song, and a repeated chorus, came quickly.
Once this manuscript was completed, I posted it to my newspaper blog, online.
Fallen Man
“If I took a leg up to the saddle
And sat tall, against the sky
Would it matter to the one who holds my heart
Would she see that I’m empty inside
I might do the best to prove my worth
It’s a task I’ll take in hand
But when those horse hooves slip on stone
I’ll become a fallen man
There’s no shame for those ones who wake
To see the morning sun
And I’m a member of that tribe
With a blade and loaded six-gun
But when the air turns crisp and cool
I find there’s a different feel
To dusting off a cowboy hat
And turning on my bootheels
The judge’s word hits hard
When there’s no spot to land
Down in the dirt, and lonely
Just another fallen man
If I found a way to speak
Of what I see when eyes are closed
Then maybe I could cash my chips
Like a gambler, being exposed
But the truth is a strong medicine
One I take with hesitation
It’s bitter in my throat, you see
A rush of bad sensations
I know my place so well from this
A time spent wildly wandering
From coast to coast and back again
Feeling nothing except the sting
Of a jealous girl who took my love
But never had my name
She couldn’t make that leap of faith
And I was left in pain
The judge’s word hits hard
When there’s no spot to land
Down in the dirt, and lonely
Just another fallen man
If by chance I changed the script
Of a moving picture arc
I’d write the plot in pencil
And make corrections in the dark
But that detail is not to be
I’m riding out, in secrecy
With a gaze into the yellow orb
That will blind my memories
That hopeful hop to another town
Will take me from this place
Where I have failed to prosper
A feeble runner in the footrace
Perhaps when I am no longer known
I’ll take heed of lessons learned
A second start in the anonymous guise
Of a drifter gone ‘round the turn
The judge’s word hits hard
When there’s no spot to land
Down in the dirt, and lonely
Just another fallen man
I don’t care for the sounds of woe
No shedding of tears for me
I’ve got no need of a warm embrace
No yearning for sympathy
Every step I took was done
With the knowledge of my path
And now that it has brought me here
I’ll hear the devil laugh
It’s assured that the grave will hold
What’s left of these old bones
Ashes from the fireplace
Of an abandoned, happy home
I couldn’t stay there willingly
When my lady friend departed
I heard the call of eternity
An end to what we started
The judge’s word hits hard
When there’s no spot to land
Down in the dirt, and lonely
Just another fallen man...”
The attention span of T. Randall Squire, my contact at the record label, must have been exhausted by waiting. Because he did not respond immediately. A few days passed as I worked to develop other ideas from my personal archives. But on a Tuesday, shortly after the noon hour, a notification popped up on my Messenger app. I had left the phone in my kitchen, while making a ham and egg taco for breakfast. A brief voicemail was waiting when I got up to retrieve the device.
The entertainment guru seemed to be pleased with what I had written. But a hint of worry was audible in his voice. He projected a growl of irritation that tingled my ears.
“Rodney, y’all have kept up the pace with yer Country tunes, and I’m mighty grateful fer that. There’s just one problem with our little confabulation, and that’s all this nonsense about artificial intelligence. Some folks have started to wonder if ya are a real person, or just a gawdamn hi-tech application! Since they never see ya in concert, I can understand why that kind of bullshit might appear to be justified!”
I responded to his call after pouring a cup of coffee.
“Sir, I have to say that anyone who’d think I am a fraudulent, AI program must be weak in the head! Some bot in cyberspace would do a much more professional job of mimicking the hillbilly sound for radio airplay. I’m rude and crude, at best. My guitar chops have declined since reaching the point of disability. And I never could sing like Hank Williams or George Jones!”
Squire puffed on his cigar and thought for a moment.
“Look boy, I get what y’all are sayin’ about havin’ stiff joints and so forth, but I’ve been thinkin’ about us movin’ in a different direction. In the old days, a lot of cowboy crooners would travel with a flat-top pluckster, and nothin’ else. They might sit in a bar and sing all night fer people getting’ drunk or cheatin’ on their mates. It was good fer a few bucks, and it filled the tip jar. A lot of legends were created that way. Give it some thought. I figure it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to try!”
The professional promoter was thinking in old-school terms. But I had a different take on the evolution of popular music.
“Those dance halls and juke joints were a part of our history. But things have changed now, kids are on their phones or playing video games. The market is not what it was even a dozen years ago. So, if you really want to sell my stuff, then a new way of thinking is required. Look at websites such as TikTok, or even Instagram. That’s where the content creators are going to get attention. The business model is constantly in flux...”
Mr. Squire must have dropped his stogie while pondering this suggestion. His tone spiked in volume and intensity.
“THAT’S IT RODNEY! Y’ALL GOTTA MAKE A DAMN LIVESTREAM APPEARANCE ON ONE O’ THEM SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORMS! I CAN HAWK THAT SHOW BEFOREHAND, AND PUT IT OUT WITH SUPPORT FROM THE BIGWIGS! I KNOW HOW TO STIR UP INTEREST WITH ALL OF THEM MAJOR COMPANIES! YER A GENIUS, MY BUDDY! A GENUIS, ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT!”
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