Nothing To See Here – “Cold Call”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

My friend Janis has been recovering from her third stroke since the middle of last year. This odyssey of medical confinement began at ACMC in Ashtabula, found her being shipped to the Cleveland Clinic, then to the Cedarwood Plaza rehabilitation center located nearby, and finally to Carington Park, a nursing home in the city where this voyage began. All the while, I have been one of two trusted contacts with the outside world. The other, her roommate at their property by Lake Erie, has kept the homestead intact. While being isolated is not easy for either of these stoic women, both are socially predisposed to navigating life with few companions on board.

 

I get telephone calls almost every day. My status as her link to reality is assured.

 

On a recent morning, I was up early after a night of restless sleep. Coffee helped to reset my internal clock. Though by the time I had emptied the carafe, it was still before noon. I sat at my desk in the home office, going through news websites for interesting stories. Then, the telephone rang.

 

My contrarian cohort sounded unusually chipper for having been out of circulation so long. I imagined her dressed perpetually in patient pajamas, and scooting around with a walker frame. They did not have individual hookups, so a public phone had to keep us in touch.

 

“What’re you doing, Rodbert? I just came inside, a group of us sat out in the courtyard for a few minutes. Some people were smoking. I really wanted to bum a cigarette!”

 

Her confession made my teeth chatter.

 

“Your doctor in Madison said that is probably how all of this started! Don’t backslide now, you’ve been on the wagon for months! Even a puff or two could send your blood pressure skyrocketing!”

 

She groaned and growled with disinterest in kicking her habit for good.

 

“Screw what she said! I need some nicotine!”

 

My head bowed while listening. Her mood was rowdy from waiting for lunch to arrive. I tried to speak as a counselor.

 

“Look, I get your vibe. My jones for Camel non-filters is still there, like a critter hiding in the brush. I quit in the 1980’s. But in dreams, I buy a pack sometimes. It’s weird, I usually snooze and snore and imagine going to a convenience market somewhere. It wouldn’t be hard to light up right now, and pour a shot of Jack Daniel’s to magnify the experience. I won’t do those things though, because both would drag me down. I don’t need the complications. And I don’t want to end up in a hospital bed.”

 

Janis snorted and laughed.

 

“Yeah, yeah! Maybe you’re right. I tried to get one of the other residents here to sneak off and buy me some cancer sticks. But she said no, dammit!”

 

I felt glad that her seedy escapade had been refused.

 

“Another stroke might peg the meter. Your body can only take so much...”

 

She cackled defiantly. I guessed that she must be standing outside of their activity room, in a corridor.

 

“I had to do an appointment with a special doctor yesterday. On the way back, I asked the driver if they would stop by Taco Bell. We could have pulled that off easy, it was right on the way! But the young bitch wouldn’t budge! She kept jamming gears until we got back to this ugly hole in the ground! One chalupa wouldn’t have hurt me! I needed a fix!”

 

My eyes closed and I began to wheeze.

 

“Never mind running for the border, what was the verdict on your health?”

 

My longtime friend whispered her reply.

 

“He said my kidney function is at 40 percent. Is that bad? I have no idea really. It sounds low, I think. Maybe, maybe, maybe? I pee a lot so they must be wrong. I think it’s all a scam!”

 

I had become short of breath. Her attitude made me twitch.

 

“You don’t want dialysis, it’s not a fun experience. A guy I know said he has to sit for hours, hooked up to a big machine...”

 

Her reaction was predictable.

 

“If I could smoke, it’d be okay! Better than sitting here with the wrinkled-up biddies playing bingo!”

 

I heard noise in the background, and an alarm going off. Frantic voices echoed over the intercom. I wondered if our line of communication might be cut.

 

“What’s going on over there? Do you have to evacuate? Hang up, and get yourself to a safe space! Don’t argue with the staff!”

 

Janis turned sarcastic.

 

“You’re such a snowflake! It was just a drill, they do it once every couple of weeks. Don’t get your boxers in a bunch! Anyway, I’ve been sitting here thinking about people we know. Do you remember the bald guy who stocked shelves with us at Giant Eagle? What was his last name? The one who had been in the Army, you gotta remember!”

 

This shift in subject matter left me speechless for a moment.

 

“Who? He worked with us where?”

 

She whistled and smacked the receiver with her hand.

 

“Hello! Hello! Do you hear me, Rodbert? I said the bald guy we knew in Geneva! What was his last name? I’ve been forgetting things, my mind is starting to slip. Don’t let them turn me into one of these crabby grannies! I don’t want to be stuck here forever!”

 

Her plea sounded earnest. Yet there was nothing I could do to speed up the pace of recovery.

 

“Behave yourself, and it’ll go quickly. Stay off the cigarettes. Eat your mush until everything has healed. Don’t steal food from the kitchen! Your body has survived a lot of abuse...”

 

My distant associate became irritated. She started to bang the wall-phone handset on her skull.

 

“WHAT WAS HIS NAME? MY HEAD IS NUMB, DUDE! THIS AIN’T A JOKE! I’M LOSING IT IN THIS HALFWAY HOUSE! MY EGGS ARE SCRAMBLED! WHAT WAS HIS NAME? WHAT WAS HIS NAME? WHAT WAS HIS NAME?”

 

My memory reacted with the clunky clattering of a vintage floppy disk being electronically read.

 

“Cloud! That was the guy, Raymond Cloud III. His grandfather was a fireman, in the city. Everybody seemed to know the family. He would frequently get recognized when we were on the sales floor. I think his mother worked at a bakery...”

 

Janis mumbled to herself with relief. I could hear carts of prepared meals being wheeled down the hallway. Cheers of gratitude resounded from the group.

 

“Cloud. Hee hee hee! That’s right, we called him Rain Cloud instead of Ray. He freaking hated that nickname! No hair on his head, and getting teased like a school kid. The poor loser! I attract that kind of people, they always hang around with me. What does that mean? Why are you my friend? Are you sorry we met?”

 

I heard an aide sternly directing her to the activity area, for their midday meal. There wasn’t time to ponder an answer to the impulsive query. A loud click of relays on the line made me flinch. Then, there was silence.

 

“No, I’m not sorry. If nothing else, you always keep me from getting bored!”

Nothing To See Here – “Haircut”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

The global pandemic of COVID-19 resonated everywhere. In northeastern Ohio, and around the world. But in the Ice household, its effects were lessened by my own disability and willful isolation. As someone already disposed to spending long periods at home, without much interpersonal contact, recommended standards for social distancing were not difficult to observe. Going out to eat with my friend Janis became the primary casualty. As Chinese buffets closed all around our area, we lost face-to-face contact. This habit had brought us together initially, in 2009. So, it meant that our friendship had to continue through wireless connections. Our lively conversations continued, but in the form of shared photos and internet memes.

 

By belly grumbled while wishing for Pepper Steak or General Tso’s Chicken.

 

Another loss during the lockdown era related to maintaining rigorous standards of personal grooming. I had grown accustomed to visiting my local Best Cuts for professional hair care. Yet after being dumped into early retirement, and then surviving the difficulties of these visits under Coronavirus restrictions, I realized that keeping my corporate look was not a standard worth continuing.

 

I no longer had to impress company owners, or those in top-line management.

 

My last stop at a barbering station came in Chardon, shortly after the peril of this calamity had first been announced. Patrons were instructed to sign in, and then wait outside in their vehicles, as each one was called for their turn in the stylist’s chair. But I entered the shop directly, owing to a misunderstanding. Because I stayed vertical only with assistance from two walking sticks, the clerks inside were merciful. They directed me to a lone seat by the front windows. A place of exile that made me think I ought to be wearing a pointed, dunce cap as a sign of medical banishment.

 

When my name was called, a cheerful young woman offered direction. Someone with a colorful frock, pink leggings, and lots of makeup applied skillfully. She pawed through my scalp with plastic gloves, and honked from under an oversized mask. Her appearance made me think of a 1980’s Rock video.

 

“You’ve still got plenty up top, sir! I would guess that you’re around my father’s age. Most men have gone bald by that point, unless they have hair restoration or use Rogaine!”

 

I laughed politely, and agreed with her assessment.

 

“My genetic heritage is strong apparently. Granddad passed away at 88 and still had his dome covered. In a snow-white hue of course, but he figured that was better than nothing at all...”

 

We debated over current trends, as she pointed to huge signboards that were hung on every wall of the facility. None of the depicted models looked older than 25. It made me feel ancient and strangely out-of-touch. Her counseling only deepened my anxiety.

 

“There isn’t really a particular style anymore. I get guys who want a spiky look, or shaved on the sides, or maybe highlights and cut around the ears, or long in the front. Our generation is totally free! Do what you want, it doesn’t matter.”

 

I chortled a bit, but tried not to move around too much while she stayed busy with her tonsorial tools.

 

“Back in the 1970’s, I let it grow long! Mine was way below my shoulders. I had a beard back then too, not many of my classmates did in that era. Big mustaches were more common...”

 

The bubbly blonde could have been an Instagram influencer. I felt her hot breath tickle my right ear as she was working.

 

“Seventies, you say? Oh my god, that’s a long time ago. My parents didn’t even know each other. I see pictures online and they make me giggle. With lots of rhinestones, and bell bottoms over platform shoes! What a crazy life that must have been! I like the old Disco tunes!”

 

Her naïve reflection made me gasp.

 

“I thought Disco sucked! So did my stoner friends. We listened to Peter Frampton, Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Humble Pie, Bachman-Turner Overdrive, or Pink Floyd. Everything was different then, we never worried about catching a virus or cyber-attacks or school shootings. The computer lab we used had a row of devices with reel-to-reel tape drives, they were sized like a modern soda machine. Gigantic compared to what students use today...”

 

The primping pro finished her task more quickly than I expected. She stood back and admired the cut while congratulating herself.

 

“Would you like some mousse or gel today, sir?”

 

I flinched at the thought of anything sticky in my mop of gray and brown.

 

“Nah, I’ll just be wearing a baseball cap anyway. Thank you!”

 

After returning to my rural homestead, a realization struck like lightning. The familiar exercise I had just undertaken was outdated and unnecessary. With traditional career pursuits sidelined, and most days now spent at the home-office desk or drinking beer on my porch, this arcane ritual was one I could jettison. Nobody in the neighborhood would notice.

 

A time-warp adventure back to the 70’s was possible, at last.

 

As weeks and months went by, my locks lengthened on their own. Left unpruned, they grew vigorously. After a year of neglect, I had begun to look like a caveman of sorts. A style I would have been happy to project in yonder days. I guessed that this reversion to an earlier, more liberated appearance would garner little notice from family members and friends. Yet this supposition was wholly incorrect.

 

Squawking began when my hair had reached a point of hippie extremism.

 

My sister was the first to comment. She thought that this taking of liberties was indefensible for someone who had reached such maturity when charted by the calendar. A fellow resident of my isolated community offered to clipper away this sinful plumage, in deference to more modern preferences. The messy shag on my skull seemed to rattle her nerves. But a family doctor who I visited regularly throughout the year offered a most damning view of my renewed interest in going natural. She advised that carrying around such a manic coiffure was unhealthy.

 

“We tell people to shave everything off! All that carpet only invites COVID to linger. It’s a danger you don’t need! Be clean and stay healthy, Rodney!”

 

Her stern advice made me think for a moment. But on the way home, I turned the volume of my dashboard radio up to its maximum. The signal of a Classic Rock station in Cleveland exploded from speakers in both doors. I thumped rhythmically on the steering wheel while driving. And sang along to George Thorogood & his Delaware Destroyers.

 

“I was a rebel from the day I left school

Grew my hair long and broke all the rules

I’d sit and listen to my records all day

With big ambitions of when I could play

My parents taught me what life was about

So I grew up the type they’d warned me about

They said my friends were just an unruly mob

And I should get a haircut and get a real job...”

 

 

“Breakout Rhyme”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

Rhymes for a reason

Though the cause might seem hard to detect

Sitting alone with my memories

Of a planned existence bound to a paycheck

I did that jive for so long

That when the ride ended, it left me oddly out of sync

I wasn’t ready for that merry-go-round

To drop me rudely in the drink

 

Rhymes for a reason

A split from the duty bestowed at birth

I had to renegotiate my own existence

Had to convince myself there was a greater worth

It kept me trembling at night

I didn’t know how to move at my own pace

When standing before the mirror’s display

I had to guess which ink blot represented my face

 

Rhymes for a reason

This thought of choosing seemed strange at first

I never had that option among my peers

Never had that quizzical intellectual burst

My brain bolted halfway through the maze

It left me empty-headed in a corridor, confused

I had to relearn the art of introspection

A talent I had not often used

 

Rhymes for a reason

Stepping out on the first day after sunrise

I had to cover my face until the glare became tolerable

Crouching low, on the outside

This thaw of spring made me giddy

Leaping and laughing like a woodland gnome

But after running boldly across the pasture

I couldn’t find my way home

 

Rhymes for a reason

Now a scholar, studiously seeking new texts

Searching through scrolls of lessons to unlearn

Counting platitudes I now must forget

It isn’t easy once the mold has been broken

Like an eggshell, from the barnyard crate

An amoeba of protein growing quickly

To end up on my dinner plate

 

Rhymes for a reason

Kissed before going off to school

The journey was not far in distance

But great enough, for a zig-zagging fool

I was naïve in the breach

And not much wiser stepping out for the first time

I had to get my legs under me, strong and sure

Standing tall on the chalk line

 

Rhymes for a reason

Echoing in a place where voices rarely speak

The set paradigm is to hear truisms being offered

Not to argue over what we repeat

Once I gave myself the reckless liberty

To wonder aloud about our emperor’s new clothes

The crack of correction came down swiftly

Like a cry of a condor in its death throes

 

Rhymes for a reason

Now that jingle of keys in the schoolhouse lock has ended

Spending time at my desk, stashing gum under the seat

Is a trick I have cleverly amended

The newer version comes as I have found a hole in the fence

A gap through which I was able to squeeze

Since that day I have been a freeman vagabond

No longer on my knees

 

Rhymes for a reason

A jester jumping joyfully through hoops no more

Done with praying for merciful spite

To pin me with a dart, laid out on the killing floor

I won’t claim that this quest has been easy

Escaping Egypt with a belly unfed

But the glory of knowing I made it out, by chance

Keeps me safe in my bed

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Streetwalker” (Part Two)

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln had been cooped up in his trailer at Evergreen Estates since November of the previous year. Seasonal patterns kept his neighborhood either soaked throughout cold, rainy days, or buried under drifts of snow when winter was truly in effect. But now, groundhog star Buckeye Chuck had predicted an early spring. February temperatures soared on his inset porch, with a gleam of sunlight suddenly present once again. This unexpected change had found him supercharged with hopeful vibes. He dug into the household stash of liquor varieties, and opened a new 12-pack of Narragansett Lager. A brewery product from Rhode Island that had somehow found its way to one of the local food emporiums where he was a regular patron.

 

Their community of mobile homes had brightened immediately, when Mother Nature dispensed her blessing of better weather. Residents up and down the street had started cleaning their lots, washing cars, bagging refuse, and busying themselves with outdoor activities. An exercise undertaken while knowing that before long, sub-freezing conditions were likely to return.

 

Participating in this celebration was Gina Marie Puchevsky. Still an intriguing yet mysterious figure in their boxcar development.

 

With his nose tingling after a swig of Jack Daniel’s, Lincoln noted that the new arrival on his cracked-up boulevard had decided to spruce up her big-tired, yellow Jeep. The tall, leggy woman was wearing a spandex outfit with racer stripes down the sides, hued in fluorescent orange. Her red hair had been teased out to the point of an 80’s extreme. She crouched and kicked her way around the vehicle with a sponge and bucket, while hits from Mötley Crüe played on her wi-fi receiver. A Marlboro cigarette dangled from her painted lips.

 

The old loner felt his pulse beginning to rise. She reminded him of someone seen only in photographs sent into the electronic void of cyberspace. A person he loved as a parent, but did not want to ponder in such direct terms.

 

A line of familiar pickup trucks passed individually, as Gina polished her off-road champ, and danced to the Heavy Metal classics. She would disappear inside her home for brief interludes in between cleaning chores, and reappear counting treasury bills with unfamiliar presidents depicted. Each return from inside seemed to have her revealing more flesh and fashionable accents. Eventually, she wore nothing but an oversized running shirt, and fishnet leggings. The last hauler in her caravan of customers was a lifted Ram 3500, with Cummins diesel power under its hood. The driver was a young stud, short of stature, but running hot on liquid courage. He had a local Country station blaring from his in-dash radio. His eyes were bloodshot and narrow like slits.

 

“Hey Ginnie! I heard you know how to take care of a cowboy! Whoo damn! What the goin’ price fer a hook-up in this park?”

 

Soap suds dripped from the feral femme’s unruly mane. She had grown tired after a long day of earning money to pay off her overdue account.

 

“That’s Gina, dumbass! Don’t flap your trap here on the street! We can talk about shit over a Seagram’s cooler, if you want. Park next door, that spot has been empty since I got here...”

 

The loudmouth kid was offended by her bawdy demeanor. He pushed the Confederate hat backwards on his head, and let out a Rebel Yell.

 

“GET IN THE TRUCK, DAMMIT! PAYIN’ CUSTOMERS GIVE THE ORDERS, YOU CRANKY BITCH!”

 

She began to retreat, after throwing her wet sponge. But the immature buck jumped from his place behind the steering wheel, and caught her arm. She ended up as a hapless victim, flying through the open door in a fit of rage. Her face met the passenger window with a rude slap of skin on the glass.

 

Tears streamed down her cheeks. Makeup smeared until the colored stain dripped over her stretchy top. The downside of returning to her old profession had just become painfully evident.

 

The hillbilly runt fished out a revolver from his glovebox, as his prey was struggling in her seat. His mood had turned dark and threatening.

 

“NO MORE GAMES, WHORE! I FIGURE Y’ALL OWE ME A FREEBIE NOW! WE’RE GOIN’ OVER TO MY SHED, IT’S ON THE BACK ROAD BY TRUMBULL WOODS. I GUARANTEE YA WILL HAVE A GOOD TIME. PLAN ON SPENDIN’ THE NIGHT!”

 

Lincoln was watching from his porch, not far away. A resilient thump pounded in his chest. He leaned forward, with a mist of Tennessee whiskey rising from his beard. An altercation of some sort was transpiring in the pickup cab. He saw a fist pummel the unwilling captive until her head drooped with submission. Then, the dual rear wheels began to grind out smoke and chunks of rubber.

 

The Dodge Ram made a speedy getaway, with violent intentions lingering in the trail of exhaust that remained. Yet the promise of vengeance had not been fulfilled. The shaggy loner stood up with his disability canes at the ready.

 

“This ain’t over, little man! I guaran-damn-tee it ain’t over!”

 

Hogan Bayles lived in a crumbling, single-wide hovel not far from the property’s sewer facility. Summer months meant that he had to keep his windows closed, and the air conditioners running, to avoid breathing a prevailing stench of dung. Colder months kept him protected. But the thaw they were experiencing seemed to set loose disgusting wisps of solid waste. Traces of fecal matter clung to the air. It made him surly as he ordered his weeping prisoner inside.

 

“Yer prettier than anything I’ve had in my house. I’ll give ya that, girl! It’ll be a privilege to shag that booty, I gotta say! Believe me, y’all will be grateful when we’re done! I’m a stallion in blue jeans, the ladies say around here!”

 

Gina fell onto her knees, in the deep-pile carpeting. A floor tapestry she guessed must have been left over from a previous owner. She spat at her tormentor, and raised a middle finger. Her long, glossy nail glistened in the light from a ceiling fan.

 

“Pound salt, donkey! I don’t give anything away for free! You’d get your ass kicked on my side of Painesville. A puny prick like you would be laughed at, and knocked flat on your butt!”

 

The raucous MOPAR rancher stomped her right hand with a western boot. He had completely run out of patience.

 

“ON THE COUCH, MAMA! QUIT TALKIN’ AND DROP YER LAUNDRY! THIS BULLCRAP HAS LASTED LONG ENOUGH! I WANT SOME KITTY ACTION!”

 

A quake of human dimensions began to resound from outside the musty room. Footsteps shook the front entryway. Then, a crash of three-hundred pounds split the plywood door in half. Splinters scattered over a pockmarked coffee table and chairs.

 

Lincoln stood in the gap with his pores oozing droplets of whiskey and beer.

 

“Let her go, dickhead! The action you’ll get tonight is coming from me! Are you ready for a freaking party? Let’s do this!”

 

Hogan tried to project the strong image of his pro-wrestling namesake. But the attempt failed miserably.

 

“I’ve got a gun, old timer! Don’t risk yer life for a tramp! That’d be a sin and stupid to boot!”

 

The contrarian outcast spun one of his canes like a baton, then held it backwards by the bottom. The engraved, derby handle swung like a mallet. Its metal construction left an imprint in the kid’s jaw. He dropped his pistol and howled with injury.

 

“WHAT THE HELL? YOU REALLY WANNA SAVE THIS HOOKER SO BAD? IT DON’T MAKE ANY SENSE, GRANDPAW! SHE AIN’T WORTH GETTIN’ STOMPED!”

 

The hairy hermit flashed on memories of serving in conflicts, overseas. He brought the walking implement down skillfully, with tactics learned as an Army grunt. Soon, his boastful opponent had wilted into a pile of blood and broken bones.

 

Jason Aldean crooned from a wireless speaker, in the kitchen.

 

“Stomp on the flag and light it up, yeah, you think you’re tough, well try that in a small town, see how far you make it down the road...”

 

Gina lunged to escape after the confrontation had ended. She ran across the yard, hissing and screeching all they way back to her own trailer near the maintenance garage. The intentions of her knight-in-shining armor were unclear. Yet it didn’t matter. She had been liberated.

 

Hogan coughed up crimson phlegm. His teeth were broken. Giving up the animalistic quest for pleasure seemed like his best option, to sidestep the ignominy and humiliation of being defeated by a cripple.

 

A day later, the young trollop found her hero back on his bench at Lot 13. He was numb and silent, reeking of alcohol and charcoal from the grill. Gratitude swelled in her bountiful chest. But she did not know how to vocalize this genuine emotion.

 

“I won’t ask why you stepped in, old fart. But I want to, just the same. You’re a damn riddle in this park. Harder to understand than I am! So I’ll say this instead, thank you! Thank you for giving a damn!”

 

Lincoln was very drunk. He could barely see far enough to recognize that she was standing at the top of his access ramp.

 

“Neighbor, I won’t judge you for taking risks. I don’t talk a lot about stuff. But here’s the deal, there’s a lady in California right now who looks a lot like you. She had to grow up without a dad in her life. Because he’s a reject. A teenage dude who had a chance encounter with an older dame. A wild traveler, who once lived on the west coast. That wayfarer from Cali claimed she had an abortion. Ain’t that a trick? But the truth offered a second shot at being a parent. Except it didn’t. They never met. Both of them were on opposite sides of the continent. She has a son now, one that carries the genetic traits of their bloodline. Her heart has a hole in it, from not knowing completely how she entered this world. And he has no place in her life. The one thing I hope, sitting here getting wasted on booze, is that somebody out there will care enough to protect her, as I did for you. Maybe for no reason at all, just because right had to be done.”

 

Gina was sobbing. She lit a coffin nail and sat down on a plastic chair from Walmart, situated by the garbage bin.

 

“Tell me more about your daughter and grandson, Link... I want to hear the story!”

Trailer Park Vignettes - “Streetwalker” (Part One)

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

Gina Marie Puchevsky had a bad feeling about her move to Evergreen Estates. The rural community of mobile homes was situated away from her native area in Painesville, a more metropolitan and diverse location where she knew lots of people. Yet after her grandmother had passed away, only that forlorn piece of property in the trailer village remained. The boxcar-brought-in-on-wheels was her meager inheritance. A pitiful possession to behold, but better than working the streets of Lake County for a clandestine, cash reward.

 

She moved in on a Saturday, while the weather was unusually mild for February.

 

The young upstart soon discovered that residents in her new oasis were not so different from those left behind. There were lots of blue-collar, tattooed people on the street when she arrived. Many were smoking tobacco or marijuana, or drinking out of cheap bottles and cans purchased from a convenience store around the corner. She parked her Jeep Wrangler in the skinny driveway, skipped up the front steps with a duffel bag full of clothes, and turned her key in the door lock. Inside, the air was musty and stale. Smells of arthritis cremes, baby powder, and menthol cigarettes filled her nostrils.

 

There were three ceramic crosses on top of the vintage, console television. And a portrait of Jesus, in silent repose.

 

Gina did not know anyone at the distant property. So for the first time since childhood, she felt completely alone. Her grandmother had been a rock of sorts, always providing comfort when other members of the family had abdicated their parental responsibilities. Alcoholism and unemployment dogged her through grade school and beyond. Only the gray-haired matron stayed true to her words. When she said ‘I love you, girl!’ it actually meant something. No one else had that kind of staying power. No one else could mute the sting of her shame as a sort of orphan, parading on high heels along Mentor Avenue. A rag doll tossed carelessly into the fray.

 

But now, Granny was gone.

 

Park Manager Dana Alvarez had plenty of paperwork to sign, on the afternoon of her first day as a landed citizen in the rustic development. The busy, professional steward showed up in a golf cart that had been stored in their maintenance garage. Both women had navigated through lots of perils and pitfalls while coming of age. This made them bond almost instantly. Yet when it came to the subject of adhering to rules and guidelines, her tone hardened.

 

“You’ll hear things said around here that don’t line up with the facts. Comprende? If there’s a question, come to me. These caballeros and chicas like to talk. Don’t fall for their mierda, okay? These big toros are full of caca. But if they pay the lot rent on time, I let it slide. Otherwise, they get kicked to the curb!”

 

The urban immigrant nodded her head with acquiescence.

 

“My grandma owned this longbox for years. She was a widow before I got born. I never knew her any other way. She used to visit whenever I lived in Painesville. My ma kept moving all the time. Dad was a trucker, but also a bad drunk. He kept getting fired and starting fights at home...”

 

Dana smoothed her long, black hair with fingers spread wide like the teeth of a comb.

 

“Si, your abuela! I get it! I always relied on my gram too. That generation lived differently than us, they knew how to survive. I think it got lost along the way. But maybe urchins like you and me have learned to push on through when it gets tough. We know what our folks didn’t. Screw them! We don’t need nobody, right?”

 

Gina had dressed in a camouflage sweatshirt, and leggings. Her reddish hair was a stringy mess. She did not feel so confident about starting over. But tried to fake it while signing official documents.

 

“Yeah, I cried on my grandma’s shoulder a lot. She carried me when nobody else gave a shit. This is a new game for me, I’ve never made it on my own...”

 

After settling in, weeks and months passed quickly. The newcomer made friends and found a job at a travel plaza in Madison, waiting tables. Repairs on the prefab hovel scrambled her plans to save money and find another, better place to live. She fell into debt while trying to keep her donated residence from falling apart. A redneck boyfriend shared the space for a short period, but eventually disappeared with the roll of legal tender she had been hiding in her underwear drawer. He smacked her around before leaving, which evoked bitter memories of being shoved into the corner by her inebriated father, after speaking too boldly.

 

Finally, there was an eviction notice on the window by her front stoop. She hadn’t paid rent in two or three months. Their park representative showed no emotion when she pleaded for time to make things right and satisfy this delinquency.

 

“Hey, you thought I was kidding maybe? Dios santo! You gotta get your act together, woman! If I didn’t send the funds on time, I’d be out on my culo, too! The owners live out of state, all they see is a bottom line. Money in the bank. Or no money. If that account goes empty, they get very testy! Figure it out or leave. I’m sorry, babe!”

 

Gina knew the tank on her little 4x4 was nearly empty. Her job at the truck center barely yielded enough to keep the vehicle running. Options and resources were dwindling as she struggled. With bad credit and empty pockets, there was no safety net in place to keep her from crashing. Then, a wickedly ironic thought crossed her mind. One that made a chill run over her skin. She didn’t have the extra protection of a high-wire artist, but there was a different sort of open-mesh weave that might offer her absolution. One that had helped to fill her purse in days spent trekking over the cold concrete of cities along Lake Erie.

 

Not a safety net, but a pair of fishnet stockings. In luxurious, black nylon.

Nothing To See Here – “Hyperbole”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

“A writer who is afraid to overreach himself is as useless as a general who is afraid to be wrong.” – Raymond Chandler

 

A convenient vehicle for writing projects is the tool of exaggeration. This option to magnify things so that they may be seen more clearly is useful in directing attention from the reader. Or for the purpose of highlighting a particular point with dramatic effect. Yet when viewed through a lens of guilt, as an act of hindsight, the trick can fold inward upon itself.

 

Guilt is a damning emotion for any professional wordsmith.

 

Such thoughts were alive recently, as I pondered stories penned about the conflicted world of trailer park living. This metaphorical device is one I would have never used in any of my past work. Because, that stream-of-consciousness had not yet been created, by chance. But after my own slide into the realm of financial and intellectual poverty, suddenly it found a place of honor. To spin yarns about alienation and drunkenness was more than convenient in this new age. It became familiar and even comforting, as a medium for self-expression.

 

To simply portray a village of mobile homes in the stark colors and dimensions of literal prose did not seem an attractive proposition, however. Instead of describing the drudgery associated with surviving each day in a boxcar residence, sans liberties and respect, something more was needed. That truism inspired my leap forward, not unlike a sports league where athletes are trained to grow bigger, faster, and stronger out of competitive necessity.

 

To write about a bum eating a bologna sandwich would fail in its mission to titillate the mind. But if that same, common individual was portrayed as a contrarian hero, reeking of tobacco and hard liquor, smashing his way through manufactured walls on his four-wheeler, and carousing with busty, barely-clad feral femmes from the neighborhood, suddenly much more could be had as a yield.

 

The young child of a former spouse got this concept in a flash of brilliance, when I debated the creative strategy with her mother. She observed defensively that it was necessary to ‘jazz things up for the newspaper.’ This pure and honest assessment made both of us laugh out loud. It hit the bullseye. With candor in her quiver, the kid was right on target.

 

Plain truth offered dryly is, to be sure, quite dry.

 

The rub in using hyperbole as a method to drive energy into a particular storyline is that some may look upon the result as a document of fact. A hard and fast statement, fit for a court of law. Seemingly chiseled into the stone face of a mountain. Yet human experience has shown that sometimes, great revelations come through fictional adventures. A bland retelling of events functions well under front-page headlines, on a newspaper. Yet when one digs deeper, in search of understanding, a more complete serving of authenticity is needed. One that crosses boundaries between lines of print, and the blank spaces in between.

 

Family members or friends might not get this take, initially. So, when reading about bawdy, rowdy characters propelled by lust and booze and philosophical extremes, they can react severely. Perhaps with thoughts of an intervention to stem a tide of addiction. Or with ideas rooted in theology and service to a higher power. With good intentions, they push forward to encourage betterment and healing. Still, the words of a comic character resonate more passionately than the admonitions of any prophet or pundit.

 

As Foghorn Leghorn said in the Warner Brothers cartoons, “It’s a joke son!”

 

Writing about those who survive on a subsistence level, in modular communities placed on rented strips of land, is a challenging exercise. But when situated in one of these isolated venues, with the parade of disaffection and regrets happening on a daily basis, this quantum leap is not difficult to make.

 

I debated the principle with Mama Grande, a close member of my bloodline, during a restful break in between writing sessions. On my way back from checking the Post Office in Chardon for business mail, I had stopped at her abode with sliced bacon and a shopping bag full of Ramen varieties. Items scored to bolster the household stash of foodstuffs.

 

Our conversation was lively and cheerful at first. But then, shame and correction entered the mix. I sat with my jaw drooping as she asked if I had ever considered seeking help for personal issues that were too weighty to be handled alone.

 

“I worry about you, brother. Your drinking, carousing, and lingering depression! It makes me concerned to see you suffering alone. Know this – it doesn’t have to be that way! We’ve got counselors at my church. Kind-hearted people with lots of experience battling the burdens of alcoholism, divorce, and other related ills. They can help!”

 

I choked on every word she uttered.

 

“ALCHOLOLISM? DEPRESSION? CAROUSING?”

 

She shook her head and affected a scolding tone that singed my ears.

 

“C’mon Rodney, I’ve read the volumes you create! Those strange, naughty tales are a cry for help, I think! Every chapter seems to be about getting drunk, and meeting scantily-clad floosies in your park! It’s quite disgusting, actually! How can you live such a careless life?”

 

My face had turned bright red. Unwillingly, I had swatted a hornet’s nest.

 

“All of that stuff is satirical hyperbole, don’t you get it? Like a funhouse mirror, distorting a reflection for amusement and dramatic effect...”

 

Mama Gee was not convinced. She adjusted her oversized glasses and peered at me with suspicion.

 

“Guzzling liquor every day? Passing out on your couch? Or on the wooden bench outside? Women coming to visit in a tight T-shirt and Daisy Duke shorts? Please, I’m not stupid! That kind of lifestyle will take its toll eventually. You’re an old codger now, so to speak. Not a teenager! Give up the beer and bourbon. Come to church with me, instead of wasting the time you have left! Get well and live right! We all care about you!”

 

I was panting for my breath, like a dog needing to go on a pee break.

 

“I’ve been writing for years, haven’t you noticed my counterculture themes before? It’s an act, a spoof on the prevailing attitude toward communities of mobile homes. There hasn’t been a bottle of strong spirits in my house for an eternity. And I never sleep on the sofa, or my porch, it would be too uncomfortable. My characters do those things, because I am delivering a stilted exaggeration of what transpires in the neighborhood, every day...”

 

My sibling brushed cracker crumbs off of her floral blouse.

 

“What about the seething hate over being stuck in your park? You spin out some really deep, dark thoughts about feeling isolated and shunned. It hurts my heart to read those awful confessions! I know you must be empty inside, totally sick and sorrowful. I just can’t stand it sometimes, so I have to close my eyes!”

 

Her reaction made me feel like a school kid who had been caught drawing dirty pictures.

 

“Sis, listen to yourself! If I was blitzed all the time, how would it be possible to function? How could I make it through the day without getting into a fight with someone, or being arrested? I live alone, which is for the better. Nobody comes around, unless I get an Amazon delivery, or a pizza provided through the restaurant pipeline. Think about it, what I do is use the privilege of ‘artistic license.’ It’s a common writing trick. I bend the truth a little bit, to garner attention. You know, polish the turd as some might say...”

 

Mama blew her nose into a Kleenex. She had tolerated my presence for long enough.

 

“Suit yourself! Go home to your tramp-stamp ladies and your jugs of cheap wine! I’ve tried to show you the way to recovery, just remember that! If you won’t listen, so be it! I’m done!”

 

The door slammed shut after I had made my exit.

 

I stood outside in the cool, evening air while balancing on my twin canes. A protagonist from one of my books would probably have lit a cigarette, and taken a fiery sip of Jack Daniel’s while walking down the zig-zag ramp, toward their pickup truck. Yet I had no such seedy comforts hidden in my hoodie pockets. A streetlight’s glare enhanced the inner gloom of silent sobriety. When I turned the ignition key of my plain, black vehicle, it rumbled to life and sat idling at the curb. I had to wait for my nerves to settle, before driving away. But when my fingers grasped the steering wheel, a familiar vibe interrupted this mood of woeful introspection.

 

All of this was likely to provide inspiration at home, in front of my computer.

Nothing To See Here – “Rant”

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-24)

 

 

“If I couldn’t three times a day, be allowed to drink my little cup of coffee, in my anguish, I will turn into a shriveled-up roast goat...” – From the ‘Coffee Cantata’ by Johann Sebastian Bach

 

Friends with good intentions have sometimes repeated the familiar admonition that a drunken mind speaks a sober heart. Yet for this writer, an inverse phrase would be more accurate. Specifically, that a brain running without coffee for fuel has no limit on its ability to opine carelessly, and reveal truths better left unsaid.

 

Such thoughts appeared recently as I took a telephone call from my friend Janis Mays. This individualistic, feral friend had been hospitalized in Cuyahoga County, after suffering a third stroke last year. Her recovery meant going to a rehab facility near the Cleveland Clinic. Around seven months later, she was transferred to another skilled-care home, in Ashtabula. A venue closer to her own residence by Lake Erie.

 

I had my morning ration of caffeine perking at the time, a process no longer so speedy since having to replace my BUNN brewpot with a Toastmaster equivalent from Dollar General. The minimalist kitchen-aid had cost $18.00, and immediately manifested a level of functionality equal to that meager price. There were no frills in its design. Therefore, I had to relearn my morning routine, out of necessity.

 

The new appliance worked well enough, but it did not hurry.

 

I knew that my friend was calling from a public spot, as her temporary residence in ‘Bula did not feature landline hookups in each room. So, there was extra motivation to answer her call quickly. I had five rings before the cellular connection would go to voicemail. Thumping along with two canes, I made it to the end of my couch where the device was charging, on the last of these electronic blips.

 

Janis immediately commenced to recite her early-in-the-day activities. These included eating portions of mush that were all unidentifiable individually. Yet the staff assured her that each dollop was some sort of healthy, organic matter. This strict diet was intended to promote healing in her gastric tract. She had limited abilities to swallow, and was constantly warned about the dangers of choking. But regardless of this important medical advice, she had continued to attempt sneaking unapproved treats from the plates of other patients. This contrary nature kept her constantly under surveillance.

 

Though she made the nurses and their assistants fret with concern, I took it as a good sign. After a long period away from everyday people, she had once again started to behave like her old self. I figured that must mean her return to normalcy lay close at hand.

 

Our conversation was well underway as I sat in a favorite chair, by the entertainment center in my living room. Yet this lively interaction came with my head still groggy, and belly growling in protest. Not a single sip of my natural starter-fluid had yet been tapped. So, I teetered from subject to subject as we talked, with the weak constitution of a newborn calf. My voice lilted when it should have been strong, and rang out like a schoolhouse bell, when I ought to have whispered instead. This amused my chum as she complained about being bored by her needy confinement.

 

“I want to go home, Rodbert! They finished all the therapy sessions, I don’t have to throw toy frogs anymore. My last visit got really crazy, because I kept hitting the guy in charge by accident! He snickered and smiled every time as if it didn’t matter. My aim is bad. I still can’t see straight!”

 

I wasn’t fully awake. Thus, her confession about the replicated amphibians sounded oddly surreal. I shook my head while listening.

 

“You weren’t restrained for assaulting a team member?”

 

Janis chortled loudly at my numb comment.

 

“Of course not, jackass! It was playtime, but also an exercise for hand-eye coordination. I wanted to go outside with the other inmates though, and have a ciggie! Screw their kiddo games! I’m good enough to get released!”

 

I was flustered at her report of some being allowed to take cigarette breaks in the courtyard.

 

“They let residents light up, outside? Damn! What a surprise!”

 

She huffed at my prudish disbelief.

 

“Anyway, it’s supposed to be warmer in the afternoon. Maybe I can slip out then, my first roomie still tries to help. That’s why we were split up, she got caught! The women here are like prison guards! They have a thing about authority. It’s weird, really weird!”

 

I tried to change the subject so she would forget about wanting to escape.

 

“I saw Ellen Piqua at our old store on South Broadway, while picking up prescriptions. She asked how you were doing and rambled on about job hunting. I thought by now she would have given up on that kind of pursuit. That woman has to be ten years older than I am, and comfortable financially. Yet I figure it’s hard to get off the merry-go-round. Not for you or me though, we’re both done chasing a paycheck...”

 

My cohort giggled and snorted while changing hands with the telephone receiver.

 

“I DON’T WANNA BE DONE! BUT I CAN’T DRIVE ANYMORE! IT SUCKS MAN, IT REALLY DOES! I NEED MONEY FOR POLAR POPS AND MENTHOL SMOKES! AND I WANT TO HIT A CHINESE BUFFET! OR TACO BELL!”

 

The lack of liquid motivation in my system showed its effects as I tumbled into delivering an unsolicited confession. No guardrails kept me from ranting. Before I could bite my tongue, it began to wag furiously, with canine intensity.

 

“See there’s the deal. I used to get out of bed every day, and immediately hear the clock ticking. Coffee, shower, drive to work, get on my knees and obey. Obey, obey, obey! It never stopped right up until the end, when I got a final trip to the front door. I saw my management career crash three times, after a company sale. When that ragged routine had finished, I was older and physically spent, and not so attractive as a candidate for hiring. I ended up broke and crawling through every month. But you know what else happened? I realized that the ball and chain was off my leg. There was no dog collar around my neck, anymore. No leash to make me behave, or a whip on my back. Seeing the morning sun felt different, because that glow in the sky said ‘This is your time to shine!’ How about that? I hadn’t been so free since being a teenager. Bouncing from here to there, staying with friends, surviving by my wits and the grace of God. For the first time in years, I felt truly alive! It was something I had forgotten, while running in the rat race...”

 

Janis pretended to snore. Apparently, my impulsive declaration had sapped her patience.

 

“Go drink your pot of mud, weirdo! I’ll call again after lunch sometime, and today’s episode of General Hospital. They let me have a Keebler Fudge Round yesterday, maybe I can talk them into a Pop Tart for dessert. I’m sick of the sloppy blender crap!”

 

My face was burning from chemical depravation. I heard the line go dead before getting up from my chair. She did not have any filter on her mouth, or social sensibilities.

 

“Peace out, Ms. Mays!”