The Ice Cream Man and Other Stories

by Sam Pink

  She unzipped her backpack and took out what remained of a six-pack of tallboys, broke me off another one.

  She took the last for herself and cracked it with the plastic rings still attached.

  She laughed like teh-ha, then took a big pull and burped, Yop.

  The kid who was drawing said, ‘Jeethuth.’

  Samantha kicked an empty forty-ounce bottle.

  It clinked off a dumpster and rolled back.

  She picked it up.

  ‘Man, du,’ she said. ‘I’ve probably drank like, fucking—er maybe, probably a thousand of these. No, like, really, du. Like, three a day every day for the last, what, I’ve been drinking since I’s twelve, and I’m eighteen now, so like, teh-ha, yeah.’

  ‘Fuck yeah,’ I said. ‘You’re the best.’

  She leaned forward, laughing. ‘Du, I’ll fucking slap the shit out of you.’

  The other kid said, ‘Jeethuth.’ Then he said something quietly to himself and smelled his fingers.

  Samantha hit the heel of one of her shoes against the ground a few times.

  ‘You wanna hear something?’ she said. ‘This is insane, er like, I’on’t know why I’m going to tell you this. But like, when I was younger—like fifteen, or no, fourteen, or no, yeah, fifteen, teh-ha—me and my boyfriend—he was like twenty-two or twenty-three—we found some baby birds in a nest on the sidewalk. And like, man, this is bad, but we ripped their heads off. Or like no, we cut them off with our skateboards. Because like—I know it’s bad, or like, no it’s almost good—because once they smell like a human they’ll be fucked anyway, so I was just doing it quick for them. Make it painless so they don’t have to starve, you know?’

  The kid in bed said, ‘You could’ve juth not touched them. Jeeth.’

  Samantha leaned forward and laughed. ‘I’m a fucking psycho,’ she said. She took a pull off her tallboy, hitting the heel of her foot against the ground. ‘But nah, I was doing them a favor. And plus like, I was really mad at my mom. My mom likes birds. A lot. So, this is fucked up, but, first I sent a picture of the birds happy and chirping in the nest and shit. Then I sent another picture of them all dead on the sidewalk. Du, it made my mom cry. Her and my uncle thought I’s a fucking psycho. My uncle, he like, got so pissed. He made me eat bird meat n’shit. Teh-ha.’

  ‘Bird meat?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, jeeth, like, a parrot?’

  ‘Nah, du, he stuffed my face full of turkey and grabbed me, threw me down n’shit. Sucked, du. But, whatever. I AM a fuckin psycho. Teh-ha.’

  Nobody said anything.

  I turned and spit, both hands in my hoodie pocket.

  Samantha tried to spit farther.

  I tried again but all I had was spray and it went back into both of our faces a little.

  ‘Oh shit, du,’ she said, wiping her face.

  Then she took a huge pull off her tallboy then burped like yop-yop-yop.

  She unzipped a smaller pocket on her backpack and got out a length of rolled-up toilet paper, then went behind a dumpster.

  The other kid capped his marker and put his drawings down and said, ‘Fuggit, I’m goana thleep.’

  He put his pens and drawings in a backpack and took out a winter hat.

  The winter hat was huge; it stood up on his head when he put it on, then flopped over a little.

  He grabbed a flashlight from his backpack and got under a tarp.

  ‘Ey, uh, thith make me look paranoid?’ he said, holding up the flashlight. ‘I thleep with it in caith I have to wake up and bath a crackhead or zumthing.’

  ‘Nah,’ I said.

  Samantha said, ‘Do whatcha gotta do man,’—zipping up her pants and sitting down on the parking stone again.

  The other kid lay back in bed, pulling the tarp over him.

  Then he sat up quickly, looking off somewhere.

  ‘Oh crap-inthki!’ he said. ‘I have bologna and cheeth here.’ He put his hand on the dumpster next to the bed. ‘It’ll be good tomorrow right? Ith cooler out tonight. It’ll be good. Okay, good.’

  He lay back down.

  There were crinkling sounds as he arranged himself under the tarp.

  All I could see over the mass of him beneath the covers was part of the winter hat and part of the flashlight.

  Fuck yeah.

  Bash a crackhead.

  Eat your bologna and cheese.

  Live this fucking moment.

  Kill or be killed.

  Yop Yop Yop.

  Samantha smoked a cigarette.

  She told me about how her and her mom lived together but they were getting evicted soon.

  I asked when.

  ‘Like, tomorrow, du,’ she said. ‘Teh-ha.’

  ‘Are the cops coming?’ I said.

  ‘Maybe, du.’

  But maybe something else.

  Something about court and extensions.

  She said, ‘Fuckin, I’on’t know, du. It’s like, I mean, shit.’ She shrugged, leaning back. ‘It is what it is, du, y’know?’

  She took a long pull off her beer, continuing half of the shrug.

  ‘I can’t stop watching that little rat jump around,’ I said, smiling. ‘Fuck.’

  Samantha laughed, covering her mouth with her hand.

  ‘Man, ahh, my fucking teeth hurt, du,’ she said. ‘Like, bad. I’ve had these fucking braces forever man, er, yeah, and my gums are growing over them. Hurts bad, du.’

  ‘Brush your fucking teeth then,’ I said, still watching the rats.

  She laughed. ‘Du, like, I bleed every time I brush my fucking teeth,’ she said. ‘Er, pretty much every time, yeah. Like, here’s what I do every day: I get up, have a smoke, take a shower, brush my teeth, then start drinking. Sucks. Teh-ha. I need a fucking job, du. Hey, this is gross and shit, but like, I just had lice too. I think like, pretty sure I got it from sleeping on the ground or whatever. My mom combed it out though. Wait, hold on.’

  She got up and went around the dumpster again.

  When she came back, she said, ‘Damn, like, that was a hard piss. Even though I came back quick, it was a lot, du.’

  She sat down on the parking block again, looked at me.

  She turned her head and laughed like teh-ha.

  I went back to watching the little rat.

  The little rat was having some success now, eating garbage left over after all the bigger rats had scattered.

  And I must have been doing something with my mouth because Samantha said, ‘Are you—do you have that stuff in your lip? What’s it called? Chew?’

  ‘Dip?’

  ‘Yeah, dip.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can’t do that shit man,’ she said. ‘Too worried about getting mouth cancer. Fuckin, have part of your jaw removed. I can’t have part of my jaw removed, du. That shit’s so fucked up.’ She motioned with her hand as if pulling off her bottom jaw. ‘Fuckin, some monster shit, du. Like, I don’t even know, nyarrr, NYARRR. Teh-ha.’

  I laughed.

  She was trying to cover her laughing with this thing where she closed her lips and nodded.

  She lit another cigarette with the one she’d been smoking.

  ‘I’on’t know,’ she said, ‘I’ll probably get lung cancer though. Lung cancer’s fine.’

  ‘Can I have your backpack when you die?’ the other kid said, still tucked in.

  Samantha laughed and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Sorry,’ she said, trying not to smile. ‘I’on’t like my crossbite.’

  A rat crawled up to where the kid was sleeping, sniffed, then crawled up onto the tarp.

  Samantha and I watched.

  We looked at each other and smiled.

  When the kid noticed the rat, he flung it into the side of a dumpster.

  The rat thudded and squeaked, then landed and ran.

  ‘Jeeth,’ said the kid, momentarily just staring.

  He tucked himself back in.

  And everything was good again.

  I looked at Samantha a
nd said, ‘What sound did the rat make when you stomped it?’

  She laughed, blowing out a drag from her cigarette a little more quickly.

  She rubbed the cherry of her cigarette off on the ground.

  She put the cigarette behind her ear, took a pull of her tallboy and went, ‘Eeeeeh-ya, eeeeeeeeh ya.’

  Blue Victoria

  This was years ago.

  In Bucktown, Chicago.

  Early spring.

  A little snow left in the grass outside our building, but otherwise warmer and rainy.

  The smell of dirt.

  Gray puddles.

  Chris and Victoria and I stood around in the kitchen.

  They were leaning against the kitchen sink, holding each other, smoking and drinking.

  I was rolling a joint at the kitchen table.

  The kitchen, as well as the rest of the apartment, was filthy and full of shit.

  And not in a cool/fun way.

  In a very embarrassing way.

  Garbage bags, dirty dishes, mail, bottles, bullshit.

  ‘The place looks great you guys,’ Victoria said, smiling.

  She looked down.

  She was always hiding her missing front tooth.

  She wore a giant sweatshirt that said CANCUN on it with sailboats, hair in a greasy side ponytail.

  She was a baker.

  Lived alone a couple blocks away but was always over.

  ‘Yeah I’ve been meaning to clean,’ I said, licking the rolling paper.

  Chris laughed. ‘Buh HA.’

  He laughed like a hyena.

  Tight jeans, gold high-top shoes, and a haircut like an anime character.

  I’d known him since I was fifteen.

  Met him through our other roommate, Robby, who I’d known since I was twelve.

  Robby was my only childhood friend and, aside from Chris, the only person I kept in touch with.

  But you don’t really keep in touch with Chris.

  Hyenas keep in touch with you.

  ‘B’HA,’ he laughed, gesturing to Robby’s door. ‘Has the landlord seen that yet?’

  Robby’s door had cereal box covers taped all over it, hiding huge holes.

  One night, shortly after we’d moved in, Robby had a girl over.

  And she got mad at him for drinking too much so she locked him out of his room.

  He punched through the door and calmly opened it, grabbed his pillow and slept on the couch.

  After that, we just kept punching and kicking holes in the door.

  The cereal boxes gave it the semblance of form in case the landlady came by.

  ‘We’re fucking useless,’ Chris said, laughing again.

  He tossed his bottle onto an overflowing trash can, where it balanced for a second, then rolled off and hit the ground, unbroken.

  We watched the bottle complete its roll.

  I finished the joint and grabbed a football off the table.

  The football was one of our only non-clothing/furniture/garbage–related possessions.

  So yes, we took good care of it.

  It was our roommate.

  Our sibling.

  I threw the football at Robby’s door, where it clacked hollowly and bounced around on the floor a couple times.

  The door swung back, blocking the entrance to the living room.

  ‘That fuckin door,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Had it up to here with that door.’

  Victoria was smiling with her lips closed.

  I grabbed the football and lined up to hike in the middle of the kitchen.

  Chris lined up a few feet behind me and yelled, ‘Hike!’

  I hiked and ran straight toward the door.

  He passed.

  No spiral at all.

  Flying sideways but on mark.

  A ‘dead duck.’

  I jumped backward and caught the football as I went through the door, tearing it off the hinges except for one small piece.

  Chris and Victoria laughed.

  I got up and returned to the kitchen, touching my back and checking my fingers for blood.

  Chris hugged Victoria from the side and kissed her cheek.

  She moved away a little, smiling.

  I lit the joint.

  Robby had left us a small rock too, which Chris pinched out of its bag into an overturned Frisbee.

  ‘Where’s stupid, anyway?’ he said, mashing the rock with his license.

  It was unsettling to watch.

  Like a fly.

  Like something else.

  I tried not to watch but I kept watching.

  I took out my flip phone and said, ‘He told me he was getting groceries on his way home.’

  And we took turns sniffing little piles.

  I decided immediately that I shouldn’t do coke anymore.

  Chris complained about his aquarium-cleaning job, leaning against the counter and ashing into an empty bottle.

  He was still wearing his work shirt, which featured a fish with three bubbles coming out of its mouth and the name/number of an aquarium-cleaning place in Old Town.

  He was always complaining.

  Victoria and I took turns making fun of his every complaint.

  To which he’d respond, ‘I know,’ while nodding and looking at the floor, laughing like a hyena.

  Smoking.

  Moving his lips around and gnashing his teeth.

  ‘The shirt is stupid as well,’ said Victoria quietly.

  Everyone laughed.

  ‘I know,’ Chris said.

  Robby came up the back stairs, holding a bunch of bags, cigarette in his mouth.

  Everyone said hi.

  ‘Hi there,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Yo Robby,’ said Chris. ‘We fixed your door.’

  Robby lifted his sunglasses and saw the broken door.

  He clapped his hands once.

  ‘Neheh, awesome,’ he said. ‘Nice work.’

  I handed him the part of the joint we’d saved.

  He talked about all the research he’d done at work that day, not for his clients, but about marinading.

  He’d just started working as a lawyer and had some money.

  And he’d taken an interest in grilling.

  Which he began doing for us, almost nightly.

  Robby sniffed some coke out of the Frisbee and explained how his views on marinading had advanced.

  Oh, how they’d advanced.

  We all walked down the back stairs, carrying supplies.

  The night ahead of us and no real fate.

  *

  The lot next door was empty and abandoned—overgrown and partially hidden from the street by a broken fence and some tree limbs.

  So we took it over.

  Robby set up a couple grills and a smoker and some cheap-ass lawn chairs.

  There were a ton of rats at first but then they all moved to the alley.

  We’d hang out, grilling, throwing the football, or just sitting in lawn chairs getting high.

  Sometimes Victoria and I scavenged for treasure.

  There’d been a building there before.

  Which meant so much treasure.

  Mostly old beer bottles.

  But all kinds of other shit too.

  We found bricks.

  Tile.

  A handle for a faucet.

  All kinds of shit.

  Like the lot was a stage in the middle of endless darkness, from which treasures emerged.

  Handed to us by adoring gods.

  To do with as we pleased.

  And yes, we were pleased.

  Our favorite thing to do, though, was skeet shooting.

  One of us would toss an empty bottle high up into the air and the other person tried to hit it with the football.

  Victoria and I played a lot.

  She liked throwing the bottles up.

  I liked throwing the football.

  ‘Ready?’ she said.

  It was Memorial Day.

  Ro
bby was grilling, Sox game on the radio.

  Chris at the liquor store.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said.

  Victoria threw the bottle high into the air from behind.

  I got a good eye on it, then threw.

  The football connected, driving the bottle into our building.

  Kish.

  Victoria and I laughed.

  ‘Nice,’ she said.

  Robby turned and held up a pointer finger while covering the mouthpiece of his phone with the other hand.

  ‘Do you wanna do another one or look for more treasure?’ said Victoria.

  And we went into the weeds to look for more treasure.

  There always seemed to be more.

  I thought it would never run out.

  ‘Think I got something,’ I said.

  Victoria came high-stepping over, swishing weeds and breaking sticks.

  She wore a giant sweatshirt with a cartoon character on it and stretch pants, hair in a side ponytail.

  She waved some bugs away from her face.

  I lifted a piece of plywood with my boot and showed her a couple rusted cans of spray paint.

  A huge spider ran away, going into the weeds.

  ‘Well,’ Victoria said, her eyes smiling. ‘Are we gonna smash’em or what?’

  We flipped the piece of plywood up against the fence with our feet.

  I grabbed a can of spray paint and set it sideways on a tree stump.

  We’d found a giant stone recently too, an orb of concrete that must’ve been a staircase decoration or light post topper.

  Size of a basketball and weighing probably thirty pounds.

  The bashing stone.

  I grabbed the bashing stone and handed it to Victoria.

  She struggled, lifting the stone.

  ‘Juhhhhhhhhhhhrop the stuhhhhyoan,’ I yelled.

  Robby raised the tongs and, without turning, replied, ‘Juhhhhhrop, nnnnntha, styoannnnnnnn.’

  Victoria dropped the bashing stone on the spray paint bottle, which exploded rust-colored grease, voonk.

  We laughed.

  We busted the rest of the cans then split one of her cigarettes.

  ‘Oh I brought this for you,’ she said.

  She lifted her sweatshirt, uncovering a fanny pack.

  She unzipped the fanny pack and took out a book.

  It was a book of poems she wanted me to read.

  Rainer Maria Rilke.

  We’d been talking about books a lot.

  She was trying to go back to school and I was writing a book.

  ‘Cool, thank you,’ I said, looking at it. ‘First pie, and now this.’