“Rodeo Clown”

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

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