Trailer Park Vignettes – “Graveyard Shift, Part Two”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

 

Hagreb Tonta was somewhat anxious about moving into an isolated community of mobile homes. The neighborhood was very different from where he had lived before, in Cleveland. Some things were admittedly better, like having a private bedroom, a real kitchen, and a pair of machines for his laundry that weren’t shared with other residents. But he worried about fitting in, socially. Most of the other people he saw were poor, white, blue-collar laborers. The type of individuals usually suspicious of outsiders and those of an exotic, distant bloodline. Yet his worry soon abated. Because he worked third-shift throughout the week, at least six days or seven, he rarely saw anyone else. In fact, other citizens of the park thought that his trailer must have been bought as an investment opportunity, with no one actually staying at the premises.

 

He was home when others were away at work, and gone when many of them returned.

 

His new home store was bigger than any others where he had been assigned. The crew he supervised was big, with at least a dozen employees working eleven o’clock at night, to seven in the morning, between grocery, dairy, frozen, and produce. They had a contract service to do janitorial duties, with several members who were immigrants from Russia. Though their command of the English language was only fair at best, hearing them chatter to each other made him feel less out of place. He was used to living in a metropolitan environment, with a diverse population.

 

At store 6609, just as at home in his new digs, he was an oddity.

 

For a few weeks, the team at his supermarket was quiet about having someone so obviously foreign in charge. His nerdy look, with thick glasses and black, wavy hair stood out among his underlings, who had mostly been hired from local cities and townships in the county. Some poked fun at his accent, or his stilted diction and occasional use of words they could not understand. But eventually, there was an uprising of sorts. When disciplinary actions were handed out by their general manager, for being below the case-count standard, grumbling erupted.

 

Jimmy Speck confronted his team leader on a Monday after their first break, as everyone was returning to the aisles.

 

“Hey Haggot! What’s with the bitch notices we got tonight? That’s bullshit, you figure our numbers. I’ve always busted ass here, I don’t deserve to get whacked! Maybe we got some lazy mofos on this gang, but it damn sure ain’t me dragging tail! Can’t you add up the count right?”

 

His overnight boss felt the air around them get hotter. He removed his glasses, and yawned with fatigue.

 

“My name is Hagreb, have you forgotten? I calculate everyone’s score accurately. Keep in mind that the performance numbers are to track our productivity. It is a yardstick they use. The union steward will tell you that any write-up is actually bogus...”

 

Jimmy huffed and flexed his muscular arms, which were covered with tattoos of Confederate flags, and the Christopher Gadsden snake design.

 

“SO, WHAT THE EFF? I DON’T SIGN THIS GAWDAMM PIECE OF PAPER?”

 

Hagreb nodded in agreement.

 

“The older union members would say that we don’t sign anything but our paychecks. That’s a throwback to the days when we had them printed out, of course. Give your corrective notice to the daytime manager on duty, before we leave in the morning. He or she will write ‘reviewed and refused’ where you would have scribbled your signature...”

 

The redneck kid was stocky and bald. He jabbed his right fist in the air.

 

“I think this is a scam, you’re covering your own ass! We need more help in this dump, the loads have been ridiculous lately! Check the billing totals! Pallets and pallets and pallets of stock, every night! And they want things straightened up, it has to look pretty for the bastards who work here when the sun is shining. Screw them! Screw this company! And screw you, dickhead!”

 

The former Rini-Rego associate frowned and muttered in an unfamiliar tongue. Then, pointed his index finger like a gun.

 

“I was at the old Stop-n-Shop by Euclid Square Mall, we got cut down to a crew of three people working this shift. Our porters would call off or quit frequently, so we had to do the floors and bathrooms when all the groceries were stocked. We also unloaded deliveries overnight, for the meat department. It was torture working for people who had been shuttled around and abused by Fazio’s, a forerunner of that company. They were savages! All bitter and mad and sour about their dreadful lives. You get pampered now, it’s a different world. Trust me, this is a good place to work. Quit complaining, and do your job!”

 

Jimmy reddened like a ripe tomato.

 

“My dad and stepmom live in your freaking trailer park! Linn and Haki Speck! What a hole in the ground! They told me you’re a hermit, other than coming here. No life, no friends, no family, nothing! Dad says he thinks you must be drugged. Is that it? Do you get stoned or messed up on something else?”

 

Hagreb was very tired. But they still had at least a thousand cases of stock to process.

 

“I’ll say this one more time, James. Get back to your aisle, and do your job!”

 

The rotund instigator smashed a jar of spaghetti sauce on the floor.

 

“I’M FILING A GRIEVANCE, HAGGOT! THEY SHOULD’VE SENT YOU TO ONE OF THE GHETTO STORES, NOT HERE! YOU BELONG IN AN ARAB POSSE! THOSE EFFERS TREAT EVERYBODY LIKE SHIT! YOU’RE A PIECE OF SHIT! I DON’T NEED TO BE HASSLED BY A NEARSIGHTED FREAK WHO HAS SKIN LIKE A BROWN PAPER BAG!”

 

His crew leader stood firm, with both legs apart and fists clenched.

 

“Listen to me, you’ve got two choices. Return to your U-boat of stock, or punch out. Either way, we’ll finish the grocery order and tidy up the shelves. But if you hit the time clock, I can’t guarantee that you’ll still be employed here. Please think carefully before you choose...”

 

Jimmy growled and kicked at the red sauce and broken glass.

 

“IS THAT A THREAT? IS THAT A GAWDAMM THREAT?”

 

Hagreb wished that their shift was already over. Yet he did not flinch or abdicate his responsibility.

 

“It’s a statement of fact. Everyone on the schedule has to pull their weight. You and me and all of us... I don’t get a free pass just because of carrying the keys. Understand? Decide what you want to do, and do it now!”

 

The rowdy youngster had his father’s lack of testicular fortitude. After blowing off steam, he had run out of courage. He cut pieces of cardboard with a safety blade, and used them to scoop the glass shards and sauce into an empty box. Then, shuffled back to his aisle.

 

Classic Rock was playing on the public address system. A song by Thin Lizzy echoed across the sales floor.

 

“Tonight there’s gonna be a jailbreak

Somewhere in this town

See, me and the boys, we don’t like it

So we’re getting’ up and goin’ down

Hidin’ low, looking right to left

If you see us comin’, I think it’s best

To move away, do you hear what I say

From under my breath...”

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Graveyard Shift, Part One”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

 

Hagreb Tonta had learned to become invisible at an early age. With an ancestry mixed from distant nations around the globe, none of which spoke English naturally, he grew up as an outcast in the new world. His family frightened neighbors after moving into their crowded apartment in urban Cleveland. They were used to shouting at each other like vendors in an open-air market. Communicating through alien words and gestures that had been used for centuries in their culture. He was like a mongrel dog, left to fend for himself on the streets. One of seven children. Dark skinned, with black hair and poor eyesight that caused him to wear eyeglasses that were heavy, with thick lenses. He was skinny and gangly and fared poorly in social situations. But as an overnight stocker with Rini-Rego Stop-n-Shop, he found the one place where others valued his presence.

 

He could work faster and more efficiently than anyone on the crew.

 

When the chain was acquired by Pittsburgh’s Giant Eagle company, he found himself faced with a perplexing dilemma. Corporate supervisors offered him a promotion to team leader, if he was willing to transfer. The move would take him to Geauga County, a place in Ohio that he had never been. His duties on third shift would continue, but be expanded. Besides processing grocery orders, he would be in charge of the workforce from eleven o’clock, until seven in the morning.

 

The drive from downtown, near Lake Erie, to this rural outpost would have been challenging to pull off with his ratty, Geo Metro sedan. So, a when friend in the office mentioned that she had cousins who lived in Thompson Township, he perked up immediately with interest.

 

“How far away is that from my new home store? Could I walk, maybe, if I lived out there?”

 

Head Cashier Tina Renaldo laughed at his question, while counting bills for a bank deposit by her window.

 

“I don’t think you’d want to cover that distance on foot. But it’s only a few miles from the trailer park where I’ve got relatives. They have a singlewide at Evergreen Estates, it has plenty of room, really! A washer and dryer, a long driveway, not too bad for a couple, and certainly roomy enough for someone like you!”

 

Hagreb scratched his head. His kinky hair spilled in all directions.

 

“Trailer? What the heck is that? Like a camper or something?”

 

Tina giggled and paused in the middle of her task. She pondered for a minute, while rolling her eyes. It made her look oddly attractive, despite being dressed in a uniform polo shirt with the store logo on her chest.

 

“Well, I don’t exactly know how to describe a trailer if you’ve never seen one. It’s like a railroad car, sort of... I’d guess that you must have seen trains somewhere, right?”

 

The young immigrant nodded and smiled, while fiddling with his spectacles.

 

“Yeah, we used to ride one going to see my grandma in India. I was just a little kid!”

 

The office clerk whistled and clapped her hands.

 

“Okay then, it’s something like that. Long and boxy and situated on a concrete slab. There’s no attic or basement, it’s not like a house...”

 

He snorted and grimaced.

 

“I LIVE WITH NINE PEOPLE IN AN APARTMENT! ANYTHING WOULD BE BETTER THAN THAT! MY MOTHER HAS TO COOK OUR MEALS ON A HOTPLATE!”

 

Tina shivered just a bit. Yet tried not to appear judgmental.

 

“You can Google the location, it might be worth taking a look. I know there are homes available, they’ve been moving in new ones around the park. The current owners are trying to get their development to full capacity. It’s been half-empty for years! So many vacant lots that they actually rent them out so some people can have extra space!”

 

Hagreb stood with his hands gripping a ledge beneath the office portal.

 

“I’ll check it out, Tee! Thank you! Thanks so much!”

 

When he mentioned the potential promotion at home, after finishing his chores in the wee hours, a fistfight nearly broke out between members of his family. Mother sobbed openly when considering that her eldest son might no longer be at home. Father reacted differently, beating his chest with pride. Colorful language echoed down the corridor in their rental unit.

 

A neighbor began to beat on their side of the wall, in protest to this cacophony.

 

“SHUT UP OVER THERE, GYPSY FREAKS! GAWDAMM! IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU’VE GOT A FREAKING CIRCUS GOING ON, IN THAT LITTLE APARTMENT!”

 

The foreign exile was grateful to have some hope of escaping their cramped and uncomfortable living conditions. But he didn’t know anyone in this eastern county. The idea of a long drive to poke around made him nervous. Still, he figured that the trip could be accomplished for no more than a few dollars, thanks to the thriftiness of his tiny sedan.

 

When a day off finally arrived, he took a nap in the morning, then woke up around noon and embarked on his journey. Instead of risking the heavy traffic flow of I-90, he decided to putter along on Route 322. This let the sputtering Geo motor loaf lazily, while he basked in the sunshine. Something he rarely got to appreciate. Going deeper and deeper into the country, he saw more green fields and split-rail fences. There were pickup trucks everywhere! And horses, cows, and dogs running playfully along the roadside.

 

Once he had turned north toward his destination, it was as if he had left civilization altogether. There were no more gas stations or convenience stores, or video kiosks. Finally, he saw an oversized American flag rippling in the breeze. And a hand-painted sign nearly hidden in a scraggly ring of shrubs.

 

“EVERGREEN ESTATES – A nice place to get started, or retire!”

 

He had written down the address, just in case. But the park was easy to find with nothing else around. After roaming the streets with curiosity, he pulled in at the maintenance garage, up front. Tina, his contact at the supermarket, had said that the property manager worked out of that building. Her name was Dana Alvarez.

 

He had started to sweat in the summer heat. And his stomach felt queasy. Yet the moment made him excited and even giddy. He knocked on the narrow door before entering. Then announced himself dramatically, like an actor taking his place on stage in a theater production.

 

“Hello, Miss Alvarez! My name is Hagreb, and I’m here to ask about purchasing one of your trailers!”

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here – “Overheated”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

 

Saturday morning arrived with a forecast for temperatures in the 80’s. I had passed out while watching a presidential interview on ABC in primetime, an event that was underwhelming and quite frankly, desperate. As the amount of Yuengling lager in my system reached a critical point, I simply went to sleep. Then, about three o’clock in the morning, I had to relieve myself.

 

This early exit from the weekend night meant that I awakened again, just after sunrise. Arthritic aches and restlessness had taken hold. So, I gave up on trying to sleep in, with a temptation of fresh-brewed coffee lingering in my head. I didn’t really want to be conscious, but my inner clock had already sounded its cuckoo alarm.

 

Thus, my daily routine commenced off-schedule, with everything happening early. Java in my cup, toast with peanut butter, and a quick round of e-mail messages at the computer. A neighbor reached out over the Facebook Messenger app, to ask about purchasing copies of newer titles in my library. I pondered a list of grocery items that were needed, something I had been assembling throughout the week. I changed into clean clothes, and checked my refrigerator and cupboards to be certain of what I would need to survive the days ahead. Then, feeling wobbly but determined to be motivated, I headed toward my SUV in the gravel driveway, out front.

 

I had planned to visit Rock Creek, a tiny community in Ashtabula County. The sort of place one might expect to find in rural Pennsylvania, or West Virginia. There, I knew that two friendly stores were located opposite of each other. A Dollar General on one side of Route 45, and Cantini’s Village Market, on the other.

 

My list spelled out what I wanted to buy at both of these businesses. Despite the summer temperatures, I figured that with a bit of effort, I could get through each commercial establishment without succumbing to the heat. The first visit went quickly enough, as I was cheerfully greeted by employees, and even assisted by a sympathetic patron afterward, who took my empty buggy back to the lobby with her own. Yet at the second spot, I ran into an unexpected drag on my pace.

 

Janis, my friend who had been in a nursing home for most of the year, called as I was searching for Tina’s Burritos in the frozen foods case.

 

I debated whether or not to answer, but because she had temporarily been shuttled to the Cleveland Clinic for a brief medical procedure, I concluded that it was better not to delay our communication. Background noise immediately assaulted my ear. But after a moment, I heard her voice through the din. She sounded fatigued, yet cheerful.

 

“They want to do some kind of assessment tomorrow, before I get cleared to leave. Maybe on Monday, I can go back to Carington Park. These doctors always have to poke me and take X-rays and MRIs and Cat Scans and whatever the eff! It’s like being a gawdamm model, they keep taking pictures, all day!”

 

I laughed out loud, which attracted attention from customers who shared the aisle.

 

“A model? That’s a hoot, honey! I’ve never thought of you in such a context. But I get it, you must be tired of being tested and analyzed...”

 

She snorted and swore at my comment about her lacking photogenic qualities.

 

“BITE ME, RODBERT!”

 

I had to load the frozen snacks into my cart with one hand, while holding the cell phone. This left my cane hanging from the cart handle.

 

“Sorry, I just thought it was a funny analogy...”

 

Janis wheezed and blew her nose.

 

“Anyway, I didn’t bring my phone or anything, because they said the IVC filter would get yanked out, and I’d be right back to Ashtabula. Geez, what a mess! Now they are all worried about this and that, it’s worse than living with my granny!”

 

I nodded and scratched my gray beard.

 

“Right, but you ought to be glad they are paying attention. There’s no need to be in a rush, let them do their work. They shouldn’t take any shortcuts, you know...”

 

Her impatience was obvious.

 

“SURE, YOU CAN COP THAT ATTITUDE BECAUSE YOU GET TO SIT IN YOUR TRAILER AND DRINK BEER! I WANT TO SEE THE GOLDEN GIRLS TOMORROW! AND SNEAK CANDY BARS AND CHIPS FROM OUR VENDING MACHINES! AND HAVE A SMOKE ON THE PATIO!”

 

She had vomited more than once from eating unapproved foods. And cigarettes had contributed to her maladies. But her rowdy spirit remained undeterred. I knew that anything short of dying in her bed would not change that reality.

 

“You know, it’s a blessing from God that you’re even alive. A heart attack and three strokes would have killed many people. You’re still here though, still ornery, still a scoundrel...”

 

She hissed and cackled as I bowed my head.

 

“WHAT DID I SAY BEFORE? BITE... ME!!”

 

One of the staff nurses interrupted our conversation. She had a round of meds and some instructions to prepare for the exam scheduled early tomorrow morning.

 

“Listen carefully, Miss Mays. A doctor will call on you as the new day begins. We need to have breakfast out of the way, and also get you showered and ready...”

 

Janis was more diplomatic with the professional caregiver.

 

“Okay, okay, I won’t argue. Whatever gets me out of here is a good thing!”

 

I had already loaded two cases of beer into my half-sized shopping cart, the burritos, a package of ground beef, a jar of Claussen pickles, and jugs of spring water. I needed a loaf of Schwebels bread to complete my supermarket sweep. But sweat had begun to drip from my face and nose. My t-shirt was soaked. I felt dizzy and sore.

 

“Look, I’ve got to get up to the front registers. Maybe you can call again later? I’m feeling woozy. Once I am home, it’ll be time for some coolant courtesy of Pottsville, Pennsylvania...”

 

She did not get my geographical reference.

 

“Pottsville? Where the hell is that, Rodbert?”

 

I chuckled to myself and patted one of the cases of Yuengling in my buggy.

 

“YING, DAMMIT! YOU KNOW, YING-LING! UNADULTERATED, HONEST-TO-GOD, ALL-AMERICAN AMBER LAGER!”

 

My hospitalized cohort made noises like someone passing wind.

 

“You’re a butthead! I like you anyway though. Yeah, I will call you again later. The nurses are bothering me anyway. Take it easy, old man! Don’t get too drunk!”

 

A cashier was on duty that I hadn’t seen up close in weeks. She had been working in the butcher shop, at the rear of their tiny store. I liked the sweet sound of her young voice, and her candid responses to being teased. She was able to engage in a lively give and take, without being offended. A single mother working to support herself, tall and pretty without makeup or any artificial enhancements.

 

“You’re a good talker! I like someone who can sling the bullshit!”

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Independence Day”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

 

Notebook: It is July 4^th, 186^th day of this year.

 

“Some neighbors on my street will be flying the Confederate battle flag today. The irony of that kind of display being made as we embark on a national celebration of our independence hangs thick in the air, like the musty vapor of a mausoleum opened for public view. It makes me want to be drunk, already. Yet that condition will arrive soon enough. I can’t stay sober for long in a place like this, a point on the map long ago exorcised from polite society. It would be easy to mark myself as a transitory figure in this mouse kingdom. To excuse my presence among these downtrodden refugees and rascals. But that kind of absolution wouldn’t remove the stain of over 20 years spent wallowing in the mud of rural Ohio. It is in my blood now, this reeking of rust and decay and rebellion. I am no longer the person of my birth. Like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster, I have been buried, unearthed, dissected, reassembled, and reborn. Somewhere in the sum of my pale tissues are remnants of what I used to be, when the sunlight was a faithful companion. Now, I can only think of such things in the past tense. They are gone from me, and I am dead to them. Dead inside, dead to the world. But when revived by a miraculous taste of Tennessee whiskey, for a moment, lively and alive as I ever was...”

 

The morning at Evergreen Estates was cloudy, but comfortable. Townshend Lincoln sat on his outside bench with a cup of black coffee. A gentle breeze stirred the wind chimes hanging from a hook above his bench. He was still groggy after a restless night of dreams that were wild and choppy, and out-of-sync. Like bits of a video stream, interrupted by connectivity buffering.

 

In his hand was a journal entry. Something he had written just before daybreak, when he finally collapsed. The short, stoic manuscript whispered a betrayal of the man he had been before crashing on this rented lot at Evergreen Estates. In those yonder times, he was usually attired in business apparel, and kept himself groomed and scented with expensive cologne. He drove a vehicle that was nearly new, and spent most of his waking hours hobnobbing with executives and business contacts, as part of his career. Nothing could seemingly derail that chuffing train, plowing forward. He felt strong and confident and smart.

 

But Mother Nature put a wrench across the tracks.

 

He had been tagged as a ladies’ man even during childhood. Someone who appreciated the pure artistry of feminine folk, and enjoyed charming them with compliments and adoration. He was kind and caring instead of being self-centered and interested only in getting a sufficient return for his affections. He also enjoyed dabbling in professions that related to using the written word as a tool to educate and inspire.

 

Yet when his marriage ran upon the rocks, and temptation intervened in a moment of weakness, suddenly, his core values were turned aside. His creative energy was hijacked. He sinned and fell from grace, and eventually, flamed out as a budding star of commerce. Old friends and allies rebuked him as a fool. He was scorned and shunned. Because he had learned to fight in the public arena, as a competitor and manager, he lashed out at those who seemed to have betrayed his confidences. But then, his high perch in the job market crumbled. He languished in loneliness and despair. He went bankrupt after having scaled the pinnacle.

 

His final exit from the outside world occurred with a trip to the trailer park most reviled in their county. A disreputable piece of property that had changed hands many times. A development that had humbled supervisors, representatives, and residents. Yet somehow, endured since the 1950’s. More out of need than because of any plan or purpose. It existed as the last stop for those who had lost everything. Not just in financial terms, but also physically and emotionally. Their remote community of mobile homes was a junkyard, filled with rubbish and human wreckage. And he had become part of that scene, by chance.

 

He couldn’t look in a mirror anymore. Seeing himself so clearly defined and depicted in detail was shocking. It caused him to tremble. And if he thought about it for long enough, to weep. Happily, his remedy was never far away. He only needed to find the narrow cupboard by his broken dishwasher. And reach for a bottle of high-proof spirits.

 

Alcohol made him more than drunk. It was his communion, a token of worship amid the ruined landscape of this island of exile. When he entered the netherworld of inebriation, it brought him closer to God. Closer to the god of bonfires and pickup trucks belching diesel exhaust, at least. Closer to accepting the sting of fate. Closer to being sanctified as a scoundrel and rogue, with no hope of ever returning to the civilized world, again.

 

Lincoln felt slightly dizzy as the sunset drew near. Fireworks filled the sky, from the dragstrip which was near to their rustic village, and also shot out of makeshift cannons in yards around the neighborhood. His throat burned from consuming liquid fire. But it made him feel oddly vital. Liberated and free. Free of guilt over knowing that his identity had been indelibly soiled, forever.

 

While he swooned in his seat, a ringtone sounded from nearby. He had left his cell phone on top of a Weber grill sitting under the kitchen window. It was a summer appliance that he hadn’t used in about five years. When he answered, the voice of his sister cooed like a dove.

 

“Hey brother, you didn’t come over today! We were all expecting you, there were plenty of hamburgers and hot dogs, and a big bowl of potato salad. What happened? Are you feeling okay?”

 

The shaggy hermit was blitzed. Yet he tried to fake sobriety for long enough to explain his absence.

 

“I’m good, no worries, Rhubarb! Maybe it’s me getting older, I don’t know. I’ve learned to be content as a homebody. I don’t roam around anymore. People and places don’t interest me so much. I’m like a hollow tree now, sometimes forest creatures come to visit. They stare at me with pity, which I understand, but hate, all the same. I’d rather just be here and enjoy the moment. Not being picked on by agitators, or prodded by doctors, or preached to as a backslider. This is it, I’ve reached the last stop on my train ride...”

 

His sibling sighed and frowned with a note of futility on her lips.

 

“You’re loaded again! You always get poetic when you get bombed! Couldn’t you have gone one day without a drink, and come over to spend time with us? We all wanted to see you!”

 

Lincoln clutched his bottle in one hand, while thinking deeply. He wanted to use an economy of words in expressing himself. Without being rude.

 

“No, no I couldn’t. Thanks for calling. Goodnight, sister...”

 

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here – “No Comment”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

“I think myself that we have more machinery of government than is necessary, too many parasites living on the labor of the industrious. Government big enough to supply everything you need is big enough to take everything you have... The course of history shows that as a government grows, liberty decreases. The two enemies of the people are criminals and government, so let us tie the second down with the chains of the constitution so the second will not become the legalized version of the first.” – Thomas Jefferson

 

I had been in the home office for most of Wednesday morning, doing research for a writing project that I wanted to post at the Geauga Independent. But as I scrolled through archival pages of old newsprint, my telephone rang with an unfamiliar number. My caller ID indicated that the person reaching out for contact was at an office of our most notable local newspaper. A publication with which I had never had any formal contact. So, I was curious about being solicited. Was this some kind of polling perhaps? Or better still, an offer of work on the staff? I couldn’t speculate too much about their intentions. But hope swelled my chest.

 

When I answered however, everything came into focus.

 

“Mr. Ice? This is Realdo Carté, I am an editor of special sections and political features with the Cleveland Plain Dealer. You might already be familiar with my name. We are planning to do many weeks of coverage on the upcoming presidential election. Would you have a moment to provide comments on some of the issues involved?”

 

His query was something I did not expect. It left me speechless for a moment, and slightly disappointed. Yet I recovered quickly.

 

“Comments? You want my opinions for your editorial page?”

 

Realdo cleared his throat and spoke diplomatically.

 

“Well, not exactly sir, I’m writing an article that will include quotes from people in our area. You know, individuals who have sometimes been looked upon as being candid and outspoken...”

 

I laughed at his description of their intended targets.

 

“Okay that is charitable, I think. Usually, I get tagged as being a crackpot or a contrarian. But go ahead, tell me what you want to hear!”

 

The veteran journalist must have been battling phlegm from seasonal allergies. He cleared his throat for a second time.

 

“Ahem! Well, there is a lot of discussion nationally about our democracy being under duress. Many feel that this American tradition is in peril, due to the MAGA movement and voter apathy. What is your opinion, sir? Yay or nay on a dark future if we do not thwart this populist uprising?”

 

I had to pause for a moment. Numerous quotes from figures in our early history came to mind. Yet I wanted to respond with my own voice, not with an echo of yonder days.

 

“Look, some might observe that our democracy has been in hospice care for quite some time. Do you fear a breakdown of our republic? Or the wages of sin that we’ve earned from letting those with money and power usurp the will of common folk, who simply want to raise their families and live safely in their homes?”

 

Realdo must have dropped his coffee cup, because I could hear a splash of liquid, and breaking ceramic material.

 

“WHAT DID YOU SAY? WAIT A MINUTE, LET ME JOT THAT DOWN! WAGES... OF... SIN...”

 

His surprise made me grin and shake my head.

 

“Let me say this with no sensationalism intended, we’ve had a cycle of endless war going for how many years now? That’s kept cash in the pockets of our arms manufacturers, all along. I won’t debate the pros and cons of our foreign policy. Better minds can address that level of strategic thinking. But lately some have discussed bringing back the military draft. What do you think would justify that level of mobilization? More incursions into distant lands? More impulsive actions by our chief executive? More aid to rebels and freedom fighters? More good intentions in bad places? I am old enough to remember Vietnam. Are you familiar with the deployments and sacrifices we made? The long-term commitment? And, the final outcome?”

 

The news hound sputtered like a car running out of fuel.

 

“Mr. Ice, I didn’t want to get stuck on the topic of defense outlays or the Pentagon. What do you think about the framework of our democracy? Is it crumbling? Are some right to question whether our leadership of the free world will continue with the wrong man in charge?”

 

I leaned backward in my office chair. It was difficult to answer without using the rhetoric of our patriot founders.

 

“Friend, this nation has been controlled by lobbyists and corporate interests for generations. The party in charge doesn’t really matter. Conservatives think that people are too immoral to govern themselves, alone. Liberals believe that people are too stupid for that important task. Now, perhaps there is a ring of truth to both of those perspectives. Yet when Abe Lincoln said that ‘Government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth,’ was he right? Or just overly optimistic? Did he expect too much out of a population drowning in debt, crushed by inflationary pressures, crime, social unrest, and partisanship? We have more factions now, more tribalism, than ever before. And this is in an age of connectivity through technology, and a staggering amount of information flowing in real time, to everyone, everywhere...”

 

Realdo must have been rubbing his eyes. I could hear him scribbling furiously on a notepad at his work station.

 

“This is crazy stuff, sir. I’ll never get it past my editor here at the Pee Dee. He doesn’t care for anything that will get the commentariat stirred up!”

 

I sighed loudly, and began to feel thirsty for a beer.

 

“This is what I was reading when you called, a quote by Suzy Kassem. She said, ‘Elections are highly-publicized puppet shows. Many puppets in the show are handled by the same owner, and regardless of their different costumes and voices, their agenda is one and the same. The man with the most puppets in the show usually wins the audience.’ Is that profound? I think so...”

 

He groaned as if sick at his stomach.

 

“Mr. Ice, I’m going to be frank here, I wanted a couple of remarks about the dangers of populism. Some taglines that would fit in my story for this paper. I figured you would bash the reckless upstarts that want to change our way of life. Can’t you give me a bit of that, on the record? I’d be very grateful.”

 

His honesty made me flush red with embarrassment.

 

“I guess the point I was trying to make is that it has already changed, right? This isn’t the America of 1776, when we declared our independence. Or even 1945, when we won a great victory for the world. This is our decline into patronage and cronyism. We’ve become obsessed with the trappings of revolution, yet we embrace the sameness of a duopoly that perpetuates itself. The system must and does continue at any cost. That, to me, is more frightening than any one individual, or organizational identity. Do you remember what Jefferson said? ‘The spirit of resistance to government is so valuable on certain occasions that I wish it always to be kept alive.’ That reads well on a blog, and sounds worthy at a fundraising rally for a candidate. But we don’t believe it anymore. Our leaders don’t believe it at least, not for a moment. We’ve stumbled upon the opposite of democracy now, it is conformity. Obedience. Acquiescence. Behaving as we have been told to do... Americans are being delusional if they think that anyone can erase the monstrosity has been created, simply with a bumper sticker for one side or the other on our car.”

 

Realdo was breathing heavily on the line. I wondered if he needed oxygen therapy.

 

“I hope that is an electric car, sir! Ha, ha, ha! Thank you, I umm... think this assignment is a wash out. I’ll be lucky not to get fired when this hits the desk of my boss. I give up on trying to rescue the project. Anyway, have a great day!”

 

When the Plain Dealer piece ran, one week later, it carried a single sentence in regard to my contact with the publication.

 

“Rod Ice, Thompson, Ohio – No Comment.”

Nothing To See Here – “Toasted”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

 

June 27, 2024 – A date that FDR might have said, were he still alive, will live in infamy.

 

Watching the first presidential debate of this campaign season aroused many emotions for voters, oddsmakers, and pundits across America. The amount of prose that has already been written and delivered is considerable, indeed. Yet in the Icehouse home office, a different take on this event still lingers in the air. One that reeks of toasted bread and memories of my late mother, who was a lifelong Democrat of the New Deal variety.

 

Friends in New York and California must have been weeping as they witnessed the decline of President Joseph R. Biden on display for a national audience. It was a seismic event that can’t be unseen. Something that will be dissected and debated and if possible, debunked by loyalists in and around the White House. Though the likelihood that spinmeisters could be successful at convincing the greater populace that their eyes told a falsehood on Thursday night seems remote. Meanwhile, here in my native Ohio, the cheering of MAGA disciples continues to echo. Neighbors, friends, and many of my own family members worship the Orange Man with a neo-religious fervor that appears to equal the faith Christ’s apostles held in his divinity.

 

But for this writer, my takeaway from watching these two old men argue over their skill with a golf club was something wholly different. Non-political and sobering in considering that life truly is a gift, but one with an expiration date, not unlike perishable goods in a supermarket.

 

Around the year of 2009, my father had a second bout with colon cancer. This dreadful affliction was something that altered his habits and sense of well-being, forever. Though by the grace of a higher power, and medical science, he was able to survive. When this new round of woe entered his life, I happened to be unemployed and searching for a way to restart my management career. He and my mother lived in a rural county in West Virginia, their last stop on a long journey of proclaiming the gospel of Jesus as a team. So, I decided to head south and offer help while sidelined as an active participant in the job market.

 

My beloved mater had received a knee replacement at some point during those years, and afterward found that it was now uncomfortable to sleep in a regular bed. So, she spent nights resting in a lift-chair recliner that helped her get in and out easily and independently. While my sire was away at the university hospital in Morgantown, about an hour from their home on the Tygart River, I provided assistance with chores around the household. And sometimes cooked meals or prepared snacks.

 

Sharing a first cup of coffee was something decidedly special for us, because she who carried me in her womb only drank one per day. When their Bunn device had finished its brewing cycle, I would bring mugs of the flavorful yield out to their living room. And sit down for a happy visit. She was someone literally gifted at the art of interacting with others through lively conversation. A talent that ran in her bloodline.

 

We chatted on about nothing in particular, like birds chirping from neighboring treetops to greet the morning. Then, she confessed to having a taste for buttered toast. I immediately jumped up to oblige, and for once, she did not offer an argument. The preparation took only a minute, while I refilled my own vessel with more black gold. I carried the plate to her and bowed with the grace of a waiter on duty. Once I had seated myself again, our wordplay continued. Except that she paused to ponder her food with a look of puzzlement and dissatisfaction.

 

“Look at this Rodney, can’t you see? There’s not enough butter to cover each slice, it should have been spread out to the edges! Some of the bread is dry, and there are lumps in between. Couldn’t you have done better? I don’t understand!”

 

Mother was a kind and compassionate soul, who sprang from the Great Depression and a World War that followed. Her demeanor was always cheerful, and grateful. She did not complain much, about anything. So, the tone of her voice came as a shock of sorts. I sat still like a schoolboy that had been scolded.

 

“Of course, Mama! I can fix it, I’m sorry! I must not have been paying attention. I get too lazy down here, it is good to come home and breathe in the country air!”

 

My command of kitchen duties never rivaled hers, but the toast I had made was in keeping with any other product I could remember. The moment passed quickly, she had her plain breakfast, and we went on laughing and reminiscing throughout the morning. Yet that brief incident stuck in my head like a Post-It Note. I struggled to get her vibe. What had changed between us, since I was up north, in Buckeye territory? That feeling of uncertainty did not evaporate for many days afterward. In future times, I would realize that it had been a sad sign of things to come.

 

Almost two decades later, she was formally diagnosed with Senile Dementia, at the Mansfield Place nursing home in Barbour County. Something that confirmed what the family had witnessed, in the interim. Her decline in cognition and ability progressed through stages that she herself did not recognize or comprehend. She stopped cooking and baking, things that were cherished activities, because it became too difficult to remember if she had properly followed steps to her recipes. She quit attending church services, another valued part of her life, while making the excuse that once the season changed from winter to spring, this important component would return. It never did, of course.

 

She had good days and bad days. A type of roller-coaster existence that I learned was very common.

 

Eventually, she spoke about seeing her parents sitting on the couch. Both had been dead for several years. Once, she was convinced that a fire had started in the house, and became inconsolably frightened. It took the careful words of my sister to convince her that all would be well. We were numb by that point. No one knew what to do, except to love and pray and hope that her vitality would endure.

 

Watching our elected head-of-state fumble his words and struggle to stay on track brought all of these memories to mind, as I sat in front of my television on Thursday night. I felt no joy in watching his infirmities being exposed. Instead, his predicament resonated in personal terms. It tugged gently at my heartstrings. It made my eyes moist in reflection.

 

I will leave political discussions and intrigue to critical thinkers, who have more insight to offer. Instead of passing judgment, or imagining solutions, I will instead remember that the man on my screen was a brother, uncle, husband, father, and grandfather. Someone who served in the Senate from the time when I had only reached classes in elementary school. A fellow that I used to think would probably have a beer with me, if invited casually. And someone who actually responded with a personal letter, when I sent one of my books as a gift during his first campaign for Vice President.

 

Has he been good or bad on the national stage? An effective leader of the free world? A keeper of the flame of liberty? Or, just an enemy across the aisle, to be battled? All those questions are beside the point as I sit at my desk, today.

 

I am lost remembering buttered toast. And the celestial clock ticking in my ear.

Nobody Reads This Page – “Tin Can”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-24)

 

 

One of the things I have learned in retirement is how quickly the human brain may become disoriented without a fixed schedule of regular activities. For decades, the pace of my life was dictated by weekly responsibilities, including working a regular job and helping to take care of my oddball friend Janis, someone I had met at a retail workplace in Geneva. This routine kept me positioned as if guided through each week by an onboard GPS system. I not only knew the time and date according to a calendar that hung on the kitchen wall, but also felt this flow of continuity in my bones. No one had to remind me of the hard facts relating to chronology. I knew my place in the vast continuum, and kept it well.

 

Yet with my career at an end, and Miss Mays hospitalized, suddenly, these lifelines were cut. Every cycle, from morning to night, took on the same characteristics. I would rise too early, curse the distance to my bathroom which was at the opposite end of a singlewide, mobile home, and make coffee. Then putter around at my desk in the home office, and eventually reach a suitable hour for enjoying an alcoholic beverage on the front porch. An inset cubicle designed to shield me from rain, snow, and prolonged exposure to sunshine.

 

The foundational concept that weekdays were somehow different from weekends, or that holidays had a special place in the march through a 12-month year vanished. I found myself drifting in space. Emotionally and psychologically like the astronaut character depicted in David Bowie’s ‘Space Oddity’ of 1969.

 

“Ground Control to Major Tom

Your circuit’s dead

There’s something wrong

Can you hear me, Major Tom?

Can you hear me major Tom?

Can you...

Here am I floating ‘round my tin can

Far above the moon

Planet Earth is blue

And there’s nothing I can do...”

 

When I tried to discuss this mood of disorientation with my institutionalized cohort, it did not register. Because for her, now a resident at a skilled-care facility in Ashtabula, a similar paradigm had taken hold. She had survived a heart attack and three strokes, and was therefore unable to eat solid food or to manage her affairs with the liberty of an independent citizen.

 

That was the line of demarcation between us, one that was inconsequential for practical purposes. She floated in the ether, while being cared for by others. I drifted in a fog of irrelevance and isolation, while still technically being in control of my faculties.

 

We were both socially disconnected. Yet able to cope.

 

A recent conversation revealed our unique, shared perspective on having arrived at such a point by chance. My friend called as I was working on a manuscript for an online newspaper, the Geauga Independent.

 

“RODBERT! PICK UP YOUR DAMN PHONE, DUDE! I KEEP GETTING THE VOICEMAIL! WHAT’S WRONG OVER THERE, ARE YOU ASLEEP AGAIN?”

 

I answered her message after rummaging through my refrigerator for a cold brew.

 

“No, I’m not asleep! C’mon now, you know what time it is, I was working at the desk, just like every day. You know my routine!”

 

She must have been outside at the pavilion in their courtyard. I could hear her flicking a butane lighter, to spark cigarettes as we conversed.

 

“TIME? I DUNNO, WHAT TIME IS IT? WHAT DAY IS IT? AND, WHO GIVES A SHIT?”

 

I thought at first that she must have been in a joking mood. But then realized that she was sidelined intellectually by her confinement.

 

“Okay, you’ve got a point there. Neither of us actually care about following the timeline per se, but its Monday. We’re halfway through the year, it’s the first of this month. Independence Day is coming soon! Do they have American flags and streamers hung up at your nursing home?”

 

My scoundrel friend snorted and sneezed. I could hear the rustle of her pajamas and slippers.

 

“HAH! THAT STUFF IS FOR OLD PEOPLE LIKE YOU, RODBERT! I DON’T CARE ABOUT... WHAT DID YOU CALL IT? DEPENDENCE DAY?”

 

I huffed at her disinterest in celebrating the national anniversary.

 

“Independence Day! Get it right! You know, the Fourth of July!”

 

Janis sneered and whistled, impatiently.

 

“WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST SAY IT WAS THE FOURTH? SHEESH, EVERYTHING HAS TO BE A RIDDLE, HUH? YOU CAN’T JUST ACT LIKE A REGULAR GUY!”

 

I reddened with embarrassment. But maintained a sense of calm.

 

“We’re not quite there yet, it’s on Thursday. Today is Canada Day, though. They’re celebrating north of the border! You know, right across Lake Erie. That always makes me think of watching Trailer Park Boys. Julian, Ricky, and Bubbles will have a reason to get drunk and stoned...”

 

She hissed like a feral cat.

 

“I’D LIKE TO BE STONED RIGHT NOW! NOT DRUNK THOUGH, I DON’T LIKE TO DRINK AND MY KIDNEYS ARE RUINED ANYWAY.”

 

Her confession hit me with a tingle of sadness.

 

“Ruined? Why, what happened? Is that from your strokes, or all the medicines you have to take? Can blood thinners cause kidney issues?”

 

My medical interrogation made her irritated. She lit another smoke before answering.

 

“I DON’T KNOW! DON’T ASK STUPID QUESTIONS, RODBERT! I DON’T EVEN REMEMBER GOING TO THE HOSPITAL! MY ROOMIE SAID SHE FOUND ME IN OUR KITCHEN, I HAD CRASHED ON THE LINOLEUM. GRANNY PUT THAT DOWN BEFORE I WAS BORN, IT’S ALL SLICK AND SLIPPERY! WHO’D WANT THAT SHIT ON THEIR FLOORS, ANYWAY?”

 

I was going cross-eyed trying to follow her line of thinking.

 

“You don’t remember anything but know you hate linoleum?”

 

Janis groaned and belched pureed mush from her lunch.

 

“NEVER MIND THAT, DID I TELL YOU THAT AN AIDE HERE FIXED MY PHONE AGAIN? SHE GOT THE NEW ONE TO ACTIVATE! I PUT IT IN THE PURPLE WALLET-CASE YOU ORDERED. IT’S REALLY GREAT, FOR ONCE, YOU PICKED SOMETHING GOOD!”

 

My recovering pal had broken two cellular devices since moving to her venue in ‘Bula. I hoped that the third one would be charmed enough to survive, with its sheath of vinyl protection.

 

“I’m glad you like it, and I hope it lasts more than a week...”

 

She reacted to the sarcasm in my voice by going off like a firecracker.

 

“WHO CARES ANYWAY? IT’S MY MONEY, RIGHT? WHO CARES? WHO CARES, RODBERT?”

 

I couldn’t feel my face anymore, both cheeks had gone numb. I scratched my shaggy beard and shrugged while holding the phone.

 

“You know I care, if nobody else does, you can always count on me...”

 

Other voices began to mumble in the background. I could tell that she had received guests by her perch under the playground gazebo. She changed her tone and relaxed before finishing our chat.

 

“Alright then, thanks for having a big heart, buddy! One of the old farts here got me some more menthol smokes. I gotta pay up for his favor. Take it easy, I’ll call you again tomorrow, maybe. If I remember!”

 

The line went dead before I could reach for my device. I sat still for a moment, pondering what she had said. Then, began to sing to myself.

 

“Here am I floating ‘round my tin can

Far above the moon

Planet Earth is blue

And there’s nothing I can do...”