Nobody Reads This Page – ‘High Life’

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

A recent trip to Cantini’s in Rock Creek, Ohio came as December temperatures reached a peak that made me forget the Christmas season was so close at hand. With Old Sol glowing overhead, I pointed my aging SUV toward this destination with thirsty vibes already in effect. The neighborhood store has been a fixture in that community for many years. Though its footprint is about the size of a convenience depot, the market offers goods and services that would be expected of a much larger operator. Fresh produce, baked treats, hot foods, a generous selection of beverages, and a butcher shop all are included in their format.

 

The place reminds me somewhat of an IGA located where my late parents lived, in West Virginia. Their hometown grocery had a similar layout, with only two checkout lanes at the front. I always enjoyed shopping in that setting, which was a throwback to traditions long lost in most areas. A sense of commonality was the yield, because everyone squeezed through that restricted space, searching for edibles, drinks, and NASCAR souvenirs.

 

That charming store-down-south is long gone now, along with many members of my family. Yet the friendly food emporium in Ashtabula County remains open for business.

 

I had hoped to find pepperoni rolls still on the rack by their display case. But as usual, arrived too late in the afternoon to find them available for purchase. That missed opportunity did not lessen my craving for some liquid gold from Milwaukee, however. I spied three half-case rations of the Miller product in their cooler, and greedily took them all.

 

Loaded with stock that included frozen burritos, a loaf of bread, and a package of ground beef, my cart was heaping at the register. I leaned on the narrow handle while moving my choices to the counter, and bantered with the friendly cashier, who was somewhat amused that I would buy so much brew in one shopping trip. He thought I must have been having some sort of retiree’s function in the trailer park. Perhaps softening the mood of attractive old ladies with plentiful beverages and snacks. My explanation made him laugh out loud and nod with understanding.

 

“I stock up when the roads are clear, or when my bones are loose enough to get around! Otherwise, my time is spent watching geese fly over the porch. Which is where I’ll be when this errand has been finished...”

 

I didn’t mention being a creative writer, because such confessions always evoke a sort of befuddlement and wonder that makes me feel socially ostracized. But soon after arriving home, and putting away the bounty I had scored, I landed at the home office desk.

 

Words began to flow through the keyboard almost as if I had been subconsciously taking notes while hobbling around the rural store.

 

Hepped on the High Life

A 12-pack of bottles labeled up like days of yore

A cheap ticket to ride from the neighborhood store

It reminds me of the person I was, long before

Arthritic aches and emotional earthquakes

Ramen noodles on my dinner plate

A broke-ass bum in a post-modern dream state

 

Hepped on the High Life

A brew not distinguished or critically celebrated

A wash of hops and grains to make my woes negated

I try to remember the creed, promulgated

As I ranted while drunk

Lost in a beer funk

A stash of brew in a steamer trunk

 

Hepped on the High Life

My wallet is bare but my thirst, still quenched

Watching the sunrise from a public bench

Downtown within the urban stench

It seems not long ago that this chemical swill

Made me glad for a moment of cheap thrills

A proletarian potion that cured my ills

 

Hepped on the High Life

Girl on the moon, an advertising scheme

A familiar illustration of a femme and her moonbeam

An alternate choice to Genesee Cream

When the coins in my pocket were few to trade

I felt more grateful for this champagne lemonade

Bubbling from the bottle, when its price is paid

 

Hepped on the High Life

A Miller killer, not unlike Phyllis Diller

Or a vinyl spin of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’

A bag of ice on top makes it a chiller

I used to think that adulthood would dispense

My taste for a drink counted out in red cents

But what appeared was a reverse image in the lens

 

Hepped on the High Life

Truly tasty when Taco Bell goes before

Ground-up roadkill and sawdust swept off the floor

It makes me forget what I was drinking for

A slappy, happy fall down the stairs

Dancing with angels, unaware

Too numb to think, too blitzed to care

 

Hepped on the High Life

Strangely still able to bust out the rhymes

And wind up my wristwatch, keeping time

Less pretentious by far than a Corona with lime

My hands are dirty from wrenching on trucks

And I’ve fallen from grace, not a suitor of Lady Luck

But it’s a fair price for oblivion, where I want to be stuck

 

Hepped on the High Life

I drink in the evening, a habit accepted by some

But what about for breakfast? I might be shunned

Yet in retirement, there is no schedule for fun

I think about the tales spun off my spool

And living discretely by the Golden Rule

Now I’m a loner and an oddball fool

 

Hepped on the High Life

No gold medal hanging on a ribbon strand

No celebration for which to strike up the band

I’m swimming in suds, a solitary man

It doesn’t make me feel the least bit concerned

To hear about life lessons that I ought to have learned

I’ll still be drinking when the season has turned

 

My lazy drive to the village in Morgan Township offered a useful diversion to clear away mental cobwebs, while traveling. It also helped to fill my pantry and refrigerator. But most importantly, it set loose a creative jones that produced another column for this series.

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – ‘Kerouac Crazy’

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

For this writer, creative projects often seem to draw inspiration from those who have ascended to a greater level of notoriety and fame. Yet what comes to mind at my desk is typically rendered with a differing inflection. One of Midwestern life, filtered through a lens of popular culture, witnessed by a kid born during the administration of John F. Kennedy.

 

Jack Kerouac became a hero of the Beat Generation in part due to his 1957 novel ‘On the Road.’ This provocative volume of work received mixed reviews at first, but eventually became a talisman of the era. Many fledgling wordsmiths drew energy from the tome. Even today, long after the death of its author, the work continues to ignite passionate debate about the storyline and how it portrayed postwar America. Yet for a small-town newspaper columnist such as myself, a more appropriate title might reflect habits of disability and rural living, while trying to ink my way out of a social climate founded on hardship and minimalist living.

 

I would call my own book ‘On the Porch.’

 

My daily schedule at the Icehouse has become set in stone. Retirement and disability reordered this personal paradigm in ways that were unpredictable. Yet in the balance, I was able to adapt and thrive by pursuing a lifelong goal of pounding my typewriter keyboard with purpose. By becoming limited physically, I also became liberated, mentally. It was a tradeoff worth taking. One that I continue to explore, every day.

 

I rarely rise at an early hour, with aches and pains dictating that I get up during the night on multiple occasions. This intermittent sleeping plan sometimes finds me having coffee and toast at an hour close to noon. Afterward, I move to my chair in the home office, and begin to labor on the household computer. A race of sorts ensues, particularly during winter months, when I try to balance my desire to get things done, with a need to soak up natural light outdoors. If I linger for too long in front of my virtual screen, darkness robs me of the opportunity to exit my cage. But If I go outside having skipped such productive time in favor of self-indulgence, guilt makes me humble. I like to know that each day has yielded some measure of creative output. Winning this daily battle makes me feel competent, and truly alive.

 

I have an inset porch in the middle of my mobile home, which is a square of about six feet on each side. Three walls keep me shielded from rain and snow. The fourth is an open space, and faces west. So, in the afternoon any available sunshine projects directly into my refuge. During the summer, this means that I keep sunglasses and cool refreshments close at hand. Yet in colder months, the porch functions more like a restaurant hot box. It stores the beaming, solar rays in a welcome reserve that makes drinking possible, even with seasonal frost having taken hold.

 

 My neighbor to the east will sometimes open her window briefly, while gaming, and protest about the weather. “It’s soooo cold out there! What are you doing?”

 

My generous girth and handicapped stride have meant that over the years, I flattened many folding chairs and furnishings that were designed for temporary use. Eventually, this prompted one of my fellow residents to construct a wooden throne she dubbed the ‘Fire Chair,’ which served me well at gatherings next door. It was fashioned from scrap lumber, parts of a dining room set, and a broken table. With much forethought, she and another citizen of our park took measurements of my inseam and waist. The intent was not only to create a sturdy platform for my visits, but also one that would provide ample room for comfort. She and her helper could both fit into the seat together, if needed. For myself, the chair offered a safe spot where I could relax and socialize.

 

Eventually, this moment of awkward brilliance sired another, newer build. After I gifted the same neighbor with leftover timbers from a demolished deck at my sister’s home, the idea of improving on her original design appeared. She enlisted a tutor who lived across the street, to provide advice. Someone with considerable experience in home construction. Their new project fit perfectly into one side of my boxy porch, facing the driveway. This gave me a perch from which to observe those who were motoring past, or walking out of necessity, or for exercise.

 

My most persistent woe after being discharged from the role of a supermarket manager was social detachment. I had been used to interacting with people, at a rapid pace, during every business day. Dispensing information in a helpful, bright-eyed manner was my bread-and-butter. Yet during off hours at home, I became withdrawn and reluctant to engage with others. My skills as a representative and mediator began to diminish like muscle mass, from their lack of use.

 

Thankfully, the outside bench provided a cure better than any medical potion.

 

Regardless of prevailing weather conditions, having the opportunity to slip outside for a brew instantly restored my connection to others in the isolated community. Whether waving to friends with a nonverbal greeting, or shouting cheerfully, or receiving guests who were out running errands, I felt a sense of kinship return.

 

To be sure, fellow members of the trailer oasis still considered me to be something of an oddball. A creaky, crotchety old fellow with contrarian views and habits. One who was more likely to be found doing research in an online library, or plucking away at a guitar, than preparing hunting gear for a jaunt through the woods.

 

My own hillbilly heritage made it possible to blend in with the surroundings, to a degree. Particularly without the necessary discipline of someone working in a public setting. Yet in the balance, I was still a curiosity for those who were aware of my presence. Contacts from the neighborhood liked to talk about mudding with their four-wheelers, shooting deer, or going fishing. These were activities familiar with some in the Ice family. But my own path was one less traveled. That of a perpetual student, a newspaper scribe, and a composer of song lyrics.

 

Still, from my improvised seat on the porch it does not matter. All of us like to drink beer, and converse. Anything else is metaphorically beside the point. Not so artistically wild or entertaining as a Jack Kerouac adventure, but in the context of blue-collar, Ohio culture, just as valid.

Nobody Reads This Page – ‘Job Offer’

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

“Sometimes, the only avenue to find truth is through a fantasy in fiction.” - Anonymous

 

I had been working in the Icehouse home office since early morning. Feeling ambitious for the day, I began my routine over a breakfast of fried eggs and canned sausages, with toast. A garnish of Thailand sriracha found at Dollar General made it zesty enough to match my mood. But as I sat in front of my keyboard, and began to read through e-mail messages that had been ignored throughout the week, a chirping noise interrupted.

 

My cell phone screen lit up with a number and identifier that had long been forgotten. One that indicated the caller was my previous employer, from the Claridon Treble Clef. A newspaper that had endured for over 100 years. When I answered with a hint of surprise making my voice crack, Editor-in-Chief Johann Pavlovia blurted out a greeting that hurt my ear.

 

“RODNEY! HOW HAVE YOU BEEN, MY FRIEND?”

 

I couldn’t decide if his query was a legitimate ask about my health status, or simply a perfunctory salutation.

 

“Umm... I feel great, actually. So, what made you call? We haven’t spoken since 2014, right? Isn’t that when we parted company?”

 

He began to wriggle with embarrassment. But recovered quickly, having once been a lawyer.

 

“Please, please! Don’t chide me for being absent-minded. I’m a poor correspondent, okay? A mutual friend who used to work here mentioned that you had revived your online journal. That intrigued me, because our circulation figures have been in decline. I thought perhaps it was time that we reconnected!”

 

My nose began to tingle.

 

“Johann, the whole industry is in decline. But you know that of course...”

 

He seemed not to be concerned with the shift in public interest away from print media sources.

 

“Decline, schmine! I pay it no mind! Look, people who really care about reading the news still want our kind of in-depth reporting. You can’t get that from a college student in their pajamas. We are serious about the business!”

 

I wanted to avoid sounding sarcastic. Yet couldn’t help myself.

 

“What I recall is that you were laser-focused on selling advertising. Everything else, like content, fell by the wayside, so to speak...”

 

My typesetting jefe lost his temper over hearing such candor.

 

“FAKE NEWS! FAKE NEWS! I NEVER PUT ANYTHING ABOVE HAVING TALENTED WRITERS ON OUR EDITORIAL STAFF! ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!”

 

My stamina wasn’t strong enough to argue.

 

“Okay then, I’ll ask this one more time, why did you call?”

 

Pavlovia cleared his throat and coughed at the phone. I was certain he had lit a cigar while relaxing at his oversized desk. An artifact with oak accents carved by Amish craftsmen.

 

“Rodney! Do I need an excuse to call an old chum? Really, I just wanted to make a confession. I miss having you on the payroll. Your column series was unique, to say the least. I think with subscriptions dwindling, it might be time to revisit your material. What I’ve read on the internet looks good, very familiar. Al Luccioni from Pittsburgh, Mr. X, and working on old pickup trucks. It sounds a lot like your creative output from 20 years ago!”

 

I rubbed my eyes while finishing a cup of coffee.

 

“Johann, you gave me the brush-off, remember? I sold a lot of copies for you, apparently. But it didn’t seem to matter. I was tired of the streak after so many years. You were tired. I always got more attention from reposting my work in cyberspace, anyway. Face it your weekly is strictly a local gazette...”

 

His temper flared again.

 

“WHAT? COME ON NOW, YOU WORKED FOR THIS WEEKLY! SIXTEEN YEARS, CORRECT? WE INDULGED YOUR FLIGHTS OF FANCY! IT WAS OFTEN LIKE BABYSITTING A CHILD! I TOOK HEAT FROM LOCAL MOVERS AND SHAKERS WHEN YOU GOT OUTLANDISH IN YOUR PROSE. BUT I STAYED THE COURSE. GIVE ME SOME CREDIT!”

 

My face had started to burn.

 

“Until you didn’t...”

 

He was grinding his teeth while speaking. The sound tickled my ear.

 

“Rodney, be reasonable. Editors try things, you know? We tweak the plan, to see if it will drive sales and get us recognized by the newspaper associations. We were winning awards at first, I’ve got gold plaques all over this office wall! It made me look like a genius!”

 

I sighed loudly and bowed my head.

 

“Great! So, why call me now? You’ve got it all figured out...”

 

My erstwhile editor grumbled to himself.

 

“Yeah, well, there are things I couldn’t control. Advertisers dropping out, readers no longer paying for content, our prestige evaporating. You know the drill! It’s funny to consider, your move to an e-format for that little blog you produce came just at the right time!”

 

I laughed softly while pondering his tone of regret.

 

“Three blogs, 34 books sold by a trio of different publishers. Not getting rich, I’ll admit. But keeping active, I enjoy the work. It was always about staying fit, intellectually. My favorite aunt who lived by the Ohio River used to say, ‘Keep that pen moving!’ It matters to stay in the continuum...”

 

Pavlovia sounded like he was clapping.

 

“Yes! Yes! That’s my point. You need to be back in print, people have wondered why you ever went away. I see the clicks you’ve been getting. And the reposts on Twitter. Umm... I mean X!”

 

His deference sounded completely insincere. Yet I wanted to be gracious.

 

“I appreciate the kind words. Still, having no guardrails to keep me confined has been a relief. I wouldn’t go back even if you paid me a reasonable salary. Not what I was making before...”

 

My former boss almost choked on his stogie.

 

“See here! I always pay a fair wage to everyone on this staff! We all share in the rewards of journalistic excellence!”

 

I had turned completely red.

 

“My neighbor across the street is 84, maybe our senior resident of Thompson Township. She told me once that her subscription to the Treble Clef had expired. It didn’t seem worth keeping. This beloved old matron actually called the paper ‘stale.’ Isn’t that an amazing assessment? She’s lived here since the 1940’s. She remembers having the Geauga Times Leader delivered to her home. She remembers working at the IGA on our square. She remembers President Truman celebrating victory over the Axis in WW II. And, she got bored with what you’ve been slinging out in those pages of newsprint. I didn’t know how to respond. She doesn’t have a computer. Therefore, I’ve run off hard copies of my work, just so she can follow along...”

 

Editor Pavlovia sounded like he was having an epileptic seizure.

 

“PRINTED OUT YOUR WORK? FOR FREE? THAT’S SUICIDE, MAN! COME BACK IN THE STABLE, AND SELL YOUR COLUMNS FOR REAL MONEY! I’LL WELCOME YOU WITH OPEN ARMS! THINK OF THE OPPORTUNITIES! WE’RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER!”

 

My stomach felt sour. I wanted our conversation to end.

 

“I’ll take your offer as a high compliment. I mean that sincerely. But, no thanks. I’m where I need to be now, where I want to be...”

 

There was a growl of indignation and failure as he accepted his defeat. Then, a loud squawk on the line. I imagined him stubbing out the expensive smoke, in his gold ashtray. I delivered a parting gesture of comity, though he was no longer connected.

 

“Thanks, Johann! Have a great day!”

Nobody Reads This Page – ‘Muffler Mending’

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

For this writer, inspiration has always seemed to come unpredictably. I might sit at the keyboard for hours, searching and scrolling without a useful yield of ideas. But then in the most random moment, find what I was seeking by surprise.

 

A recent example of this phenomenon came as I was listening to the morning show on Cleveland’s FM sports station, ’92.3 The Fan.’ Host Ken Carman offered a personal memory about his father repairing a mid-80’s Chevrolet Caprice, to save money ahead of holiday spending. The crude fix involved coat hanger wire, and help from his obedient son holding the flashlight. With some effort, he managed to rig up the muffler system in a blue-collar triumph of imagination over necessity. The tale entertained members of his on-air crew, and listeners as well. But it also sparked my own reflection. A throwback to days in the early 1990’s.

 

In that distant era, I was living with my first wife and son in Painesville. After driving a 1972 Econoline with over 200,000 miles, and then a 1979 F-150 that had been a plow truck, I scored a newer vehicle through the family. My nephew by marriage offered a clean, 1985 Ranger 4x4 at a price I could not decline. The little mule was not so spacious as my previous haulers, but stood tall on its snow tires. I often hit my head on the roof, or on the sliding rear window. Even with the seat slid completely back, legroom was cramped. Yet the vehicle had no rust. A 2.8-liter V-6 motor motivated it sufficiently for getting back and forth to my workplace in Chardon, despite winter storms.

 

In those days, I still regretted returning to my native Ohio from New York State. So, trips back to see old friends, and jam with guitars were frequent. Driving the downsized hoss meant burning less fuel than with my full-sized carriages. While room inside and out was at a premium, my wallet appreciated the change. I never had much to take along, anyway.

 

I made several trips between our home base, and my destination in the Finger Lakes Region. Ithaca, the home of Cornell University, was where I had studied television broadcasting. And, begun writing in a newspaper context. But most often, I aimed toward the notable city of Corning, where my mentor Paul Race lived. He had been a local musician for many years, and had an insane collection of records, books, plectrum instruments, and all sorts of interesting relics. I missed him terribly. My wife thought that he was uncultured and boorish, despite having earned higher degrees in biology, chemistry, and computer science. When one of my road adventures had been planned, we would normally squabble over details. She thought that I should have been more appreciative of a loving family, and less interested in pursuing half-baked Rock & Roll aspirations.

 

Her opinions were completely correct, of course. But I chafed at admitting that she was more in tune with reality, and less likely to chase fugazi dreams on a fool’s errand.

 

Heading east, toward the Empire State, I would usually be at the wheel with a reddened face and a stomach full of woe. It normally took a hundred miles or more before this mood passed. But eventually, I always started to thirst for Utica Club beer and yearn for the punchy, staccato sound of my erstwhile cohort’s vintage Fender Telecaster. I could not let go of those yonder days. Though for all practical purposes, they had vanished forever.

 

I would stay in the area until my funds had been exhausted, or workplace scheduling dictated a speedy return. By the time my truck found itself pointed in the opposite direction, heading west, I would be well-lubricated. A stop at the neighborhood Sugarcreek convenience store, for coffee, was mandatory when leaving town. My clothes would be dirty and my face, unwashed. Yet my soul knew a kind of satisfaction not attainable by any other means.

 

The thrill of this cheap high eventually faded, however. In particular, when I was temporarily stranded on the Allegany Indigenous Reservation, governed by the Seneca Nation of New York. I had grown older and more responsible. The admonitions of my beloved spouse had finally taken hold. At least in principle.

 

On the way back to Lake County, piloting my silver-and-black pickup, I noticed that the muffler seemed to be a bit louder than before. Salamanca was a favored halfway point to stop for fuel, food, and bathroom facilities. Because I was so close, it seemed wise to putter along until I could pull off and have a look. So, I stopped at the local McDonald’s for bladder relief, and a burger. The meal came with a Buffalo Bills souvenir bandana. I threw it in the glovebox as a keepsake to show the family. 

 

In the parking lot of a Fisher’s Big Wheel department store, situated nearby, I crawled under my tiny rig for a mechanical inspection. What I saw wasn’t really surprising, but it made my belly ache. The entire exhaust system had broken free of its rubber-and-metal hangers. Somehow, the leading pipe was still attached, by a stout clamp. Everything was covered with highway muck, and rust. I crawled out from under the beast, to think for a moment. Then, remembered that owing to my father-in-law’s advice, I had loaded up a selection of tools and coat hangers before leaving Buckeye soil. Everything was jammed behind the bench seat.

 

I steered my way to a deserted corner of the property, while finishing a container of fries. There were enough garment wires on hand to re-hang the entire span, I reckoned. So, I took a fistful from the truck cab, and slid back underneath. Since I was alone, no one could help brace the tubular mess upward, into position. I decided that my body would work well enough as a jack stand, and managed to wriggle until the snaking system had been elevated sufficiently. Then, I twisted away with the repurposed coat hangers. What resulted was not cosmetically attractive, or in keeping with SAE standards. But it worked.

 

I arrived home in Painesville covered in grit and grime, and grease. Inside our condominium, I knew the family would be waiting. Yet there was one last can of brew left, from my Corning stash. Feeling selfish and unsociable, I sat in the darkness for moment. Still free of responsibility, I quenched my need for refreshment. Then, opened the driver’s door.

 

I would not visit New York again for several years. When I did, things were not the same. At long last, my extended childhood had ended.

Nobody Reads This Page – ‘Mugshot’

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

I have often written about my late friend Paul Race from Corning, New York, in various projects penned at the Icehouse. We met when I moved to Ithaca, in the Finger Lakes Region of that state, during the summer of 1978. He was already in his early 30’s and had earned degrees in Biology and Chemistry from Cornell University. I was 17 and very much in awe of his record collection and guitar arsenal. He projected the counterculture stylings of a hippie, yet spanned the generations from Beat Era authors to Punk Rock and Heavy Metal modernists in his appreciation of culture. At heart, he carried many similar vibes to friends who had grown up in the Village of Riverside. A neighborhood inhabited by working-class residents like his parents.

 

Music gave us an everlasting kinship that otherwise would not have existed.

 

As I grew older, the fellow I once revered as a local hero and icon began to age not only in chronology, but also with the development of my own life experiences. After joining my first wife and her son in the 1980’s, the backdrop against which I viewed this oddball genius shifted. I realized that things relating to him were not perceived clearly by my teenage self. He was impulsive and extreme as a collector, to the point of exhausting his own weekly paycheck. Then frequently, he borrowed money from his wife or begged flea market vendors to extend some sort of credit arrangement. He seemed able to literally smell the scent of vintage vinyl artifacts, or collectibles. His home on Hornby Road, outside of the city, was a literal warehouse of things. Little free space remained anywhere. Even the spare room and basement were stuffed full of interesting artifacts. He had a wringer-washer and a refrigerator with the coil on top, both sitting in his garage. Boxes of records were stacked in the bathroom. Beer signs covered his walls. The manifested groove was one of pure obsession. Yet he had a casual manner, enhanced by frequent use of marijuana products. 

 

I reckoned that he must have been stoned for most of his adult life. But he kept a grueling schedule as a professional laboratory technician, and never missed work shifts.

 

His sense of humor could be wildly clever, or dark and seedy. He was happy to describe himself as a ‘shit-bum’ from Steuben County. He had none of the pretentiousness I saw in other artistic cohorts from the area. This made him beloved as a mentor. Though eventually, I felt us drifting apart. I outgrew him in a sense, while pursuing journalist ambitions, and a career in retail management.

 

When I visited in 2006, he had divorced his own spouse, and moved down the hill to a boyhood home still owned by the family, on Balcolm Avenue. The place where he knew Pat Kelly, who we all identified as ‘The Migrant.’ This miscreant troubadour was his best friend, and confidante. A petty criminal and druggie who nevertheless possessed a sort of charm and wit that kept us entertained. Both of them had formed a band called ‘The Embarrassing Pinworms’ with other musicians connected to Channel 13, where I was a student apprentice. In the fullness of time, this shared history kept us bonded. Though as a grown man, I tended to view him with amusement and pity. I would shake my head and wonder about his exploits.

 

By that point in his life, he had reached a precipice of finality. A heart ailment kept him hospitalized for a short period. His collecting rigor was so intense that boxes of LPs were even stacked on the front steps, outside. His trees and lawn were overgrown, to the point of offending neighbors. Being detached from his wife cut the last lifeline he had to reality. When brother-from-another-mother Pat passed away, it left him isolated socially.

 

I knocked on his door during a trip back to visit the Empire State, and he refused to answer. So, I crafted a crude note on a scrap of cardboard, and left it in his mailbox. A day later, he called my wife’s cell phone number to explain that paranoia over being accosted by members of law enforcement, or bill collectors, had him wound up tightly like a clockwork spring.

 

I noted that in a front window of his living room, he had placed an official portrait of Richard Nixon, looking decidedly severe. The image was out of place as something anachronistic, but also because I knew my comapdre had voted against that controversial candidate in both 1968 and 1972. Paul had been drafted for the military, but refused to participate in the Vietnam experience. He performed services as a conscientious objector, cleaning floors with a janitorial team, and doing construction work for those in need.

 

I filed the memory away with many others that were varied and sometimes in conflict with each other. He was a complicated person. Yet always fascinating to know.

 

When Donald Trump’s mugshot from the Fulton County Jail in Atlanta, Georgia circulated in news reports and online, I was moved to recall the presidential photo displayed in Riverside. The eerie emotions provoked were decidedly chilling, and similar. Paul had completed his mortal journey in the middle of 2014. But I wondered with hindsight over what sort of reaction he would have had, seeing the image. It made me revisit his inexplicable choice to have the Nixon print at a place of prominence, for everyone to view. Was it a nod to the persistent presence of conservative forces in our greater society? An admission that he remained haunted by this specter of ‘The Establishment’ as it was called in those days? Or did he intend it as a mockery of the same?

 

The question was one I could never ask.

 

My contrarian idol remains alive in spirit, with his Fender Telecaster guitar at the ready. I think of him often, especially as I have reached the age where he was, so long ago. My own back is bent now, and my hair is gray. I have a home full of treasured ‘junk’ as he used to denote such trinkets with affection. He once said that we liked to have “Shiny objects that no one else will appreciate.” I reckoned this declaration was right on target. Proof before the fact that though he might have despised POTUS 45 personally, I am certain that he would be collecting Trump items such as hats, shirts, cards, bobbleheads or figurines, anyway. It was in his nature.

 

The mugshot opened a portal of sorts. Through that scowl, I could envision the eternal soul of my departed friend, laughing into the vastness of eternity. 

 

Irony, unlike the physical form, never dies.

Nobody Reads This Page – ‘Mr. X Returns’

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

Disclaimer: Some or all of what follows here may be fictionalized. Do not let that spoil your reading enjoyment, however...

 

While visiting Chardon for beer and pizza, over the weekend, I decided to stop at my local bank ATM to retrieve a small amount of cash. The habit of traveling around with no paper money on hand was something I had become accustomed to, as a matter of convenience. Yet I still remembered my father’s admonition to always have a $20.00 bill at the ready, if a neighbor might be in need. So, I pulled up to the electronic terminal with a sense of purpose.

 

After punching buttons in succession, a bill ejected on cue. I took it gratefully, and reached for the shifter in my SUV, to drive away. But before I could move out of the restricted lane, a warning flashed on the screen.

 

“YOU ARE BEING WATCHED! AWARENESS IS A TOOL TO PRESERVE YOUR OWN SAFETY!”

 

My eyes snapped fully open upon reading this ominous message. I twisted my neck at a painful angle, to make sure nothing had been misconstrued in the process of viewing this notice.

 

“What the heck?”

 

Feeling anxious, I pressed my right foot on the accelerator. My vehicle surged forward with a growl of internal combustion. But before I could get fully out of the access space, a black limousine blocked my path. It appeared with surprising rapidity, almost as if the beastly carriage had materialized out of virgin air.

 

A tall, suited fellow with dark glasses emerged from the rear passenger door. He stood in the parking lot between his mechanical mule and mine, and bowed with a graceful tilt of his head.

 

“Rodney? It has been a long time since our paths intersected. I regret that we must speak, once again.”

 

My skin felt clammy. He was oddly familiar, yet not someone I could identify immediately.

 

“Speak again? What... we’ve met before?”

 

The strange individual was tall and pale. He took off a pair of leather gloves, and lit a cigarette while standing in front of my car.

 

“You’ve started writing again. Is that correct? For a different newspaper though, not the Maple Leaf this time. Something called the Geauga Independent?”

 

I huffed a bit, with curiosity. Though nervous energy still had me trembling.

 

“I’m confused, sorry. Is that headline news? Yes, I recently posted a few things online. Who noticed? Those stories didn’t get many hits when I checked...”

 

The interloper removed his black Fedora.

 

“You once called me Mr. X. Is that memory still tucked away in your brain?”

 

I chilled at the icy tone of his voice.

 

“Okay, I remember now. We did meet a couple of times, before. But that moniker would get me in trouble with a copyright infringement now, I think. Elon Musk stole your name for his rebrand of the Twitter platform...”

 

The spooky sir wasn’t amused. He stubbed out the smoke on one heel of his wingtip shoes.

 

“Comedy isn’t your gift, Rodney. Still, you do have a loyal readership here in northeastern Ohio. Sixteen years writing your erstwhile column got noticed for its persistence, if nothing else. I tip my hat to you! That is why I have come here today. Not everyone feels that your exit from retirement was a wise decision. Did you consider the risk associated with tilting at windmills, in our modern age?”

 

I took a deep breath and gripped the steering wheel for support.

 

“Risk? I don’t get your premise, sorry! Honestly, I didn’t reckon on too many people noticing that I had jumped back in the saddle...”

 

He frowned and clenched his teeth. My indifference seemed to harden his resolve.

 

“THIS IS NO JOKE, MY FRIEND! YOU LIKE TO TEASE THE PUBLIC WITH TALES OF INTRIGUE AND SILLY TIDBITS OF WORDPLAY! BUT WE ARE IN DIFFERENT TIMES NOW! MISINFORMATION AND INTERFERENCE RULE THE DAY! RUSSIA AND CHINA HAVE ASSETS ALL AROUND AMERICA! IRAN AND NORTH KOREA THREATEN OUR ALLIES! SPIES PROBE OUR SOCIAL NETWORKS! THOUGHT CONTROL PROCEEDS THROUGH THE DISSEMINATION OF PROPAGANDA! NONE OF THIS HAPPENS WITHOUT THE DIRECTION OF SINISTER FORCES! ARE YOU FOOLISH ENOUGH TO BE OBLIVIOUS? OR DO YOU SIMPLY NOT CARE?”

 

I had grown thirsty while listening. His rant made me wish for a cold brew.

 

“I should be taking notes. This kind of spiel would be perfect for a printed feature...”

 

Mr. X grinned like a hungry badger. He raised his right fist overhead.

 

“IDIOT! I CAME HERE TO WARN YOU ABOUT WHAT AWAITS! DOES THAT MEAN NOTHING? THIS IS ALL PART OF A VAST CONSPIRACY. THE DEEP STATE, IF YOU WILL! YOU’VE WRITTEN MUCH ABOUT DONALD TRUMP AND HIS SUPPORTERS. WHAT IF HE COMES TO POWER AGAIN? DON’T YOU FEAR RETRIBUTION FROM HIM, OR HIS SYCHOPHANTS?”

 

My stomach began to ache. I slumped a bit in the driver’s seat.

 

“It’s all satire, man! Don’t you get that vibe? I’ve been cranking out prose products for years that poke the bear, so to speak. It started as a kid, I used to draw cartoons about my fourth-grade teacher. Her name was Mary Jane Palmer. Even in the early 1970’s, that old schoolmarm had already lived to a considerable age. She singled me out as a target because I was bright and talked too loudly in class. I had no armor to protect myself, or weapons to fight back. So, I turned to art. Eventually, I had a whole notebook full of drawings about her snotty supervision of our group. Friends loved my work. I had to hide the folder, though. Getting caught might have gotten me expelled...”

 

The shadowy figure could not stand any more.

 

“FOURTH GRADE? YOU WANT ME TO LISTEN TO YOUR STORIES ABOUT BEING IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, THIS IS TOO MUCH! I’M TRYING TO SAVE YOU FROM RUIN! LISTEN TO ME! LISTEN, ALREADY!”

 

I had run out of breath. His threatening mood made me afraid.

 

“Okay, I will quit talking. Say your piece. I’ll sit here and listen...”

 

Mr. X softened his stance. He gestured politely while making a summation.

 

“I could be rubbed out for coming here, some would view my conduct as treason against the state. I hope you appreciate that, on some level. But regardless of your perceptions, let me offer this advice. Go back underground, Rodney. Stop whatever you are trying to do with your e-paper. It’s a fight you won’t win. A fight you can’t win, quite honestly. Because the system perpetuates itself. In a sense, I am part of that system. Yet I have affinity for innocent actors such as yourself. You still have faith in goodness and justice. Those are antiquated notions when we send weapons of mass destruction around the globe, more easily than we dispense food or medical resources. Do you understand? I am guilty. My bosses are guilty. Our regime is guilty. I do this today, to atone for that guilt. Crawl back under your rock. Shut up, before the weight of sin crushes you like an insect! Be quiet, and be safe! Or, end up on a hit list with Marianne Williamson, and Vivek Ramaswamy!”

 

Before I could react, he had returned to the seclusion of his long limousine. As I sat watching, the motorcar pulled away, leaving a furious plume of exhaust in its wake. I waited for a minute or two, before stuffing the $20 bill into my tri-fold wallet. Then, reached a second time for the gear selector.

 

By now, my pizza was cold and my beer was warm. I only hoped that after getting home to watch sports on my television, it wouldn’t matter too much.

Nobody Reads This page – ‘Pittsburgh Proud’

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

Disclaimer: What follows here is not literally true. Don’t be alarmed... 

 

I had been in the Icehouse home office long enough to finish my pot of morning coffee, when the landline telephone began to ring. This antiquated device was on top of my desk, and hadn’t actually been used in many years. Though the service line still existed, now tasked with delivering a DSL signal. The technicality of being unplugged did not keep it from sounding off repeatedly. So, the electronic link made a chirping noise that was familiar only in memory. I rubbed my eyes and yawned loudly. Who could possibly be calling that number after such a long period of neglect?

 

When I lifted the receiver, a husky voice filled my ear.

 

“Hey, buddy! Are yinz busy right now? I want to talk, okay? Mama Luccioni is in the kitchen, making a batch of kielbasa spaghetti. I’m getting bored sitting here, watching replays of the Stiller Super Bowls. And all those Penguin victories, on the ice. I need something different. How’ve you been, kiddo?”

 

My erstwhile mentor, from the old neighborhood in New Kensington, Pennsylvania, sounded as alive and ornery as ever. He had once been a boxer, and later became a regional icon for hawking Iron City beer and pizza kits. But I had known him as a grandfather to his brood, who lived next door.

 

“Al, I’m not a kid anymore. As a matter of fact, I’m in my 60’s now...”

 

He did not sound convinced.

 

“What, yinz graduated from high school already? Hoo boy, I’m losing track of time. It ain’t too hard when the trophy case here keeps getting fuller and fuller every year. I quit remembering which ring came when, a long time ago. Capiche?”

 

My stomach had started to ache. I had to hold my belly while listening.

 

“Is that why you called? Just to brag about all the championships won by your franchises on the three rivers?”

 

My former neighbor laughed with good-natured ease. I imagined him sitting in his favorite lounger, wearing an old-man undershirt that exposed his broad shoulders and big arms.

 

“Nah, I don’t wanna rub dirt in your face. Yinz know I don’t treat people like that, Mama would make me go to confession. I hate sitting in that little box! But it was on KDKA the other day, news from up there by the lake. I put a gum band on my finger, to remind me to call. What happened with your guy, the one who got all that freaking dough to play quarterback? He can’t play, won’t play, then he’s hurt or something, what gives? I’d throw him out of the haus, trust me! He’d go right dahn if I had to punch him, myself!”

 

I shook my head and snorted quietly.

 

“I’s not so simple as that, Al! Our Haslams gave away the store already. They signed off on a guaranteed contract. That puts us in a tough spot at the moment...”

 

Luccioni laughed until his lungs were depleted.

 

“The only guarantee I know is that the Stillers will get another Super Bowl ring, by God! Yinz know Coach Tomlin will handle the job. Anybody who don’t agree is a jagoff!”

 

I wanted to hang up and go to my refrigerator for a cold brew. But in a nod to civility, continued listening instead.

 

“The owner here was trying to jump start our Cleveland Browns. I guess his heart was in the right place, though it seemed like too much of a gamble to me, personally. Injuries happen, it’s part of pro football. Staying healthy keeps a team in the hunt...”

 

My bygone neighbor nearly shouted with condemnation.

 

“YINZ NEED TO REDD UP THAT PLACE! CLEAN HAUS, GET IT STRAIGHT FOR A CHANGE! WHAT, PEOPLE UP THERE DON’T KNOW HOW TO WIN ANYMORE? WHAT A SHAME, I’LL SEND A TERRIBLE TOWEL IN THE MAIL. IT’LL WORK FOR MOPPING TEARS TOO! TRUST ME! LOSERS CRY LOTS OF TEARS BY LAKE ERIE!”

 

I struggled to keep my arm from reaching for the telephone base.

 

“Al, the only time your boys in black-and-gold have ever won anything is when you got help from the Buckeye State. Chuck Noll was a native of this area, and played for Paul Brown. Bill Cowher played here and coached here. In his speech at the Canton hall of fame, he thanked Marty Schottenheimer for making him a real man, and a success in the league...”

 

Luccioni lost his cool. He began to boil over like a kettle on the stove.

 

“TAKE THAT BACK! TAKE THAT BACK! YINZ ARE TALKING CRAZY, KIDDO! DON’T BE SO NEBBY ABOUT ALL THAT BEHIND-THE-SCENES HOOPLA, IT DON’T AMOUNT TO ANYTHING! SO WHAT IF THEY GOT OUT OF OHIO, I’D SAY THAT WAS A GOOD MOVE, RIGHT? I WOULDA GOT OUT TOO!”

 

I could not help offering one last observation to send him off the emotional cliff.

 

“Big Ben Roethlisberger was from Lima, in my state. There’s another plug for us, you owe this territory a lot really. We made your team what it is today...”

 

I could tell that my friend had once been a boxing champ. He began to throw verbal punches over the telephone connection.

 

“HORSE HOCKEY! I’LL WORSH YOUR MOUTH OUT WITH SOAP, KIDDO! SHOW SOME RESPECT! MAMA LUCCIONI WILL RUN UP THERE WITH A WOODEN SPOON AND CRACK THAT POINTED HEAD, BUT GOOD!”

 

I shrugged and switched hands with the receiver. My arm had begun to cramp.

 

“Sorry, old fellow. I apologize, I apologize! Don’t get your boxers in a bunch...”

 

I could tell something had gone wrong in the other room. His wife squawked curses while scattering utensils around their countertops.

 

“Heyy, I gotta go, kid! Mama burnt the spaghetti sauce, I don’t know what happened. She’s losing her marbles I think! We’re going to Primanti’s for a change, I need a sammich. Maybe we’ll get some chipped chopped ham on the way home, in case I’m still hungry. Maybe I’ll have an Imp n Arn to slosh it dahn! It’s turning slippy outside. They said on KDKA that a snowstorm is coming. Be good and don’t get yinzself into trouble, okay? We’ll talk again later!”

 

Just as the call had seemingly come out of nowhere, our conversation ended abruptly. I sat staring at the vintage receiver for a long time, with the dial tone blaring in my ear. Finally, I hung up and slouched in my seat.

 

I had left the ‘Burgh in 1978. But somehow, my connection with Al Luccioni remained intact.