“The T Team”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-20)

The Setting: 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue; the Oval Office

The Players: Donald J. Trump, 45^th President of the United States; Mark Meadows, White House Chief of Staff; Sean Hannity, Fox News; Kayleigh McEnany, White House Press Secretary

The Story: America is in turmoil with the Coronavirus having claimed over 100,000 lives and George Floyd dying under the knee of a Minneapolis police officer

Mark Meadows: “Mr. T, Sean, Kayleigh, Good Morning!”

Kayleigh McEnany: (Giggling) “Hi everybody!”

Donald Trump: “Mr. T? What??”

Sean Hannity: “Hahahaha!”

M. Meadows: “Sorry sir. That didn’t come out right.”

S. Hannity: “Can I use that on my show?”

K. McEnany: (Grinning) “Welcome to the T-team!”

D. Trump: “Mr. T got good ratings. Great ratings. I remember the 80’s.”

M. Meadows: “I apologize, sir.”

S. Hannity: (Laughing) “Hey Don, I knew Mr. T. Mr. T was a friend of mine. You are no Mr. T, Donald.”

D. Trump: “He wore a lot of gold. I like gold.”

M. Meadows: “Guys, please. Can we get down to business?”

D. Trump: “Did you bring my Diet Coke?”

M. Meadows: (Flustered) “What?”

D. Trump: “I like to start the morning with a Diet Coke.”

M. Meadows: “Sir, I am not a waiter.”

K. McEnany: “You’re not anything lately, Mark. Nobody talks about you.”

M. Meadows: “That’s because you hog the spotlight. All that makeup, and triggering the press corps...”

S. Hannity: (Snorting with amusement) “Rowr! Jealous! She really knows how to piss off reporters!”

K. McEnany: (Giggling again) “Why thank you, Sean!”

D. Trump: “You look a lot better than Sarah Huckabee Sanders, believe me. Much better. Much better looking in the White House briefing room. Even without baking pies.”

M. Meadows: “Sir, we just passed 100,000 deaths from the global pandemic. A popular meme on social media has you playing golf, superimposed over a New York Times front page, filled with obituaries.”

S. Hannity: (Defiant) “The New York Toilet Paper Times!”

D. Trump: “I love it when you use that line on the show. Love it a lot.”

K. McEnany: (Looking confident) “Can I use that in my next press briefing?”

M. Meadows: “Mr. President, we need to discuss your strategy on the Coronavirus. Joe Biden is saying that your poor leadership has failed America...”

D. Trump: (Angry) “Sleepy Joe wishes he could lead like me. I am a wartime president. This is a war. A war with the virus. Dirty, nasty virus. But we are opening again, we are back. Back in business.”

M. Meadows: (Worried) “Some say too soon, sir.”

S. Hannity: “Let not your heart be troubled. America is disinfected and protected by God!”

K. McEnany: (Perky) “Can I use THAT in my next press briefing?”

M. Meadows: “We have another crisis to discuss. An African-American man in Minneapolis was killed by police. There is video footage of him being held under the knee of an officer...”

D. Trump: (Irritated) “Yes, I saw it. Saw the footage. Saw the footage of the knee.”

M. Meadows: (Bowing his head) “Tragic. A barbaric act.”

D. Trump: (Eyes narrowing) “I also saw footage of you talking about Martial Arts on your show. Talking, talking. Not defending, defending. Defending me!”

S. Hannity: (Embarrassed) “Don, I had to say something about what happened.”

K. McEnany: (Feeling inspired) “Do you want me to focus on the protesters, in my next briefing, Mr. President? Focus on the looting?”

M. Meadows: (Sad) “Minneapolis is out of control, sir. There are many other protests across the country.”

D. Trump: (Angry) “Look, I said it was bad to take a knee on that guy, very bad. I said it out loud. Said it plainly, really, very loud, very plain.”

K. McEnany: (Bright-eyed) “Ha ha, ‘take a knee!’ I see what you did there...”

S. Hannity: (Laughing) “Colin Kaepernick is making hay out of this. Maybe selling more shoes. Nobody wants him in football but he gets the spotlight now.”

M. Meadows: (Rubbing his eyes) “Sir, you need to provide leadership. To help the nation heal.”

D. Trump: (Disinterested) “Heal? We need the economy to heal. Look at all those stores being burned. Bad, very bad. Burning stores, very bad. No jobs, no stores.”

M. Meadows: “Sir, the protesters would say ‘no justice, no peace’ in response.”

S. Hannity: (Amazed) “All the networks went with coverage of the looting. Everybody! MS-DNC, Fake News CNN, and us, we all had the same live coverage. That never happens!”

K. McEnany: “Would you like me to focus on the rule of law, sir? Two wrongs not making a right?”

D. Trump: (Disgusted) “I said it was sad that the guy died from getting the knee. Really sad. Horrible, horrible thing. But now these protests, these looters. These burners. Smashing, grabbing, burning. This is more than sad. Something has to be done.”

M. Meadows: (Literally begging) “Mr. President, you need to show leadership here. To heal the nation...”

K. McEnany: “I can run video from the looting if you like. Turn it around on the reporters, say they are making things worse?”

S. Hannity: (Surprised) “Hey, can I use THAT on my show?”

D. Trump: (Confident) “A leader you want. A leader. You want a leader to lead. I’ll do that. We’ll send in the National Guard and lead. The ugly looters will see my leadership, believe me.”

M. Meadows: (Cautious) “We need to reestablish law and order, but carefully, sir. You should lower the temperature, not fan the flames.”

S. Hannity: (Shaking his head) “Flames look good on television!”

D. Trump: “I’ll show leadership. Where’s my phone? I’m going on Twitter, right now. Let me send a tweet, a bunch of tweets.”

M. Meadows: (Worried) “Sir, I would advise you to avoid doing that...”

K. McEnany: (Smiling) “Lead on, Mr. President!”

D. Trump: (Cocky) “The National Guard will show everyone how I feel. ‘When the looting starts, the shooting starts.’ Believe me, I will lead this country back. Back from the virus, back from taking a knee, back from Nervous Nancy and Crying Chuck. We’re back! We’re great again!”

M. Meadows: (Exasperated) “PLEASE SIR! STAY OFF YOUR PHONE!”

D. Trump: (Contumacious) “As the college kids say, ‘Hold my beer! Or in my case, a Diet Coke!’”

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

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

“Morning Meditation”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-20)

Darkness.

I had been at the desk for over an hour, drinking coffee. Savoring the early morning like a chalice of fine spirits. The darkness in my windows was reflected everywhere. Deep and dusky, delicious like a chocolate liqueur. Normally, such moments seemed to liberate my words. I could write freely and fearlessly. Yet today, I felt empty. Strangely separated from my craft. A condition that made me sorely afraid.

Afraid of never finding those words again.

As ever, my Black Lab slumbered out in the living room. With no attention paid to the mood. He had finished a treat, after our walk. Then wandered off as I took a seat at the computer.

I hummed the tune of a composition from ten years ago. One of those songs that came into being as I drove home from work, in Geneva, near Lake Erie:

“Under cover of darkness

I will cheat the night

These crazy moments are justified

We have already died”

Under cover of darkness

I will beat the light

These crazy scenes are justified

Time to wave good bye...”

The morning felt unusually still. Only the sound of an electric fan broke my crippling slide into alienation. But then, the noise faded. It was terribly silent in the room. Vacant and empty. Like a hollow tube. My breath echoed like the hot expulsion of a lizard, stalking its prey. Seething, stalking. Simmering with intent. A kill clearly in sight.

“My breath?” I wondered. “My breath? Mine? No. NOT MINE!”

A hooded figure loomed in the kitchen. Eyes glowing with white heat from a countenance of black. His robe draped the floor. He hovered over the linoleum. The sight of him made me nauseous.

“RODNEYYYYY!” he wheezed.

I filled the air with rude exclamations. Sweat beaded in my eyebrows.

“Attend me, servant!” the visitor laughed angrily. “It is written that every knee shall bow. I am the conqueror of flesh, the mighty reaper of souls...”

I stopped in the midst of swallowing my coffee. “Damn it, Dee Dee! I left the door unlocked, right?”

The specter floated up and down with irritation. “I am not your neighbor. I am Death.”

My face chilled. “Who?”

“DEATHHHHH!” he growled, with a dry rasp of vocal cords, long expired.

I was stiff with surprise.

“NOT DEE DEE!” he repeated. “DEATHHHHH!”

I took another swig of coffee. “This is a scene from a Monty Python movie, right? You greeted people around a table, playing games or cards, or something like that?”

“DEATHHHHH!” he scowled again.

I folded my hands in front of the keyboard. “Look, the last week has been very odd around here. First I had Satan as a guest. Not a cheerful fellow. Nothing like Tom Ellis in ‘Lucifer.’ Then Jesus appeared on another night. A much better disposition, obviously. He left me puzzling over my own purpose in being here, in being a creative writer.”

“HONOR MEEEE!” he frowned. “I AM DEATH! HUMBLER OF ALL!”

I shrugged at his declaration. “Look, according to the ancient texts, you were defeated by Christ. The tomb could not hold him. Your mastery of woe paled in the light of day. Morning brought his resurrection...”

He bowed and clutched his stomach. “Foolish man! Do not speak that name before me.”

“You are a servant,” I said. “Part of the plan. A cog in the machinery. A tool. Your power over humanity is given only to serve a higher purpose.”

“STOPPPPP!” he shouted. His white eyes went red. “DAMNNN IT! DAMNNN IT!”

I closed my eyes. “According to the story...”

“I get it Rodney,” he hissed like a serpent. “You are a wordmonger. You feed on stories. Good, bad, or otherwise. They are your bread and butter. Sickening stories of human frailty. Of affection, of hope, of challenges… bah! All these threads still lead back to me.”

“The taker of lives,” I observed. “El Morte.”

“HONOR ME!” he demanded.

“Look,” I said. “You are a serf. A player on stage. A ranch hand. A worker bee. I get it, you have an incredible track record. There you go, I admit your success.”

“JESUS AND SATAN GET ALL THE ATTENTION!” he exploded. “Twin pillars, white and black, good and evil. They rule while I am busy!”

I nodded. “Right. You are a servant, as I said before. For Satan, a bringer of finality. For Jesus, one who may conduct a pure spirit away from pain and into eternity. That is your job description.”

“NOT A JOBBBB!” he roared.

“A calling?” I mused. “No, there was no call to glory. You are the distillation of duty. A sad, vacuous drone, walking through fields of humanity. Harvesting the weak, the unprepared, the frightened...”

“YOU DAMNED WRITERS!” he barked like a werewolf. “ALWAYS RAMBLING ON, WORDS, WORDS, WORDS, RIGHT TO THE BRIM OF YOUR GRAVE!”

I chilled a bit. “Grave? Is this my final moment?”

Death bowed his head. “No, damn you, no. Not now. Not at this hour.”

I took a deep breath of relief. “Okay then, right. Not today. Sooooo… why are you here?”

He gestured with an empty sleeve. “You brought me here. Your morning meditation. Your desire to be filled with ideas. This is why I appeared.”

I shook my head with disbelief. “So, all of you came as I prayed to find words again? Satan, Jesus and you?”

“Yesss!” he stammered. “Your fear and faith. The notion that you might never spew another line of prose. That uncertainty. With the devoted belief that there will be a blessing.”

“Blessing?” I asked.

“A RELEASE FROM YOUR TORMENT!” he raged. “NOW YOU HAVE IT! WRITE, DAMN YOU! WRITE WITH ALL YOUR HEART! THE SUNRISE IS ALMOST UPON US!”

A ray of light sparked through the window. I turned my head, and he was gone.

The melody and lyrics from a decade ago returned. Still reverberating like the strike of a falling rock inside a cavern. I tapped the keyboard and let them flow:

“But you will not wait

While I pause to pray

You will not wait

I have words to say

You will not wait

This is the end of day

I pause to pray

This is the key to eternity.”

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

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

“Jam Session”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-20)

Music.

For many, the appeal of live or recorded melodies can be strong. Such tones may spur the pulse to quicken, or the chest to swell with pride. Perhaps, cause a head to bow in reflection. Or inspire a gaze toward the horizon with hope. Those who have no connection to song are rare, indeed. Yet for most, real knowledge of the theory involved, of the skills required, may be lacking.

But for those born of the Baby Boom, Rock & Roll became part of our identity.

People in my generation took this habit as a natural fact of life. Developing styles and habits that reflected our heroes with mirror-like perfection. Even those who never touched a guitar or piano, or any tuneful instrument, had this inclination. To emulate Keith Richards, Jimmy Page or Jimi Hendrix. To mime the moves of Daltrey, Jagger, Plant, Joplin, Sly Stone or Tina Turner. To windmill like Pete Townshend. To thrash and jump like Iggy Pop. To ride a starship groove like George Clinton and Funkadelic.

Everyone in my high school wanted to get on the ride.

Genuine participation in the craft could be difficult, however. Getting ‘plugged in’ more directly than mere affectation. For this writer, growing up in a family literally wedded to music made the leap easier to achieve. Our roots were in Folk, Country, and Blues. The sorts of expressive, vocal arts that sprang from working-class people, after their daily chores were done. But not everyone had such an upbringing. For them, a real connection could be hard to attain. Harder still to keep. Yet so precious among our group.

Everything about us shouted that style. The sounds, the looks, the habits. From Joe Namath to Peter Fonda to Charo or Raquel Welch, to Peter Frampton.

Many from my generation simply carried those affectations into forward, into normalcy. But some sought the help of a teacher. A mystic with the ability to translate their enlightenment into everyday language. Someone willing to offer secrets and revelations to the commoners.

In my own journey, that person was a Cornell University graduate named Paul Race.

He was, by appearance, simply an overweight hippie. Dressed in thrift-store apparel with no particular theme. Sweaty and loud. Typically holding vinyl LPs under one arm. Or a guitar scored from a yard sale. Our first meeting was at the studio of Channel 13, a cable-access provider in Ithaca, New York. Soon, I would find that his personal image hid a greater self. Like the famed Tardis of Doctor Who tucking away greater dimensions inside, than out in public view. Paul had numerous formal degrees, yet remained a lifelong student. A classic scholar, always learning. And, to those lucky enough to survive in his orbit, teaching what he had discovered.

In 1979, I was happy enough to sit at his home with friends, drinking alcohol and listening to records. He had more of everything than I ever imagined. More albums, more books, more magazines, more instruments, more odd furnishings, beer signs, collector’s trinkets, cast-off bits of outdated technology, and hardware. Anything that got near enough seemed to have been captured by his gravity.

We would listen for hours. To recorded tunes and to his stories of yonder days as a local malcontent and performer. In bands like ‘The Savoys’ or ‘Oliver Court Delivery’ or ‘The Embarrassing Pinworms.’ Then, his spirit would rise. A guitar, or two, would appear. Perhaps an electric piano, galvanized tub, empty bottle, piece of tin roofing, a washboard, or a set of bongos. Most certainly, a microphone plugged into one of his vintage amplifiers. Then, he would start a tape recorder to archive the event. And our star-trip would begin.

Friends tried to follow his motions, like an audience repeating lines from ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show.’ But for myself, it was a chance to peek behind the curtain. To catch clues and tips from a real veteran of local renown. Each movement of his fingers over the fretboard, each intonation and strum and break and palm-mute made me sit upright with a student’s attention. I was in awe of his ability.

And also of his real Fender guitar.

Paul had the casual style of a jam-band performer. With the informal ability to coach his pupils, gently. He was approachable and non-critical. Offering suggestions when needed. Or grunts and groans when the groove took a dissonant turn. His stream of notes remained constant. But his eyebrows might raise or his head might tilt to indicate the mood we had created. He liked to play familiar treatments of song standards, while his friend Pat Kelly improvised lyrics. ‘The Migrant’ had lived illegally in Latin America and was reputed to be a reprobate and thief. Their collaborations could be clever, often with themes of blue-collar life, substance abuse, or failed relationships. These off-the-cuff experiments had me struggling to keep pace. As a teenager, I had less of a word-pool from which to draw energy. But my skills were sharpened by hours of practice, and many cases of Utica Club or Piels beer.

This haze of tobacco, weed, incense, candles, sweat, animal feculence, hard liquor and the electric heat of vacuum tubes, was potent stuff. Most from the group simply left with a sense of belonging. Of having gained a bit of ‘cool.’ Yet I would exit pondering riffs that were beyond my limited ability. Juggling poetry while remembering the chord progressions. Each idea a blooming blossom in my head. Sprouting from the fertile soil tilled by my mentor’s Telecaster.

Eventually, I would rewrite his off-color standards into more serious anthems. Compositions for the future.

Once, he tried a version of the Rolling Stones classic ‘Silver Train.’ We began with a literal interpretation of this track, a respectful rendering of the Blues artifact. But then as he vamped on the chords, things went off the rails. He added rebellious runs and flourishes. I wandered vocally at the microphone:

“Silver train is a comin’

Think I’m gonna get on now

Oh yeahh, oh yeah

Silver train is a comin’

Think I’m gonna get onboard

Oh yeahh

Detach from the system

Said oh yeahh!

Many times in your life

You will feel pain

But you gotta step it up

You gotta keep it goin’ on

Yeah

She did not know

She did not know my nammmmmme!

I tried to talk to her somehow

But ain’t nobody tellin’ me now

Yes after the work had been accomplished

Yes indeed, child

She did not know

She did not know my name...”

Paul’s wife, Mollie, slapped her bongos. Our cohort Manic McManus hovered over his organ keyboard. Bette Burke, who was working on a PhD at Cornell, shook a pair of maracas. The Migrant howled and cackled. Household pets barked and meowed and chirped. I captured the din om my own Panasonic cassette recorder.

Decades later, these compelling companions were mostly deceased or disappeared. The magnetic tapes had become stale over time. Warbling and crackling. Less inspired and more surreal in the light of present-day scrutiny. Yet the yield of such nights remained. I learned much at the feet of my six-string master.

About music. About wordsmithing. Most of all, about life.

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

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

“Town Car”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-20)

Nine o’clock.

At store 6383, a Geauga County supermarket in northeastern Ohio, our schedule had been set for many years. We were open for business from 7:00 a.m. to midnight, six days out of the week. This pattern began in our previous location, which had been down the hillside. It fit the flow of customer traffic, perfectly. Allowing us to catch early-bird shoppers, homemakers throughout the day, a predictable rush of business after regular work hours, and then the late crowd heading home. A plan that served local needs. But on Sundays we trimmed the routine. Our store locked up at 9:00 p.m., which seemed sensible for those enjoying family time and a day of rest.

To the management team, and employees, this format was welcome. But it came at a cost. One I soon learned when closing the store on weekends.

Locking the door on Sunday night felt a bit like participating in a broadcast of the Jerry Springer Show.

During the day, we were busy. Our front-end boasted over a dozen registers. We kept them staffed to maintain the egress of shoppers that had finished loading their carts. It was a point of difference for us, providing a level of customer service not seen at competing stores. I was officially scheduled 1:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. on those days, but might be brought in at noon or earlier to help handle the business blast. Since I was a salaried supervisor, it did not matter. My work was my life.

Whenever I arrived, the atmosphere of a street festival was in full effect. The aisles were crowded with friends and neighbors, buying fresh produce, bread, and snacks, along with milk and meats and household products. While sharing lively conversations with each other. Sunday shopping in particular was a genuine community event. A place to see and be seen. A real-time, face-to-face exercise in social networking.

If I had enough time between the morning church service near home, and my scheduled start-of-the-day, a nap in the parking lot could help provide extra energy. I would park in a far corner, and snooze over the steering wheel for a few minutes. This quick recharge paid dividends later in the day, when fatigue beckoned.

Our crew would be in the aisles. Restocking items, helping those wandering and looking for ideas, offering suggestions. I would be paged again and again. To the service counter, to the office, to the receiving area. To the lobby. To our child activity room. Sometimes, even to help someone outside of the store. My name was vocalized dozens of times, each hour.

This carousel ride would continue through the afternoon and into the evening, unabated. Lines would form and then be dispersed as our cashiers worked furiously to ring out patrons. One after another, after another, after another. Scanners beeping, cards being swiped, thanks being offered with good cheer. Final salutations shared as the experience came to an end. Until the need for foodstuffs and fellowship brought each customer back, in the near future.

By 8:00 in the evening, I would be numb. My face often burned. Sometimes, even the tops of my ears. A condition that I had been advised was created by elevated blood pressure. But equally, by a tingle of excitement. As the clock wound toward closing, a sense of drama filled the air. Something akin to the animal ability to sense a thunderstorm before its arrival. We were about to finish the business day.

Shoppers could feel it in their bones.

By 8:30, there would be long lines at the checkout lanes. Each minute that elapsed before closing heightened this rush. There would be zig-zags and u-turns in the aisles. Second thoughts expressed. Pondering, worry, changes-of-heart. Questions. Issues. Complaints about products gone out-of-stock. Displays knocked over. Babies crying. People joking about the mad scurry to our front-end. Building toward a crescendo. The call I awaited from our cash office, delivered over the public address system.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, YOUR CHARDON GIANT EAGLE IS NOW CLOSED!”

I would already be in the vestibule. Trembling with anticipation. Checking and rechecking my watch. Ready for what must transpire. What I loved and yet loathed. The moment of separation. Finality. The finish. The point in my day where I had to do something that could aggravate customers and place me in harm’s way. Like dancing on railroad tracks, with a freightliner approaching.

Lock the doors.

Every Sunday was guaranteed to produce at least one confrontation. Excuses and threats were plentiful. I did my best to avoid damage to our reputation. Every turn of the key was like juggling a hand grenade. I spoke as a politician. Offering apologies, nodding my head with careful concern, as pleas for late entry were offered.

“When did you start closing at nine on Sunday?” (We have done it for many years.)

“I am going to call your customer service hotline!” (I am sorry! They will also tell you that they are sorry.)

“Your watch is wrong, it isn’t nine o’clock yet!” (It is now a quarter past the hour.)

“I just need one thing!” (Of course!)

“Why did you stop going 24 hours?” (We have never had that schedule.)

“This is outrageous, my coupons are going to expire!” (I am sorry!)

“Can’t you stay open for another fifteen minutes?” (I do not set the store schedule.)

Most would simply offer a disgruntled expression, or audibly curse before turning away. Some threatened to take their business elsewhere. Others slapped the glass doors to convey their anger. Or tried to force them open. Some kicked the sidewalk. One fellow managed to reach through as another shopper was leaving. He grabbed my arm and twisted it, forcefully. An effort to see what my wristwatch read. I stammered out a warning that he was crossing a line of personal safety and conduct. Of course, he did not care.

Most memorable was a senior man who scowled at being locked out, before shuffling away in defeat. He returned quickly, at the wheel of his Lincoln Town Car. I jumped backwards as the car ran over our curb and up to the doors. My knees were weak. I expected an impact that would cause lots of damage, and create an entertaining video recording for the police.

Thankfully, he stopped with the front bumper just short of contact.

Like a grizzled super-foe emerging from retirement, he leaped out of the vehicle, thrust his loyalty card in between the door frames, and shouted “Rip this up, I’ll never use it again!”

I needed to catch my breath. We still had lines at the registers. The shutdown process was not over, yet. But I felt grateful to have avoided a crash, after closing.

The rowdy patron had returned after about a week.

My schedule read 10:00 p.m. as the time of departure for Sundays. But typically, I stayed over for an hour, or more. Often until midnight was near. Doing a final bread inventory, running deposits to the bank, then checking on our overnight crew, who would already be in the process of working our grocery order. If I was lucky, a gentle breeze might cool my face as I walked outside.

One thing always took hold as I left for the night. A desire to relax. To be free of responsibility. To flee. To escape. To drive and drive and drive, beyond Ohio, beyond my neighborhood, beyond the Midwest. To leave everything and start over.

But most of all, I wanted a beer.

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

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

“Sermon Before Sunrise”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-20)

Foggy. My Black Lab never seems to notice.

I woke early on Saturday morning. My left hip feeling out-of-position and sore. Very typical when cooling off after a day of rising temperatures and thunderstorms. The air was damp and heavy around my shoulders as we walked in the grass. Lingering wisps of moisture clung to every surface. A yard-light nearby seemed to twinkle. I stood silently while the dog chose his spot to pee. Childhood memories returned as I recalled being glad for insomnia while the family slumbered. In those quiet moments I could sit at my homemade desk, topped with a slab of particle board. Free of distractions. Able to practice the craft I barely knew. The habit of my father.

Wordsmithing.

I had reached my second pour of coffee when the desk began to buzz with energy. A strange wrinkle in the morning. Wave-forms oscillated in the cup. An aroma of sweet honey filled the room. A petrichor I could not explain.

Then, I was no longer alone.

“Wrangler?” I called out with confusion. “What did you do?” I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Behold,” a voice intoned, gently. “I am the Lord.”

My office chair nearly toppled over. I spun like Captain Kirk during a battle with Klingons. “Whaaaat? Who, what, who?”

“I am the Lord,” he repeated. His voice fell upon my ears, softly. Like rose petals caught in the wind. His appearance was difficult to discern. A comforting glow of celestial energy radiated from his face. Rays of white and blue, and many colors from across the spectrum as he turned. But I felt peace being in his presence.

My eyes went wide open. “Jesus?”

He smiled with a benevolent gaze. “If that is the name by which you know me, then yes.”

I trembled in my chair. “Forgive me...”

“That is my specialty,” he said. His good humor was unexpected, but welcome.

“Sorry, sorry,” I pleaded. “What I meant to say was...”

He nodded with understanding. “You are worried about being a poor host. But I did not come here this morning as a social call. Do not trouble yourself.”

My face reddened with embarrassment. “Coffee? I could make a fresh pot...”

He laughed out loud. “No, Rodney. Enjoy your beverage, and listen.”

Steam drifted from the cup. “I thought my Black Lab had knocked something over in the kitchen. Maybe kicked the front door open. This is a friendly time to peck away at the keyboard, you know. I do my best work between midnight and sunrise.”

He nodded again. “Of course.”

I fumbled my words. “Look, this isn’t starting out right. I apologize. You didn’t come all this way to hear about my dog or watch me drink Maxwell House while I try to conjure up a story for my column series.”

Jesus smiled once more. “I have always been here, Rodney.”

A deep breath wheezed through my lips. “Right, right. What I meant was you have appeared to me now, shown yourself, whatever you would call it...”

He gestured with his hands. “Relax, my son.”

I drank more coffee. The dark brew soothed my throat. “Anyway, I have been out-of-focus. A friend is in the hospital. Someone who lives by Lake Erie. I call her ‘Janis.’ She is a stray cat, undisciplined, not a believer. Really not tuned-in to anything. Nearly alone. But I prayed for her. An entreatment made for this feral soul. My odd companion.”

“I received your petition,” he affirmed. “Even a single flame may chase away darkness.”

My lungs went flat. “Okayyy. I think she is getting better.”

Jesus bowed his head. “Rodney, I visit you now because of what happened yesterday. Do you remember that uneasy morning?”

I shook my head. “Yesterday?”

“You had a different guest here in your study. One who may bring conflict and strife. A force of ruin and despair,” he reflected. “Yet your reaction was to profess belief. Do you remember?”

I groaned with discomfort. “Yeahhhh… is that what I did?”

He nodded in certainty. “The Devil grew fatigued by this simple act. A pure statement of faith.”

I felt awkward. “He took me by surprise. I was working on a writing project, like right now. Nobody expects Satan to pop up before sunrise. Certainly not in rural Ohio. Right? Like the ‘Spanish Inquisition’ of Monty Python lore. It isn’t on the radar. But then, it is...”

Jesus looked away, thoughtfully. “In your own words, you expressed a sureness in the message. A devotion to light over darkness. To love over loathing. A desire to follow the path to a greater existence. To receive the gifts of a higher calling.”

I sipped my coffee. “Well, that’s a kind assessment. I like it. My spiritual journey has been um… a period of wandering? One still in progress. I grew up in a Christian household. But I am not into ‘brand name religion.’ We get hung up on labels, on teams, on tribes. Like sports rivalries. When I see neighbors root for our foes in football or baseball, it drives me nuts. But we all enjoy the same competitive spirit. It was in New York that I first encountered that view of churches, you know. Of looking to a higher power. Spokes on a wheel. The idea that every gaze toward the azure blue is directed skyward, like spokes on a wheel going to the same center. I worship the face of God that is familiar. My indigenous ancestors praised a creator that lived in the air and soil and trees and other beings. That also makes sense. Every tradition has some merit. In truth, our mortal minds can only touch what will be revealed in eternity, with the fullness of time… we get too sure of ourselves. And lose the power of staying humble.”

He nodded, slowly. “Yes. That is why you were not afraid, yesterday.”

My tone became more subdued. “I expected him to sound like Tom Ellis. British accent and worldly confidence, bubbling with false charm, that sort of thing. Some of my relatives stick with the red skin, pointed ears, and glowing pitchfork image. Regardless, he came across as a loser.”

Jesus folded his hands. “Of course.”

“Satan represents defeat,” I said. “Like the description of Armageddon, the great battle already decided. Represented in nature as the force of light. Energy which may travel millions of miles and illuminate the cosmos. By whatever name, by whatever tradition, the concept is fixed. In us and in the stars. Darkness has lost, already.”

“I think you have your inspiration,” he declared.

“Inspiration?” I wondered aloud. “For writing?”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Take the pen and scribble out what is in your heart.”

“Satan and Jesus popping into the home office,” I mused. “Right, right. That’ll get me trolled on Twitter. Heckled, persecuted, pestered and teased. Who sees Lucifer and the Lord on successive days? While drinking coffee? While his dog sleeps in the kitchen?”

Jesus laid his hand on my shoulder, as before.

“You,” he smiled. “Be well, Rodney.”

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

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

“Satan Before Sunrise”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-20)

Good Morning, Beelzebub!

I was at the desk, around 4:30 a.m., after my traditional regimen of coffee and P. B. toast. Still working on the pot of Folgers brewed when I first got out of bed. My Black Lab had grown disinterested with the morning, and headed off for solitude, in our living room. But I stayed at the desk. Peering at the computer screen. Sipping my hot beverage. Then staring again. Empty. Staring. Muted and vacant. Still staring. Fingers tapping out gibberish which I then deleted. Staring. Staring. A blank page waited for fulfillment. I cursed the void with a sense of dread. Sunrise was not yet ready to visit. So I continued to stare at the screen. Staring on, staring.

A rush of wind blew through the home office. I nearly jumped out of my chair. The blast made me think that a window had fallen out of its frame. But there was nothing further after this unexpected eruption. Except for a deeper silence that took hold. Like the stillness of a winter night.

I looked around the room. Then reached for my coffee cup.

A voice shattered the emptiness. “HAHAHAHA! BEHOLD MORTAL, I AM LUCIFER, LORD OF HELL! TORTURER OF SOULS! KING OF THE DAMNED!”

For a moment, I couldn’t move. His breath reeked of burnt embers.

“Attend me with worship!” he commanded. “Bow to my omnipotence!”

Slowly, I got up from the desk. “Hang on, I need more coffee.”

Satan sputtered like a child. “Wait! What? Coffee you say? I am Lord of Hell...” He appeared from the darkness in a flash of white heat. Pointed nose and ears, long fangs, in a glowing red robe.

“You don’t look a bit like Tom Ellis,” I said, grinning.

He nearly flew into a rage. “I GET THAT ALL THE TIME! FOOLISH EARTHLY MORTAL WITH A NETFLIX SUBSCRIPTION!”

“Right, right,” I said. “Hang on just a minute.” I refilled my cup as he hovered over the carpet, with his arms crossed defiantly.

“HEY! HEY!! I AM KING OF THE DAMNED, DO YOU HEAR? KING OF THE DAMNNNNNNED!” he declared.

I shouted from the kitchen. “Hang on, King. Be right back.”

He was simmering with anger when I returned. “See here, mortal! I will not be treated with such indifference. A touch of my finger could send you to drown in the lake of fire, do you understand? FIRE! DAMNATION! HELL!”

I sipped my coffee. “Yes, I’ve gone to Sunday School. I know the drill.”

Satan shook his head. “Such a cavalier attitude! Are you not a believer?”

I sat the cup next to my computer keyboard. “Philosophically, it wouldn’t matter if I believed or not. The truth would still exist, despite my ignorance.”

He rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “What? What did you say?”

“As an example, think of people who believed in a Flat Earth,” I explained. “Their lack of knowledge did not change the planet. The truth was still out there...”

He snorted with confusion. “WHAT??”

“My point is that if you are indeed Mephistopheles, ‘if’ I say, then my acceptance through faith, or rejection, wouldn’t change that reality. You are who you are.”

Satan snapped with irritation. “ENOUGH! YOUR WORD GAMES BORE ME, MORTAL!”

I sipped more coffee. “Sorry. So what brings you here so early in the day?”

He slumped a bit. “WELL! AHEM! Well… well, well, well. Actually, I was savoring the despair on your face as you stared at the blank screen of your desktop device. That sense of lonely despair, ha ha. Something I have often seen with those who write professionally. Quite satisfying to watch you suffer.”

I nodded. “Of course. Pain is your thing.”

“ARE YOU MOCKING ME?” he hissed like a snake.

“No, no,” I said, cautiously. “No mocking. Just a recognition of your career, you know? Your life’s work. Your job description.”

“FOOL!” he shouted. “YOU ARE MOCKING ME!”

“No, dammit!” I argued. “Offering a sign of respect, if anything.”

“Oh, very well,” he replied. “Then you worship me as a dark god?”

I almost spilled the coffee. “No, definitely not worship. Look, if you accept the ancient texts as true and inspired by divine intelligence, then you must subscribe to the whole story. Good and bad. Dark and light. Here and hereafter.”

Satan stroked his chin. “Please… this is getting off track. Are you some kind of intellectual?”

I sat the cup on my desk. “No, no pretentiousness. Nah. Just a guy who lives in the country with my dog. A guy who likes to write and sometimes sing songs.”

He chortled with a deep rasp of breath. “I know what you are, mortal. I know all.”

“Right,” I agreed. “Again, it is part of the job description.”

“I DON’T HAVE A JOB!” he insisted. “I WAS CAST OUT OF HEAVEN BY GOD! A PUNISHMENT THAT WILL LAST FOR ALL ETERNITY! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

I nodded once more. “As I said before, we learned all that in Sunday School… plus, watching the adventures of Lucifer Morningstar.”

“DAMN NETFLIX!” he shouted. “AND WORD GAMES! WORD GAMMMMMES!”

“You’re really in a mood,” I observed. “How about a cup of coffee?”

Satan huffed like a child. He dropped to the floor, where he sat cross-legged and leaning forward. His fiery eyes dimmed their glow. “I could bathe you in acid and watch as your flesh melts away from bone. Does that not inspire fear in your heart? Most mortals kneel in submission with only a glance at my countenance! Just a glance!”

I leaned back in my office chair. “Look, what I was saying before about accepting the story. The whole story of creation, of good and evil, of a higher power. If I believe that you are real, Yen-lo-Wang, Pluto, Demogorgon, Beelzebub… then I also accept that there is a divine parent. Father, mother, whatever you like.”

“I DON’T LIKE ANY OF THIS!” he glared.

“Right,” I agreed. “Anyway, a divine creator would protect with love, just as you tempt and taunt. A point-counterpoint in effect. So while I respect your evil greatness, I do not fear it, because God is near. If there is a God. The rule of light over darkness. That sort of thing.”

He huffed again. “BUT WHAT IF I RULE? WHAT IF, MORTAL??”

“You were cast out of Heaven,” I answered. “See, that’s part of the story. I did not write the tale, I only read and try to comprehend.”

Satan narrowed his eyes with cunning intent. “Ah, but you are a wordsmith, my slave. You could rewrite the story, correct? To fashion an adventure not recorded in the sacred scrolls. A wish I could grant to you. Fame unending. Riches, glory, power! The achievement of a scholar. A scholar with a pen!”

I laughed out loud.

“Bow before me,” he whispered. “Praise my dirty name. Embrace me. Reject the prophets, reject the worship of churches, and inherit your stature as an exalted one among your tribe. A writer among writers! A king of pages! Of letters! Of books!”

I sighed loudly. “You need some new material. That’s an old gambit. Like in the fourth chapter of Matthew, in the Christian Bible, when you implored Jesus to bow down in return for all the kingdoms of the world, and their splendor. It didn’t work, do you remember?”

He went white-hot with fury. “DAMN YOU, MORTAL! DAMNNNNNN YOU! HOW DARE YOU QUOTE SCRIPTURE WHEN YOU SHOULD BE PROSTRATE AND BEGGING FOR MY MERCY!”

“Sunday School finally paid off,” I said, smartly.

Sulfur fumes filled the air. Another rush of wind sent my notes flying off the desk. He disappeared in a burst of scorched cinders. Sweat beaded on my brow. The room was unbearably hot.

My Black Lab entered from the kitchen. He looked around, sniffing for clues. Then, took a place at my feet. Sunrise was now only a few minutes away.

I decided to make another pot of coffee.

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

Write us at: P. O.

Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Little Richard Story”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-20)

Richard Wayne Penniman.

The recent passing of this Rock & Roll icon has struck a chord with fans across the globe, from all segments of society and over multiple generations. His raw talent burst onto the scene during America’s glorious 1950’s. But endured long thereafter. A force that inspired Lennon & McCartney, Bowie, Prince, and so many others.

For this writer, his music first arrived as I listened to 45 rpm singles on the ‘Specialty’ label, from my father’s collection. Vinyl artifacts he had purchased as a young man in Columbus, Ohio, after graduating from high school in 1947. As a kid, I had no sense of time at work, when hearing these recordings. So each song carried an immediacy that others in my neighborhood found odd. In the early 1970’s, I did not think of him as dated or past-his-prime. He was a current part of my own musical consciousness. One that would soon expand with the release of ‘American Graffiti’ and the television show ‘Happy Days.’

Little Richard lingered in memory for many years as I grew to manhood. His conflicted journey from rebellion to preaching gospel truths, and back again, reflected my own upbringing. Having been born as the son of a Christian pastor with a particular taste for Blues and old-school Rock. I understood in personal terms the dichotomy of trailblazing and falling back on ancient themes, in equal measures.

This division haunted Penniman throughout life. As it has, myself.

My story of him is bent by fate, however. One created by chance in the year of 2000, as I took a vacation week with my first wife. We decided to make a southern tour. To absorb some of the gentle culture from that region, a way of life she did not know, first-hand. My own focus was on getting a chance to revisit the city of Lynchburg, in central Virginia. A place where I had lived as a child.

The nation was locked in controversy over ‘hanging chads’ and the selection of our next president. But for us, it was simply a time to get away.

My family moved to this place in 1970, when our father became a minister for the Fort Avenue Church of Christ. The community in which we lived was quiet and kind. A safe space that gave me room to flourish. I started my first business there, mowing lawns for our neighbors. And I fashioned an office in the basement, mimicking the habit of my sire.

With a new century beginning, I wanted to see this spot on the map once again. Wife 1.0 and I got a motel room in the area. Then, we planned our excursion to my familiar neighborhood on Sandusky Drive. The following day found us wandering down that street, and into remnants of a lost era. To Fort Hill Village, the shopping center where I had ridden my Schwinn bicycle as a youngster. To the elementary school, and junior high, which had been re-imagined and rebuilt over the decades. Finally, our tour ended with a meal stop at a restaurant that was new and unfamiliar, but appealing. A place very much in tune with the vibe I remembered during my initial stay.

It was called ‘At the Hop.’

The 50’s diner offered a traditional menu of burgers, fries, and milkshakes. My wife was thrilled. We were seated at a booth and chattered away while waiting for our greasy, edible goodies. Then, a pair of men took the spot next to ours. Strangely, I recognized one of the fellows. He took a seat with his back to mine. I felt a chill in the air.

Leaning toward Wife 1.0, I whispered carefully. “That is Jerry Falwell!”

While dining, she chirped about the curious inflections of southern people when speaking. And the monuments to Civil War history that were seemingly everywhere. I described a past neighbor who worked for the Chesapeake & Potomac phone company, and flew the Confederate battle flag on his front porch, instead of the United States emblem. It was something I had come to accept as ‘normal’ in 1970. Though still foreign, being a native of Ohio.

Behind us, Reverend Falwell took a call on his cell phone. He opined prophetically about the national election results, which were being decided. “I have it on good authority that George W. Bush will be declared the winner,” he said with confidence.

I sat up straight, while tasting my cheeseburger. A creation adorned with chili and onions.

In yonder days, I had visited the Thomas Road Baptist Church with my parents, to witness the ‘Living Christmas Tree.’ A literal spectacle of sorts. An exhibition in song with many participants stood on a giant platform in the shape of that holiday evergreen. Delivering gospel music to inspire the flock. In hindsight, our attendance seemed strange, as Jerry had once called my father’s chapel a ‘little pile of bricks.’ Yet it fit the family mood of comity and cooperation. My own focus was on the show, itself. Plus, the fact that this performance was being televised.

I remember looking around the church, counting each camera.

Feeling free in the midst of vacation, my burger tasted good. Wife 1.0 ignored the caveat about our notable guest in the booth next door, leader of the ‘Moral Majority.’ She was content to yammer about the preponderance of old cannons and souvenir rifles. But my mood had been charged with the unexpected encounter.

Then, someone put a coin in the jukebox. A vintage player stocked with genuine vinyl discs.

Throughout the restaurant, Little Richard began to echo. His unique voice filled our ears and hearts with gladness:

“Lucille, you won’t do you sister’s will

Lucille, you won’t do your sister’s will

You ran off and married

But I love you still

Lucille, please come back where you belong

Lucille, please come back where you belong

I’ve been good to you baby

Please don’t leave me alone

I woke up this morning, Lucille was not in sight

I asked my friends about her but all their lips were tight

Lucille, please come back where you belong

I’ve been good to you baby, please don’t leave me alone.”

I finished my chili burger with a dollop of irony. Here I was, in a diner with Jerry Falwell, conservative hero and white evangelist. Listening to the gayest, blackest, rowdiest, most entertaining and bombastic performer that the world had ever known. Primped and primed and powdered and punchy. A figure that electrified the 1950’s as no other.

The counterpoint to Liberace, another success story in an era of scorn and intolerance.

Wife 1.0 and I finished eating and left as Falwell busied himself addressing the election returns. His cohort was silent and faceless. I almost wanted to offer a token greeting as we departed. A Christian gesture of fellowship that I imagined my father would suggest. But instead, I surrendered to base emotions. I turned away, without paying attention.

We left for our motel. Bellies full and ready for the journey home, tomorrow. Warmed with vintage cuisine and the crazed crooning of Little Richard.

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

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

'At the Hop' Lynchburg photos by Kipp Teague: https://www.flickr.com/photos/retroweb/albums/72157628455033087/with/28569334745/