“Nine Below Zero”

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.

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