c. 2018 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(1-18)
New Year in
Thompson.
We had reached a low
in temperature for the season, made colder still by my own
recognition that the phone app upon which I depended typically read
warm by comparison to the value reported by neighbors and members of
the family. With a chilling wind at work, I reckoned that the true
cold outside was stronger in force than the number displayed on my
cell phone screen.
Still, nine below
zero was enough.
Having abandoned our
household television and the living room for a safe space in the home
office, and fortified with cold cylinders of brew, I took a familiar
spot at my desk. The hour had grown late, now past 2:30 in the
morning. With a swig of grains and hops, I dialed my rotary
telephone, one that hadn’t worked in years, hopefully waiting for
some response from my son in Pennsylvania. After a few rings, the
line went clear. Then, a familiar voice answered.
“Hello? Do you
have any idea how late you are calling?”
I laughed out loud.
“Woody Hayes Ice! Of course I do, you rascal!”
“Damn it, Dad!”
he shouted.
“Sorry,” I
apologized. “Couldn’t sleep. I watched an episode of ‘Deadwood’
on the Roku just now. But it didn’t tire me sufficiently. So I
decided to ring you up for a quick bit of chatter,”
“Damn it, 2:30 in
the morning!” he complained.
“Time is relative
when you are retired,” I observed.
“But I’m not
fucking retired!” he exclaimed.
“Language!” I
barked. “Show some respect for your father.”
He yawned loudly.
“Okay. Respect to you, old man. What have you been doing since
Christmas? Hanging out at the Chinese buffet with your lady friend,
Janis? Or playing shuffleboard at the senior center?”
“Stop it!” I
shouted. “No shuffleboard. Just drinking beer.”
He was silent for a
moment. “Now many naps in between 12-packs?”
“A few,” I
confessed. “My drinking stamina is gone.”
“You shouldn’t
even buy that stuff,” he said with a lecturing tone.
My embarrassment
took hold. “Of course I shouldn’t. Just like I shouldn’t be off
my medicines. And I shouldn’t have trouble walking like a normal
person. Shouldn’t have lost my career. Shouldn’t be on disability
in my 50’s. Shouldn’t be here without your mother. Shouldn’t
have my family spread around the country when I need someone to help
me keep up with the household repairs...”
“Dad, please!”
he yelped.
“Sorry,” I
mumbled.
“This isn’t fun
you know,” he coughed. “You get drunk and start feeling sorry for
yourself. Then you call at odd hours and talk about missing mom. She
doesn’t live that far away. Maybe you could make a date to see
her?”
“She thinks I am
an asshole,” I said.
Woody cleared his
throat. “Yes, yes… well some things can be overlooked to help
another. You know? A gesture of kindness.”
“She didn’t seem
kind when we talked the last time,” I remembered.
“Dad, look, I’ve
got to be at work in only a few hours,” he protested. “I love
you. I miss watching football games together. Or any sports, for that
matter. But life has a routine. That’s what you used to tell me
when I was a kid. Follow the routine… you’ve got to have a
routine.”
“You get a grade
of ‘A’ for memory,” I said.
“Dad, I need some
sleep.” he pleaded.
My throat was dry.
“I need another beer!”
“Now it is 3:00
and you are still rambling,” he concluded. “I am going to hang up
for now. Get some rest and call me back at a decent hour.”
“Noooooooo!” I
argued. “Do not hang up the receiver! Don’t do it!”
“Dad, I am on a
cell phone,” he smirked. “So are you. There is no receiver.”
My face went red.
“No I am not! This is the old rotary phone we had when you were a
kid! The black one from our bedroom!”
“Mom’s lavender
bedroom?” he chuckled.
“Yes,” I agreed.
“I hated that decor of hers. It was smothering. All that fucking
purple. Satin and silk bed covers, a mirror over the headboard. Lace
curtains on the windows. Disgusting.”
“It made her
happy,” he recalled. “Something needed to bring her joy. Anyway,
that phone hasn’t been connected to anything since we moved away
from Munson Township in 1990. Do you understand?”
“No!” I shouted.
“No! No! No!”
The line went
silent. Suddenly, I realized that my beer can was empty. My Black Lab
had given up on begging for smokies and retreated to the living room.
My seat at the desk was cold.
And Woody Hayes Ice
was gone.
“Woody!” I
cried. “Woody, pick up the phone, damn you! Woody!”
It was nine degrees
below zero. My friend Janis would not be awake for at least another
hour. Somehow, the silence and darkness seemed to be magnified by my
own sense of alienation. I was drifting in the ether. Only my
home-office desk provided any link to the existence of reality.
Needfully, I gripped its corners like a drowning sailor clinging to
pieces of driftwood.
“Good night my
son,” I whispered. “Good night to you...”
I hung up the
receiver with a clumsy thud of plastic on plastic. The time for
another beverage had arrived and also, cause to sit at my computer.
And begin to write.
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