Nothing To See Here – “Door Knocker”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

Afternoon in Geauga County, Tuesday style.

 

I had been at the home office desk since finishing my morning ration of coffee, lingering with hope to discover some sense of purpose while at the keyboard. We had just survived an uncommonly cool overnight for the month of June. So, I was in a funk while scrolling through search results on the internet. I looked at old beer cans on eBay, and reissued guitars being offered by Eastwood of Canada, on their official website. Nothing seemed to garner my interest. I was slightly groggy after a two-day binge drinking Yuengling lager, and undeniably bored. All of my household chores had been accomplished. My cupboards were full. I had no appointments on the calendar until Friday, when an annual visit with my cardiologist was scheduled. I could hear trash being picked up outside, and the sound of a riding mower cutting grass. A feral cat yowled from the yard. Nothing was interesting or out of the ordinary.

 

Then, an insistent knock sounded at my front entrance.

 

I reacted with a sigh, and put both hands on the arms of my roller chair. Getting vertical from a seated position was something I could accomplish only by leveraging my body mass upward, with a forceful thrust. Falling forward, I leaned on the desktop and huffed for my breath. The noise from outside grew louder and more demanding as I tried to find a stable footing. This crescendo in volume did nothing to aid my struggle for stability. Yet it caused the thin walls of my mobile home to shake. A window in the kitchen rattled. Dishes and silverware in the sink clattered and fell, in my dishpan.

 

Finally, there was a kick at the lower panel of my door.

 

“FBI AGENTS HERE! FBI! OPEN UP, SIR! WE HAVE A WARRANT TO SEARCH THE PREMISES! OPEN UP OR WE WILL ENTER FORCIBLY!”

 

I had managed to grab both mismatched canes for the short trek through my trailer, but still hadn’t gotten balanced. I stomped and stammered like a drunk careening down the sidewalk.

 

“Just a minute, I’m a slow mover! Give me a chance to get situated!”

 

One of the G-Men must have realized that my door was already unlocked. I heard the knob twist violently, and pieces of its mechanism fall to the floor. A rush of bodies filled the narrow space that formed an architectural angle to the access ramp by my porch. The team of men who were willfully intruding wore various forms of government identification. Each of them had a sidearm, and a radio for communication. They wore the garb of a SWAT team, but with logos of the bureau crest prominently displayed.

 

“Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity.”

 

Darren Strock, from the Cleveland Field Office, was the first to greet me officially. He motioned toward my recliner, at the end of a vintage chest of drawers. A furnishing which served as a stand for my flat-screen TV.

 

“IN THE CHAIR, MR. ICE! SIT DOWN AND LISTEN! THIS WILL BE A ONE-WAY CONVERSATION, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

 

The federal operative had a crew cut that gave him a look of military discipline. I could see him scanning the room for clues, while barking his order. But my weary bones did not cooperate.

 

“The easy chair is for guests. I can’t get up out of that thing! My usual seat is on the other side of this room, by the sofa. It’s a thrift-store relic, probably from a waiting room somewhere. Maybe a doctor or a lawyer...”

 

The aggressive young enforcer put his hand to my chest. The shove caused me to topple in that direction. Fortunately, I landed on the square, leather pad as intended, in between wooden braces that were worn smooth from so many years of use. The impact made me wheeze like a flattened tire. I sat still and bowed my head, as he circled the space, pausing to peer at framed photographs on my entertainment center.

 

“THESE ARE PICTURES OF FAMILY MEMBERS? AND YOUR DOGS?”

 

I was slightly embarrassed. The arrangement of mementos made me appear to be sloppily sentimental.

 

“Yeah, everyone is gone now. Both pets died, and my parents as well. Both wives ditched our marriages, about a dozen years apart. I don’t get visits from the kids...”

 

Agent Strock shook his head and snorted.

 

“NEVER MIND ALL THAT, I’M NOT HERE TO PLAY DR. PHIL! WE HAVE AN ORDER TO CONFISCATE YOUR COMPUTERS AND ANY RELEVANT FILES FOR AN ONGOING INVESTIGATION! I HAVE THE PAPERWORK HERE IF YOU RESIST. IT WON’T MATTER THOUGH, I CAN SEE YOU’RE IN NO CONDITION TO PUT UP A FIGHT!”

 

I gritted my teeth and cursed. But knew that his rude assessment was completely correct.

 

“Yeah, my days of being a combatant on the front lines of journalism have passed. I might swing one of these canes if you try to abscond with my work materials, though. I’m a professional writer, get it? Those are my tools of the trade. In Soviet Russia, you could just walk in here and start grabbing things. But I have rights, according to the Constitution...”

 

The well-trained investigator laughed out loud at my mention of personal liberties.

 

“RIGHTS? SIR, GET YOUR HEAD TOGETHER! YOU HAVE WHATEVER PRIVILEGES THAT THE DIRECTOR OF MY BUREAU RECOGNIZES! WHATEVER PRIVILEGES THAT THE ADMINISTRATION IN WASHINGTON RECOGNIZES! AND RIGHT NOW, THOSE RIGHTS ARE SLIM AND NONE! WE HAVE A WARRANT TO TEAR THIS BOXCAR APART!”

 

The air felt strangely humid and hot. I scratched my graying beard and coughed lightly.

 

“Tell me what you want. Let me save you the trouble of trashing this mess, it’s bad enough in here already. I’ve been disabled for about eight years, so things aren’t very tidy...”

 

Strock stroked his angular chin, which had started to show a shadow of beard stubble. He reduced his bombastic tone, upon sensing that I wanted to cooperate.

 

“You had a prediction about political assassinations on your newspaper blog. What is it called, the Geauga Independent? Some kind of fodder for extremists or idiots, we suspect. But that sort of talk is quite dangerous. Did you fabricate the report from whole cloth, or have contact with some group that has nefarious plans?”

 

I sagged in the vintage chair. My shoulders were sore.

 

“Assassinations? What the hell? You guys need to do more than just scan paragraphs with an AI tool. Damn, use a magnifying glass at least, like Velma Dinkley from the Scooby Doo cartoons! I copied a quote from Tucker Carlson for one of my weekly columns. That guy is known for being unhinged, one of his recent videos talked about Nixon’s Watergate scandal as being a CIA hit job. He also ruminated that since investigations by Congress, impeachments, and indictments haven’t slowed the resurgence of our MAGA King, the only option left would be... a bullet in the skull. I referenced that in a satirical story, it was one of my ‘Trailer Park Vignettes.’ The series runs regularly on that particular site...”

 

The G-Man stared straight ahead, and went stiff. I feared that he might vomit on my carpet.

 

“SATIRE? YOUR CONFIDENTIAL REPORT WAS SATIRE?”

 

I found a moment of relief at last. My face had begun to turn cool, once again.

 

“Look, if you’re going to read my pages, then go all the way to the end. Just lifting sentences here and there is the kind of thing I’d expect from provocateurs like the National Enquirer or TMZ. I’ll bring up a clip of the interview I cited, with Adam Carolla. Okay? Let me find it on my cell phone...”

 

Darren Strock leaned against the framing of my entertainment center, with an expression of puzzlement taking hold. His team stopped ransacking the contents of my humble abode, and stood at attention, waiting for further orders. Their mood of authoritative urgency had gone stale.

 

“Mr. Ice, you’ve got balls! I’ll say that in plain language! You actually have the video saved on your phone?”

 

I punched up my YouTube app, and the segment began to play on demand. The deposed Fox News host looked sweaty and agitated, while speaking about Donald Trump’s perilous future.

 

“I mean, look, you know, they protested him, they called him names. He won anyway. They impeached him twice, on ridiculous pretenses. They fabricated a lot about what happened on January 6^th, in order to impeach him again. It didn’t work! He came back, then they indicted him. It didn’t work, he became more popular. Then they indicted him three more times. And every single time, his popularity rose. So if you begin with criticism, then you go to protests, then you go to impeachments, now you go to indictments, and none of them work, what’s next? I mean, you know, graph it out, man! We’re speeding toward assassination, obviously!”

 

The FBI agent covered his eyes. He groaned and then clutched at his belly.

 

“THAT’S IT? A YOUTUBE CLIP? YOU GOT OUR DIRECTOR STIRRED UP OVER A LOW-FIDELITY YOUTUBE CLIP BY A GUY WHO SHOT OFF HIS MOUTH UNTIL RUPERT MURDOCH FINALLY CANNED HIS SKINNY, SOPHOMORIC ASS? AN OLD CRUM WHO WILL BROADCAST ANYTHING FOR RATINGS?”

 

My scalp had started to itch. I scratched my head and sighed again.

 

“Yes...”

 

Strock brought his fist down on top of an Iron City souvenir that I had saved from my last trip to the Sparkle Market in Andover, by the state line.

 

“DAMMIT! DAMMIT! DAMMIT! HOW THE HELL WILL I EXPLAIN THIS TO THE SPECIAL AGENT IN CHARGE, WHEN WE GET BACK TO CLEVELAND? THIS IS AN EFF-UP THAT’LL PUT A BLACK MARK ON MY RECORD! A TOTAL SHAM! ANY HOPE I HAD OF A PROMOTION JUST WENT UP IN FLAMES! COME ON MEN, LET’S GET OUT OF THIS DUMP! OUT, OUT, OUT!”

 

I had managed to talk him into calling off the raid. A feat that made me feel quietly satisfied. Yet it was a tale not suitable for use in a future installment of my series about living in a mobile home park. So instead of returning to my desk, I opened the refrigerator instead.

 

It was time to have a drink.

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Cheated My Way”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

I grew up on a potent mix of Blues, Folk, old-time Country & Western, and early Rock music. This informal education came from the vinyl record library of my father. A cultural pool that I dipped into many times over the years. His love of tuneful expression was one shaped by the honest passions of working-class Appalachia, from which he sprang as a young hayseed. Despite having accrued university degrees and a lifetime of real-world experience, he never lost affinity for such documents of earthy wisdom.

 

On guitar, banjo, and other acoustic instruments, he would regale the family with traditional compositions of all sorts. One that comes to mind, even today, is ‘The Blue Velvet Band’ which was written and recorded by Hank Snow, the Singing Ranger. When Dad would croon this ballad, it had a measured affectation of sadness that was palpable, even to my childish intellect. Only later would I realize that he must have been channeling the woeful residue from having lost his first wife on a honeymoon trip, out west.

 

He was only 19 when that sad event occurred.

 

Like many of my contemporaries in the 1960’s and 70’s, I grew up with an appetite for more provocative artistic themes than those of the hillbilly crowd. I leaned toward Iggy and the Stooges, or the Velvet Underground with Nico and Lou Reed. Punk Rock eventually became a focal point during my teenage years. Yet as I wrote lyrics and plucked away with amateur skills on my Japanese guitar, odd inflections would occasionally resound. A voice that I did not expect to hear warbled from my throat. Images of hardship, sacrifice, and working-class resilience appeared like visions in the twilight.

 

I wrote in the manner of Edgar Cayce having a clairvoyant experience. Then pondered the result afterward, with a great deal of confusion and befuddlement.

 

“Country music? Coming from inside of me?”

 

An early example of this strange phenomenon happened when I penned a redneck ditty while jamming in my tiny bedroom on North Cayuga Street, in Ithaca, New York. As I recall, sometime in 1979. I was experimenting with chords learned from a chart included with the index of a music anthology in our household library. My intention had been to create something along the lines of a Ramones or Sex Pistols anthem. But instead, I adopted a comic drawl, and improvised words that had no literal meaning. Only a sense of wanderlust, reflected in melodic form.

 

“I cheated my way across the United States...”

 

Being somewhat private as a writer in those days, it is doubtful that anyone else in our brood ever heard my vocalization. I did not confess to having manifested this rural vibe to friends. Somewhere, I must have jotted down stanzas of verse to document the odd happening. Though there is no evidence now, except for my own memory to indicate that it truly occurred.

 

Still, with echoes of that brief interlude languishing somewhere in my cerebrum for many years, I finally revisited the idea in a dreamscape. It ebbed out of the psychic void, while I was dozing on a Monday afternoon. Upon getting out of bed, to finish household chores, the cowboy groove took hold. And I scribbled what my brain cells could remember.

 

“Cheated My Way”

 

It started in a Cleveland bar

On the shore of Lake Erie

When I stopped in for a beer

Then I rolled down the highway

On the road to Kentucky

Figuring it’d be fun to disappear

By the time I told Tennessee goodbye

I’d met a dozen ladies

And breezed through towns never on my mind

When I got to the Georgia-Florida split

There was a hungering in my belly

For some whiskey lemonade and southern sunshine

 

Well, I cheated my way across the United States

I did it all dear, no matter what the cost

Yes, I cheated my way across the United States

I did it all dear no matter what the cost

I did it all, but you’re what I lost

 

I’d always wanted to cruise the streets

With a madam from New Orleans

And the deed left me smiling from ear to ear

Then I headed straight to Texas

Like a bandit chasing shadows

A pistolero running with no fear

In New Mexico I saw the land

Of Roswell and the bullseye

That attracted cosmic travelers to earth

Made a sidestep up to Nevada

To try my luck at the tables

Gambling with love for all that I was worth

 

Well, I cheated my way across the United States

I did it all dear, no matter what the cost

Yes, I cheated my way across the United States

I did it all dear no matter what the cost

I did it all, but you’re what I lost

 

On the California coast I stopped

To ponder ocean waves

And think about eternity, beyond

I’d had my fill of every kind

Of tender-hearted woman

Brunette and redhead, and platinum blonde

But a she-wolf with wild hair of gray

Set me back upon my bootheels

She turned a trick that I did not expect

That righteous femme bared her teeth

And took a bite of my heart

Made me linger for a day, then left me wrecked

 

Well, I cheated my way across the United States

I did it all dear, no matter what the cost

Yes, I cheated my way across the United States

I did it all dear no matter what the cost

I did it all, but you’re what I lost

 

By then I was so far away from home

That it didn’t seem to matter

My insides had turned hard as stone

I couldn’t feel so happy

About my journey anymore

So I found myself a truck stop telephone

The number that I called

Was listed in the white pages

A landline shared with my lonely wife

The call kept ringing endlessly

For what seemed like an hour

And then I knew she was no longer in my life

 

Well, I cheated my way across the United States

I did it all dear, no matter what the cost

Yes, I cheated my way across the United States

I did it all dear no matter what the cost

I did it all, but you’re what I lost.”

 

The result was stunning in a sense. I seemed to know that these words deserved to be rendered in rhythmic form, with the accompaniment of a professional group. If collected with other ramblings of that sort, from my personal archives, I imagined recording an album that could be distributed through various means. Via streaming networks, or audio files. Most certainly, as a vinyl artifact, like those that were so important to me, during childhood days.

 

Yet could I squeeze myself into that role? The truth of course was that no great leap of faith would be required to connect with the mountain lore of my ancestors. They had made what I am, and what I will always be, in heart and mind.

 

Not a cheater, perhaps. But always a lyrical adventurer.

 

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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