GCML COLUMN: "INCIDENT ON SIDLEY ROAD"

c. 2006 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(7-06)




Note to Readers: The following column contains elements that are not strictly true. Be advised that our editor recommends you read on carefully, with due caution.

A few months ago, I wrote a humorous column about ‘The Tube Farm.’ My bit of creative wordsmithing speculated on possible explanations for this unusual local oddity. While the piece was intended only as a parody of modern reporting, it resonated with citizens across Geauga. The result was a generous week of sales for The Maple Leaf. I felt happy to have struck a nerve with our readership.
Soon afterward, however, strange calls began to plague the ICE homestead. A series of voice-mail messages were left at my number, with the same inquisitorial tone. A rough voice asked directly: “How did you know?”
Stray e-mail messages started to appear at every account I used. “Who’s side are you on?” they asked. “Are you a patriot, or an instigator?” Eventually, I moved them to a folder in my account marked ‘Mr. X.’ Each blast of prose was basically the same. Someone had become convinced that I knew secret details about the field of tubes on Rock Creek Road!
I began to note the presence of covert surveillance whenever I left my peaceful Geauga neighborhood. There was a prevailing sense of being watched throughout the entire day! Unmarked cars followed each movement I made, skillfully. It brought a sense of weariness to my travels. I mumbled curses while navigating back roads to my destinations. “Who is stalking me? The government? The CIA? Or a foreign power??”
Predictably, the messages continued on my phone. “How did you know?” They sounded more than curious. Represented was a promise for further investigation. After awhile, I simply started deleting them without listening. Then, the patience of my clandestine observer seemed to evaporate. He left a different sort of audio note. It was chillingly direct. “Mr. Ice, this game is growing tiresome. We need to talk. Meet us at the raceway, in Thompson, tomorrow afternoon. Let’s settle this like gentlemen. Share your information, and we won’t bother you again!”
When I got the regular mail that day, a postcard was with my ration of bulk advertising. It was nearly blank, except for two words: “BE THERE!” I took the command as an ultimatum.
My plan for the meeting involved two cameras. One was the current digital unit I used for the paper. Its older, film-format cousin would be my decoy. Before leaving, I e-mailed a neighbor who would be home from work in a couple of hours. My instructions were cryptic, but clear: “Going for a ride by the drag strip. If I happen to break down, come look for me…” Then, I said a silent prayer.
Minutes later, I approached the strip cautiously. It was empty, but the gates were open. After circling the driveway, my courage began to build. Silence gripped the afternoon with relentless authority. I clicked off a series of photographs, and then hid the digital camera in an oily T-shirt used to clean my truck. I remained calm despite frayed nerves. With my bogus film unit in hand, I approached the track itself. The observation tower seemed ominous when framed against the blue sky. While taking pictures, I had thought there was a dark figure in the window. But… it turned out to be an illusion. Or was it? Suddenly, I couldn’t be certain of anything. The raceway held its secrets tightly. I walked alone for a moment, wondering if the news tip had been a distraction from something else.
My mood changed instantly, when a group of three men appeared. They were dressed in dark suits and tinted glasses. There was no time to react! In only a second, the trio had me surrounded. This was it – REAL CONTACT! The wind carried a scent of chemical residue. Briefly, I worried about being kidnapped.
The tallest man spoke in a monotone voice. “Mr. Ice? Pleased to meet you.”
I was scared, but rebellious. “Mr. X, I presume??”
He snorted. “Whatever you like. I’m glad you decided to cooperate.”
A second man snatched away the empty camera. “You won’t be needing this!”
I pretended to protest. “Hey, that’s my property!”
Mr. Y pulled out the roll of 35mm film and crushed it under his heel. Then, he handed the device back to me, with a grin. “Sure. Here you go!”
Mr. X whispered to his third companion. “Did you search the motorcycle?”
Mr. Z responded with disgust. “Yes. We just found beer, smokies from Trumbull Locker, and an oily, pink garment. He must have used it for a garage rag!”
I was impatient. “So, why did you want to talk, Herr X? What is so special about a guy like me, anyway?”
He chortled. “You are a very unique man, Mr. Ice. Your report about ‘The Tube Farm’ was incredibly insightful. That is why we wanted you here. I need some information… How did you know about The Tubes?”
“Know what??” I growled.
Mr. X returned to his monotone. “How did you know the Defense Department was in Ashtabula County?”
I cleared my throat. “Look Mr. X-Box, my article was fiction. Didn’t you get that? I’m a newspaper columnist. I made it all up as a joke.”
Y and Z nodded, with a wink. “Oh sure… of course you did!”
I felt perturbed. My stomach was tied in a knot. “It’s a gimmick I use as a writer, you know? People get a laugh out of such wild creations.”
Mr. X narrowed his eyes. “If you won’t be honest, we’re going to require stronger measures…How did you find out that The President had been in our area?”
My hands were shaking. “Hey, Mr. X-Files, I’m just a small-town newspaper guy, okay? Don’t you understand? It was all in good fun!”
A cell phone chirped in Mr. Y’s pocket. He turned away, buzzing with hurried conversation. Then, the mysterious fellow went pale. I watched him close ranks with the others. Muffled words filled the air. And suddenly, the tense atmosphere was gone.
Mr. X spoke for the group. “Uhm… I have to apologize, Rod. It seems that we’ve made a mistake…”
“There’s a revelation!” I shouted. “How did you figure it out?”
He looked truly embarrassed. “We thought you had inside information. But our search methods have confirmed your story…”
“SEARCH METHODS??” I exploded. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN??”
Mr. Y tried to diffuse the excitement. “Please, Rod! Forgive us!”
“We’re all on the same side here,” Mr. Z added, emphatically.
I was angry. “Did you ransack my house? Are you guys from the government?”
Mr. Z laughed out loud.
“You have us pegged wrong,” Mr. Y said with a smile. “We don’t work for ‘W’ and his Washington buddies. We are in YOUR line of employment.”
I had become completely baffled. “What??”
“We are journalists, just like you,” Mr. X replied.
“This is X-tremely stupid!!” I said, sarcastically. “Don’t tell me you are with CNN! Or The New York Times?”
Looking guilty, the trio held their silence.
Finally, Mr. X shrugged his shoulders. “We need the REAL story, just like you, Rod. Truth is our mission. We owe it to the public.”
“We are the guardians,” Mr. Y continued. “Don’t try to pretend that you feel differently about things. This is life during wartime. It is our duty to represent the people. There is no other way.”
My mouth had gone dry. “I understand your passion for journalism. And I respect that. But what happened to old-fashioned reporting? You are supposed to convey the news, not manufacture it! Don’t you realize that everything you print has an effect on the world? By rushing toward conclusions, you are doing a disservice to your readers.”
No one would answer my proposition.
“You can’t place yourselves above those you represent,” I said with emotion. “Reporting isn’t a crusade. It is a public service.”
Dust began to rise from Sidley Road. Someone was approaching, with a custom dragster on its flatbed trailer! I blinked as the three men vanished like a wisp of smoke. My belly went limp. The uneasy silence relented at last. I was glad to hear the clatter of a diesel motor!
Cheers echoed from the drag crew as they rolled in, next to my motorcycle. A blonde teenager giggled at my befuddlement. Her outfit was a matching NASCAR top and shorts. She looked colorful, and sassy. “Hey, you’re early, Mister. Did you come far to see the races?”
I fumbled for a reply. My head was still spinning. “Just here for the local
newspaper. Got to write a story.”
She didn’t look impressed. Her brothers pointed toward the staging area. With a blurt of diesel exhaust, they were gone.
I scanned the horizon for X, Y, and Z. But only azure blue met my eyes. It was time to turn the Hawg toward home. My close encounter with alien invaders was over. Now, it was time to make my deadline!