c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(7-26)
I was in an ornery mood after sparring with T. Randall Squire.
From the perspective of an active, entertainment executive, what he said was undeniably logical and well-founded. Yet to use a colloquialism associated with his potential customer base, it chapped my hindquarters. I did not appreciate being hustled over the prospect of leveraging my artistic creations for the sole purpose of making a buck.
As I sat at the desk in my home office, this vibe continued to resonate in my skull. It grew louder and more rhythmically intense, until finally, I began to compose another tuneful creation. This time, it took on a characteristic born of defiance and the earthy, gritty, ethos of a callused cowboy, working hard to earn his keep.
Drinking and Jail
“My wife used to nag
About sipping from a brown bag
She wanted a happier refrain
But that wink and a smile
Didn’t move me a mile
It was better to sing about pain
You see the working life
Is a wrist-roll of the dice
You never know what will come to pass
But one thing stays true
When it’s quitting time for the crew
Everybody loves ‘There Stands the Glass’
Fights, drinking and jail
With a galvanized pail
Full of liquor, and lemonade
A happy home ain’t real
Hard times, they appeal
When a bartender’s bargain is made
That girl told me straight
I’d have an empty dinner plate
Because my attitude drove her away
But I just couldn’t change
What Hank Williams arranged
He only had one thing to say
Dancing to and fro
Like David Allan Coe
On a bender that lasted all week
That’s the life I have led
And it’s an ache in my head
But that’s a trophy I’m bound to keep
Fights, drinking and jail
With a galvanized pail
Full of liquor, and lemonade
A happy home ain’t real
Hard times, they appeal
When a bartender’s bargain is made
Now if you might agree
With my loving wifey
Go and find yourself a sunnier square
Play the role of a joker
With a trick-try at poker
And see how long you can linger there
I’m an old piece of leather
My hide is tanned forever
There’s no chance of me being reclaimed
So I’ll get drunk and swing fists
Maybe even steal a kiss
When a pretty woman calls my name
Fights, drinking and jail
With a galvanized pail
Full of liquor, and lemonade
A happy home ain’t real
Hard times, they appeal
When a bartender’s bargain is made
When they lay me to rest
There might not be any guests
To stand up proudly on my behalf
But I won’t shed a tear
In my whiskey and beer
Thinking about that final collapse
It’s been destined for years
I’m a man in arrears
Owing debts that I’ll never repay
But with Waylon and Willie
And that Dolly Parton filly
I’ll be fine, singing in my grave
Fights, drinking and jail
With a galvanized pail
Full of liquor, and lemonade
A happy home ain’t real
Hard times, they appeal
When a bartender’s bargain is made...”
I actually hesitated to post it, at first. Because I knew well what sort of reaction it was likely to evoke from my pursuer. Yet eventually, the text ended up on my newspaper blog. An entire day and night passed with no comments being offered, and no contact via my cell phone. But then, the familiar ringtone returned as I was having a cold brew on the front porch.
Squire exhaled loudly when I answered the call. His belly-laugh buzzed in my ear.
“BOY YOU’VE GOT A DAMN GROOVE GOIN’ THERE, AS THE HIPPIES USED TA SAY! THAT’S MORE LIKE IT! I COULD PRESS UP A MILLION COPIES OF YER DRINKIN’ SONG RIGHT NOW AND THEY’D FLY OFF THE SHELVES LIKE HOTCAKES AND EGGS WITH BACON! PEOPLE APPRECIATE GETTIN’ A FAIR SHAKE OUTTA LIFE, WHICH DON’T HAPPEN TOO OFTEN FER ANYBODY! THEY WANNA HEAR REAL STORIES FROM THE HEARTLAND! ABOUT REAL MEN AND WOMEN DOIN’ THEIR BEST TA MAKE ENDS MEET!”
I felt a familiar ache in the pit of my stomach.
“Sir, I appreciate your remarks. And I’ll say that it’s an uncommon pleasure to have attention paid to what I write. Frankly, I’m used to being ignored, generally. Even my own family doesn’t read what I post, very often. But this jones you’ve got for signing me to a contract with your combine doesn’t make good sense. To be clear, I’m disabled, retired, and socially inept. My fingers are stiff and numb. I can barely play the guitar anymore. Certainly not well enough to hold the interest of spectators in a concert setting...”
The music manager snorted and puffed on his cheap cigar.
“Rodney, there’s all kinds of magic we can work. You might be amazed! This ain’t the 1950s, boy! Technology has changed up everything. There are tricks of the trade I can show ya, that’d polish up yer act and make fans happy to hear yer songs played, live!”
I remained dubious about his promotional abilities. But decided to do a bit of negotiating, since he would not be easily discouraged.
“You want material to sell, so here’s a thought. What if I sign on as a songwriter for your company? You must have lots of budding, young stars waiting for a chance to get their share of fame and glory. I’ve already shown you what kind of work I can do here at my desk. This has been a lifetime project for me, something that began in childhood days. My maternal grandmother was a published poet. She got things started by sharing her own verses and prose. That authentic spirit of Mountaineer zeal has carried me forward, ever since...”
Squire brightened at this impulsive suggestion. He nearly spit out his reply.
“THAT’S MORE LIKE IT, RODNEY! Y’ALL DO SOME WRITIN’ TA GET STARTED, AND THEN MAYBE I CAN CHANGE YER MIND ABOUT THE REST OF IT! THERE’S GOLD TA BE MADE HERE, AND YER A MINER AT HEART! THAT’S WHAT I THINK! BRING ME THEM SHINY NUGGETS OF WISDOM, AND I’LL PUT ‘EM IN THE MARKETPLACE, WHERE PEOPLE WILL CLAMOR FER THE ART YA ARE MAKIN’!”
If nothing else, my offer seemed to have calmed him down a bit. For the moment, that was enough. What would come of our uneasy alliance, I could not predict. But at least it meant more eyes would be falling upon my material. That was something I eagerly anticipated.
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