Nobody Reads This Page – “Wild Weekend”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

For this writer and so many others, music often carries a whisper of memories that linger in defiance of chronological order. Tuneful compositions may evoke the spirit of an earlier age, from which they first emerged. But when filtered through the complexities of individual experiences, these nuggets can also glisten with the glow of misaligned stars, set in place on a personal canvas.

 

A recent trip into such thoughts of altered yesterdays came as I sat on my front porch here in Thompson Township, enjoying a cool beverage. I punched up the Spotify app on my cell phone, and started a playlist of guitar instrumentals from the classic, postwar era. A cultural interlude between the rise of Rock icons like Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, or Little Richard, and the eventual dominance of Beatlemania. The intention was to immerse myself in vintage recordings by Link Wray, Dick Dale, and other artists who plucked out danceable ditties on their plectrum poles. Lots of twang and reverb soon filled my ears. But then, a vinyl 45 by the Rockin’ Rebels spun via my streaming connection. A song originally penned by radio host Tom Shannon, and Phil Todaro. Intended to be a promotional theme for broadcasts in Buffalo, New York. First released locally in 1961, and later finding national acclaim on another label.

 

Yet instead of traveling to that distant moment, which was around the time I was busy being born in Ohio, I time-slipped to 1979.

 

While studying television broadcasting through a program sponsored by Cornell University, I had encountered an older, seasoned veteran of the music scene around Corning. His name was Paul Race. Someone who looked to me like a reincarnation of MAD Magazine publisher William M. Gaines. He was shaggy, stocky, tall, and had the casual manner of a day-laborer. Not at all what I expected after hearing that he was highly educated and had amassed an incredible collection of books, historical artifacts, and audio recordings. Along with many musical instruments of all sorts.

 

Paul’s axe of choice was a blonde, Fender Telecaster with a white pickguard. He had huge paws, not unlike a grizzly bear. Thus, the girth in his hands made for a unique performing style. One that projected solid, choppy tones resulting from brisk strumming, and a technique of palm muting, over the bridge of his guitar. More than just hearing each note he played, I could actually feel them, as rendered by his vacuum-tube amplifier.

 

I was a teenager at that time, so he immediately became a hero and mentor. He dazzled me with tales of having been a member of many local groups. The first of these was a combo styled in the vein of native son Duane Eddy, the Ventures, and other such memorable figures. Later came an experimental confabulation, that was called Oliver Court Delivery. This moniker struck me as quirky, perhaps a nod to the Kinks and their Village Green Preservation Society. Maybe an ironic twist on a common theme of social habits from older generations. But his response set me straight. I had gotten it completely wrong.

 

“Nah, it was the only thing we could agree upon. You know, one of the best ways to lose friends is to start a band with them. Trust me, I know! I lost a lot of friends over the years!”

 

Paul would revisit all kinds of material in our practice sessions that still reverberated in his head. Like Malaguena or the William Tell Overture. But when he banged out the infectious lines of Wild Weekend, I snapped to attention. The single was one I had heard frequently on station WKPA, while living outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. That tiny outpost had programmed lots of oldies fare in the 1970’s, which I received with youthful zeal. It expanded my horizons as a high school kid. And kept me tuning in on Saturdays, when leisure hours appeared.

 

My adoptive older brother had been around so long that he remembered being a child in the Beatnik era. Going forward, he progressed through each stage that followed with gusto. First as a lightning rod for raucous, six-string sonatas, then the Beatles and Stones winning over fans on this side of the big pond. The Hippie explosion, 70’s malaise and Punk Rock anarchy, all in seamless transitions. And eventually even Heavy Metal and Hip Hop. He had an open mind toward every wrinkle in the artistic tapestry.

 

Our pickup band and frequent guest at Channel 13 was called the Embarrassing Pinworms. A sort of underground twist on the Grateful Dead, with inflections of Iggy Pop, Lou Reed, and Johnny Rotten included. Once, while jamming at his house outside of the city, I wondered aloud about including this weekend anthem in our repertoire. He was stung by this suggestion. It made him clear-eyed and lucid, despite willfully existing in pervasive clouds of marijuana smoke.

 

“Yeah! I’ll write down the lyrics for you, man! That’s a great idea! People will love it!”

 

As I had not quite reached the age of 18, his declaration left me completely in the dark.

 

“LYRICS? THERE ARE LYRICS TO WILD WEEKEND?”

 

I was nakedly naïve, and did not know the history involved at that time. It took years to realize that he had decided to play a trick on all of us, and prospective audiences that might get to hear our band, in concert.

 

He scribbled out the fabricated verses in longhand, on the backs of forms pilfered from his employer. A cheese producer in the Corning area.

 

“Hey, hey, it’s the end of the week

I’m gonna drink till I can’t even speak

I’m dressed up and my shoes are shiny

I’ll be hungover by the time it is Monday

But it’s so good

Just to dance with you!

Hey, hey it’s a wild weekend

Gonna hang out with all of my friends

Get juiced, jump and jive

I’ll drink and dip all through the night

It’s so good

Just to dance with you!”

 

We actually used his fugazi stanzas at the TV station, in Ithaca. I sang with the conviction of a fledgling rocker, courting favor from the fans. None of us got the joke. Nor did any of our viewers. But it didn’t matter.

 

Paul was a merry prankster and a Svengali. In his orbit, we were able to spend a moment in the spotlight. And savor that blessing afterward, as adults lost in personal reflection.

 

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here – “Mirror”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

I was groggy while standing in the bathroom on Wednesday morning. After a night of adjusting my position in bed, moving from one side to the other to quell bouts of joint pain and muscle soreness, I had finally surrendered to the arrival of daybreak. It was an early point in my personal routine that had become decidedly familiar. An admission that the struggle to rest had once again been put aside in favor of being vertical, and active around my trailer home.

 

A nap in my desk chair would come later. But for now, I was simply tired of trying to fight the twin demons of disability and decline.

 

As I stood before the looking glass, which was splattered with toothpaste, hand soap, and dribbles of medicinal compounds, a voice tickled my ear. One I recognized as being a character created for the purpose of spreading callous abuse in comedic form. It spoke rudely and loud, with little deference to the early hour. Barely past a first peek of gold above the treetops outside. Briefly, I wondered if my radio had been left on, overnight.

 

“ANOTHER DAY! HERE IT IS, ANOTHER WRETCHED DAY OF LIFE ON THIS BARREN ROCK, FLYING THROUGH SPACE! WHAT A SAD, WORTHLESS REALITY TO BEHOLD! IT MAKES ME ILL TO CONTEMPLATE THAT YOU ARE STILL ALIVE! AND SO AM I AS YOUR TORMENTOR! NEITHER OF US WANT TO BE HERE! WHY ARE WE STUCK DOING THIS DANCE OF THE DAMNED?”

 

I wheezed phlegm and stood with both hands on opposite corners of the sink enclosure.

 

“It’s the beginning of a new day. Couldn’t you at least give thanks?”

 

A raucous yelp of defiance boomed between my bathroom walls.

 

“GIVE THANKS? HA HA HA! WHAT A RIDICULOUS PROPOSITION! YOU ARE GARBAGE! YOUR LOGIC IS GARBAGE! WORTH NOTHING TO ME OR ANYONE! LITERALLY, A SUM OF ZERO! ZERO, I SAY! ZEROOOO!”

 

I splashed cool water into my face, and rinsed off with a hand towel which had been hanging on its wooden ring. Was I still drunk? The thought actually seemed sound, at least for that moment.

 

“Look, I have no response to your unwelcome comments. I’m not awake enough to hear an episode of the Phil Hendrie netcast, right now. Okay? Save your sarcastic soliloquy for later, when I’ve had some coffee...”

 

My mention of the famous satirist from California seemed to have hit the bullseye.

 

“THIS ISN’T A SHOW, YOU ROCKHEAD! IT’S REAL LIFE IN REAL TIME! YOU’LL LISTEN TO ME AND LISTEN GOOD! HAH! CALL ME BY THE NAME OF BUD DICKMAN, OR ANY OTHER! IT DOESN’T MATTER!”

 

I turned away from the mirror while fumbling for my canes.

 

“I Can’t hear you now! I’m headed to the kitchen. The BUNN brew system is waiting. You’ll have to take a number, my mouth is set on having some black magic in this cup...”

 

The anonymous quipster shrieked at my disinterest.

 

“YOU WANT BLACK MAGIC? I’LL GIVE YOU PLENTY OF THAT, DUDE! EVERYTHING I DO AND SAY IS MAGIC! EVERYTHING YOU DO AND SAY IS A PITIFUL WASTE OF TIME! YOU SHOULD BE DOUBLED OVER RIGHT NOW WITH HUMILIATION! I HAVE BEEN INSULTING YOU SINCE YOUR FIRST LEAP OUT OF BED!”

 

I sighed while filling the filter basket with ground coffee beans.

 

“Sorry, I don’t feel offended by noise. That’s what you represent to me, the creaking of a door hinge, or the buzz of a fan left on too long. Your opinions mean nada. Now if I respected you, and your experience, then perhaps I might feel queasy. But no, that isn’t the case. Keep blathering, it’s all just the clatter of dishes in my cupboard. Or tools on the workbench. Noise, noise, noise!”

 

I had struck a nerve. He whined and fretted as I filled the brewing carafe with water.

 

“WHAAAAAT! YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS! I AM AT THE TOP OF MY GAME! A TIP-TOP PERFORMER! YOU’VE GOT TO LISTEN TO ME! IT’S IMPERATIVE THAT YOU LISTEN! DO IT, AND DO IT NOW!”

 

I shook my head and moved to a vintage chair at the end of my couch. It looked to have once occupied a spot in the waiting room of a doctor or a lawyer.

 

“Please! You’re drowning in self-importance. That is really arrogant. What makes you so important? You’re an irritating flyspeck, I could simply flick you away with my fingertips...”

 

The voice swelled to an aural crescendo that rattled every window.

 

“NOOOOOOOOO! I WON’T ACCEPT THAT! I AM EVERYTHING TO YOU! YOUR SPARK OF IMAGINATION! YOUR DEVILISH DARK SIDE! YOUR DUALITY, REFLECTED IN REVERSE! I AM WHAT YOU FEAR TO BE! I SAY WHAT YOU FEAR RO SAY! I THINK WHAT YOU FEAR TO THINK!”

 

His sharp lecture caused me to wince.

 

“Umm... politely said... no.”

 

My vocal equal shouted to be heard more clearly.

 

“DON’T SAY THE WORD NO! YOU WILL NOT SAY NO, AGAIN!”

 

I laughed and twirled my cane like a marching baton.

 

“No again!”

 

A seething wind blew through the mobile home. Photographs fell from their place on the entertainment center. Posters peeled from the walls. I rose from the wooden chair and staggered toward my kitchen counter. The coffee pot was full, at last. I lifted it and watched as a cascade of steaming java met my cup like a waterfall descending into its reserve among the stones, below.

 

The first taste of this nectar cleared my head at last.

 

“Ah yes, thank God. Thank God! For this day and this blessed drink of revival!”

 

A howl of negation echoed throughout my boxcar dwelling. At last, my faceless foe had been subdued. Consciousness was restored. I felt glad to have finally escaped the sound of my imaginary visitor.

 

“Hot and strong, that’s the Arabica brew I needed. Harsh enough to blast away the cobwebs, but gentle on the tongue. A treat for the taste buds and the soul...”

 

In my bathroom, I heard the mirror shatter from its frame. Glass shards flew across the carpet. I nearly dropped my flavorful beverage. Had it actually happened? Or was this another trick to scramble my brain cells? I couldn’t be certain.

 

But then, it was over. Real or not, the conflict had ended.

 

I read the morning paper in silence. This act cleared my head and offered a measure of comfort. Yet as I poured a second round into my vessel, there was a cackle of playful intrigue and bad intentions.

 

“TOMORROW! I’LL SEE YOU AGAIN, JUST AFTER SUNRISE, TOMORROW! BE READY!”

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here - “Death, Deferred”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

I had been in a deep period of slumber after spending most of the evening on my porch with a 30-rack of Miller High Life. Something that was predictable and slightly boring in personal terms. Yet satisfying in the context of my life amid rows of tattered and neglected mobile homes. Upon turning numb and disinterested in the parade of neighbors who passed my driveway, I stumbled inside the trailer feeling tipsy. After finding my bed, I fell into a heap of covers and pillows. Then, began to snore loudly. Because of living alone, this careless act offended no one. Dreams of working in at various retail jobs filled my unconscious thoughts. I interacted with coworkers and fellow managers not seen in decades. Each encounter had me puzzled by the confused timeline of these imaginary adventures.

 

And then around midnight, inexplicably, I died.

 

Medically, my moment of truth arrived in the form of a complete cardiac arrest. There were no other household members present to assist me as I slid off the precipice. So, I flailed a bit while still lost in the realm of alcoholic obliteration. My final exit came without much drama. I stopped breathing, turned a pallid shade of blue, and stiffened when enough time had passed from rigor mortis.

 

It took two or three days for neighbors to realize that I hadn’t been out on the porch, with my chosen beverages. They broke the front door down, and recoiled in horror after discovering my cold, overweight figure stretched out on the bedroom floor. Shouts of rude language followed, and cellular calls to 911. I had been a park resident for 22 years, so my name was known all around the rural property. Radio chatter soon had a local EMT crew springing into action. Yet their haste was given for naught.

 

I was standing meekly at the golden seat of the great I Am himself, the exalted Throne of Grace, in eternity. Center of the universe and all creation.

 

“WHY ARE YOU BEFORE ME AT THIS HOUR? WHAT CALAMITY CAUSED YOU TO BE JUDGED WHEN I AM BUSY WITH SO MANY OTHER TRIBULATIONS ON THAT DREADFUL PIECE OF STONE CIRCLING THE SUN?”

 

There was an aroma of honey and spices on his breath that made me pause and ponder. He had the visual appearance of a senior sage, with long, gray locks and a white beard. His purple robes draped low, over his knees and onto the floor, which was sheathed in mosaic tiles. He held a scepter with the emblem of a cross at its tip. His eyes glowed like blazing stars in the sky. His voice resonated throughout the entire chamber in which we met.

 

Unfortunately, I had no explanation for having perished so suddenly. I was spiritually naked. And quite embarrassed.

 

“You are... God the Father?”

 

He tapped his silver pole on the floor, with irritation.

 

“YES, OF COURSE I AM! YOUR GOD, YOUR FATHER! I AM THE AUTHOR OF EVERYTHING EVER WRITTEN BY MANKIND! THE GREATEST ENGINEER, BUILDER OF MOUNTAINS AND SIRE OF NATURE! I HAVE CAUSED WINDS TO BLOW, AND GREAT SEAS TO SPAN THE GLOBE ON WHICH YOU LIVED! I RULE HERE AS THE KEEPER OF A FLAME THAT WILL NEVER BE EXTINGUISHED!”

 

I sighed softly, and adjusted my worn, athletic garments, which no longer seemed to fit properly. Being dead for a brief period had apparently caused me to lose some weight. Something that I might have celebrated when on the other side of the mortal veil.

 

“I don’t mean this as a complaint, but I expected something more theatrical when the Grim Reaper arrived. You know, a light at the end of a tunnel, someone beckoning from another room, a voice inside of my head, those things often described by people who have crossed over and returned, by some miracle happening...”

 

God shook his fist and sputtered saliva in the air.

 

“IS IT A MIRACLE YOU DESIRE, RODNEY? PROOF OF MY OMNIPOTENCE, BECAUSE WHAT YOU BEHOLD HERE AND NOW IS NOT ENOUGH?”

 

The walls around us were shaking. I had begun to tremble.

 

“No, no! As I said, don’t take my words as a complaint of any kind. I get it, death is final and just. You wrote the rulebook, I learned plenty about that in Sunday School. It’s just that... I imagined there would be flashes of lighting, peals of thunder, that sort of production. I must confess that this reminds me of when my earthly pater passed away. He was lucid and speaking to us in one moment, though obviously in serious discomfort. And then, in the next, he was gone. Like the snap of fingers, or a banging of a gavel in judgement. Done. Finis. Over and out...”

 

The exalted, cosmic potentate folded his arms and huffed with disdain.

 

“ISN’T THAT ENOUGH, BOY? THE GREAT STILLNESS COMES WHEN LIFE ITSELF IS FINISHED! WITH A WORD, I SPOKE ALL CREATION INTO BEING! AND WITH A WORD, I CAUSE IT TO END! SO BE IT! I AM THE LAW! THE ALPHA AND THE OMEGA!”

 

My feet were bare, and chilly. I rubbed my arms in the hope of generating some heat.

 

“Right, right, no protest here. But I had no warning shot, nothing out-of-the-ordinary to make me concerned about having reached the end of this railroad adventure. I was just snoozing and sniffling one minute, and then here in front of your throne. There were no demons on the loose, or health issues cited by my physician. Just a cold brew in my hand, and neighbors rolling up and down my street in their ratty pickup trucks. Another damned, boring, typical day living on the bottom rung of our social ladder...”

 

For the first time, God actually cracked a smile. He nodded and hummed quietly.

 

“You’re a wordsmith, correct? I mean, you were in the flesh?”

 

I turned defensively pale.

 

“Yes... I am what you intended. A continuation of my family’s creative bloodline. K.C. Ice, M.C. Ice, R.D. Ice...”

 

The creator of all slapped his legs and brightened visibly.

 

“THAT’S IT, I REMEMBER NOW. YOU ARE THE ONE WHO MADE MISTAKES, AND STRAYED OFF COURSE. YOU DISAPPOINTED THEM WITH POOR JUDGMENT AND BAD HABITS. YOU DISHONORED THEIR LEGACY! YOU WERE REBUKED AS A SELFISH SINNER! BUT FINALLY, THERE WAS A CHANGE. YOU REPENTED IN SOME FORM, IN YOUR ART AT LEAST. I HEARD YOUR PRAYERS, EVEN THOUGH YOU HAD FALLEN INTO THE DANK MUD OF WORLDLY OBSESSIONS!”

 

My eyes were closed. I felt clammy and weak.

 

“See... I expected something more like what you just said at the end. Not a simple collapse into the grave. I needed more of a performance. A buildup to the climax. That’s more like it!”

 

The Holy Father pointed his royal scepter at my face. His expression made me wilt like a flower in a summer drought. A pitch of anguish reverberated as he declared my sentence.

 

“YOU ARE NOT YET APPOINTED TO DIE! GO BACK TO YOUR BOXCAR COMMUNITY, RODNEY ICE! GO BACK TO YOUR CRUMBLING ASPHALT AND DRUNKEN FRIENDS AND DISHEARTENED UNBELIEVERS! TEACH THEM OF WHAT LIES PAST THE FRINGE! TELL THEM THE TRUTH OF MY GLORY AND POWER! TELL THEM WHAT AWAITS BEYOND THE GRAVE!”

 

I awakened on my bench, around sunrise. Birds were already chirping. I could hear a rooster crowing on the hillside, south of our township square. I patted myself eagerly, just to feel the sensation of touch. To be sure of my own existence. Somehow, I was still alive, very much alive. The trip I had taken had me feeling intensely grateful. But also, parched and thirsty.

 

Now, I needed another beer!

Nobody Reads This Page – “Happy Meal”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

I have written here before about helping my friend Janis, a person who I met while working as a manager in Geneva, at that northeastern city’s Giant Eagle location. Our friendship began with shared meals of Chinese food, and inexplicably blossomed over the past 15 years. When health issues impacted her life, with a heart attack and three strokes, I became an unofficial guardian of sorts. I took her to doctor appointments, helped her meet with a lawyer, and eventually filed claims on her behalf. I set up accounts online and kept files of pertinent information with my own personal paperwork. All of this reminded me of doing similar chores for my late parents, who lived out of state. Somehow, despite trying to stay below the visible horizon, I seemed to have developed great appeal as an aide and confidant for those in need.

 

It was a tag I did not wear with great enthusiasm. Yet in the end, it brought me a sense of purpose. While thinking of this calling, I reflected on a description of author Jack Boyle’s ‘Boston Blackie,’ who was a character later portrayed in movies and television. The early 50’s Ziv version starring Kent Taylor had always been a particular favorite. A dramatic presentation of someone more stylish, suave, and clever than myself.

 

“Danger! Excitement! Adventure! Enemy to those who make him an enemy. Friend of those who have no friends. Yes sir, that’s Boston Blackie! And he’s quite a guy!”

 

Most recently, my needy friend in Ashtabula called to report that a medical procedure had been scheduled for the following day. I guessed that she wanted to offer relevant details of this necessary event. But before I could ask questions, or ponder what was about to transpire, she shifted gears in our conversation.

 

“One of the old guys here at my nursing home said that I seem to be a few fries short of a Happy Meal! That’s freaking funny, right? And mostly true, I’m a cracked egg. Do you think there’s a T-shirt with that saying? I need it to go with the ‘Scoundrel’ one you bought online!”

 

I had to clear my throat. This dodge of serious details caught me unprepared.

 

“Happy Meal? What? You were just talking about having an IVC filter removed...”

 

She snorted and huffed at the phone. Its screen was cracked and scarred from having been dropped on the floor, and bounced into the bowl of a facility commode.

 

“BORING! I DON’T CARE ABOUT ALL THAT CRAP! THEY SAID I’LL GO TO SLEEP FOR A LITTLE BIT, AND WAKE UP WHEN THEY’RE FINISHED SCREWING AROUND WITH MY PIPES!”

 

My pulse had begun to quicken. I found a hand towel to wipe away sweat, while thinking of a reply.

 

“This is serious, you know! They placed the filter in your body before a previous operation, a few years ago. For whatever reason, they never removed it until now. But apparently that gave you extra protection. Which you needed because you wouldn’t take care of yourself. You went right on chain-smoking, and existing on a diet of canned spaghetti, cheese popcorn, and candy...”

 

Janis howled like a she-wolf prowling the forest at night.

 

“HOO BOY, HERE WE GO AGAIN! YOU ALWAYS GET ALL MOODY ON ME, RODBERT! QUIT BEING SUCH A POOPHEAD! I’M NOT EATING KALE SALADS OR RICE CAKES LIKE A SKINNY LITTLE BITCH! AND I LOVE TO SMOKE! IT KEEPS ME FROM KILLING SOMEBODY IN HERE!”

 

I shuddered at her choice of words.

 

“Come on now, you’re not a violent person. Actually, you’ve socialized well in that environment. I’m really proud of your survival instincts. As they say, ‘bloom where you are planted.’ And you are doing that, my friend! Spreading those petals wide...”

 

She honked as if blowing her nose without a handkerchief. I imagined her lazily lounging in the activity room, still wearing her pajamas.

 

“DAMMIT, YOU SOUND LIKE GRANNY! SHE ALWAYS BABIED ME, EVEN WHEN I WAS A GROWN-ASS WOMAN! DON’T EFF WITH ME, I’M NOT A DELICATE FLOWER! STICK THAT ATTITUDE UP YOUR BUTT!”

 

Her rough verbalization made me sigh and rub my face.

 

“What you received at University Hospitals downtown is called an ‘Inferior Vena Cava Filter.’ You got the removal version, for temporary duty. An optionally retrievable solution...”

 

My cohort by Lake Erie wheezed and whined while listening.

 

“BORING, I SAID! BOOOOOORING! WHAT ABOUT THAT T-SHIRT? CAN YOU FIND IT AT ONE OF THOSE ONLINE STORES, RODBERT? I WANT ONE RIGHT NOW! I CAN ALWAYS USE MORE CLOTHES, THEY KEEP LOSING MY STUFF!”

 

I tried to make an excuse that sounded plausible.

 

“Well, I just finished my morning coffee. I need to take a shower, and do some writing. Maybe later when I’m searching for story information in the home office...”

 

She was too aware of my habits for this feeble fib to ring true.

 

“I KNOW YOU’RE SITTING RIGHT THERE AT YOUR COMPUTER, BRUH! GEEZ DUDE, GET A GRIP! TYPE ON YOUR KEYBOARD AND SEE WHAT COMES UP! QUIT STALLING LIKE A GAWDAMM OLD FART WAITING AT A TRAFFIC LIGHT!”

 

Suddenly, my lungs felt empty. I couldn’t catch my breath.

 

“Umm... yes I am... sitting here... at my desk...”

 

“OF COURSE YOU ARE, RODBERT! OF FREAKING COURSE YOU ARE! YOU DO IT EVERY MORNING ABOUT THE TIME I CALL! GET A CLUE ALREADY!”

 

My fingers fumbled over the keys, as if moved by the energy in her voice, alone.

 

“Look, I’ll find the shirt somewhere, but we really ought to plan for what happens if there’s an issue with your hospital visit in the morning. You never quite know what to expect with any kind of invasive procedure. There is a risk involved with any operation, no matter how slight or seemingly insignificant...”

 

Janis began to bray like a mule. She had run out of patience for my doting observations.

 

“HAW HAW HAW! YOU SOUND LIKE GRANNY AGAIN, RODBERT! STOP IT, OKAY? STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT! I TOOK ENOUGH OF THAT GROWING UP BY THE LAKE! ALWAYS WORRYING AND COMPLAINING AND TRYING TO MAKE ME BEHAVE! I NEVER, EVER BEHAVE, YOU KNOW? NEVER EVER! NEVER!”

 

She slammed her cellular device on the tabletop. What was left of its screen shattered into jagged pieces. The resulting noise buzzed in my ear like a miscreant bee. I had to sit still for a moment until the sound quit reverberating.

 

“Yes, I know you never behave. I know it very, very well...”

 

 

 

Rabbit Run / King of Ohio

 Available now at Amazon.com

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Trailer Park Vignettes – “Grilling Guru, Part Two”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

Jimmy and Joel Oromacki were brothers both in their heritage and on the road. They spent most days rolling around America as professional truckers on a mission. Dedicated to delivering goods for their logistics firm, as loyal employees. But when on a break, at home, the duo shed this snakeskin of obedience. During off hours, they manifested the wild lust of young men who had been denied female companionship for too long.

 

These blue-collar heroes would drink and eat and screw, until the limit of their physical endurance had been reached. Then, sapped completely of drive, and numb with pleasure, they would crash until the next assignment came from their company dispatcher.

 

Becky Bolt had an insatiable appetite for that kind of lustful energy. She grew bored easily, and sought to be pampered and entertained whenever possible. She would seek out the brothers when they blew into town, and serve them willingly. Their fantasies were her fantasies. This collision of male and female desires usually produced an orgiastic firestorm that caused the neighborhood to avoid their end of the street, altogether.

 

At Evergreen Estates, these encounters had become the stuff of legend.

 

But Francis Nathaniel Paducah paid little attention to the horseplay of his neighbors. Instead of seeking out feminine companionship, he labored in his storage barn on projects of necessity. He was tall and lean and hardened by years of strenuous work. His fingernails were always full of motor oil and grease. His uniform clothes were never clean, at least not for long. He would combine elements found in the park dumpsters, or on lots where homes had been removed. Then, a sort of magic transpired. He would visualize puzzle pieces coming together. With the sorcery of a wizard, he made that happen through masterstrokes of innovation.

 

Loud music echoed from next door. And giggling from the petite, blonde bombshell who served both as a temptation, and a thorn in his side. Yet he stayed focused on his task. The galvanized tub sat on his workbench. He had unearthed the frame and wheels of an old baby buggy, behind their community’s maintenance garage. Coffee cans from a previous version of his grill creation sat in a row, by the wooden doors.

 

He welded and riveted and fastened everything together like a mad scientist. Finally, the grate from a basement window in Painesville was positioned on top of this Frankenstein appliance. He cleaned away rust and deteriorating paint with a wire brush. And smoothed the bare, metal surfaces with a food-safe, vegetable compound.

 

“EUREKA, GAWDAMMIT! I’VE DONE IT, Y’ALL! MY CREATURE HAS COME TA LIFE!”

 

The Guru Grill looked like a rubbish bin on oversized, spindly wheels. But it was big enough to hold eight vessels for charcoal. A hood fashioned from tin sheeting offered smoker capability, if needed. He reckoned that a whole meal could be cooked without using any other culinary tools. He already had a collection of long-handled implements fashioned from car antennas and mirror housings. The sight of this accomplishment made him swell with pride.

 

But before he could bask in the glow of his own success for too long, Becky came running through the uncut grass. She was nearly naked, red-faced, and barefoot.

 

“HELP ME, DUKE! THOSE ORRY BOYS HAVE GONE NUTS, DUDE! WHAT THE FRIG? THEY MUST’VE SLAMMED A WHOLE BOTTLE OF VIAGRA! SHEESH! I JUST WANTED TO DANCE AND DRINK, YOU KNOW? IT GETS BORING AF AROUND HERE! BUT THAT SHIT JUST SCARED ME! DAMN, THEY’VE BOTH LOST THEIR MARBLES! IT’S LIKE BEING AT A BIKER BAR OR AN OUTLAW MUSIC SHOW! THEY WANTED A THREESOME WITH TOYS AND A VIDEO CAMERA!”

 

Nate spat on the ground. He did not want to surrender his attention to anything other than the squarish, storage barn he called a laboratory. Yet the pleas of his neighbor reverberated in both ears. She was crying through smeared makeup, and fell into his arms. He pushed her into a blind corner that no one could see from outside.

 

“Please, man! Please!”

 

While the young filly was sobbing, Jimmy and Joel appeared from the ratty trailer next door. Both galloping studs were draped in towels that bulged conspicuously. They were muscular and brutish. With close-cropped beards and heads shaved to a glistening sheen of baldness. Many tattoos lined their powerful arms.

 

Joel shouted an oath of defiance.

 

“WHERE’S THE BITCH? SHE GOT OUR PARTY STARTED, AND DAMN HER, WE’RE GONNA FINISH IT! I WANT SOME CHEEKS! SHE’S GOT A PRETTY LITTLE ASS, DON’T YOU THINK, DUKE FRANCIS? OR ARE YOU A FRIGGING HOMO?”

 

Nate’s mood darkened with storm clouds of resentment. His greasy locks had been pulled back into a ponytail, to avoid getting caught in his grilling contraption.

 

“I’ve been working out here all afternoon. Don’t know what ya mean, friend. Now if y’all don’t mind, I’m gonna polish up this yard stove, and try burning some steaks!”

 

Jimmy punched a hole in the barn door. His broad knuckles bled afterward. But the pain only heightened his arousal.

 

“THE BITCH! WHERE IS SHE? WHERE IS THAT STANKY PIECE OF TAIL?”

 

Becky burst out from the shadowy hiding spot, while trying to cover her exposed breasts. She wobbled and scampered to escape.

 

“You boys ain’t right! I like to have a good time, but eff that crazy shit! I don’t do handcuffs and clamps and ropes, okay? That’s some sick-ass crap!”

 

The brothers laughed out loud, in unison. Then knocked their prey off her feet. She landed in an overgrown flower garden, by the driveway. Gravel scarred her knees.

 

Joel shook his fist and cursed.

 

“GET BACK TO MY GAWDAMM TRAILER, HONEY! DON’T MAKE ME SAY IT AGAIN!”

 

Nate shuddered and spun on his heel. He turned cold and pale. Memories of serving in Afghanistan began to flood his consciousness. He picked up a prop rod made of steel, and twirled it like a police baton. His voice lowered to a whisper. He looked directly into the frightened waif’s eyes.

 

“You want no part of these men? No more fun on the couch or in the bedroom? No more drinks and doing the two-step with WKKY Country on the radio?”

 

Becky sniffled and sat up in the floral display. Her clothes had been shredded. Her face was bruised.

 

“NO I DON’T! THEY CAN GO TO HELL FOR ALL I CARE!”

 

There was a scuffle as the Orry twins battled to be first in line for throttling the mouthy femme. Each one felt superior to the other, in speed and agility. Their voices paired as a final command was given.

 

“GET BACK TO OUR TRAILER, BITCH! GET YOUR SKINNY ASS MOVING RIGHT NOW!”

 

Nate bowed his head and held the lengthy stick in his right hand.

 

“That’s yer cue, folks. Y’all have been kicked ta the curb. Have a good day...”

 

Joel struck his opponent on the jaw. This first hit rocked the lanky fellow, without causing him to soften. Then, there was a whoosh of air being displaced. The prop rod came down on his bare cranium. When Jimmy sought to enter the fray, more blows were delivered. The metal spike fanned like a propeller blade. Blood and teeth flew through the air.

 

The grillmaster and Army veteran seethed with a sort of white-hot rage no one had ever seen before, at the trailer oasis. Yet he stayed composed in his thoughts and actions.

 

“In Kabul, I watched a dozen of my platoon die when we stumbled on a field of IED carnage. That’s the kind of death y’all never forget. Comprende? Nobody should perish like that. It’s evil shit! God himself must have been weeping. But I made it back here, I got to fly stateside. With their bodies in coffins. That taught me a lesson. Don’t mess with other people, and they won’t mess with yer asses! We never should’ve gone ta liberate a desolate hellhole like that! But we did, and paid the price. They didn’t give a tinker’s damn about us! They pissed on our flag! They ran like cowards when the heat got turned up! So, there’s my story, gents. Go home and pound salt if you need to, but leave this girl alone. She’s tired of yer party. Y’all have stopped entertaining her for the evening...”

 

Jimmy and Joel licked their wounds, while crawling down the concrete. They were battered and broken. And embarrassed to have even set foot in the patchy yard.

 

Becky offered a tearful wail of gratitude.

 

“I owe you, Duke! Name it, and you’ll have it! I owe you my life!”

 

Nate frowned and folded his arms. He did not seek compensation of any kind. Only an admission of guilt, and a hint of remorse.

 

“Y’all lit the fuse, Becks! Keep that in yer mind, the next time! Think about it when ya want some Tito’s Handmade Vodka and a gawdamm cowboy to keep ya amused! Think about it when yer butt gets lonely and the nights get long. Think about it, and don’t go looking fer trouble!”

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Grilling Guru, Part One”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

Francis Nathaniel Paducah had been perennially broke since coming to Evergreen Estates. Yet he was resourceful in the tradition of his Kentucky ancestors. He knew how to split wood by hand, and use it to fuel a cast-iron stove to stay warm in the winter. He knew how to build things out of scrap lumber and construction debris. He could keep a rusty pickup truck running many miles further than its designers had ever intended. And he was an artist in his storage barn. Churning out improvised projects that were quirky and crude, but marvelous to his neighbors.

 

Yet one gap remained in his hillbilly experiences. He wanted some sort of barbecue grill for the summer. Not one purchased from a catalog or at a mega-center retailer. His idea was to design and craft some sort of unique, Appalachian appliance that would serve as a calling card for his homegrown shop. A bit of entrepreneurial advertising to dazzle doubters and convince friends that he was something of a redneck genius.

 

A first attempt at creating such a backyard cooker blossomed when he discovered a stash of discarded, metal coffee cans at an abandoned trailer in the park. He bound them together with a length of baling wire, then topped the containers with a metal grid that had once been shelving in an old refrigerator. He sat this trashy creation on towers of cinder blocks, next to his redwood deck. When filled with lumps of charcoal, the cans blazed red hot. He was able to do six steaks at once, easily. Enough to feed everyone who lived on his east side, and west. No one complained about the method used to accomplish this culinary feat. Briefly, he felt satisfied as a sort of junkyard engineer.

 

But ambition made him eager to revise the grill, and make it more sophisticated. So, he returned to his rustic barn, and went back to work.

 

A second bust of inspiration was brought to life when he found an oval washtub, made of galvanized steel. The artifact had been kept in their community garage, ostensibly brought to the property by a maintenance man who had long since retired or passed away. When he spied the gray basin during a trip to pay his monthly lot rent, a bulb of illumination lit in his head. He immediately tried to strike a bargain with their manager, Dana Alvarez. She was younger and pretty, with long, black hair and a Latin complexion.

 

“Eureka! That’s it dammit! That’s it! How much’ll ya take fer that bin? I’ve got a twenty-spot in my wallet!”

 

The professional caretaker was amused by her resident’s enthusiasm. He stood tall in his work boots, with a lanky build of settlers that had come to the Bluegrass State hundreds of years before. In Ohio, his rural twang sounded out-of-place. But it made other citizens of their mobile-home oasis smile. They called him Duke, a family reference to a forgotten performer who had once appeared on the Grand Ole Opry stage as ‘The Duke of Paducah.’

 

Dana nodded without thinking too much, and explained that the item was normally used as a vessel for crushed ice in the summer. It kept drinks cold at their holiday events. But after someone brought in a more modern cooler, it had been abandoned in a corner, along with fenders from a tractor no longer kept on the property. And the intake manifold from an Econoline van used by one of their many owners, to shuttle crews between different developments in the area.

 

“Yo, I’ll take that twenty and put it in our office safe. That’ll help pay for hot dogs and hamburgers when we celebrate Independence Day, July 4^th. It’s a deal, Duke! Drag it on outta here!”

 

Nate glowed with pride as he slid the washtub into his 1985 Chevrolet S-10. The mechanical hoss had bowed leaf springs and bald tires. Its windshield was cracked along the bottom edge. Little of the original paint remained, which had been a ubiquitous shade of red. Yet it coughed and sputtered to life with a single twist of the ignition key.

 

Upon arriving back at his own longbox hovel, he went directly to the tool shed. Sadly, only a minute elapsed before his labor was interrupted. So, frustration took hold as he wanted to unload his treasure. Becky Bolt, who lived next door, paraded across the narrow yard with cold bottles of Bud Light in her hands. She was dressed in skimpy attire that would have been appropriate for hanging out at Geneva-on-the-Lake. But made her unduly noticeable in their neighborhood of downtrodden souls.

 

Her stature was slight, an inch or two under five feet tall. But her legs were long by comparison, and had been kissed by the sun. She wore a pink headband to restrain the blonde mop of curls that sprang from her scalp. Each step had her bouncing on air, like a stray balloon.

 

“C’mon, Duke! It’s a scorcher out here today! Quit turning wrenches and have a beer with me! I’m bored AF! This place really sucks!”

 

Nate closed his eyes and struggled to maintain civility.

 

“Miss Becky, y’all know I like ta keep busy. I don’t drink too often. A clear head keeps me thinking better. I’m trying to revise my grill plan...”

 

The undersized waif giggled and stretched her arms. This outward motion caused both breasts to bulge over the neckline of her camouflage top.

 

“Work, work, work! That’s all I see you do! Get a grip, dummy! Cut loose! Have some fun for a change! Look at my boobs like a real man!”

 

Her friend leaned against the bench by a peg-wall of hardware. He had been raised in an old-fashioned environment, where women were always treated respectfully.

 

“Look Becks, I used ta chug Miller High Life all day long. With Ancient Age whiskey on the side. That made me a hero with my buddies and a fool in public. Y’all understand? I had ta grow up. Which I did after going ta jail. That’s the deal now, staying free. When my hands are busy, I don’t do stupid shit. No more Honky Tonks or line dancing for me. I make stuff and sell it and save the cash. What I get goes ta help others. The preacher at our church on the township square says that’s a better way to live than bombing my brain with alcohol...”

 

His stylish suitor drooped like a wilted rose. She turned on her heel with the bottles of Bud Light getting warm in her hands.

 

“FINE! BE THAT WAY, DUKE! A GIRL TRIES TO SHOW YOU A GOOD TIME AND WHATTA YOU DO? PISS ALL OVER MY INVITATION! WELL SCREW THAT NOISE! I’M GONNA GO HOME AND CALL MY TRUCKER FRIENDS! JIMMY AND JOEL ARE COMING HOME THIS WEEKEND! THEY’VE BEEN ON THE ROAD FOR A MONTH!”

 

Nate relished the sound of silence, once he was alone again. Gears were turning in his head. He envisioned the galvanized basin filled with cans of charcoal, and topped with the grate from a basement window, found at a demolition project in Geneva.

 

“Sorry ma’am. Yer awful pretty and all, but I’m about to make grilling history, here! Yee Haw!”