Icecream, Summer and Trauma
By Mr.e

Today was the first day of summer.

But the bloody ice cream trucks began creeping through this neighborhood weeks ago.

From far in the distance (or so it seems) faintly at first your ear picks out that some old time favorite tune. Then the ice cream truck is upon you and yes, you guessed correctly, what sounds like ‘The Entertainer’ rattles off the surrounding housing.

This is only one tune among a handful of equally chilling numbers in the ice cream truckers musical arsenal she or he uses to separate youngsters from their grubby coin collections.
It’s funny what those tinny sounding musical strains blaring from equally tinny loudspeakers do to me.

Ok, so the cringing bit is normal. What is not considered normal is flinging oneself into a prone position on the ground next to whatever car or low hedge is near-by. Dashing into the nearest open garage to get away from these annoying ice cream conveyances is not considered normal either.

I don’t much care for the ice cream vendors. I believe that folks generally hold the ice cream trucker in very low esteem indeed. I cling to this belief firmly because of one incident that I shall never ever forget.

… and now I make a confession. I once was one of those annoying cube van ice cream truck drivers. Little does it matter that I only managed a few months at this employ and did not in fact devote a lifetime to this mobile career. The guilt sticks like so much melted goofy fruit twirl. You either hate or like guys like these.

I’d just begun my agonizingly slow craw down the street when a gentleman waved me down. I pulled up and he bought a cheap ice-cream sandwich and I didn’t hang out and wait for more ‘cause his vibes were off.

I pulled slowly away, on continuous lookout for eager customers when someone yelled at me from the driver side. I poked my head out the window to see the same customer gesture in my direction. Before I had a chance to reply the ice-cream sandwich I’d just sold hit me smack-dab in the forehead, still in it’s wrapper. Naturally I never ever trolled that street again.

Mind you, I sort of was expecting that kind of thing sooner or later. Especially during the supper hour when most kids and grown folks alike are at home enjoying a wonderful meal. Who needs a freezer on wheels weaving it’s annoying magic out on the street when the dry mash potatoes have not even cooled on the plate next to the shriveled heap of peas and that tough bit of meat.

And then there are the memories that trail in this jobs wake:
Running out of the flavor of the day. Running out of dry ice. Running out of correct change. Running over someone’s pet. Running some misguided customer out of the cube van (they climbed in the back). Constant headaches due to that devil musak. Appreciating other jobs. Burning my fingers on the dry ice. That really hyper kid at the front of the pack puking on my sandal clad feet (it was 10am). Running (driving) from some parent because their kid got their ice cream treat stuck to his/her lips even after I warned them that the cone thingy was ‘really really cold’, repeatedly. That entrepreneurial ice cream vendor who also sold pot from his freezer.

Sure there is the sudden convenience you are faced with when confronted with an ice cream truck. Hey, you don’t have to go to the store. On the other hand the corner store doesn’t play annoying tunes to entice you to buy and ice cream cone.
There should be a law against that music. Maybe they could use purple flashing lights instead.

Your local police force could raise some extra cash by selling ice cream out of the back of their cruisers on those hot summer days. Or they could sell ice cream from that new trend in community policing, the local police office located in that strip mall just down the road.