“Broken”

 

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-20)

It all comes back to Bob Dylan.

As this year has unfolded, writers around the world have written of many challenges and calamities that face our civilization. Of pandemic pain and political peril. All against a backdrop of environmental woes that threaten the planet. But here at home, on the shore of Lake Erie in Ohio, a different reality has seized attention. One that is both alarming and familiar.

Everything in my household is broken.

Our generational poet laureate Robert Allen Zimmerman expressed the woes of this condition in song, with much dramatic effect:

“Broken lines, broken strings

Broken threads, broken springs

Broken idols, broken heads

People sleeping in broken beds

Ain’t no use jiving, no use joking

Everything is broken

Broken bottles, broken plates

Broken switches, broken gates

Broken dishes, broken parts

Streets are filled with broken hearts

Broken words, never meant to be spoken

Everything is broken.”

My bed literally was broken, with a frame propped up on stray bricks, and a mattress showing springs amid a gaping hole of shredded material, down the middle. I reckoned an old bathroom rug would keep it in use, for the moment.

Around the household, wounded appliances were everywhere. My neighborhood water supply had been suspect in the past, causing damage in random places. My sinks and tubs were stained with rust. The dishwasher surrendered years ago, to muck that hardened like glue. Bathroom faucets plugged. The washer had lost its cold water setting. The front bath drain was full of sludge, rendering that room of rest useless.

That is, until, it was repurposed as a large storage closet. I stacked boxes in the shower, more on the commode, with guitars leaning in the doorway. Cleveland sports apparel hung on what had been a towel rack.

Our main furnace developed a crack in its heat exchanger, last year. Leaving me to depend on a propane wall-heater from Tractor Supply Company for warmth. Because the system had reached an age of 20 years, every repair adviser recommended complete replacement. But the cheapest estimate came from Home Depot, at $3200.00. A sum I could not hope to gather. Even my General Electric stove did not escape the prevailing creep of infirmity. Its oven failed while making a pork roast, over the winter.

All of this came to mind while pondering my own disability. Hobbling with canes, somehow beating back the idea that I should surrender to the weight of physical afflictions. I had maintained my forward motion with a few tricks of handicapped living, and had managed to budget everything on a meager income more suited to apartment life than living alone in the country.

“Seem like every time you turn around

Something else just hit the ground.”

My aging pickup truck had an electrical problem with the passenger-side, front headlight. Causing frequent hood-up adjustments while on the road. It also surrendered a tailgate hinge to rust, requiring the use of tie-down straps for support. A month ago, the old mule developed ominous vibrations during a trip to the Thompson Township square, something that eventually forced a tune-up and a brief interlude of downtime.

Back inside, the water heater in my front closet finally expired after two decades of service. This let a filthy flow infuse the bedroom carpet where my dog normally slept. A situation that had me using a rug cleaner to pick up the excess water, and him scurrying for higher ground.

Though irritating, these bouts of brokenness reminded me greatly of childhood. Growing up in a family blessed with love, but not much financial foundation. Our environment was always littered with busted tools, toys, and trinkets. Dad knew how to fix what failed, but often lacked the time and wherewithal to keep up with these needs.

In a sense, it made me feel at home to be dollar-broke and broken.

“Broken cutters, broken saws

Broken buckles, broken laws

Broken bodies, broken bones

Broken voices on broken phones

Take a deep breath, feel like you’re chokin’

Everything is broken.”

Eventually, my Everlast shoes came apart, after a Miller Lite break on our front steps. They had protected my feet for about a dozen years. Another milestone of equipment failure, though less costly to replace.

In the dining room, a window squawked from use, owing to a structural weakness at that end of my home. The laundry room had a door that fit poorly. The bathtub had a kitchen faucet pressed into service, late on a weekend when I had no days off from work, and few dollars in my pocket. Everything reminded me of being a kid. Running lean, fixing only what was absolutely necessary.

And often, not even that, in the rush to make our household budget.

“Broken hands on broken ploughs

Broken treaties, broken vows

Broken pipes, broken tools

People bending broken rules

Hound dog howling, bullfrog croaking

Everything is broken.”

Earlier in the year, I had cataract surgery at a local eye center. A pair of procedures precipitated by a creeping blindness that threatened to force me off the road. This sight restoration rolled up the shades on a new era of improved vision. But more than letting me see clearly again, it produced butterflies in my belly. A gentle gnaw of emotion. Something had actually gotten fixed in the household.

Me!

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

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

“Poetry Punch”

 

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-20)

Too early comes the morning.

Wife 1.0 used to have a stone by her bedside. It read “What I think, I must speak.” This was a sentiment with which I could agree. Though the free offering of opinions can be a damning trait. Yet those in your orbit will never lose their bearings. Your position on the map will always be clear.

But on a recent night by the bonfire, I tried desperately not to engage in this habit. We were drinking with friends who had sharply different opinions than my own. Without thinking, one of my neighbors fiddled with the floodgate latch. Touching on the subject of politics. Tapping and tickling this lock in casual conversation. Innocently instigating another of our group. While I stiffened in silence.

Wild horses corralled behind my teeth. I did not want to spoil the evening. But the ranch railings were about to splinter under stomping hooves. So as a last resort, I simply chose to exit. Brusque and brutally quick.

I probably looked like an ass. But perhaps less so than if I had remained one second too long.

Later, after a lie-down on my couch, I woke up around 1:30 a.m., with wordsmithing impulses pounding the inside of my skull. Dirt and stones pummeled the back of my eyeballs. The stench of sweaty horse-flesh filled my nostrils.

“OUT! OUT! OUT!” equestrian snorts whinnied in my ears. “LET IT OUT!” I felt like a jockey before the big race. Or like a poor captive of Mr. Ed, as re-imagined by Quentin Tarantino. A demented, new-age charger.

Only one method could ease this pressure on my cerebrum. I needed to write:

Hop like Thumper

A bug on the bumper

Who dis?

Who dey?

Who is a Trumper?

Con man has a plan

He’ll give it all he can

Step up to vote

For the spray-on tan

Left and right

In a title fight

The knives come out

To the mob’s delight

Protests and rioters

Agent provocateurs

Cities burn after sunset

Here’s a story you won’t forget

The righteous emperor with no clothes

The future queen in pantyhose

Spit and stammer

Sickle and hammer

Anarchist versus iron fist

An olden tale

With a new plot twist

Trumper, Trumper

Baby buggy bumper

Bounce on the ground

Like crowd-control rounds

Tear gas, bang flash

Smoke and mirrors can’t hide this scene

I’m turning green

The White House lawn

With soldiers looking on

Guns at the ready

Steady, Freddie!

One party in power

And another if you seize the hour

Left or right, feel the might

Mercy me

Our duopoly

Hope and change

For our home on the range

But we heard that before

And I remember

A chill wind in September

Insider pick

Heal me quick

Vote out the tyrant

That I can do

But there’s no footwear but Blue Suede Shoes

Doobie doobie doo

I put a spell on you

Four years of torment

From our chosen government

Four more

Pick your store

It’s all made in China

What you waitin’ for?

Left side, right side

Bippity boppity boo

Tell me true

Did Lincoln die in vain

And Roosevelt’s body ride that train

So the kids of America

Can Facebook their pain

Twitter trash dredged up from the past

Make it last

Conflict sells

In this media hell

Get the shot stood live

Wendy’s on fire

A cop car with flat tires

Mannequin dragged out of Tar-zhay

That image won’t go away

Let us pray

For deliverance from the herd

Gone free as a bird

Lady Liberty in flight

Got the last plane out tonight

Before the quarantine

What a scene!

The emperor or a successor

You make the call

While he builds the wall

Either way there are bills to pay

The privileged pundits gone astray

Masked and distanced

Strutting like geese following a trail of saltines

The American Dream

God save Julian Bream!

Our heroes have gone to rest

While we sat at our desks

Scrolling, scrolling

Who’s got the latest polling?

The network feed

Skipped a beat

Their satellite is on all night

But static fills the moment

Unrest begins to foment

Swing the hammer hard

Like sonnets from the bard

This municipality

Is shooting skeet

Bumper, bumper

Who is a Trumper?

The system crashed

Our cities trashed

Chaos loose and surly

It’s so early

Let the voter beware

Let them stare

Which pill holds the magic?

Which one is tragic?

Each expert steeped in wisdom

While you run

Concrete blocks

And batteries in socks

Network news gets the shot

BREAKING NEWS

I see you!

I see what you want to do!

We’ll all get screwed!

BREAKING NEWS

Follow the rules

Masks and shots and flower pots

Forget-me-not

Who to believe?

I feel deceived

At the ballot box with my rabbit’s foot

Pipes full of soot

Shot up with possibilities

A shopping bag caught in the breeze

Blood on the blocks

In this school of hard knocks

Flip a coin in haste

Don’t let your vote go to waste

Choose your master

Forever after

I got no clue

What to do

But there’s a lucky penny

Stuck in my shoe

Once the stampede had been set free, I felt relieved. A pot of coffee vanished as I tapped away at the keyboard. Then, I felt sick at my stomach. Yet content.

My mission, once again, had been fulfilled.

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

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

“Starbucks Poetry Slam”

 

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-20)

I never had a cellphone until the age of 40.

This personal fact evokes giggles from the grandkids, and younger members of my neighborhood. Acquiring such a device came only because my wife, who had possessed several of these useful, electronic cubes, bought one for my birthday. At first, the importance of such connectivity was lost on me, having a preference for being comfortably out-of-touch. But years later, with my first smartphone, I began to appreciate one advantage of the technological marvel.

A constant feed of emerging newspaper stories.

Recently, an example of this phenomenon appeared as I read a post on the Geauga County Maple Leaf page, located on the social media platform of Facebook. It offered an article about the coffee colossus Starbucks coming to Chardon. The story aroused vigorous debate over such an intrusion, in their comments section.

I couldn’t resist offering my own brief observation.

“Welcome to ‘New Mentor’ the jewel of Geauga County.”

This theme continued to percolate throughout the rest of my day. I remembered my estranged spouse having a literal fascination with the Seattle retailer. She had even brought their coffee to our wedding reception. But more present in my thoughts were the ghosts of our village, wandering spirits long since surrendered to history. Quaint images of what my adopted home used to be, before the influx of new residents from afar.

After waking up at 2:00 a.m. for a typical session of work at the home computer, words began to flow like the dark beverage in my Bunn coffeemaker. What follows here is the result:

Chardon gettin’ a Starbucks

So much for shotguns and pickup trucks

You’re out of luck

With no ticket to this upward move

This yuppie groove

People moved in from Cleveland

Then wanted what they had back then

Urban sprawl

Damn it all

Got to free ourselves

From that decaying hell

But in our escape

We still want a taste

Of the rat race

Chardon gettin’ a Starbucks

Barely had a chance

For a high school dance

After this switch

From flirting with the Amish

To the smell of fish

Flipping from the babbling brook

We’re on the hook

Forrest Gumpers

Baby-bumpers

Gone to the country life

Husband and wife

Treading on sacred ground

Where those who used to come around

Are long lost and forgotten

By the misbegotten

 

Chardon gettin’ a Starbucks

The bag-packers and hacky-sackers

With the rest

Put to the test

This little piece of happiness

Is a barista success

Latte on the way

This is a new day

In a city gone astray

I used to walk here

For Rickard’s Bakery and Christmas cheer

But those memories

Bled through cracks in the street

Okay, Boomer

It was all just a rumor

Chardon gettin’ a Starbucks

So much for hunting ducks

Flannel shirts smoothed and tucked

Crisp is the air of fall

Time to sound the Mallard call

But in return

There’s a mating squawk

Of goods to hawk

National chains

Across the plains

So much for the Maple Leaf Inn

Zamer’s Music

It makes me sick

When I think of them

Gone, gone, gone

Baby I’m gone

Chardon gettin’ a Starbucks

Heartstrings are plucked

I’m feeling awestruck

On a bench at the square

No one is there

Everyone has gone to the moon

From December to June

But very soon

They’ll be grabbing Macchiato on the go

Look out below

There’s an old man down the road

Walking slow

He used to be someone

But now I forget

This plan is set

A bottom dollar to get

Chardon gettin’ a Starbucks

What a stroke of luck

Rolling dice cast a shadow

They’re paving the meadow

Yellow lines across the flowers

It’ll all be done in a few more hours

The concrete curbs

Have you heard?

Metal and glass

Take out the trash

C’mon, country hicks!

Approve me quick!

Or feel the beat of my pool stick

Corner shot ‘cross the table

If you’re able

Mabel, Black Label

Chardon gettin’ a Starbucks

Commerce run amok

Do the Huckle Buck

My kids won’t learn

Yesterday is a bridge we burned

The cord is cut

Sputter, sputter

I want peanut butter

But the chain from Seattle

Will test your mettle

With a scone, or biscotti on the side

You can run and hide

But the western winds are blowing

And the drone-eye is all knowing

This Geauga County opening

Of thee I sing

Chardon gettin’ a Starbucks

Spent 100K on a pickup truck

Gilded, glittering gold

No time for the old

Bring in the new, with Nike shoes

Uptick, tell me quick

What fashion trend will meet the end

There’s no time to sit at Woolworth’s

I’ll say it first

Nobody cares

About the Burton fair

Or a trip to Big Wheel

Conley’s, Golden Dawn, or Valu King

Death, where is thy sting?

It’s a prick of the flesh

Squeezed out of a French Press

Chardon gettin’ a Starbucks

This could be any coastal town, or Canuck city

Everything is pretty

North America will smile

Resistance is futile

Blandly bowing to the dudes

From Utah Avenue

My kids used to play on the way

To A & P, mercy me

Or stay up all night

Watching Ghoulardi flicks

With go-go dancing chicks

Ain’t that a kick?

But that’s the last breath of yesterday

Fading away

Like a butt in the ashtray

Chardon gettin’ a Starbucks

In a field of dried corn husks

Swept away

Hey, hey, hey

There’s an ocean sunrise

In the Geauga sky

The Maple Festival

Has grown too dull

A better habit soon to come

For every daughter and son

Sipping Sumatra, Espresso, or Morning Joe

Got the fire down below

A Venti full of Italian Roast

From the left coast

It’s the most

A Buckeye bumpkin can buy

Without the urge to see

Somewhere other

Than flyover country

When I came home from New York in 1983, this spot in northeastern Ohio still retained much of its rural character and heritage. But that sturdy foundation has dissolved over time as new stories were written and new lives emerged. I can only wonder what a future Chardon will encompass, long after those like myself have gone.

Perhaps, in another 37 years, some other writer will pen their own ‘poetry slam.’ If so, then I hope to read their creation in a paper available in my nursing home.

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

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

“Wet Blanket”

 

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-20)

Water woes.

Ever since moving to the rural, mobile-home community of Rustic Pines, in eastern Geauga County, Ohio, I have fretted over issues with water. The quality and supply of this essential flow has been unreliable, maddening, and since a submetering company arrived, costly. Early in the 2000’s, it was not unusual to find visible sediment pouring from our home faucets. A reality that had my wife wishing for some kind of intervention by local reporters. Rust, dirt, and chemicals were a persistent presence. Just as ubiquitous were letters from the park owners, I & R Properties, Incorporated. They regularly sent assurance that EPA tests had certified our water supply to be safe for human consumption.

The claims were more than suspect. Their cheerful messages teetered on the brink of a disinformation campaign. We were not believers.

In recent years, however, the drama of such issues faded. I accepted the necessity of buying potable water, off-site. I also came to view the exorbitant rise in my water bills, from $15.00 at the most, to $63.65, as a simple rent increase. Because I was now disabled and retired, moving seemed unlikely. My fate was to remain a part of the neighborhood. One I had inhabited for nearly two decades.

My companion throughout much of this period, a Black Labrador Retriever, had aged to the point of 13 years, and beyond. He preferred to sleep at the foot of my bed, on folded blankets. A spot that was both handy and practical. I liked it that he stayed close. But on a particular morning, I noticed that his bedding had become wet and soiled. Stained brown with what I thought must be canine urine. Because of his advanced years, I reckoned he had lost control of his bladder. Something I anticipated, yet dreaded from afar. We had shared a long journey together. Now, it seemed, the end times were at hand.

I picked up his blanket, and threw it in the washer.

For a couple of days, I repeated this cycle. Changing out his comforter dutifully, and doing small loads of laundry to keep up the pace. The floor grew sopping wet from each accident of nature. Finally, I relocated him to another room where it was easier to clean up the mess. But then, I realized that the puddle of stale fluid remained in place. In fact, it had spread wider across the carpet. Under the covers, at night, I was struck by a perplexing query. Were these bursts born of a weak constitution, or something more mechanical? A failure, perhaps, of the hot water tank that sat in the front closet, next to his favored resting spot?

I threw off the covers and held out my cellphone flashlight. There, in a cubbyhole at the side of my closet, was the Rheem vessel, 40 gallons in reserve, stood in a sparkling pool of ebbing, dirty, muck. A wounded receptacle that was feeding its insides out across the floor.

I cursed in the darkness.

The unit had lasted 20 years. A span of time that made it fully immune from any legitimate complaints. Yet my stomach churned with angst. I had just spent a few hundred dollars repairing my old pickup truck, after a bout of clattering and clunking on a trip to the town square. To have another need appear so quickly made me tremble. Yet I felt relief in knowing that my pooch was not at fault. Silently, I gave thanks for his longevity.

While inspecting the tank, I realized that there were no shut-off valves installed. A typical flaw of manufactured residences like mine. Because I required two canes for remaining upright while walking, it wasn’t possible to easily hunt for clues. Yet my household Bissell rug cleaner served well to vacuum up excess moisture. Meanwhile, I pondered the plumbing system. A main valve had been installed next to my back steps, in the ground-level hydrant. It controlled the supply for every room of the residence. After clearing the bedroom, I went outside for an inspection.

Once again, I used my phone for illumination. The pipes were laid out under the floor, following industry standards. But no handle remained to control the water supply. Astoundingly, the submetering company had removed this useful tool when installing their own measuring device. And I could not kneel under the trailer with a pair of pliers.

While calling my friend who was a maintenance technician for Giant Eagle, the carpet vacuuming continued. I picked up a full reservoir of seepage with each pass around the space. The stench filled my nostrils, and the living room, nearby. Promises of rescue were made, over and over again. But no one came to help. I kept sucking up the tide with my carpet appliance. Finally, a sticker appeared on the Rheem tank, from a previous repair. “Benjamin Franklin Plumbing. If there’s any delay, it’s you we pay! Call for 24-hour service.”

I remembered their last visit, over five years ago. Also, that they had predicted a hefty price for complete replacement of the hot water tank. But my options were few. I knew that the park would dispute their responsibility with the master valve. Work on the meter itself would require calling an employee all the way from Burton, Michigan, home of Universal Utilities. The company contracted to provide submetering services. I simply wanted to avoid permanent damage to my bedroom.

With a lump in my throat, I dialed the local Franklin number for service.

My Black Lab has always appreciated visitors. So he welcomed the two fellows who arrived with much zeal. Sniffing, strutting, rubbing himself against the door, begging for pats, generally supervising the entire repair operation. Predictably, both men were of a blue-collar disposition, so they easily accepted this show of mutt motivation. Eventually, my big-pawed friend stretched out on the living room floor. Satisfied that the work was proceeding according to plan.

The old tank leaked sediment akin to motor oil as it left my home on a two-wheel dolly. An evidentiary trail followed as it rolled down the driveway. The new cask went into place with proper valves and color-coded shielding on the lines. A professional job I was glad to witness.

After the repairs were complete, I did a final vacuum with my rug cleaner. The bedroom was soaked and soggy, but on the mend. The carpet made squishing noises with each step, like a beach blanket after high tide. Still, I knew that things would soon be drying out, if patience could hold my irritation in check.

I apologized to my dog for suspecting that old age had made him wobbling, weak, and leaky. He tilted his head in a familiar way. It felt like an acceptance of my apology. Or close enough at least, to ease my pangs of guilt.

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

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

“The Great Debate”

 

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-20)

Tuesday night.

I was up late, with my reserve of Miller Lite close at hand. Head full of ideas and belly full of macaroni-and-cheese with Huy Fong sriracha I fell asleep on the couch which had been recently elevated with the use of some discarded lumber from a deck in the family. Something that nullified the limitations of my disability.

In a beer-slumber, echoes from the day began to combine with powerful results. I had watched the evening news, with coverage of the fall election approaching, then switched to vintage videos from the 1990’s on YouTube. What resulted follows in this ad hoc manuscript:

DEBATE NIGHT CNN

Theme music plays throughout the empty studio. Because of COVID-19, there are no spectators. Then, the lights turn to two men, standing before the cameras.

Announcer: “This... is a special presentation of CNN!”

Wolf Blitzer: “Good evening America, we welcome you tonight to Atlanta for the first direct encounter between two familiar men. Mr. Donald Trump and Mr. Joe Biden. We have stationed their lecterns six feet apart, and our own desks are also an equal distance away. But their views are farther apart than that… representing a persistent divide in this nation. Tonight, we will hear their opinions and their ideas for the future.”

Donald Trump: (Looking confident) “Hello America. And I say hello, really say it bigly, believe me, a big hello, bigger than ever before...”

Joe Biden: (Smiling) “Hello, my friends.”

Erin Burnett: “Thanks, Wolf. This debate is impartially sponsored by ‘The Huffington Post’ and ‘The New York Times.’ Also by ‘The Atlantic.’ It will be a one-hour conversation with frank discussion of current events...”

Suddenly, the sound of a bell echoes through the studio. “Ding! Ding! Ding!”

Jerry Springer: “Thanks Wolf and Erin! All of that sounds great… sounds really predictable, actually… so tonight we will skip the stale rhetoric. This is 2020 after all. And with this year of chaos, we bring you a battle royal of an election. A battle between political foes dug deep into their foxholes. After the Coronavirus lockdown, nobody wants to see another long-winded debate between blowhard speakers. They want real entertainment!”

A dramatic pause elapses as swirling lights pan around the studio.

J. Springer: “DO YOU WANT TO SEE A FIGHT, AMERICA??”

W. Blitzer: (Looking horrified) “What the heck?”

E. Burnett: (Dropping her water bottle, then whispering) “Who let Springer on this show?”

Producer: (Speaking through their headsets) “Jeff Zucker wants some action for a change. Roll with it! Just say yes!”

J. Springer: “MY GUESTS ARE TWO OLD WHITE MEN WHO WANT YOUR VOTE! THE GRABBER-IN-CHIEF AND THE GUY WHO HOOKED UP HIS SON WITH A CUSHY, FOREIGN JOB! LET’S WELCOME DONALD AND JOE TO THE BIG SHOW!!!”

Canned applause is played through studio monitors.

E. Burnett: (Hushed) “This is insane!”

W. Blitzer: (Nodding) “I thought Jerry handed everything over to Steve Wilkos! Isn’t he trying to be a judge now?”

J. Springer: “For a running mate, Mr. Trump has a bland lump of flesh with the personality of a Miracle Whip sandwich. And Mr. Biden has a feisty new friend, who once called him a racist and a harasser of women. Let’s welcome our candidates to the big show!”

E. Burnett: (Trembling) “We’re all going to get fired!”

W. Blitzer: (Adjusting his tie) “Thanks Jerry. Tonight, our first question is from Javier DiSilva of Ferndale, California. Mr. Biden, what is your plan to move the country forward toward eliminating fossil-fuel vehicles on our roadways?”

J. Springer: (Shaking his head) “No… no… no… that is so yesterday, Wolf. So 1992. I ask you Mr. Biden, how would you describe your feelings when Trump calls you ‘Sleepy Joe’ and says you’ve been hiding in your basement?”

J. Biden: “I think he’s a lying, dog-paced pony soldier!”

D. Trump: “I think Joe has done badly so far in this debate. Very badly, really.”

W. Blitzer: (Wide-eyed) “Sir we are just getting started. Mr. Biden was answering his question...”

J. Biden: “I helped Barack lead this country for eight years. While Donald was counting his money at Trump Tower and chasing Stormy Daniels!”

D. Trump: (Irritated) “I’ve been treated poorly, very badly, people are saying it everywhere. Sleepy, Joe, Creepy Joe, not many people are interested in him as a candidate, really, not many people.”

E. Burnett: (Trying to regain control) “Mr. Trump, our next question is for you. From Sallay Rham Totokiki of Rockford, Michigan. She asks you to explain your plan for remaking healthcare.”

J. Springer: (Disgusted) “Boring! Booooooring! You want people to change the channel, Erin? Alright Mr. President, what is your preference between wives? Number one, two, or three?”

W. Blitzer: (Shocked) “Mother of God!”

J. Biden: (Laughing) “I tell you that Donald is worse than Jeffrey Epstein! An untrustworthy bog-swimming porch pirate!”

D. Trump: (Angry) “Fake News! CNN tried to take me down, MSNBC, all the rest. They tried very hard, tried many times. But I won a great victory in 2016, a big, big victory.”

J. Biden: (Defiant) “You won a victory getting off that island before they put Epstein in handcuffs!”

D. Trump: (Breathless) “I kicked him out of Mar-a-Lago. Kicked him out, very brutally out. I wanted nothing to do with him, nothing.”

J. Biden: (Shaking his head) “After he got caught!”

W. Blitzer: “Please, gentlemen. Let’s get back in focus!”

The fight bell sounds again. “Ding! Ding! Ding!”

J. Springer: (Gesturing over his head) “Let’s up the tempo here! We don’t want our viewers to fall asleep! In sixty seconds or less, describe each other in plain terms. Mr. Trump, you first!”

D. Trump: (Caught off guard) “I call him sleepy. I call him creepy. I say that he doesn’t know he’s alive, really doesn’t know. Doesn’t know. The liberal Democrats picked Joe, I don’t know why they picked him, sleepy and old.”

J. Biden: (Raising his voice) “We’ve got to take back America. This is a big f****** deal, as I once said. Taking America back from men like Donald. Men who grab women and lie! A parrot-haired big bag of bird seed!”

D. Trump: (Eyes narrowing) “What about Tara Reade? What about her? Has the fake news media looked into that, really? Really looked at what happened?”

Again the bell sounds, sharply. “Ding! Ding! Ding!”

J. Springer: “Biden says you’re a friend of white supremacists, Mr. President!”

D. Trump: “Isn’t that what Kamala Harris said about him? Really said?”

J. Springer: “Trump says you’re incoherent and out-to-lunch, Mr. Biden!”

J. Biden: “I promise you, the president has a big stick. I will have a big stick on inauguration day. Just like Teddy Roosevelt.”

W. Blitzer: (Whispering) “Apparently a president with small hands doesn’t have a big stick.”

E. Burnett: (Stifling her guffaws) “Wolf, you kill me sometimes! But keep your voice down.”

J. Springer: (Pumping his first in the air) “America wants a show. Everyone wants a show. Everyone wants to be entertained. I ask you two men, will you keep us on the edge of our seats for the next four years?”

“Ding! Ding! Ding!”

D. Trump: “I know ratings, know them for a long time. I understand ratings. My ratings are the highest of any president, believe me. Huuuuge!”

J. Biden: (Nodding) “I will entertain America with millions of new jobs, clean energy, equality, justice, and a firm hand against Russia! Not like Donnie here!”

D. Trump: (Skeptical) “If you don’t fall asleep after your glass of warm milk!”

J. Biden: “If we do everything right, if we do it with absolute certainty, there’s still a 30% chance we’re going to get it wrong. But I’m going to get it right. That will get me ratings, the right kind of ratings.”

D. Trump: “China wants you to win! And Iran!”

J. Biden: “Russia wants you to win! You pigeon-pig stone stooge for Putin!”

D. Trump: “Friend of s***-hole countries!”

J. Biden: “Friend of Ghislaine Maxwell!”

D. Trump: “FAILING LIKE THE NEW YORK TIMES, FAILING BADLY!”

J. Biden: “GRABBING KITTY! YOU OSTRICH-BEAKED BIG BLEACHED BUM!”

“Ding! Ding! Ding!”

D. Trump: “CRYING CHUCK AND NERVOUS NANCY GIVE YOU MARCHING ORDERS, JOE!”

J. Biden: “CINNAMON-CRISP MANGO MUTTON CHEETOS DOPE! I’LL WHIP YOUR ASS!”

Secret Service agents lunge into action as both men leave their places for a face-to-face confrontation.

J. Springer: (Satisfied at last) “THANK YOU FOR TUNING IN AMERICA! This has been the first presidential election debate of 2020! For Wolf Blitzer and Erin Burnett, I am Jerry Springer! Take care of yourself! And each other!”

Announcer: “Goodnight from Atlanta!”

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

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

“Truck Terror”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-20)

Vehicle repair – never a good time.

I pondered this truism recently when needing a tune-up on my aging Ford F-150 pickup. A veteran vehicle with over 170,000 miles on the odometer. I had wanted to consider buying a new vehicle from one of the dealerships in my area of Ohio. But a quick online search for possibilities sent me crashing back into reality. A preferred choice registered monthly payments of $659.00, something literally impossible on my retirement income.

The old hoss and I seemed destined to spend a bit more time together.

I called a familiar repair shop in Ashtabula County, and began to explain my needs. The owner was a fellow who had helped me repeatedly in the past. A veteran mechanic, iconoclast, widower, and unruly political conservative. He sounded disinterested as I began my spiel. “The STX has been running raggedly. I tested it with my OBD II scanner and got a code of ‘Cylinder 1 Misfire, P0301.’ I would guess that it needs a fresh set of spark plugs at the least...”

My cranky friend scoffed at the amateur diagnosis.

“There are over 900 codes possible with your truck!” he shouted. “Any one of them could mean any variety of things wrong. I see this all the time. It could be plugs, wires, ignition coils, a fuel problem, maybe a more serious engine failure… or bird poop clogging the intake!”

I nodded silently. “Right, that is why I ran the diagnostic scanner.”

“What motor do you have?” he asked.

“The 4.6 liter V-8,” I said, already regretting my call.

He hammered the desk. “NO! WE DON’T WORK ON THOSE ANYMORE! I HAD A CUSTOMER HERE, HIS PLUGS BROKE OFF, DAMN FORD PLUGS, HE HAD TO REPLACE A HEAD AT THE DEALERSHIP, IT WAS $1800.00! WHAT A MESS!”

I badly wanted a beer. But it was only 10:30 in the morning.

“NOPE, WE WON’T REPLACE THOSE PLUGS, I WANT YOU TO KNOW!” he continued to rant. “DAMN FORD ENGINEERS! DAMN THEM ALL! FORD AND HILLARY CLINTON!”

My friend had worked on the pickup several times, doing routine maintenance like replacing the alternator or putting in new joints for the 4WD system. Always grousing that his cobbled-together Chevy Trailblazer, despite many obvious faults, was a better ride. He had inherited it from a customer, who trashed the SUV due to brake-system failure, and a resulting lawsuit. But today, his attitude had gone completely sour. I could only listen and tremble.

“So… it sounds like I should just take the ‘gray Ghost’ elsewhere,” I mumbled with defeat.

“YES!” he yowled. “YES YES YES! PUT A ‘FOR SALE’ SIGN ON THAT THING, IT IS JUNK! SCRAP METAL! SEND IT TO THE BONEYARD!”

I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Send it to the crusher because it needed spark plugs? That did not sound logical. But arguing the point seemed… well… pointless.

I offered my thanks and ended our conversation.

A call to DRC Truck Repair in Madison came next. A fellow there had helped when I became stranded with a different vehicle, after a tie-rod snapped. I figured that fate had decreed we should rekindle our relationship. But there was no answer. Just an extended repetition of ring tones in my ear.

Finally, I texted my sister. A ride from my brother-in-law would be needed, regardless of the final destination. As I explained my quandary, she mentioned a shop in Chardon, not far from my home. A place that had provided service for her minivan, and once helped when I needed a cheap, replacement tire.

With humility, I gave thanks for this bit of inspiration.

The phone rang twice before someone answered. A polite man said that I had chosen the wrong number from their website. He offered a different line for the service department. Then finally, I made contact with the one who had helped me over a year ago.

“I have a 2006 F-150 STX, four-wheel drive. With the 4.6 liter V-8,” my words echoed purposefully. “Likely in need of a basic tune-up. It is an old horse, lots of miles on the clock. Running roughly just now. The ‘check engine’ light came on last week.”

The owner was matter-of-fact and courteous. “When can you bring it in for a look?”

I was completely surprised. “Well, today would be great. My fear was that you might be shy about looking at this particular motor...”

He laughed out loud.

“We work on all makes and models here,” he boasted. “There is no problem doing a simple tune-up on your truck.”

My pulse began to quicken. “Okay then! I’ll have it there in a jiffy!”

I made arrangements to meet my brother-in-law at the repair depot. The ride from Thompson was clunky and clanky, but successful. I left the keys on their front desk, after a minimal description of the issue-at-hand. By now, it had grown late in the day.

My relative had gone to the wrong shop, by mistake. So I waited on a bench, outside. Storm clouds were thickening, in the northern sky, toward Lake Erie. I fretted over being left out in the rain. But thankfully, that did not happen.

Throughout the night and next morning, I worried over my plight. Was the old crank in Geneva justified in his anger? Would there be a precipitation of disaster waiting when I revisited the shop? Should I make plans to be burdened with a loan payment for years to come? Was the old hoss really at its end of service? Would I be better off walking, two canes at the ready, hobbling like homeless wreck?

A call came around 4:00 in the afternoon. It was a woman in their office. She chirped cheerfully that my truck had been fixed with no trouble. It could be picked up at my convenience.

My heart thumped powerfully. “Fate be damned!” I could get on the road, again.

This time, my brother-in-law arrived without meandering to a false destination. I managed to arrive before another hour had passed. The office woman described their repair regimen, which sounded completely professional. I gestured with my canes to demonstrate why I had not done the work myself. She thanked me for patronizing their business.

Then, at last, I was in motion again.

The gray F-150 ran more smoothly than ever. I needed to get prescriptions, and headed for Giant Eagle. It had been a long day since being verbally squashed by my erstwhile cohort in Ashtabula County. Yet I reckoned that this represented a new start of sorts.

And another respite from monthly payments – at least for today.

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

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

“Judge Jerry & Donald Trump”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-20)

It was a busy day in the Court of Hades.

A line of accused spirits stretched from one end of the great cavern, to infinity. There were thousands of condemned souls awaiting punishment.

Bailiff Tar Sulpherio stood tall, with the stiff demeanor of a traffic cop. He lifted a scroll filled with names of the damned.

“All rise!” he barked, full of emotion.

Judge Lucifer Satan Beelzebub entered the chamber in a swirl of smoke and fire. “Be seated!”

Wailing echoed from the depths. The air crackled with anticipation and sorrowful regrets.

Sulpherio read from his scroll. “First, your honor, we have Valden Tork. A garbage collector from Manalapan Township, New Jersey. His crime was dragging lawn furniture away with the trash on his route, and selling those items for extra profit.”

Judge Lucifer was visibly irritated. “Wasn’t that in the plot line of a ‘Trailer Park Boys’ episode? I decree 50 years of breaking rocks, and an extra 50 for your lack of originality. Next!”

“Please, please,” Tork moaned. “I ask forgiveness...”

Bailiff Sulpherio exploded in laughter. “Forgiveness? You won’t get any of that in this court, plebeian! Try talking to Jesus!”

Lucifer shuddered. “THAT NAME! DON’T SPEAK IT HERE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

Sulpherio bowed deferentially. “A thousand pardons, master.” He straightened his harness, then lifted the scroll again. “Next up we have Jennings Blaine from Eubank, Kentucky. His crime is posting videos on Tik Tok of his cat dressed like Lady Gaga. Dancing in kitty heels, to her songs.”

Lucifer was speechless for a moment. Then sputtered like a busted sewer pipe. “What?? What in blazes is that?? Really?”

The bailiff reread his document. “It is written here, my lord.”

“That’s quite stupid, I admit,” Judge Lucifer chortled. “But does it really qualify as a sin?”

Sulpherio nodded defiantly. “The sin of idiocy! It is written, sir. Let it be adjudicated!”

Lucifer shrugged and tapped his gavel on the desk. “I decree one year of sifting sand by the Lake of Fire. Plus a year of being shunned due to your failure to think of a better sin for this court!”

Sulpherio fumbled with his scroll to find another entry. There was tension on his face.

“And next time be more diplomatic with your protests, bailiff!” Lucifer shouted. “Or you’ll join these wailing prisoners on my work detail!”

The bailiff wiped sweat from his brow. “Yes, yes, again I beg your pardon, lord!”

Mumbling filled the chamber.

“Next up, we have Horton Flick,” Sulpherio read. “From Challis, Idaho. His crime was spreading a rumor that President Donald Trump has contracted a terminal illness… and may miss the 2020 election.”

Flick struggled with his chains. He was stocky and pale. “That was no internet fable. The Cheeto-in-Chief is sick, I tell you!”

Judge Lucifer sat back on his throne. “What?? I’ve heard nothing of this, foolish man!”

Sulpherio snickered. “Sentence him, your honor. Let him be gone!”

“No!” Flick pleaded. “I uncovered the story while networking with other gamers. It’s true, Mister Satan. Listen to me!”

Lucifer leaned forward to hear. “You intrigue me, little man. Trump is ill? We might get him down here, you say?”

Sulpherio chided the judge. “Don’t listen, master. Don’t listen to him!”

Flick rubbed his red eyes. “Check for yourself! Peer into his soul!”

Lucifer laughed like a child. “I’ve owned his soul for years! But his body, that is living tissue. I can tempt him, cajole him, persuade him… but his flesh was made by the creator.”

Sulpherio bowed in reflection. “He who must not be named.”

“DAMN GOD AND HIS ANGELS!” Lucifer yowled. “THEY LEAVE ME HERE TO JUDGE IDIOTS WHEN I SHOULD BE REIGNING OVER HEAVEN!”

Flick shivered from fear. “Log onto Twitter, Mister Satan. It’s all there, I promise you!”

Lucifer could not control his anger. “TWITTER? YOU WANT THE LORD OF HADES TO GO ON TWITTER???”

Sulpherio covered his grin.

Flick coughed, quietly. “It’s there, it’s there, nobody believes of course. Trump may not see the fall election. I swear!”

Lucifer turned to the side and gestured with an outstretched finger. Light glowed on the cavern wall, making the craggy surface come alive. He stared into the luminescent display. “Yes… yes… I see. Entry after entry. At Walter Reed Hospital… an IV bruise on his hand… carrying newspapers… interesting!”

Sulpherio brightened. “Ha ha, if he comes down here, you can judge him at last, lord!”

Flick swelled with vindication. “You see? I committed no sin! I was right!”

Lucifer turned off the display. His head began to throb. He closed his eyes. Fighting invisible pain, he covered his ears. An unspoken message swelled his skull.

“YES GOD, YESSS! YESSS!” he hissed. “STOP! STOP! STOP!”

Sulpherio and Flick both went into spasms. “What is wrong? What is Wrongggg?”

Lucifer raised his head, weakly. “The voice of EUHS. I am being sanctioned.”

Flick was confused. “Who?”

Bailiff Sulpherio felt out of breath. “The Eternal Union of Heavenly Souls! Why did they reach out to you, my lord?”

Judge Lucifer was exhausted from the silent contact. “Discipline for an innocent soul. They are forcing me to step aside. Damn this miscreant! I thought Idaho was a place for potatoes, not political rumors!”

Flick stood completely upright. “I was correct?”

Lucifer pounded his gavel. “ONLY HALF RIGHT, YOU FAT LITTLE TOAD! THE STORIES ARE TRUE BUT TRUMP MUST FACE HIS JUDGMENT WITH THE LIVING, NOT HERE IN HELL! I WON’T GET HIM JUST YET!”

Flick was stunned. “So I am free… to go?”

Lucifer swung his gavel like a club. “YES! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! OUT OF HELL! GET THE HELL OUT OF HELL BEFORE I THINK OF ANOTHER REASON TO PUNISH YOU IN THIS CHAMBER!”

Bailiff Sulpherio picked up his scroll. “Next up, we have Rhonda Ronk from Chardon, Ohio...”

“BLAST THAT!” Lucifer growled angrily. I am done for the day. Let the rest of these miserable minions wait until tomorrow. I need to do something for this headache...”

Sulpherio bowed gracefully. “But if you can’t pass sentence on Donald Trump, then who will, master?”

Lucifer tried to soothe his pain with a cup of pumice brine. “God in his infinite wisdom, and with counsel from the EUHS has decreed that the president will be judged by a member of the living world. Not by me, the Lord of Hell.”

Sulpherio looked puzzled. “But, who among the mortal world would be fit to serve justice on a fellow like Trump? A crafty, conniving cheater and a skilled liar extraordinaire? Who is stained and soiled enough to hand down judgment to such a rascal?”

Lucifer rubbed his temples. “GOD! GOD HIMSELF HAS CHOSEN JUDGE JERRY… JERRY SPRINGER! ANOTHER SOUL I CAN’T STEAL JUST YET! NOW DON’T MAKE ME SPEAK OF THE HOLY FATHER AGAIN!”

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

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