Nobody Reads This Page – “Songwriter Solo”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

By Wednesday afternoon, the humidity outside had reached a sticky, stifling peak of meteorological woe. Something that had been predicted with expert skill by weather forecasters on local television. But I barely noticed while sitting at my desk in the Icehouse home office. I had been busy since the morning, doing research for a writing project that was dragging along at a frustrating pace. Something that I had been trying to finish since late, last year, without a positive result.

 

But as often happens, my cellular link rang in the midst of a creative surge. The synthetic tone made me jump as if someone had poked me with a woodworker’s awl. The device screen indicated that it was my friend Janis, who still lived at a skilled-care facility in Ashtabula.

 

When I answered, she began coughing in my ear.

 

“It’s too hot to smoke outside, Rodbert! So, I came back to the activity room. That new phone you ordered got delivered over the weekend. I like it! One of the nurses here figured out how to switch my number from the broken one I used before. I had to put in an e-mail account.”

 

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. Suddenly, my enthusiasm for brainstorming had evaporated.

 

“E-mail? I thought you didn’t know your password! That’s why I made up a different account to use with your memberships at Walmart and Etsy...”

 

My scatterbrained cohort laughed as if I had spoken gibberish.

 

“Nooooo, dude, she figured it out. It worked, so I was happy. No worries, right?”

 

I felt slightly confused. Maybe the aide had been able to set up a new code, or perhaps used my clandestine strategy, and bypassed the unusable link altogether.

 

“You’re right. If it works, then hooray for that!”

 

Janis coughed more cigarette residue out of her windpipe.

 

“So, what have you been doing all day, watching foosball? That is boring, boring, boring! Why do you sit there watching people chase a brown ball up and down the field?”

 

I smiled and offered some correction. My beard had begun to itch.

“It’s the beginning of summer, woman! This isn’t the season for NFL competition. I’ve been lugging files around in the back bedroom here, trying to get inspired. Not making much progress on a storyline, but I found lyrics to a Country ballad that I penned during the winter...”

 

She reacted with a snort and a giggle.

 

“COUNTRY MUSIC? THAT SUCKS, RODBERT! ONLY HICKS AND OLD PEOPLE LISTEN TO THAT KIND OF SHIT! MY GRANNY WAS A HICK!”

 

Her harsh observation made my ears tingle.

 

“Show some respect to her memory, she raised you!”

 

My contrarian pal whistled like a teakettle.

 

“Okay, okay. Don’t get your boxers in a bunch. So, what song did you find in those moldy-oldie file cabinets? I always wondered why you keep all that stuff. You’re more of a pack rat than my roomie at the house by Lake Erie!”

 

Her curiosity revived my interest in accomplishing something productive with the day. So, I grabbed my acoustic guitar, which was propped against a corner of the desk. I cleared my throat, strummed an opening chord, and started to croon.

 

“Now I’ve heard this tale for years

Spoken in a thousand tongues

That freewill is a curse for those

Who don’t know what should be done

And the way through life is narrow

You’ve got to crouch low between the rocks

But when I took a pledge not to follow

I found myself picking locks

Now I’ve learned a few things on the way

Evidence scraped from the stones

Like a blueprint for a flying machine

That’ll get me way back home

And yes, I’ve heard the wisdom

Of those who disagree

But everyone has a chance to jump

From here to eternity

 

So, I’ll sidestep the glory

And ride into the setting sun

Before anyone will tell me

What I should have done

 

Now I’ve seen the sights that sparkle

And some really blew my mind

But others left me feeling

Like a traveler, left behind

One seat short of a spot on the bus

So, I had to walk that mile

Hot and dirty on the street

Grumbling, all the while

Now it taught me how to last

When the hourglass has run out

How to strike a match in the dark

When duped by the din of doubt

That got me to this place in time

A spot on which I stand

I’ll plant my flag and say a prayer

An oath as I raise my hand

 

Yes, I’ll sidestep the glory

And ride into the setting sun

Before anyone will tell me

What I should have done

 

Now I hope these rowdy words I speak

Won’t separate us as friends

I think it’s all a matter of choice

Which way you turn will depend

On what the glowing in your heart

Illuminates inside

Whether you go ‘round the face of a clock

Is up to you to decide

Now I’ve found that the path I take

Is usually wrong at first

And sometimes I double back with hope

That it won’t get any worse

But in the end, I often know

The peace of a seeker, set free

Gold and silver can’t compare

To the taste of liberty

 

So yes, I’ll sidestep the glory

And ride into the setting sun

Before anyone will tell me

What I should have done...”

 

After I had finished singing, Janis was unusually quiet. Then, she yelped and cackled a sarcastic critique of my performance.

 

“Jeez, Rodbert! That sounded like the hillbilly crap that Granny used to play on her 8-track stereo system. Ugh, ugh, ugh! She liked Slim Whitman and Freddy Fender, who the eff are those people? Gawdamm! The only one I could stand was Dolly Parton, she’s cool, I guess. You must be a fan because she has big boobs!”

 

I went completely red with embarrassment.

 

“Give me some credit! My music tastes run deeper than that!”

 

My distant, ornery companion purred like a kitten after a saucer of milk.

 

“Righhhht, you’re a damn man though. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all. I never needed a man to keep me in line, screw that shit! I like living on my own. No wifey life for me!”

 

My head hurt from thinking of snappy retorts to her assertion. But I didn’t want to instigate an argument. So, I let it drop instead.

 

“Maybe I’ll work on it a little bit. We’ll see how it turns out...”

 

Janis manifested her usual ability to throw a curve when least expected.

 

“Anyway, the lady who helped me said I need a phone case, so this new one doesn’t get broken. You can find one of those, right? Go back to the Walmart page and have a look!”

 

Her knowledge of computer hacks was limited. But I guessed that if I could remember the model number for her device, then accessories could be located.

 

“Alright, just give me a little time to snoop around...”

 

She became indignant and kicked the wall behind her lunchroom table.

 

“YOU’VE BEEN SITTING AT YOUR KEYBOARD ALL DAY, RODBERT! QUIT WASTING TIME ON WRITING STUPID COWBOY SONGS AND GET BUSY! GET OFF YOUR OLD ASS, AND FIND ME A SAMSUNG CASE!”

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here – “Heat Wave”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

All I needed was a case of beer.

 

It had been a lazy, Tuesday afternoon in the Ice Household. One that followed a dinnertime mashup of chicken parts, baked and fried, before being combined with Ramen noodles, and green onions. Something that kicked off the week as I watched WWE wrestling while enjoying a cool beverage. But in the morning, I found my kitchen in a messy state. And plenty of chores left for another day. So, after seasoning my carbon steel wok, and putting it away, I took clothes from the dryer and folded them dutifully, on my bed. Then checked the refrigerator to assess what was on hand.

 

Quantities of staple items like bread, eggs, and butter looked acceptable. A quick survey of my cupboards echoed this happy report. I had enough goods on hand to survive, at least until need and necessity made me eager to venture down Rock Creek Road, once again. But a single, nagging deficiency spoiled this moment of satisfaction. My cardboard case of Yuengling brew had nearly run empty. This violated a canon rule of life in a mobile home community, which I had always followed with religious fealty.

 

“Never start drinking unless you have enough to finish!”

 

The weather forecast for Ohio had been somewhat grim, recently. Advisories for an elevated heat index and dangerous outdoor conditions were being broadcast on every television channel, and via radio and social media sites. Normally, I would’ve ignored such dramatic bulletins as something designed to keep viewers and listeners bound to their devices. Yet a power surge and momentary outage had already rattled my nerves. Drinking coffee at an earlier hour had caused me to sweat and fume. So, I had fans circulating air from a single cooler in the window.

 

Local meteorologists predicted several days at 100 degrees or more, something slightly unexpected for June, and not at all common by the shoreline of Lake Erie. I figured that some would opine that it was evidence of climate change taking effect. While others would urge consumers to curtail their use of electric power. I did not fret over the hot spell, or my ability to cope. Yet seeing a meager number of cans in my fridge caused a genuine state of alarm. So, I rapped one of my canes on the floor, in a show of determination.

 

“Dang it, by all that is holy and righteous, I’ve got to get more Ying! So help me, God!”

 

I found clean clothes and made myself presentable enough for a short trek to Trumbull Locker Plant, which was just a short distance from my trailer oasis. With a bit of arthritic hobbling, I worked my way from the front door, down a wooden access ramp, to my car. The black SUV was glistening in a powerful glow of unrestrained sunlight. I paid little attention to the dry, dusty conditions. And the desiccated pop of gravel under my athletic shoes. But when grabbing hold of the roofline, to swing my body into place behind the steering wheel, suddenly, there came a revelation of sorts about the marvel of solar energy. A force streamed through outer space and our planetary atmosphere, with gusto. It had me questioning my own preferences for dark apparel and automobiles.

 

Why did I like having a black wagon, so much?

 

My right hand was singed immediately, when touching the metal surface. The sting caused me to reflexively jump backward, cursing and stumbling, and desperate to keep my footing. I spouted a series of four-letter words that were thankfully drowned out by the clatter of a garbage truck, performing its weekly absolution for our neighborhood.

 

“WOW! THIS LITTLE RATTLEBOX IS LIKE A ROTISSERIE OVEN!”

 

When I tried to back into the driver’s seat instead, the loose stones in my driveway almost caused an accident. I began to slide forward, out of position. Then spun around to catch myself. Finally, I grimaced and grabbed the roof again. Then plopped into place, behind the windshield. The entire vehicle shook on its suspension. A wobbly bounce of tires and springs had me feeling like someone at an amusement park.

 

I pounded the dashboard with my fist. It also had reached a temperature far past my comfort zone.

 

“ALL I NEED IS A CASE OF BEER! WHY DOES THIS HAVE TO BE SO FREAKING HARD?”

 

On the way to my intended destination, I had every window rolled down, and the sunroof pulled back. Rushing wind toyed with my ears, causing a booming vortex to form inside of the vehicle. The cell phone in my pocket was ringing, but I couldn’t hear it calling out for attention. Janis, my friend from Ashtabula County, was calling to chat about her continued confinement in a skilled-care facility. She hit my number several times in a row. Yet her persistence yielded nothing. I was lost in a daydream of desert sands, and suffering from dehydration.

 

Only one thing kept me on the road. A need to restock my refrigerator, and know that my daily intake of adult refreshment could commence!

 

I felt like a firewalker performing in a circus environment, while going inside the meat emporium, and purveyor of convenience goods. But a brief dive into their beverage cave offered relief. The cool blast of that artificial environment brought a sense of calm I needed. At the register, I was greeted by one of the owners, who had been working on filling his cases. We hadn’t seen each other in months, maybe even a year or two. So, my appearance must have been unfamiliar. Having foregone trips to a barber shop, or the use of a razor for personal care, I now had the look of a mountaineer. Gray and shaggy, and very much in keeping with the hillbilly bloodline of my ancestors. Yet the rasp of my voice jogged his memory.

 

“Hey Rod, good to see you man! Stay cool, brother! Take it easy!”

 

Outside, I found that the drive from my boxcar community had cooled things off, an act of mercy that I appreciated. Getting inside the diminutive, 4x4 rig was not so difficult as before. But as I buckled up, and turned the ignition key, my wireless device sounded once again.

 

Janis left a message this time, with a snarl of resentment at being ignored.

 

“WHAT’S THE DEAL, RODBERT? DID YOU MELT IN THIS HEAT? QUIT STALLING, AND ANSWER YOUR PHONE!”

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Stuff”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

I grew up in a household disciplined with lessons learned from surviving the Great Depression. Both of my parents were older than others in our neighborhoods, so they carried the imprint of that difficult time branded deeply into their intellectual DNA. Everything and anything that might potentially be useful in the future was saved. Waste was a sin. We existed on a minimal income, from my father’s ministry in the non-denominational Church of Christ fellowship, so this made good sense. It helped us to thrive under conditions that would have humbled other families. Yet the idea of having old junk around was one that gave me more than the simple ability to endure. It also made me feel at home. Comfortable, like the Addams Family of cartoon legend, and fame on television and in moving pictures. Always surrounded by lots of stuff.

 

I became a collector by nature. Having things, particularly unusual possessions that were odd or obscure, gave me a golden glow of being wealthy.

 

As an adult, I bonded with others who shared this addiction. I amassed books, vinyl records, beer signs, guitars, and all sorts of trinkets. Even coffee cups, ashtrays, and retro kitchen tools. People who visited my home would often remark upon the museum character of our household. Generally, with a sense of exasperation and disbelief.

 

“Where do you guys find all this stuff? Sheesh! It’s amazing!”

 

But in 2008, as our national economy was teetering on the brink of collapse, my own environment had also begun to disintegrate. I was in a second marriage, in between jobs, and financially stripped of assets. Options for recovery were few. Only the generous help of my father kept me and this adopted brood from sliding into a dark abyss of default.

 

At that point, my focus was on basic survival. I had even run out of money to fuel our vehicles, so attending job interviews became challenging. My spouse sought aid from a local food bank, to keep meals on our table. I committed miscreant acts like foregoing auto insurance, out of desperation. Home repairs did not happen. Niceties of eating out or going to the movies vanished. We burned scrap wood in our yard, for cooking out with the kids. Just to have some kind of entertainment as a contrast to the hardship of existing on pennies.

 

This second trip down the aisle ended abruptly, after my truck was repossessed, and we nearly lost our living space. But finally, an act of God’s mercy came in the form of a management job in Geneva, not far from where I lived. A long, slow climb back to financial stability started as I returned to the workforce. But with old friends from New York, I soon realized that a link had been severed between us, by this period of struggle.

 

I was no longer so artistically centered, or carefree. My lifetime habit of collecting had been eviscerated by circumstance.

 

While watching sports on a Sunday afternoon, one of my cohorts from the Finger Lakes Region called to talk about old memories, and report on his continued escapades in thrift stores, record shops, and at concerts around the area. Diamond Doug had the gushing enthusiasm of a young music aficionado. Though by now, he had to be nearly 70 years old.

 

“Listen Rod, you won’t believe this! I met a woman from Texas who went to Cornell in the 1990’s, and moved back here eventually, because she missed the local culture. What a prize! She’s into Jazz and some really spacey groups on the fringe, new-age sounds that you might not have heard of, living in Ohio. I’ve been buying so many discs that I ran out of room to stack boxes. This house has turned into a firetrap. But I don’t care, what a haul I’ve been getting lately! My shelves are loaded! And this lady wants to keep in touch! We’ve been seeing performances together, every week!”

 

In yonder days, I would have reacted with a secret whisper of envy on my lips. Yet now, what I felt in my gut was completely opposite to that jealous emotion.

 

I felt slightly bored, listening to his voice. But attempted to sound attentive.

 

“Umm... I must say that’s great to hear. You’re keeping the old traditions alive. Kudos for that, my friend! It’s a throwback story from when I still lived in your city. You were always on the cutting edge, driving the wheels off your Datsun. I had never encountered anyone with so much knowledge, or such a huge home library...”

 

Doug must have been scratching his head. I could hear stubby fingernails tapping his landline handset.

 

“You don’t buy CDs or records anymore? No tapes? No downloads? Nothing?”

 

In had to cough phlegm out of my throat. Guilt and embarrassment turned my face red.

 

“Nah, not since the bailout era. That was a rough stretch of road here, I ended up alone and bankrupt. A lawyer wanted $1100.00 to file in court, which I thought was ridiculous. If I’d had any money, it would have gone toward my bills, right? So, I negotiated every debt myself. Our phones would ring from eight o’clock in the morning, to eight o’clock at night. I worked it all out, but the stress pegged my meter. Going back to work kept me sane. Everything else disappeared...”

 

My tuneful comrade snorted and sneezed on the line. He repeated his confession of befuddlement.

 

“NOTHING? YOU AREN’T BUYING ANYTHING AT ALL? NOT EVEN THE NEW STONES ALBUM? YOU LOVE THE STONES!”

 

I tingled like a witness giving testimony in court.

 

“Nada. Nothing at all. Not even the new platter by Jagger and Richards. It took so long to dig out of that money pit that I’ve never gone back to my old routine. A couple of months ago, I won a ‘Figures of Light’ release on eBay, it was five dollars with free shipping. There were no other bidders, apparently. I guessed that the seller wanted to get it off his books...”

 

Doug sounded as if he had gagged on a sandwich from Burger King.

 

“Damn dude, I’ve got all their albums, Smash Hits, Drop Dead, Lost & Found, The TV Smashing Concert, and Feedback Music! Plus, a dozen more via FOL records, rare and archival material. You just discovered their proto-punk sizzle?”

 

I laughed and nodded. My graying beard had begun to itch.

 

“It was an accident really, I stayed up too late drinking Yuengling beer. Sometimes I pop online just to see what is available, looking is free you know. I offered a bid on an impulse. I had no expectation of winning...”

 

My distant contact whistled and growled with the irritation of an animal on the prowl.

 

“SO, BUY SOME MORE! YOU NEED MORE AND MORE AND MORE! I’M BUYING BOOKS AND RECORDS AND VIDEOS EVERY DAMN DAY! FROM AMERICA AND THE UNITED KINGDOM, AND ANYWHERE I CAN GET A DEAL! BUY, BUY, BUY!”

 

I slumped over my end table. The game on television had gone into overtime. Yet I somehow lost track of the play-by-play action.

 

“Okay, I’ve got to pee. Been sitting here drinking since noon, my eyes won’t focus anymore. And I’m about to burst. Talk to you later, friend. Call anytime! Take it easy...”

 

Doug gasped and went silent. I hit the red icon on my cellular device before he could protest. Then leveraged myself out of the chair.

 

My bathroom was at the other end the trailer. I had to move quickly, or be embarrassed like an old man in a nursing home!

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Shopping Stop”

 

c.2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

A recent Friday morning found me getting mobile at an early hour, to honor an annual appointment with my cardiologist in Chardon. I had no worries over the visit, but realized that it would put me at a spot conveniently close to the dominant grocer in that population hub. And I needed to buy a few things that were available only from a mainline supermarket. Items never found at the smaller, rural stores that I normally patronize, for their friendly service and easy-to-navigate footprint.

 

After finishing my assessment, and receiving a virtual gold star for good health, I drove one block east, to Giant Eagle. The food emporium was not quite so busy as usual, because I had arrived long before noon. I found an Amigo electric cart, and headed inside from the lobby to begin gathering items on my list. First up were salad ingredients from the green rack. Their selection of fresh produce varieties was impeccable, as always. Then, I wandered through the meat section, center-store grocery, and finally ended up in the dairy department. Their last row of refrigerated cases was situated on the far side of that location. I needed sour cream and butter, so this was the aisle I chose before turning back toward the front registers.

 

Maneuvering the Amigo used to be something that presented a challenge during pauses at such large purveyors of edible goods. Yet after several years of physical disability, I had gained enough experience to roam freely with no fear of knocking over displays or running into walls or shelving. But as I approached the door case for butter, I noted that an employee was stocking margarine out of a standard bascart. Her facial expression betrayed a bit of unfamiliarity with this simple operation. So, she moved slowly and deliberately. When a package of the vegetable spread fell to the floor, she reacted with a childlike comment.

 

“Uh... ohhh!”

 

I nodded and rocked gently in my wheeled seat. Her expression had the innocent tone of someone from the MR/DD community. This gave me a feeling of satisfaction in knowing that I would be spending money where such individuals were included with respect. She had longish hair, hued in a dark shade of brown. Her build was somewhat stocky, but she seemed to be quite agile. Though I noted that flashes of confusion and joy passed over her face alternately, while working. She left the slot for that particular item half empty.

 

But before she could move on to load other products, a co-worker appeared to provide help. He was tall and young, with a patient demeanor and confident eyes.

 

“It’s okay that you dropped the margarine, but aren’t you going to finish?”

 

The puzzled woman shook her head and shrugged while smiling.

 

“It’s full!”

 

Her associate frowned a bit, and signaled quiet disagreement.

 

“No, it’s actually not. Look again! The whole case will go up! See what I mean?”

 

His sales-floor student seemed to be honestly amazed. She watched in awe as he finished filling the refrigerated section. Then, both of them walked to a part of the line further down that aisle. Finally, I was able to reach for a pound of butter. An affordable offering distributed under their house label, which I had been spying for a couple of minutes.

 

While in a checkout lane on the front end, minutes afterward, I was greeted by a friend from bygone days who worked for the business. When I mentioned this encounter, she confirmed that the company had engaged in a program of DEI – Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion, so to speak. I marveled at how ‘ableism’ was being combatted, and gave the plan my endorsement as a customer.

 

Yet while driving home with the stash of goodies, old memories from my own retail career began to resurface. Echoes of a time when store crews were not gifted with so much leeway, or courtesy, bounced around in my head.

 

I remembered working for Rini-Rego Stop-n-Shop as a union laborer. Rough language and hard conditions were the norm in those yonder days. We were not coddled or allowed to make excuses of any kind. Managers in charge had climbed through the ranks under an ownership regime dedicated to being competitive in a vibrant marketplace. Excellence was our mission, at any cost. So, our buildings were run like military encampments. Regimented, organized, and disciplined. Grievances were filed by our bargaining agent, the UFCW, when necessary. But most often, disputes were settled face-to-face. We were not choirboys. Fists would often pound the desks of our bosses. And sometimes, the walls of our back rooms when anger bubbled over. But the bottom line remained intact. We served our patrons, and turned a profit for the leadership in Cleveland.

 

I recalled once finding a handwritten note upon arriving for my overnight shift, at #425 on Water Street, in Geauga County.

 

“EVERYTHING MUST BE DONE, 100%! WRITE-UPS WILL FOLLOW, IF YOU DON’T FINISH YOUR WORK! AND REMEMBER, THERE IS NO OVERTIME ALLOWED! YOU WILL BUST ASS!”

 

I was very accustomed to being treated like an Army recruit. Literally, as a mule pulling the wagon for my masters. It earned me a paycheck, and supported the needs of my family. I was grateful to have a job. But when I accepted a promotion to salaried management, that period of service from my resume provided a baseline for how to bring change to the industry. And the inspiration to make it possible.

 

I knew that we could all do better. And that finding opportunities for improvement would pay dividends with our customers, in the end. Loyalty and goodwill dependably translate into revenue that is the lifeblood of any business. I believed in that principle with all of my heart.

 

Now, in a more modern age, I saw that things had truly changed. A brighter reality I beheld from the vantage point of a retiree meandering around the aisles, while lost in reflection. In an earlier time, someone like the special-needs employee I had encountered might never have been privileged to wait on customers, or to participate in keeping their favorite goods available. But now, there was room at the table for everyone.

 

Mankind has evolved notably, from living in caves and hunting wild game, to the current dazzle of technical sophistication that is pushing limits long thought to be set in stone. Certainly, we are better as a people for our rise to the top of this curve. It is something to be embraced, and celebrated by everyone.

 

And we have yet to reach out to the stars!

Nothing To See Here - “Dream Encounter”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

On a recent evening, I stumbled toward my bedroom after many rounds of Yuengling Lager, consumed on the front porch. This ritual was one very familiar in the Ice household, not only to myself, but also neighbors who live along our rural street. In communities of mobile homes, everything tends to be compressed in scope. Distilled to its essences, in every way. So, the thought of maintaining privacy is an illusion, at best. Yards are narrow. Trailer walls are decidedly thin. One must adopt a measure of respectful ignorance, when choosing to exist among rows of boxcar residences. In personal terms, having a persistent thirst for alcoholic beverages makes adopting this disposition much easier. I stay out-of-touch and anonymous, whenever possible.

 

Like the Pink Floyd track, ‘Comfortably Numb.’

 

Eventually, however, my endurance is taxed by this minimalist lifestyle. So as the hour grows late, and the number of rusted-out pickup trucks begins to dwindle along my rustic boulevard, I seek the comfort of my bed. Living alone, post-divorce, makes the trek to this safe space an easy one to accomplish. No one is in my way. No has an opinion to offer about whether I should be spending time on chores or the cares of retired living. My pace is slow, but deliberate.

 

I do what I want. Anything else is out of the question.

 

After surrendering to the realm of REM sleep and psychic obliteration, however, I do not have that kind of control over my unconscious wandering. While suspended in this netherworld of imaginary adventures, I sometimes fall prey to images and situations that are troubling and provocative. Every human being experiences such bouts of temporary insanity. Yet for a professional writer, they may take on a half-life, like radioactive matter. Sometimes, a particular flight of fancy seeps into the waking world, with lasting effects. The results can be confusing. Or on happier occasions, inspirational.

 

One such yield of a restless night and its aftermath had me puzzled about the direction a particularly graphic episode had taken. I wallowed in a vision of meeting someone who was an associate in yonder days. A woman slightly younger, by about three years. With a figure that belied her chronological age. She confessed to being headstrong and independent. Yet her build attracted many suitors. She had shimmering, white hair, and a devious smile. Her moods could be unpredictable. And her taste for brewed gold matched my own. We were never really friends, in literal terms. Yet because she was close to an acquaintance with whom I maintained regular contact, we were never far apart.

 

I did not find her attractive. But her toned, trim physique could not be ignored without at least a nod of complimentary acknowledgement. Her hands were uncommonly smooth and soft, because she never did anything besides tapping register keys, or handling fruits and vegetables, for gainful employment. She could affect the innocent glow of a waif easily, when needed. Though anyone who had been in her orbit for very long knew better. She expected obedience from those who intruded upon her environment. Or a speedy exit, when commanded.

 

Drunk and exhausted on that Monday night, I slammed into my pillow forcefully. No concept of time remained, though it was late enough that rope lights on my porch had begun to burn, thanks to an electric eye, stationed outside. Nothing unusual had happened before I crashed. A few friends waved as I teetered on the bench, but nothing else interrupted my blissful interlude of self-care.

 

Then, I dreamed of a rendezvous that was unexpected, and shocking.

 

This woman who had occasionally been something of an adversary, came to me in the guise of a lover. Seeking comfort and considerate cohabitation. Even while asleep, I thought her desire was wildly indefensible. But she persisted. And my manhood responded, more out of neglect than genuine need. We spent the night in her musty, trashy, outpost by Lake Erie. She purred and laughed, and soothed me with compliments. I had started to hate myself even before this ungodly interaction ended.

 

Then, daybreak streamed over the top of a blanket hanging across my front window.

 

For a typical resident of the park, such a dream might have caused brief emotions of guilt or disgust, and little more. Yet as a creative wordsmith, a note of discontent had been struck in my brain. One that could only be resolved by working out what I was feeling, in linguistic form.

 

What follows here is my confession.

 

“Ashamed”

 

I had a dream about a girl

I haven’t seen in a dozen years

Living in a dirty, dump of a flophouse

Peeling wallpaper and souvenirs

She had her white hair brushed out

And lingerie framing her curves

Even during that imaginary tryst

I couldn’t believe what I heard

Should be ashamed of myself

 

She spoke of being lonely and lost

And wondered if I would be her friend

It was a roll of the dice

I didn’t choose now or then

She pulled me on top of her with a tug

We fell across the sheets, gasping for breath

I fought with courage against her lust

But couldn’t cash the check

Should be ashamed of myself

 

I won’t lie about the moment

It was more satisfying than a solo flight

Stretched out on her bed

With dust rising in the twilight

The venue was old and worn

A place I never wanted to see again

Yet she took my hand like a tour guide

Said, ‘Let’s do this again!’

Should be ashamed of myself

 

Now after that vision passed

I woke with a feeling of needing cleansed

My brain was busted from that experience

Dangling on a downward trend

It occurred to me, matter-of-fact

That she might have reached out over time

Like a sweet, succubus suitor

Reaching stealthily into my mind

Should be ashamed of myself

 

Even a week later, that stale stench

Of her mystic mansion was intact

I tried to drink away the dream

Yet what I saw remained on track

Did she know of her success?

That possibility turned me frosty

Somehow, I could sense in the shadows

That she was waiting to accost me

Should be ashamed of myself

 

Even behind that veil of slumbering space

I should have been a better man

Instead of riding the merry-go-round

Might have traded sugar for desert sand

But in that moment, I was weak

As are many who dwell in the flesh

I meekly met that tasty temptation

And swam into my captor’s net

Should be ashamed of myself

 

It might take 100 years or more

To wash away the stain of sin

But my greater fear by far

Is that she’ll invade my dreams again

Once more her gentle digits

Will touch and squeeze and gently caress

And I’ll be owned like a farm hand

A servant waiting to be blessed

Should be ashamed of myself

 

I shake my head and deny the deed

Committed only in a plot twist

Rolling through the bedcovers, strong and sure

Grappling with a ghost’s kiss

I’m not even sure she’s still alive

Though her soul must inhabit the day

Lingering until the sunset

When I become her unconscious slave

Should be ashamed of myself

 

 

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.