| Please have a read if you have the time. Let me know your opinion of it too. Thanks! Joy in a Cone (The Ice Cream Man) Sunrise might imply a fresh start. But there are days like these where I almost forget where one ends and another begins. Here I am, already stuck between two cassettes: “It’s a Small World,” and “Ring Around the Rosie.” Why can’t there be a song about both the world being small and the inevitability of everyone turning to ash? I turn the ignition and thus start a new frontier. Maybe I’ll take a left at Bermuda Avenue today. It’s a choice but not one that leads to any real change. No one really has control over things; they just have the power of awareness. That’s what today feels like, a day to notice. I see the hydrant I hit that first week in this icebox. You get to trust the shiny reflective ears that stick out of the sides more over time. Experience is bothersome; it gets rid of the feeling that there may be something coming your way that you’re not ready for. There’s a store next to the flower shop that claims a grand opening. I’m beginning to wonder how grand it may be today now that it’s been on display for the past three years. And there goes that clique of class-b hoodlums on their bikes—they couldn’t make their conformity more obvious with the same porcupine hair cut and matching colors. They’re notorious for making all kinds of trouble around here. If there’s ever a lousy bag of chips to steal or an elderly woman to torment, you can bet those punks’ll have something to do with it. They’re like mindless sheep, really. First stop of the day: the Sunset Arms Retirement Home. Who would’ve thought that the older folks could appreciate a good cone again? Like caterpillars, they inch along like a steady crawl. Their haggard faces reflect years of experience. But they don’t seem to be much different now than they probably were as children; lapping away so carelessly. It always seems that it’s somewhere in the middle where everyone starts forgetting the simple things. And instead it’s all about money, or the car one drives, or how much higher up one is over others. It seems that after all those years of facades and lies they eventually come right back to where they started—lapping their ice cream, making up for lost time. The first ones at my icebox looked like they really could use a pick-me-up. Jerry gets his Vanilla crunch, and gripes to Flora about that bad aftertaste of pills in his mouth. Flora seems to have forgotten all about her arthritis because of that double-fudge sundae. Then another elderly woman I’d never seen before approaches my ice box with her walker. New reject to the pile at Sunset Arms, I guess. Though, she seems more optimistic than most, especially with that huge, goofy grin of hers (the dentures don’t help) and those big, bright eyes magnified by her coke-bottle glasses. She asks for a banana split, and I could almost swear she was drooling by how excited she was about it. I couldn’t help but smirk as I prepared her treat, and when I turn to give it to her, one of those robots stand in her place—a damned caregiver trying to rob what little joy the elderly can get their hands on. “She can’t have that,” the robot claims. And to think it dictates figures of life and experience—something it’ll probably never realize. I hate to imagine that growing old will mean the independence I struggled to attain growing up will just be taken away by some hack with a pressed shirt and no personality. Regretfully I could only drive away as that wasted ice cream slowly melted. Though honestly, I don’t know how much longer I could’ve taken that poor old woman’s frown. Approaching a playground now, they flutter about and run. One trips and others rush by. One takes notice and the pointing starts. It’s cruel in a way, honest in another. He’s pudgy, but doesn’t bounce. You shouldn’t laugh but you’re an idiot if you don’t see the joke. After the bullying had gone on long enough I thought I’d give the kiddies a new distraction while I slowly approached them, cranking the volume to “Ring Around the Rosie.” It’s such a playful, happy song and frankly I’m glad their innocence isn’t tainted by the song’s image of a mother and child’s life being consumed by the black plague. A happy flood of children rush towards my trusty icebox. “Ice cream man!” they all shout. Its days like these where I wish I painted “Carl” in big red letters above that lousy painting of Bugs Bunny holding an ice cream cone. But I know better, and I know they don’t. As far as they’re concerned, I’m just this immovable entity in this refrigerator on wheels, and they wouldn’t dream of seeing me outside of it like any of them. The first one wants chocolate, the fifth vanilla, and the seventh strawberry. A bold one wants all three. I don’t do Neapolitan. But I’m feeling kind of spunky today—might be because my windows are rolled down for a change. As I sort the odd pile of coins and bills I couldn’t help but notice the pudgy one sitting alone where he had tripped. As the others haphazardly lick at their dairy treats, that lone boy might as well have been sitting in an office cubicle crying his eyes out in anger, strained by years of pointing fingers and laughing faces to near eruption. But, we can’t have that now, can we? So I lean out the window and call out to the lone boy, “hey, sonny!” He looks up with disbelief. It was worse than I thought. “Yeah, I’m talking to you, boy.” I lure him over with a hand gesture meanwhile, all the kids around seem to stop in mid lick as their eyes follow him. “You can have any treat you want here. Just name it.” The boy digs through his pockets then glances up at me, ashamed, as he reveals empty hands. “Don’t worry about the money, kid. Just stand tall and look me in the eye.” After a moment of silence, I knew he could use some motivation, so I tap on the side of my icebox, pointing at the most popular treat: the “Triple Chocolate Nutty Buddy Avalanche.” His eyes then light up as he looks at me, and he stands and smiles with the confidence of a man who had just conquered Everest. So I go in back and make the best damn joy-in-a-cone I could. “You’re a cool kid. And only cool kids get free ice cream,” I say to him as I give him his treat. The other kiddies look at him with disbelief as if he had taken center stage while their soft-serve dribbles down their wrists. He is the man of the hour. Silly kids. About mid day now, it’s time for a break. I park my icebox in the lot by the church like I always do. I recline my seat a little further back today as I kick my feet up on to the steering wheel. Unravelling my sandwich I let my mind wander; today’s random thoughts were of people. It’s a small world, sure, but the variety of people seems endless. The ways we all live and survive is also nebulous seeing there are so many different ways of doing what we do. Like those Baka Pygmies. They can be so peculiar to people like me who were reared in the city, not just because they’re shorter than most, but because they have to hunt to survive. Suddenly, through the reflective ears, I notice some kids on bikes approaching. It was that group of porcupine heads. I get up and walk toward the service window, keeping a close eye on them. They all approach with big smiles—I already know something is up. Either way, I do my duties and give them service, just like I would to anybody else. And what a surprise; they want some prankster toys: fart bombs, smoke bombs, water guns, and poppers. I only wonder who their next victims will be now that they purchased their new arsenal of weaponry. I sometimes feel bad knowing I’m the supplier for their mischief. I make sure to watch them closely as they walk their bikes away. Those kids remind me a lot of the pygmies. They’re short; they can’t stay in one place; they constantly have to move around to find new game to hunt—or torment, or what have you. Once they are far enough away, I recline back into my seat and finish my lunch. A few minutes pass and I almost doze off until I notice something in my left reflector again. I peer out my window to have a look and hear some scampering toward the back of my icebox. Those damn pygmies are after me today, and my icebox is their elephant. Before I can take action, the barrage of fart bombs, poppers, smoke bombs, and sprays of water come at me from all sides. While being drenched and covered in reeking, thick smoke, I nearly slip out of my seat as I lift it to turn the ignition. I make my getaway as fast as I can from that tribal ambush and while completely soaked and gagging from the smoke, I figure I should be pretty mad at those porcupine heads. But, they’ll get what’s coming to them sooner or later. After making a few more rounds through the neighborhood, I decide to take one more break. I stop by Backside Records to find the new tune for my trusty icebox; one that would be the perfect hook. Luckily I’m only in there for a moment before I find the ideal cassette for my mission. Confident, I hop back into my icebox and make my way to Tintern Road. Rolling down the boulevard, I pop in the new cassette. And as I crank the volume, my icebox’s bull horn begins to rumble and burst forth with the triumphant roar of “Flight of the Valkyries.” The grand symphony starts to echo and ring trough every house in the suburbs, and as I thunder down the road with my icebox, I see people peering out through their windows trying to make heads or tails of the commotion; some confused, some surprised, and some just utterly disturbed. I’ll be sure to lure out my foes with the intrusive tune. As I reach the end of the cul-de-sac, I have a look around to make sure I was clear from enemy sight. And when the coast feels clear, I leave my trusty icebox vulnerable in plain view in the heart of the blind alley. With my back against the rear of my icebox, I secure my belt lined with a dozen water balloons filled with old chocolate syrup. I lock and load both of my super soakers and bond them to my water pack filled with spoiled, melted ice cream. Geared up, I make a run for the bushes and dive deep. It’s as if I was in Nam. No longer am I the “ice cream man.” I am Private Carl. As my trusty decoy idles in the hub of suburb, I stay low and keep sharp. Patiently, I wait for them in the thicket of green. It won’t be long before the blaring glory of the Valkyries will invite those hoodlums out to play. And just as I thought—in the midst of a few uneasy civilians, out came “Charlie.” I clutch both of my M16s tight and watch the porcupines as they inch with primitive curiosity toward my icebox. They almost seem dumbfounded to find that the rigid ol’ ice cream man is nowhere to be found inside that refrigerator on wheels. That is their first and biggest mistake: underestimating their victim; their game; their challenger. One of the spike-headed commies nudges another and from what I can make out, they mention something about the loot. But, oh, there isn’t going to be any loot aside from what I have in store for them. Without another moment to spare, I spring from the bushes with the most outrageous battle cry I can muster. And instantly, the hoodlums spin around in unison with the most remarkable looks of genuine fear and astonishment in their eyes. I’m still not sure of what could have frightened them more—the ice cream man being loose from the confines of his icebox or the abruptness of the attack. With a quick left hand I release an onslaught of water balloons upon silly, unsuspecting Charlie while I draw out one of my arms to unleash a powerful torrent of spoiled dairy upon them. I proceed to empty my arsenal of water balloons on the enemy and I don’t stop there. I duel wield my cannons and continue to fire on them up until the very last drop. Watching the hoodlums get soaked in muck, I toss my head back along with a kind of laughter that seems distant to me. As I close my eyes I am able to venture to the back of my mind for a minute or two. Today is surely a day to notice, as my feet are planted on solid ground; as I freed myself from this existential hell I never thought to question or break away from until today. I hadn’t laughed in such a way since I was a kid and it never felt so good. And for once in years, I am conscious. Free. Carl. Though, back to reality. Today. This ought to make one hell of a police report. Ta da! Armageddon outta here. |
