c. 2020 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(6-20)
“Feeling good
in the neighborhood.”
For some, this
tagline might be an advertising slogan, or a mantra worthy of
expression on a t-shirt. But in my own residence park, it is
reflected by a habit of gathering together on summer evenings to
consume beer of various, blue-collar varieties. Tapping into the good
vibes is open to all. No restriction of creed, color, or social
standing exists. For a retired, disabled fellow like myself, this
reality is not only friendly, but also useful. Likely to produce
ideas for my creative projects, during hours when the sun has dipped
below the horizon. Or, to open a door to time-warp adventures.
A recent example
came as I woke up late, with the Kinks’ classic “Lola” still
echoing in my head.
A few nights
earlier, this recording from days of yore had been included in the
playlist of a local radio station. One we heard while feeding
discarded lumber to the bonfire, and hydrating ourselves with
beverages from Miller Brewing Company and Anheuser-Busch. It had been
decades since I last heard the track. But while humming the melody,
something more personal appeared. Lyrics that had been improvised
during work shifts at Kresse’s Bi-Rite #2, in Chardon, Ohio. My
employer during the 1980’s.
“We met in a
store in the plaza
Where you drink
Miller beer and claim it’s Pepsi Cola
C-o-l-a, cola
He talked about
Heavy Metal
Ozzy biting the
head off a bat
Said his name was
Chia
C-h-i-a, Chia
Ch-ch-ch-ch
Chia...”
My
friends were deep into revelry, beer, and discussing the possibility
of an upcoming NFL football season, amid concerns about the
Coronavirus pandemic. So no one noticed as I sang to myself. I
wandered in recollection, back across the years, slipping out of
time.
“Chia!
Ch-ch-ch-ch Chia!
Ch-ch-ch-ch
Chiaaaaaaaa!”
I
had come to Kresse’s seeking employment after a two-year stint at
Fisher’s Big Wheel, a department store on the other side of town. A
friend-of-a-friend recommended that I put in an application with this
supermarket. He lived nearby, in Mentor. But was a native of the
village. We had met during trips to Ernst Lanes, our neighborhood
bowling alley. Or, to Lake
County night-spots like Delaney’s Chase Inn, and Spanky’s. His
name was Scott Campbell. But everyone called him Scooter.
Shortly
after joining the team at Bi-Rite, I realized that he had other names
as well. ‘Scotty T. Bone,’ and
‘Thor The Jeweler,’ or
‘The Homerun King.’ Some even called him Earl Anthony Campbell,
after the gifted, professional bowler. Though I never participated in
the sport, my visits to watch him compete were frequent. I became a
regular at the bar.
Scott
knew everyone. His father was the template, another cheerful fellow
with a friendly disposition, a gift-of-gab, and a taste for beverage
alcohol. Both men were tall, slender, and able to feast on beer and
potato chips without developing a paunch as a result. Something that
mystified me, every day. They also had lots of energy. Drinking into
the wee hours seemed to have little effect on their bodies. While I
would drag into work, sweating and sputtering like an old car.
When
I started at the supermarket, my presence was noted with mild
suspicion. I was an outsider. An unknown name on the schedule. But
Scott helped negate any fears about me being on the team. And what a
group
we were, like a ragged bunch of baseball amateurs, undisciplined,
rowdy, and yet somehow able to score consistently.
I soon learned that my friend
was like a ‘rodeo clown’ who appeared during tense situations.
Able to diffuse strong emotions with his impulsive behavior and
mastery of physical comedy. His work was solid. Easily approaching
400 cases stocked for a night. But he made each shift pass more
quickly with gestures that resembled a flailing marionette, and a
giggle that hinted of someone battling mental illness.
Our
boss looked like Clint Eastwood. Scott would approach him with arms
spread wide and say “Smile when it’s big enough!” This joke
would be repeated over and over. But each time, my friend would
snicker with glee. “F*** you, Scott!” our supervisor would roar.
We would snort and groan and stifle our laughter. Then, go back to
work.
“Well we drank
Genuine Draft
And stocked all
night
Under the
fluorescent aisle lights
Scott said ‘I
need the order machine!’
He punched in a
load of 383
Now I’m not the
world’s most physical guy
But I can unload
a truck
And put in my
time
Just like Chia
Ch-ch-ch-ch Chia
Ch-ch-ch-ch
Chiaaaaaaa!”
After
hours, Scott would sometimes strip off his shirt as temperatures in
the store went hotter from the speedy pace of our work. But this
effort to stay cool earned him a new nickname from one of the guys.
“That doesn’t look like real hair on your chest!” our cohort
observed. “It looks more like a damn Chia Pet!” The slur stuck
like glue. “Hey Chia! Don’t get your shorts in a bunch!
Chiaaaaaa!”
On
breaks, we would play Frisbee in the parking lot. Often at two or
three o’clock in the morning. Local police would sometimes pass by
as we flipped and turned and threw our disc. Luckily, they knew Scott
like everyone else. We received no citations. Only an occasional howl
of “Damn Kresse’s gang!” as they drove away, laughing.
He
always seemed to smile. Even when talking about chaos in his
childhood or cashiers who had spurned his attention, or losing his
license to drive. Nothing mattered much. Other than getting his
nightly Snyder of Berlin Bar-B-Q Potato Chips and a six-pack of
Miller for after work.
We
once had a serious debate over who would win a bar fight between Bob
Seger and Axl Rose. This surreal topic made him shout and stomp with
forceful indignation. He reckoned that the ‘Guns N’ Roses’ star
would whip his elder easily. I put my money on the man from Michigan.
The discussion was ridiculous, but passionate. It concluded with him
twisting my own nickname of ‘Rod the Bod’ with particular
emotion. “F*** you, Bod!” Our crew was very entertained by this
silly verbal altercation.
I
last saw him in 1992, when our store was sold to a corporate owner,
from Cleveland.
The
fact that I still sang my own lyrics to the tune of ‘Lola’ after
28 years paid tribute to this friend from long ago. I had heard
reports that his health was failing, and that he needed long-term
care of some sort. Yet in my thoughts he remained as before –
stringy hair, oval glasses, darting eyes and wild hands mapping out a
story about Alice Cooper. Living with a perpetual soundtrack of ‘Z
Rock’ on his radio.
Cheers
to you, my friend.
Comments about
‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com
Write us at: P.
O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024
