c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(7-26)
For several weeks after we had parted ways in business terms, I did not hear from T. Randall Squire, the record-label executive. My rebuff of his idea to take my manufactured, cowboy persona to the stage for actual, live performances caused a rift between us that could not be bridged. That silent period left me free to work on new material, without any pressure. Something I accepted gratefully.
But on a Friday morning as I sat at my desk in the home office, a ringtone sounded from my cellular device. One that indicated someone was attempting to call via the Messenger app. When I picked up the wireless wafer, it had an on-screen notification that the one attempting to make contact was my suitor from the entertainment firm.
I held my stomach for a moment. And then answered the petition, grudgingly.
“Mr. Tee? I thought we had settled things. Did you forget that I wasn’t interested in your business proposal to hawk my songs?”
The music promoter laughed with a sloppy tone of indifference.
“Rodney, y’all made yer point very well. But I’m not callin’ about playin’ concerts or makin’ more recordings fer the radio stations. This is sonethin’ different that just came up. I’ve got a buddy with connections to the WWE, and he’s scoutin’ around to find talent fer his live events...”
I sputtered with the noisy spew of an overheated radiator.
“PRO WRERSTLING? ARE YOU SERIOUS? I WALK WITH TWO CANES, SIR! HOW COULD I POSSIBLY DO ANYTHING AT ONE OF THOSE MATCHES? JUST GETTING IN THE RING WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE!”
Squire chortled and chewed on the end of his aromatic cigar.
“Boy, calm down will ya? My pardner in the biz ain’t lookin’ fer more talent of that kind. What he wants is to find celebrities who’ll spice things up a bit. Like havin’ Jelly Roll or Snoop Dogg involved in the storylines. Ya get me? Those audiences love seein’ famous folks hangin’ out at ringside, or havin’ confrontations with the regular performers...”
I was nearly speechless. My own status didn’t seem to justify that kind of appearance. I wasn’t a genuine star, by any means.
“Who would recognize me at one of those circus shows? I mean, it’s all choreographed anyway, but adding a nobody like myself seems a stretch of credibility at the very least!”
My cohort with the label growled and coughed smoke from his stogie.
“Naw, naw, nawwwww! That’s not right! Now, imagine this, we put ya at ringside with one of yer songs playin’ as ya arrive. That’ll get the attention of fans. The announcer can say, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got the Country & Western newcomer Rodney Dean here tonight! Let’s all give him a round of applause!’ Then ya hobble up to the ropes with yer walkin’ sticks. Maybe we’ll get ya a new set that matches, trimmed in gold. Y’all just wave to everybody, and act like a gentleman. The ladies will eat that up, trust me! Then ya just let the competition go on, and return to yer seat...”
I had once enjoyed televised wrestling, as a teenager. But doubted that I currently had the standing to participate, even as a celebrity spectator.
“I wouldn’t mind free tickets to a live event, but really, why would they bother featuring an unknown singer-songwriter who’s never done a single show on his own?”
Squire let out a defiant guffaw, and puffed on his cigar.
“Y’all let me handle that part of the deal, boy! It’ll polish up yer public image and maybe sell some extra copies of those records. I figure one glimpse of ya on the TV screen will be worth dozens of boot-scootin’ appearances in concert!”
It took assistance from the production staff, and a wheelchair to get me into the Cleveland arena where the WWE matches were being staged. The volume level, and zeal of those in attendance, was somewhat overwhelming. But I had a premium seat right behind the announcers, and timekeeper. Before a competition between the European heel, Stiegel Schutzmann and his opponent, a scrawny, anonymous kid named Bloke Devon, I was hit with a spotlight as one of the hosts pointed out my presence.
“We’re very proud tonight to have a famous crooner here with us tonight, one of the rising stars of this year, and a native of northeastern Ohio! A longtime fan of wrestling, and someone with plenty of love for God, America, and Country Music!”
Raucous applause and cheering echoed around the venue.
Stiegel was chiseled like a slab of granite. He made quick work of his shorter adversary. Then, began to parade around the ring perimeter.
“Du haff seen my power here! I am zee strongest, toughest, meanest of all in this company! I vill stop at nothing until zee championship belt is around my waist! Do not doubt me for any reason! I am afraid of no one!”
Loud booing commenced as if on cue. Children in the audience were particularly agitated by this exhibition of brute force.
I attempted to play along, as someone who was admitted for free. I shook my fist at the Teutonic bragger, and jeered. This aroused a grin from T. Randall Squire, who was seated in the next row behind my own.
I could not see that my professional escort signaled to the broadcast team as this spectacle was occurring. Yet suddenly, Stiegel flew off the top ropes, landed in front of the announcers, and then shifted his attention to me, directly.
“Du vant to make something of this, hillbilly? I am not worthy of zee championship, perhaps? Let me demonstrate my strength! I vill make a believer out of du!”
I took a forearm slap to the jaw, which looked particularly violent on camera. This knocked me backward, on my hindquarters.
“HEYYYY! TAKE IT EASY, CRUSHER! I’M DISABLED, CAN’T YOU SEE?”
More booing was aroused by this wanton act of aggression. Cameras panned across the perimeter, to catch every expression of scorn from the fans.
Squire leaned forward, until he could whisper in my ear from behind.
“When he drags y’all outta that seat, give him a whack with one of yer canes. That’ll get these people on their feet! They love a good dose of payback!”
Before I could flinch, the German giant grabbed me by my throat.
“DU ARE NOTHING TO ME! ABSOLUTELY NOTHING! I VILL SHOW YOU HOW WEAK YOU REALLY ARE, MR. COWBOY! DU WILL KISS MY FEET!”
I was slightly embarrassed over being duped and exploited. But raised one cane overhead, then swung it as if aiming at a baseball pitch in the major leagues.
Stiegel Schutzmann fell on the concrete, and began to writhe as if I had broken his jaw. He swore rabidly in his native tongue, and played the part of a vanquished foe with skill. Immediately, a new chant went up from everyone in the arena, and pegged volume meters on the broadcast console.
“HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!”
I felt an oversized paw grip my shoulder, and heard another whisper in my ear.
“Y’all done good, Rodney! We make a great team, you and meeee!”
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