Ice, by Louis Brown

My take on “The Iceman Cometh,” a drama by Eugene O’Neill

The year is 1912 about 10 years after the Boer War. The dramatis personae are all extreme alcoholics and are clinically depressed. They also wax philosophical. The scenes all take place in a bar with a boarding house upstairs, owned by Harry Hope who is also a severe alcoholic and is a doomsday philosopher. His bar and hotel are located in western Greenwich Village (where else?)

In a way, the drinkers are actually rather close to each other – most of them have known each other for years — although they also quarrel frequently and fiercely. In their lengthy exchanges with one another, they try and convince themselves that they are not clinically depressed, that, if only they could work up enough courage, they could/would walk out through the doors of the bar and start a steady job or even develop a career.

Of course, these steady jobs and careers are actually pipe-dreams. Pete Wetjohn is the Dutchman, a veteran of the Boer War (1899-1902). Joe is the one “angry” black man.

As noted above, Harry Hope is the proprietor of the Harry Hope Bar and Hotel and is second in importance as a play character to Theodore Hickman (Hickey).

Some play characters include James Cameron as Jimmy Tomorrow, and there are three prostitutes, Pearl, Margie and Cora. Harry Hope and Hugo are their pimps. All the characters are heavy drinkers (“drunks” or “drunkards”) and party almost constantly in the barroom. Rocky is the Italian night bartender.

All the barroom imbibers, including Harry Hope, proprietor, live for their pipe-dreams. After each pipe-dream tirade, each drinker returns to hitting the bottle, hoping to have a brain-numbing blackout.

The main character, the protagonist, the “hero” of the play is Theodore Hickman (Hickey) who eventually admits he shot his wife Evelyn to death. The reader assumes this was because he had discovered that she was having an affair with the iceman (whence the play’s title).

In a rather verbose but famous soliloquy, pp. 689-702, Hickey tries to make an extremely unconvincing case that he shot his wife to death because he loved her and because he was temporarily insane. Also unconvincing was his argument that he wanted to free Evelyn of her love for him, in which, no matter what he did, including frequenting prostitutes when he was on his hardware salesman journeys, she would always forgive him.

Unforgettable quote (that I still remember from 50 years ago): Harry Hope (note ironic last name), during Hickey’s verbose soliloquy, tells Hickey: “Get it over, you long-winded bastard. You married her [Evelyn], and you caught her cheating with the iceman and you croaked her, and who the hell cares?”

P. 700, Hickey finally admits: “I killed her.” Hickman had forewarned the police, so that, when the moment came, NYC Police Officer Moran was ready and arrested Hickey right after his soliloquy.

Hickey was so guilt-ridden, he expected and welcomed the prospect of suffering capital punishment in the electric chair.

Also in his soliloquy, Hickey preached to his own real inebriated friends that, once you give up your pipe dreams, you will find inner peace and happiness. Of course, Hickey, as preacher, has a credibility problem. The “drunks” interpreted that as meaning suicide was the only answer, and Don Parritt took him up on his correctly or incorrectly interpreted recommendation.

I must say I got the impression that Evelyn and Hickey did not actually live in New York City and P. O. Moran was a NYC police officer so that there might have been an unresolved issue of jurisdiction. This was not resolved in the play.

Another sub-plot revolves around Don Parritt, another of Harry Hope’s roomers in his hotel. Don Parritt had accepted a hefty payment from the Federal government for turning in his own mother who was permanently incarcerated in Federal prison for advocating, as an anarchist, the overthrow of the U. S. government.

Don Parritt also went on and on about how guilty he felt about betraying his own mother for a few silver coins so that, on p. 710, he throws himself out of the window of his rented room.

My reaction to this play was the playwright was matching his play’s themes to the public mood. He wrote the play in 1939 when the public was getting psychologically prepared for World War II, and in 1946 when the play was actually presented to the public, matched their doomsday mood, despite their victory over the Nazi’s. The play was a smashing success.

1 December 2016

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

Ice, by Ray S

The invitation read:

Cocktails

6 PM
Friday, the 25th of November, 2016

Arriving a little after six that evening I was greeted by the hostess’s daughter and ushered to meet the other two guests. Maybe another man or two were on the way, but at this moment it looked like it would be my turn to respond politely, if not wittily and interestedly in what subject the ladies brought up.

Seated on the right end of the sofa sat Ms. Dorothy dressed in her robe looking very much like, I might imagine, the Dowager Empress. The opposite end of the sofa was occupied by Laura who also managed an occasional run to the pantry to replenish snacks or ice.

The cocktail table was set with an inviting selection of tasty foodstuffs.

All of this was surveyed by our hostess, Mary, who was in command of the most important part of the evening’s ritual. Here on a silver tray stood a tall glass cylinder and stir stick. Then the ice bucket and the necessary stem glasses. With a grand gesture Mary dropped each ice cube into the pitcher. Then came a bottle of Queen Victoria’s Best. No measure was needed. To my amazement Mary had a very practiced eye that resulted in four perfect double Martinis—olive or a twist, your choice.

The long glass swizzle stick gently massaged the gin and the ice cubes. Remember, “Always stirred, never shaken.” The other element of this communion of happy souls that surprised me was the absence of any Vermouth, however, rest assured no one but I missed it, and I survived.

© 5 December 2016

About the Author

Ice, by Ricky

When I was 8 and 9-years old, I was living on my maternal grandparents’ farm in central Minnesota. During both winters, my uncle, Dixon, would take me out on the small farm lakes which were more like large ponds, to go ice fishing. We didn’t have one of those fancy ice-fishing sheds to keep us warm while fishing. We just bundled up with winter clothes and warm coats.

I never did care much for ice-fishing. It was always cold and I was anxious when walking on the ice, regardless of how thick it was. At ages 8 and 9, I didn’t weigh very much so the ice was not concerned about a little boy walking on it. I’m sure it was more upset by our chopping a hole so we could get to the fish.

Another reason I did not like ice-fishing was due to all the effort it takes before you can put a line in the water. Chopping a 10-inch hole in 12-inches of solid ice takes a lot of muscle power. I did not possess much power in my small muscles. My uncle, who was 12 and 13 during those winters, had bigger muscles, but it was still a chore to chip-out the hole – and then it had the audacity to keep freezing up while we fished.

Over the years, I have repeatedly been reminded just how slippery ice can be. One winter, I swore that I would not go outside without a pillow tied on my butt to cut down on the ice inspired bruises.

My first experience with “black ice” happened one January while I was driving from Rapid City to Pierre, SD at 2AM one Monday morning. I was driving a little Geo down the east-bound side of Interstate 90 moving at 60mph. The road consisted of long straightaways with occasional gentle curves. The roadway appeared to be completely dry. I needed to stop and relieve myself so I applied the brakes gently. The speedometer instantly went to zero as all four wheels quit turning. The Geo was still traveling straight down the highway at 60mph. After experimenting with the phenomena 3 or 4 times, I just let the car coast and guided it over to the shoulder. When it finally came to a stop, I opened the door and started to get out. Wham! I was on my butt again. My feet were out the door and my butt was sitting on the car’s rocker panel. Do you have any idea just how hard it is to get up from that position when your feet keep sliding away from you on the ice? After that experience, I still had to slide my way around the car to rough ground so I could relieve myself.

After careful and thoughtful consideration, I have concluded that the only good ice are the cubes one puts in a glass of water on a hot summer day.

© 5 Dec 2016

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Ice, by Lewis Thompson

I like Ike……….ooops.  I meant to say, “I like ice”.  Ike was one of those warm-hearted
Republicans, the kind that’s hard to find these days.  Nothing ice-like about him.
I’m an ice lover.  When I have a glass of pop, I first half-fill
the glass with ice—store-bought ice, the clear kind.  That’s one reason I seldom drink coffee, beer
or wine.  Whoever heard of putting ice in
those beverages (except for iced coffee, which seems contrary to the natural
order)?
I’m not very fond,
however, of icy surfaces, especially the kind people walk on.  It seems kind of ironic that when someone
slips on ice and gets a bump on their head, the first order of treatment is to
put ice on it.  Ice has got us coming and
going.
Then, there’s the
government agency, ICE.  They’re the
folks that President-elect Donald Trump seems to believe don’t have enough to
do, so he wants to have then round up and deport millions of Mexicans who are
in the country illegally.  I wonder what
he’ll do with the families in which a parent is here illegally, albeit employed
and paying taxes, but in which the children were born here and are American
citizens.  The whole concept is enough to
give me a headache.  Ice, anyone?
©5 Dec 2016 
About
the Author
 
I came to the
beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the
state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my
native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two
children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married
to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was
passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were
basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very
attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that
time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.
Soon after, I
retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13
blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to
fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE
Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.