The Ice Cream Man
Lurching to full attention, my twin ponytails vibrate like a spaniel’s ears. I cock my head to determine direction, distance and velocity then fling myself out of the boat and run frantically into the house.
“Mom! Mom!”
“What?” She turns from her meatloaf and scans me for obvious signs of trauma.
“He’s coming! I need money!”
The “he” needs no explanation. Only two things inspire such urgency and I am too young for a heroin habit. Depending on how much whine she wants with dinner, Mom might try a couple of stock arguments: “That stuff rots your teeth out,” or “You’ll spoil your appetite.” (She knew that last one was moot if we were having fish or anything accompanied by green beans.)
I bounce in front of her with my most pathetic puppy dog face. “Pleeeeze!”
One last try: “We have ice cream in the freezer, you know.”
“It’s not the same!”
The instant she steps toward her purse I run and get it for her. She never moved fast enough. He was rounding the corner of our block!
Out comes her change purse…
He was only four houses away!
I hold out both my hands…
Three houses…
A quarter drops into my sweaty palms.
Two houses! I can smell him…
A dime.
He was in front of the neighbor’s house!
Another dime and I am blasting through the front door waving my arms and bellowing “STOP! STOP!” as if I was trying to catch the last flight out of Saigon.
The truck skids to a halt – he was, after all, traveling at the dizzying speed of 4 miles an hour.
Breathless, frozen in the moment of my success, I gape at the menu painted on the side. Astro Pop. Nutty Buddy. Chocolate Eclair. Fudgesicle. Bomb Pop. The possibilities are dazzling. The grey haired Ice Cream Man stares at me, wordless, expressionless, yet somehow goading me to hurry up already. Time won’t hold forever!
“Vanilla ice cream cup.”
“Forty cents.”
I put my money on the worn Formica shelf; he sweeps it off and replaces it with a cardboard cup, a little wooden spatula wrapped in paper, and a nickel. I take my booty and step reverently back. Time starts again and the truck lurches forward.
I pull the tab and remove the top of the ice cream cup. A cool, sweet, intoxicating cloud of vanilla envelopes me. The cloud follows as I walk toward the side yard, licking the froth from the inside of the lid before I stuff it into my pocket along with the spatula wrapper and the nickel. Once in the shade, I fold myself cross-legged in the grass, ignoring the itch against my bare legs, and the dog whimpering from the other side of the fence. He can lick the cup when I’m finished, his tongue can root out molecules that mine cannot.
There is a particular way to eat a cup of Ice Cream Man vanilla ice cream. It’s different from that stuff in your freezer, even if that stuff costs seven dollars and speaks another language. You slowly scrape the melty part out with the little spatula – that way it tastes like the bubbly top of a milk shake. There will always be plenty of melty part, particularly if you eat it in Florida. The condensation from the cup will run shivery rivulets down your arms. Ignore this. Keep scraping until there is nothing left to cling to the spatula, then tilt your head back and stare at the clouds as you hold the cup upside down over your mouth, waiting for the last drops to fall. Then lick the inside of the cup as best you can before handing it over to the dog. He is your best friend, after all.
Some things only work when you’re a kid. An ice cream truck runs through my neighborhood today. I have my own money now and I could stop him whenever I want, but I don’t. Some things only work when you’re a kid. I could stop the ice cream man, but I can’t stop time. No matter how loud I yell.
