“Retail Stories”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-17)

Creative writing is a noble pursuit. But as many have discovered, it often yields a less-than-satisfactory income. So while my career as a journalist and author has evolved over the past 35 years, another profession remained necessary to pay the household bills.

In my case, this necessitated a dual-path detour from wordsmithing into retail management.

Even a single week of serving as a steward in this kind of setting would be certain to produce colorful stories of dealing with the quirks and foibles of human behavior. But in my case, the adventure lasted for three decades and more. Thus, the tales tucked away in my memory are plentiful. Predictably, those that are easiest to recall involve the sort of mayhem one often encounters when dealing with the public.

For your inspection, I offer here examples of such moments when I was called upon to use all of my personal resources of patience and peacemaking in the pursuit of providing good customer service:

1. On Sundays, one of my stores closed at 9:00 p.m. instead of the customary midnight hour for every other night of operation. This meant that each week, I had at least one battle with local customers who were offended by the difference. One grabbed my arm to read the wristwatch I wore, in hope that he could dispute the actual time. Another gestured angrily with arms outstretched and shouted “This is an outrage!” when I indicated that the store was closed. But most surreal of all was a fellow who drove his Lincoln Town Car up onto our sidewalk. As I braced myself for the sound of breaking glass and twisting metal, he jumped from the driver’s seat, jammed his loyalty card in between the locked doors and growled “Cut this thing up! I’ll never use it again!”

2. At a store known for brisk summer business, I frequently encountered customers who were inebriated. On one occasion this involved handling a patron who had been insulted by his treatment at our Deli counter. After being verbally assaulted, I offered to walk him back to the department where he would receive an apology and free product. Stumbling down the aisle, he began to strike me from behind. “Get moving!” he shouted, slurring his words. “Faster! Faster!” I spun around and pointed my finger in his face. “Look,” I said. “You have no reason to put your hands on me. I will take care of your needs, or call the police. You make the choice!” I pulled the cordless phone from my belt. Suddenly, he was considerably less agitated. The Deli clerk on duty gave him a fresh pound of sliced ham. Problem solved.

3. At a different store, a fellow who had been drinking decided to engage another customer in a fistfight. This happened directly in one of our front entrances. I was called to intervene and arrived just as the larger of the two hit the smaller man square in the jaw. He landed on his posterior and slid backwards across the concrete. It was a spectacle that reminded me of a silent movie stunt. The injured drunk recovered quickly and ran away as police cruisers arrived, with lights and sirens fully activated. An officer proclaimed “Someone called 911, Rod! They told us you were being assaulted!” I was happy to report that the call was inaccurate. The larger man stayed to provide a statement.

4. While some companies frown on chasing shoplifters, others encourage store management to vigorously pursue such evildoers. One one occasion, a cashier chased a fellow who had pushed a full cart of beer out the front doors. I could hear her shouting my name as she pursued this miscreant with his stolen brew. I arrived outside in time to hear the clerk demanding that this offender produce a receipt for the beverages. When he saw me approaching, the thief immediately abandoned his cart and ran across the street. I shouted as he disappeared. “The police will have you within half an hour. I guarantee it! No point in trying to escape!” Within 30 minutes the local constables had indeed found him, hiding behind a nearby Rite Aid drugstore.

5. At one of my stores, in the 1980’s, our ‘house brand’ had a label design very familiar to the public after years of use. The warehouse in Cleveland decided that this look needed an update, however. So a completely fresh logo was drafted for this budget line of products. Marketing experts employed by our distributor reckoned that it would make our stores more competitive. But instead, we quickly began receiving complaints and returns as customers swore that the products “tasted different.”

6. On a Wednesday night at one store, a tornado actually passed over our building. Initially, the high winds blew open a roll-up door in our receiving area. Skies overhead turned frighteningly dark. Then, the storm moved ‘cart corrals’ in our parking lot, striking a customer’s Buick sedan. A woman was lifted off her feet and ended up soaked to the skin, minus her car keys. Loose carts were in the street, which briefly stalled traffic. The roof of a bank next door was damaged. After working to clear away the mess and assure that everyone was safe, the crew was sopping wet. We worked the rest of our night feeling like waterlogged bath sponges.

7. At a midnight closing, I met a woman at our front doors with her minivan parked on the sidewalk. Her children were crying and she had an entire grocery order sitting in bags, on the ground. After calming down, she explained that her husband had been drinking, became angry over her shopping trip and had indicated the check she used to pay would ‘bounce.’ The order was around $400. Since the store was closed and we had already processed her check, I took her personal information and suggested that we follow up on the next business day. Her kids were exhausted and probably very hungry. Her husband had passed out and would not answer any more calls. Predictably, there was no issue with her payment when our cash office reviewed the purchase.

8. Bank issues happen on occasion and are out of our control at the store level. Especially during the weekends. But on one occasion, a woman who had insufficient funds for her grocery purchase became loud and began marching around by the cash registers. “Power to the people!” she chanted. “I know the team at WKYC-3 personally and will be calling Carl Monday from my car!” She took out her cellphone for dramatic effect. After she had exited, I observed to a clerk at the service counter that Mr. Monday had moved to WOIO-19 in 2007. Synchronicity was seemingly in effect because, by Monday, the day of the week named for her hero, she realized there was no issue and her debit card would work once again.

9. One employer believed in vigorously pursuing those who had ‘called off’ from work. So when a particular fellow was frequently absent, I was instructed to hunt him down with the other Co-Manager on duty. We went to his apartment where a neighbor said he had been gone for over an hour. I knew he did not drive and guessed he was at the local bar. When we visited that pub, he could not be found. I guessed once again, supposing that he had simply gone to the bathroom. In another minute he appeared, still tucking in his shirt tail. We fired him immediately. His response came with a grin. “So, would you guys like to have a beer?”

10. At a store with Cleveland ownership, one of the crew typically wore denim overalls to work and boasted of his downstate heritage, hailing from the area of Cincinnati. On a particular morning he was doing price changes and the Store Manager appeared with complaints about his work performance. After a few minutes of abuse, he interrupted by shouting “Aw Hell, I’m quittin’ anyway, so it don’t really matter!” Suddenly, the boss had a complete reversal of tone. “Please don’t screw me!” he begged. “I need at least two weeks notice!”

Like an onion, a career in retail management can grow rich with many layers. My own trip through the industry involved working for five different chains. While a regular paycheck was always my goal, a side benefit came in the form of compelling stories for the future. As I often used to say, “The entertainment comes for free!”

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent.

“Voices”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-17)

As a kid, I was endlessly fascinated by the ability of Mel Blanc to voice cartoon characters familiar to my generation in the reels from Warner Brothers. He seemed literally heroic for being able to build a career on the unique talent to voice characters like Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck. I often mimicked his work for friends. At church, I combined this ability with puppet show performances, where I began to write my own scripts. These spoken-word adventures veered a bit from the standardized doctrine that was intended. But my teachers let it slide. I used various accents and vocal tones to project each positive message. A youthful psyche made it impossible to fully comprehend that I had begun the journey of a creative performer. I was making as they say: “Art for art’s sake.” But from my childish vantage point, it represented nothing more than fun.

I could hear all of this in my imagination. It was simply a matter of translating the laughter and horseplay into a useful performance.

Many years later, I had the habit of listening to distant AM stations on the radio in my truck, while driving home from work. Because I typically had a later schedule, this meant tuning across the dial at a time when reception from far away locations was at its best. Familiar individuals like Art Bell provided companionship as I drove eastward, across the county. But then, I happened to discover a different audio vibe – on WKBN 570. It was a program that originated in California. The host sounded like a wizened veteran of the airwaves. Only later would I learn his name - Phil Hendrie.

I quickly became hooked.

One oddity of these broadcasts which I noted was that a sort of seamless uniformity permeated each episode. Almost like that of a musician forming different notes on the same instrument. It was intangible, but pervasive. The guests spoke with their own tonal palette, be it that of a studio microphone, low-buck condenser pickup, or vintage Bell System handset. But the umbilical cord had not been detached. I listened and listened again. Was he… Mel Blanc, smoking hemp of a mystical potency? Doing each character himself?

A bit of reading revealed his secret. Hendrie’s callers were ‘real’ but the guests and crew were alive only in his head. Bud Dickman, Robert Leonard, Ted Bell, Bobbie Dooley, Margaret Grey and so many others. His true genius lay in the ability to give these faux persons life in real time. Switching back and forth from one to another and onward eventually to himself, as the host and voice of reason.

It was a unique ‘shtick’ worthy of renown.

Having had this ear-teasing spectacle on during so many hours of the homeward trek from Chardon, I eventually developed a stream-of-consciousness show of my own. One born of imagination and fatigue. Thus, years after the Youngstown station had dropped Hendrie’s program, and on a night when Cleveland talk celebrities had labored into futility, I began to hear new voices. Not those projected from radio speakers, but a new bunch echoing over the open road as I sat at the steering wheel.

The receiver was off, but the programming, most certainly on:

“Welcome to Night Vision… I’m your host, Dean McCray!” a smooth, former disc jockey intoned. “With me this week, two guests who hold differing views on… the news!”

Theme music reverberated into the night.

“My name is Rascal T. Pettibone!” a country cowpoke intoned. “And the ‘T’ stands for Texas!”

A tinny, growling nerd answered with his own proclamation. “My name is Dudley Perks. And I don’t have a letter that stands for anything!”

Before I could fully comprehend their verbal interaction, the pair and their moderator had launched into a radio diatribe worthy of show-master Hendrie, himself:

D. McCray - “Welcome, welcome. Let’s begin our discussion.”

R. T. Pettibone - “Boy, I have had enough of the news. And when I say I’ve had enough, I mean I’ve had waaaaaay mooooore than enough!”

D. Perks - “Yeah, yeah. You’ve made that speech many times.”

R. T. Pettibone - “I’m tryin’ to talk. Why do you interrupt me, boy?”

D. Perks - “Sorry, hillbilly. Your rant is getting stale.”

R. T. Pettibone - “Stale? Boy, I sure don’t appreciate your disrespect! Why don’t you let me speak?”

D. Perks - “Say something new and I’ll start listening.”

D. McCray - “Gentlemen, please! Let’s get down to the issues.”

R. T. Pettibone - “My ‘issue’ is that they keep talkin’ about Trump. Trump, Trump, Trump. And Russia. Russia, Russia, Russia!”

D. Perks - “That’s dumb, dumb, dumb!”

R. T. Pettibone - “There you go again, boy!”

D. Perks - “What would you rather hear about, Raspberry? Tractor-trailer racing?”

R. T. Pettibone - “My name ain’t RASPBERRY, dang it! My name is RASCAL!”

D. Perks - “Who names a kid Rascal?”

D. McCray (Becoming frustrated) - “Gentlemen, please. Let’s leave the petty bickering aside, okay?”

R. T. Pettibone - “I wouldn’t mind hearing about NASCAR. Maybe the Country Music Awards or some hunting and fishing. But I’ve had waaaaaaaay mooooooore than enough of Trump and Russia. Russia and Trump. Trump and Russia. Russia and Trump!”

D. Perks - “Is there an echo in here?”

R. T. Pettibone - “Boy, we are about to go to ‘Fist City!” Do you hear me?”

D. Perks (Yawning) - “This is getting old. And stale.”

D. McCray - “Dudley, are you satisfied with the coverage of President Trump?”

D. Perks (Grinning) - “It’s all good. I never watch the news. That crap is boring.”

R. T. Pettibone (Exasperated) - “NEVER?”

D. Perks - “Nah. Give me a 12-pack of Mike’s Hard Lemonade and the ‘Playboy Channel.’ Much better.”

D. McCray (Laughing) - “Okayyyyy… there go our sponsors for the week!”

R. T. Pettibone - “Well there you have it, why America is goin’ to hell in a hand basket!”

D. Perks - “Is that a Longaberger basket?”

R. T, Pettibone - “Boy, I’m mighty suspicious of you. No real man would know about Longaberger baskets. My wife collects those things.”

D. Perks - “What, she gave you advice on which one to buy?”

R. T. Pettibone - “No, dang it, noooooo!”

D. Perks - “Come on, cowboy! They are great for a picnic.”

R. T. Pettibone - “Fist City! Put up your dukes, boy!”

D. Perks (Dripping sarcasm) - “Duke Boys? What, are you Uncle Jesse? I’d rather look at Daisy strutting around in her heels!”

D. McCray - “Okay, ha ha, we’ve lost control here.”

D. Perks - “Wish I had a remote control. I’d change the channel!”

R. T. Pettibone - “Like I said… this is waaaaaaaay more than enough!”

D. McCray (Embarrassed) - “Well, we’re out of time, everybody. Join us next week for another installment of… Night Vision!”

Suddenly, the truck cabin had gone silent. I could hear road noise and the V-8 motor rumbling away, usefully. I had almost made it home, to Thompson.

Somewhere, out in California, I imagined that Phil Hendrie was talking to himself. And laughing.

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“Mark of Mr. X”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-17)

It had been a lazy evening in rural Geauga County.

I was watching a marathon broadcast of “Trailer Park Boys” episodes via the XTV channel on my Roku box. But after a few hours spent drinking beer and munching on snacks from our new Thompson ‘Dollar General’ store, I needed a walk. My Black Lab was also restless. So we adjourned to the yard for the beginning of a quick neighborhood tour.

I was still thinking about Julian, Bubbles, Ricky and the perpetually-drunk Jim Lahey from the ‘Sunnyvale’ park, in Nova Scotia. And about the fact that radio personality Ken Carman was also a great fan of the series. With a grin, I recalled that he had actually interviewed actor John Dunsworth on his program. But suddenly, my wandering thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a giant letter in the sky.

A white “X” loomed overhead, formed from airplane contrails, as I stood across the street with my pooch.

An orange cat slipped into view from under a neighbor’s car. My dog tugged at his leash, nearly pulling me off balance. Yet I managed to remain upright. There was a moment of disbelief. Could the massive letter simply be a coincidence? A crossed path with no meaning other than the pilot had corrected their course? I pondered as my Black Lab yelped at the kitty. It seemed oddly still. No birds were chirping out songs of the morning. The sky looked pale.

Then, an odd vehicle clattered into view. It was a stretched Chevrolet Suburban, in matte black. I counted four doors down each side. It kicked up road dust and gravel. Before I could convince my canine friend to abandon the walk, this vehicle blocked our exit. A window rolled down, dramatically. And a familiar, raspy voice projected from the dark cage, within:

“Rodney! So good to see you this morning!”

I shook my head while looking up and down the length of the ebony GM cruiser.

“A stretched Suburban?” I exclaimed. “Come on Mr. X, what made you get a vehicle like that?”

He chortled quietly. “I thought it was more likely to blend in with the other trucks in your rural community. Your neighbors all drive such things. Trucks or SUVs.”

I nodded affirmation. “Plenty of snow out here in the winter. I wouldn’t get anywhere with a Toyota Prius. My F-150 does the job.”

“Bless you,” my visitor cooed. “You are so… Midwestern!”

I was already out of patience. “Okay, X, it was a peaceful morning here. But, no longer. What are you doing out on the road at such an early hour?”

“Rodney, I have come with a warning,” he said ominously. “Or if you prefer, a bit of friendly advice...”

“A warning?” I repeated.

“You are back to your old habits, my friend,” he observed. “Back to writing your silly stream-of-consciousness columns. I thought that lesson had been learned after we had you removed from your newspaper in Chardon!”

“REMOVED?” I growled, quizzically.

He laughed out loud. “Did you think that your ‘retirement’ was an accident?”

“My editor felt the series had run its course,” I explained. “After 16 years, I agreed. Simply a business decision made in the interest of freshening the paper.”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

“Look Mr. X,” I frowned. “It is too early in the morning for your mind games. Can we finish this conversation? I want to walk my dog.”

“Rodney, the world is a dangerous place,” he continued. “Threats from ISIS, Russia, North Korea… so many foes await our miscalculations. Here at home we have jihadists hiding in the weeds, foreign gangs, nationalist radicals, gun nuts and survivalists… it is like a minefield from coast to coast. But you want to write your little columns!”

I was becoming more irritated. “What do my wordsmithing efforts have to do with all of that?”

“You love to stir the pot,” he hissed. “But you see, stirring is not wise. Especially when we are in such uncertain times. You presume too much. You are reckless and foolish. President Trump is not amused...”

“TRUMP?” I exploded.

Suddenly, Mr. X was more pale than before.

“Trump reads my column?” I asked, emphatically.

“Forgive me,” he begged. “I have said… said too much. A slip of the tongue.”

“Trump got a copy of the ‘Who Is Carrie Hamglaze’ book, last year,” I admitted. “It was sent to his business office at Trump Tower. I never received a response of any kind. I also sent a copy to Mrs. Clinton. Her campaign chairman offered a letter of thanks in response.”

“Rodney, you are nothing more than a small-town scribe,” he said. “Of no importance in the grand scheme of things. But you place yourself in the midst of unseen forces. That is what I have been trying to say. I warn you again. Take heed!”

My face was red. “Look, Mr. X, you are speaking in riddles. Stop it!”

“Not a riddle,” he professed. “My meaning is quite clear. You like to joke about conspiracies and theories of political intrigue.”

“The Carrie Hamglaze book was simply a reflection of the GOP’s inability to find a solid candidate for the national stage,” I explained. “It was a bit of political satire. I could not have imagined that Mr. Trump would win the primary contest. My imagination conjured up the notion of Carrie running for residency in the White House. That actually isn’t much more fantastic than what happened, is it?”

“Not much,” he admitted.

My voice strengthened. “I sent copies of the book out as a publicity stunt. Actually, I did something similar in 2008 and 2012. It was a way to create material for my columns. Nothing more.”

Mr. X cleared his throat. “A publicity stunt! But now… you are right in the middle of a dangerous mashup between populist voters and an inexperienced administration. And rogue forces who want to tear down the United States!”

My Black Lab was straining at his leash.

“Look, Mr. X,” I said. “Enough of this, really. Enough! At best, a few thousand local readers see anything I’ve had published. Mostly retirees who read the paper over coffee at McDonald’s in the morning. Okay? Quit fretting about my oddball sense of humor.”

“You have peered into the future,” he whispered. “Looked where you were not supposed to look. But now, the patience of our masters has worn thin. So I leave you with this admonition. Be silent! Let go of your silly writing habits. No more online newspaper, No more columns. Go back to your grocery store career. Pack bags and get carts.”

A long pause elapsed. “I am unemployed right now, X. The Geauga Independent was simply a project during my early retirement.”

“LISTEN TO ME!” he shouted. “Or… face the consequences.”

Before I could argue, he had re-entered the stretched Chevy Suburban. Its tinted windows revealed little about those inside. The motor chuffed to life and soon, my visitor and his vehicle were gone.

My Black Lab seemed unaffected. He tugged at his leash.

The morning was over. It was time to walk!

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gamil.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“The Marriage Conundrum”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-17)

Marriage… might I take that gamble, again? The subject is one difficult for contemplation.

As the basic building block for society, the choosing of a proper mate with whom to build a family is both important and potentially rewarding in a sense no other human activity could achieve. Yet the failure of this bedrock partnership can be traumatic and devastating. Getting married is a flight of romantic adventure. Getting divorced is a battlefield experience that may humble even the most hardened souls.

For this writer, having been married and divorced twice has yielded a seasoned perspective that I would not wish upon anyone. While the effect is to offer veteran status and a harsh sort of enlightenment, it is impossible to avoid thinking that it is a life lesson one would be better off having avoided. The legal maneuvering involved in a divorce is a construct of madness.

I thought of such things recently, as a wordsmith friend pondered the choice of saying “I do” or “I don’t” in one of her columns. Reading the piece made me think of my own situation. Would I ever consider a blessed union with a Wife 3.0? It seemed unthinkable. My friend Archer, who was also the survivor of two failed marriages, used to offer the observation that living alone was indeed “the best time of his life.” He encouraged me to think of it as a liberating condition.

I of course was not completely convinced.

Archer liked to quote the Apostle Paul, who said in the Christian Bible, 1 Corinthians, Chapter 7: “It is good for a man not to touch a woman.” While I reckoned that such a lifestyle would be considerably less complicated, it did not seem wholly appealing. (And the full text of Paul’s admonitions recognized this fact as true.)

The German group ‘Rammstein’ offered more cause for consideration on this subject, however. Their popular song ‘Du Hast’ included words from traditional marriage vows used in their country. When hearing the track, I was moved to view the idea of a third trip down the aisle with a jaundiced eye. In their composition, vocalist Till Lindemann sings with great emotion:

“Willst du bist der Tod euch scheidet, treu ihr sein fur alle tage?” (Will you until death do you part, be faithful to her for all days?)

“Nein!” (No!)

“Willst du bis zum Tod der scheide, sie lieben auch in schletchten tagen?” (Want to death the distinction, love them even in bad days?)

“Nein!” (No!)

I have personally known two different fellows who were each on their fourth set of nuptials. Both claimed to be very happy. While they seemed to honestly have successful relationships, I had to wonder about the long-term durability of these unions. A Pew Research Center study I read, from 2010, indicated that only 29% of divorced adults would consider getting married again. Echoing this mindset, the Avvo legal website I found said that 73% of third marriages would end in divorce. So the advice of my cohort Archer sounded quite accurate.

Still, I wondered if taking a completely negative view was reasonable.

From my own, Libertarian perspective, I have always imagined the act of marriage as simply making a business contract. A legal partnership between consenting adults. Something which rational minds should be able to undertake without much interference or regulation from the state. A choice for those who possess the intellect to decide how their everlasting lives should proceed. Yet human nature has made this selection of a mate into something filled with chaos and woe.

Therefore, after having failed twice as a marriage partner, would I ever seek to once again join in matrimony with another soul? It was a question I considered carefully while reading the manuscript sent by my friend from Chardon.

I harbored no ill feelings for either of my ex-spouses. Instead, my heart was full of sorrow over having failed to expertly navigate the waters of a matrimonial agreement. In the first instance, because it cost me a relationship with the son we raised together. And because I lost a genuine partner in whom I placed unflagging confidence and trust. In the second instance, because our relationship seemed to spiral out of control too quickly, as if it never really existed.

Yet the question put to mind, over making a third trip down the aisle, had me going silent. Would I say ‘yes’ yet again? Was it possible? Or likely? Something I could envision as stars aligned and fate spoke with persuasive power, like the song of a siren?

My answer came quickly. As Rammstein had voiced the sentiment:

‘Nein!’ (No!)

After spending most of my life in the company of other people, I had simply been alone too long. A certain hardness had taken hold, a defense mechanism that helped me cope with my status. The thought of regressing to a time where I had to act in concert with another, while appealing on a certain level, seemed to be the stuff of fiction.

I had been transformed by the fire of failure.

Yet as my friend Archer observed, it had opened the door to a new era. One with more relaxed, reasonable goals. One where a woman like Janis, my un-wife and un-companion, my text-teaser and thought-provoker, brought fulfillment by offering a unique relationship never mentioned in the prose of professional counselors like ‘Dr. Phil.’

She and I bonded over a meal at the local Chinese buffet, several years ago.

It was literally this shared desire for Asian cuisine that brought us together. Separate and apart, though we remained. Her attitude was mildly anti-social and mistrustful of the male gender, in general. I had proven unable to properly sustain an affectionate relationship while sorting out the related importance of life goals like creative writing and career pursuits. She was ‘bohemian’ in a hippie sense. I liked retro models on the Internet, who could skillfully use makeup and vintage clothes to project an artful appearance. Neither of us were inclined to go out on a date with anyone. If we had, it would certainly not have been with each other!

But we were both hungry for General Tso’s Chicken.

Thus was born a relationship of convenience. But strangely, also one that has lasted without the typical need to battle the woes often attached to professions of romantic love. Her good morning messages on the phone begin my day. And I return the favor with quotes and funny photos as she is drifting off to sleep at night.

To answer the question of my writer friend – would I say “I do” or “I don’t?” Speaking honestly, my answer would be “I will.”

As in “I will make another trip to the Chinese buffet!”

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“J. Geils”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-17)

In 1977 the music world was literally exploding with all sorts of new ideas and cathartic experimentation. Cultural seeds planted by artistic voyagers like Iggy Pop and Lou Reed had germinated and grown into a new sort of rebellion. Yet the echoes were familiar. Stripped down to basic elements of flash, rhythm and street-style, it was still the ‘Blues Attitude’ that had birthed Rock & Roll.

But as I attended high school in the Pittsburgh area, that year also offered an audio document of a more mainstream variety. One steeped in the rich traditions of an earlier era, but flavored with the gritty sound of working class, bar-band Rock. I was 16 years old. The message resonated in my head and heart with the kind of importance that classroom lectures could only hope to carry:

“I didn’t take the warning, I really didn’t care

I had already gone too far, to let them steal my share

So, like a fool I took ‘em on, and as my anger cool

I realized I could take all mine, and skip off with theirs, too,

I know I must be crazy, I’m bound to wake up dead

Somebody, somebody

Waitin’ outside my back door

Somebody, somebody

Tryin’ to even up the score.”

In 1977 we were living in the post-apocalyptic ashes of Vietnam, Watergate and the Arab Oil Embargo. Our industries were crumbling, along with the major cities. President Carter presided over a nation humbled and hobbled by the weight of its own arrogance and greed. Our generation seemed poised to inherit the ‘malaise’ of economic and social stagnation, while surrendering hope.

In school, I learned that America was a nation destined to make do with less. Less resources, less respect from the world community, less of the soaring rhetoric heard from Roosevelt and Kennedy. Less job opportunities as the steel mills were shutting down. Less horsepower from our Monte Carlos, Chargers and Torinos. Less gasoline to make them run. Less economic diversity as aging urban centers gave way to shopping malls. Less help for those in need as budget issues dictated sacrifice.

From both sides of the Atlantic Ocean, there was an uneasy growl of ‘Punk Rock’ in response. But just as prevalent in America were blue collar heroes like Bruce Springsteen, The Iron City Houserockers and a group from the Boston area known for drawing on influences of Blues, Soul and primal Rock & Roll:

“I figured I should lay real low, and stayed away from town

I covered up all my moves, so it’d be hard to track me down

But I started gettin’ shaky, and I paced around the floor

Hiding out all alone, I couldn’t take much more

Just sittin’ ‘round here waitin’is drivin’ me up the wall

Somebody...”

In 1977, I bought the ‘Monkey Island’ LP shortly after it was issued. WYDD-FM, my favorite radio outlet during that era, played the album in its entirety. But given heavy rotation was a single called ‘Somebody.’ It pounded the speakers of my RCA radio with the kind of nasty, muscle-car and custom chopper vibe I craved. I would hum the song to myself during classes at Valley High School. I could hear it echoing through the halls as I trudged along with my denim jacket and engineer’s boots.

The Ramones, Clash, Sex Pistols, Buzzcocks, Adverts, Damned, DEVO and Generation X made me ponder making my own crude music manifesto in the tradition of garage greats that had gone before. But the J. Geils Band struck a different chord. One dripping with Harley-Davidson motor oil and smoked with the burning desire I felt to make a statement of my own:

“So, I called up my old friend Marlene, who was lookin’ for some fun

I got drunk and like a fool, I told her what I had done

I heard them knockin’ at my door, they got to me at last

It don’t take much to figure out how they found me out so fast

And when I looked for my Marlene, I saw that she was gone

Somebody...”

In 1977, I could not have imagined being a middle-aged man, divorced twice and unemployed from career chaos several times over, as one business gave way to the next. I could not have imagined that the youthful angst I felt would be nothing compared to the adult ennui of an overweight fellow with declining health, dwindling mobility and few relationship opportunities.

I could not have imagined the Internet. Or file downloads replacing vinyl records. Even the World Trade Center towers being assailed on 9-11-2001. I could not have imagined smartphones redefining the way we receive news and information. Or someone like Donald Trump ascending to the nation’s highest office, years later. And I certainly could not have imagined that on a recent night in April, I would read that John Warren Geils, Jr. had passed away at the age of 71.

With a brew in hand, I pulled out my seasoned copy of the ‘Monkey Island’ LP and put it on my stereo turntable. The platter felt good in my hands. It was the very same item I’d purchased some 40 years ago. Suddenly, the decades between now and then disappeared:

“Somebody, somebody

Waitin’ outside my back door

Somebody, somebody

Tryin’ to even up the score.”

In 1977, the song was my anthem. From a modern vantage point, I thought of a classmate named Paul, who was commemorated in one of our school yearbooks. He’d been fortunate enough to drive a Corvette to his classes, something that made him an ‘elite’ student in everyone’s eyes and the envy of us ‘regular’ folk. His father was a lawyer. Other kids said that it had a 502 cubic-inch ‘big block’ V-8 motor. An accident with the car claimed his life. So his memory was frozen in time. Never did he reach the woes of maturity, devalued money or male-pattern baldness. I often thought of him when ‘Somebody’ was on the radio. In eternity, I reckoned he was still driving, in an unending race with fate and oblivion. Forever on the road.

At night, I guessed he and the black Corvette were out there ahead of me, somewhere. Throttle pegged to the floor and the J. Geils guitar riff wailing from its 8-Track deck.

Now, Geils himself had slipped free of the Earth, into eternity. I struggled to comprehend that so many years had passed since my life in New Kensington and listening to WYDD and watching Space: 1999 and pondering a date with the big blonde in my German class who intended to become a law student.

Fraulein Haas. Where was she now? Probably someone’s quirky grandmother? Battling to achieve weight loss and handle menopause? I twisted the volume knob on my stereo and suddenly, it did not matter. I was back again to 1977.

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

‘Somebody’ lyrics written by Peter Wolf/Seth Justman

“8-Track Escapade”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-17)

One of the benefits of early retirement from my ‘real job’ was that for the first time in seven years, I had a clear schedule. No longer were tedious shifts away from home the norm. While my resources were strained, the opportunity to reconnect with life itself, and celebrate, could not be ignored.

Creative writing was the first habit to return. But soon afterward, I remembered ‘junking’ as an activity from bygone days. Collecting through scavenger hunts taken at thrift stores, flea markets, or yard sales. In a sense, such exploits were always like peeling an onion. Each layer revealed another bit of cultural history. Now, I was glad to revisit that kind of low-buck exploration. In a sense, it was working a sorcerer’s spell, turning the trash of yesteryear into the treasure of today.

I felt like a magician. The ‘Junkmaster’ had returned!

Not far from my home in Thompson, I remembered that Ashtabula County boasted a number of deserted buildings, some of which had been re-purposed with new hope. One of these spots was the old Edwards plaza at Routes 45 and 20, in Saybrook Township.

I visited on a recent Sunday morning, with my friend Janis. It was a different adventure from past escapades, because I was now a middle-aged man walking with a cane, instead of the energetic youngster of yore. But my determination to embrace the quest for artful ‘junk’ remained unchanged.

At first, we encountered oversized furniture that evoked a ‘Game of Thrones’ aura. Antiques seemed to populate most of the store. Then, I happened to run across a familiar, leather case. Upon opening the latched box, it revealed an assortment of 8-Track tapes. More of these outmoded cartridges were nearby, in a cardboard box once used to pack cigarettes.

My appetite was whetted. I sorted through these relics with fondness and care:

From Elvis Presley Boulevard, Memphis, Tennessee – Elvis Presley (RCA APS1-1506)

A live performance that includes notable standards like ‘Danny Boy’ and ‘Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain.’ Any Elvis 8-track is worth collecting. At a price of 2/$1.00, such a bargain that my head was about to explode. Album released in 1976.

Welcome To My World – Elvis Presley (RCA APS1-2274)

Another collection of various live performances issued as his career was winding down. Includes ‘I Can’t Stop Loving You.’ Released in 1977.

California Wine – Bobby Goldsboro (UA U-8408)

With classic compositions like the title cut and ‘Southern Fried Singin’ Sunday Mornin’’ (both written by Bobby, himself) this 8-track packs a lot of punch. Album released in 1972.

Darkness on the Edge of Town - Bruce Springsteen (Columbia JCA 35318)

Another performer always worth purchasing on 8-track. Typically these issues have been snapped up by collectors, long ago. This is one of those classic releases by ‘The Boss’ including legendary tracks like ‘Badlands’ and ‘Prove It All Night.’ Released in 1978.

Song of Joy – Captain & Tennille (A&M 8T-4570)

This audio cartridge came home as part of a full bag. Unwanted but somehow there with the group. Sort of an afterthought at the cost of 2/$1.00. This duo had several catchy tunes during their partnership in the 1970’s. But included here is a track always in the running for worst pop record ever made. Namely, ‘Muskrat Love.’ (Just typing out the title is painful.) Released in 1976.

Harmony – Three Dog Night (Dunhill DHM-85108)

A classic tape. Likely to be found in the collection of almost every music fan from the period. (Like myself.) I have seen this album countless times at church sales, flea markets and thrift stores. Includes their heroic ‘An Old Fashioned Love Song.’ Released in 1971.

The Johnny Cash Show – Johnny Cash (Columbia CA 30100)

Yet another performer always desirable on 8-track. His cartridge releases are becoming very difficult to find. Recorded at the Grand Ole Opry. Includes a performance of ‘Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down’ which was written by Kris Kristofferson. Released in 1970 to garner sales from interest in his TV program of the era.

The Best of the Best of Merle Haggard – Merle Haggard (Capitol 8XT 11082)

A greatest hits collection which includes his patriotic anthem ‘Okie From Muskogee.’ Country Music as it was and always will be.

Changes In Latitudes, Changes In Attitudes - Jimmy Buffet (GRT 8020/ABC AB 990 H)

Another album likely to be in every collection of someone from that era. The hit ‘Margaritaville’ guaranteed his career would never die. Released in 1977.

OLE ELO – Electric Light Orchestra (JET J2A 35528)

Popular with collectors and rarely seen for 50 cents. This greatest hits album features their legendary take on ‘Roll Over Beethoven.’ Released in 1976.

Bachman Turner Overdrive II – Bachman Turner Overdrive (Mercury MC8-1-696)

One of the quintessential 8-Track releases. It is actually hard for someone from my generation to comprehend that this was issued in any other format. Made to be played at full volume with the windows rolled down in your car. (Preferably a Dodge Charger, Ford Torino or Chevy Chevelle.) Released in 1973.

Janis was amused by my reaction to the stash of tapes. Because she was born in 1974, the 8-Track era had passed before she was aware of their existence. Yet she helped carry the two dozen that I selected to the front counter.

Along the way, I found two vinyl albums by the duo of Chet Atkins and Les Paul. Plus, a long-player by the ‘T-Bones’ of Alka Seltzer commercial fame. It was a worthy haul for having made an impulse run to this not-quite-abandoned plaza, hidden behind a closed McDonald’s.

“Don’t sell many of these anymore,” the shopkeeper observed, looking as aged and forgotten as many of his furnishings. He tugged on his baseball cap. “Two for a dollar. You’ve got yourself quite a deal there, friend.”

“Thank you,” I nodded.

Walking to my truck, Janis could not help passing judgment. “Can you even play those things?”

My mood was jubilant. “Remember, I have Granny’s old Sears & Roebuck deck that you gave me a couple of years ago.”

“Oh… yes!” she remembered. “It actually worked?”

“Of course!” I laughed. “A leftover power supply from the office matched it perfectly. It’s amazing that you still see 8-Tracks for sale. My last discovery of the breed was at the Ashtabula Harbor Goodwill. At least two or three years ago.”

Janis shrugged. “I remember that store. Granny used to go there.”

Dramatically, I pointed my index finger in the air.

“Next week. We’ve got to go pay that place a visit!”

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“No Market: Chapter Two”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-17)

“Newspaper readership is declining like crazy. In fact, there’s a good chance that nobody is reading my column.” - Dave Barry

Recently, a friend in the industry offered an observation that I hadn’t heard in many years: “There is no market for a column like yours.”

It was an echo of yonder days that made me smile. Many years ago, I interviewed with the editor of a successful daily in Lake County. I had arrived with copies of my writing work, along with issues of my weekly journal from Chardon. Friends and family members were excited. It seemed that I was about to ‘hit a home run’ with this seasoned member of the press. My professional writing career, at that time, had already encompassed working for a variety of journals. I had literally started pecking out stories on a toy typewriter at the age of ten. But as the interview began, he thumbed through a copy of my paper, threw it down with disgust, then proclaimed an oath of undeniable value:

“There isn’t much advertising in here.”

I was crestfallen. He made no comment on the quality of my work. Or about the variety of publications that had printed my material. Instead, he brought out a copy of his own newspaper. Above the fold was a color photo of a duck.

“Do you know why this bird is here?”

I had no clue. He stared into my eyes with the cold analysis of a college professor, then answered his own question.

“Because it sells the paper!”

I nodded acceptance. No other reaction seemed reasonable. He’d had a long career in journalism that resounded throughout the Northcoast. His own column, in the Sunday edition of his paper, consisted of tales about dining with the celebrated elite of Lake and Cuyahoga County. No one could argue that his words carried merit earned through many years of service.

I left the interview stunned and bewildered.

My column was called ‘Thoughts At Large.’ It continued to run for over a dozen more years. With each installment, his words continued to echo.

“No market! There is no market for a column like yours!”

As a business manager at my ‘real job’ I secretly suspected that this sage steward of journalism was correct. Though readers often remarked that they enjoyed reading my columns, I knew that subscription fees did little to prop up the company bottom line. Ad revenue was the lifeblood of our paper. More important than original content, by far. More important than the bruised ego of a wandering scribe.

Later, when I served as sports editor at another weekly, while still writing for the first, my publisher observed that these reports could be written by a computer program. Hearing this admonition returned me to my humbled state from before. He pulled out a drawer from his desk:

“See all these resumes? I can hire staff anytime they are needed. There is no shortage of people wanting to write stories for this paper.”

I knew he was correct. Even if admitting the truth negated my own existence as a wordsmith. Once again, the experience I gained as a manager held sway.

A career reassessment seemed reasonable. I decided to make a sideways move into the world of authorship and publish my first book. I had learned editing and paginaton skills while running the sports desk in Ashtabula County. Now, those abilities proved useful in creating a retrospective of the first ten years yielded from my personal column.

The ‘Thoughts At Large’ book proved to be a weighty endeavor. But I was learning by doing. My favorite sort of educational study. I sorted through a consequential backlog of material, on paper, floppy disk and CD-R. The project grew to include diverse inspirations. Everyone from my own father to Cleveland music icon Dennis Chandler.

Only then did I encounter a new and unexpected challenge – trying to sell the product. I had spent years learning how to pursue the craft of creative writing, But actually promoting the book for purchase? That presented an obstacle for which I had not been prepared.

My lack of used-car hucksterism could not be hidden. I needed to vend the volume for $25.00 to make any money. Those familiar with the series had no problem paying this price. But for others who were new to the world of Geauga-centric prose, this presented a steep challenge.

I struggled to recoup my costs.

After five finished titles, I had learned a great deal about the raw science involved in publishing a book. The discipline was not completely unfamiliar. I pegged hopes on a low cover price and attractive graphics. The ‘swan song’ of this odyssey was my creation ‘Biker Lifestyle – And Beyond’ which collected stories I had written in the 1980’s for a California monthly associated with custom motorcycles. Biker Lifestyle Magazine. Edited and published by a former bodyguard for Evel Knievel who wrote under the name of ‘Bob Bitchin.’ It seemed likely that the subject matter might be interesting to visitors who frequented Geneva-on-the-Lake during summer months. And I was only a short distance away, in Thompson.

I set the cover price low enough to attract readers eager for an impulse buy. No more than a meal would cost at McDonald’s.

But yet again, I was reminded of the advice I had received before:

“There is no market for a column like yours.”

The ‘biker’ collection sold a few copies, but failed to ignite in monetary terms as I had expected. Friends wanted the issue for free. The Internet had schooled them well with the idea of zero-cost content. I went through a hundred of the books without generating much profit. Like my earlier projects, it was more valuable as a learning experience than a run-for-hire.

I bowed my head as this exercise came to an end.

My thought was to exit with grace after ‘BL-AB’ had been issued. But then, I became unemployed again, an all-too-frequent happening in the household. Suddenly, I had free time.

Lots of free time.

Thus, ‘Words on the Loose’ was born as a fresh adventure into column composition. I also created the Geauga Independent, an online newspaper that had only existed as a stillborn idea in years gone by. Fate, it seemed, was more powerful than intention. My plans were scattered. But a greater fulfillment of self awaited on the horizon.

My column for which there was ‘no market’ would live to see another day.

Postscript: Yahoo! Tech April 3, 2017 - “Washington (AFP) More than half of the jobs at US newspapers have disappeared since 2001, with a large portion of the losses offset by by employment gains at Internet firms, government figures showed Monday. The data from the Bureau of Labor Statistics showed US newspaper employment fell from 412,000 in January 2001, to 174,000 in September 2016.”

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P.O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent