by Sam Pink
Just sprinklers and flags and basketball hoops.
It was late morning on a weekday—who the fuck was I gonna sell ice cream to?
I crept along, clanking in the sun, Song 7 bing-bonging.
One of the hardest parts of the job was maintaining that slow of a speed.
It felt almost painful.
Like I was doing something wrong.
Although the job was basically to drive around in a questionable-looking vehicle and attract children with candy.
This didn’t occur to me until I was actually doing it: driving around a subdivision very slowly in a truck playing a song to attract children.
Up and down the blocks in a slow pattern.
‘Pacmanning’ was the industry term.
I drove past a woman watering her lawn.
We waved.
‘Hi, howya doin,’ I said.
The day began to take shape—bugs screaming, people working outside, lizards, birds, jobs, and deeds—all under this hot, blue ceiling.
Florida shit.
A young couple waved me down.
I pulled over, lowered Song 7, and got out of my seat.
Crouched over to the service window.
‘Good afternoon, folks, what can I do for you?’ I said, smiling.
The woman laughed. ‘Oh wow, I haven’t seen an ice cream man in forever.’
‘Yeah, well this is my route now.’
‘I’ll have an ice cream sandwich,’ said the man.
‘Ice cream sandwich,’ I said, then pointed at the woman.
‘And, I’ll take, a . . . nununun . . . I’ll have a watermelon bomb pop,’ said the woman.
I turned around, opened the cooler, and retrieved an ice cream sandwich and watermelon bomb pop.
‘There you go, folks, that’ll be four dollars.’
They paid and left, opening their ice cream, walking in front of the truck at a safe distance and checking for cars around the side, like pros.
I got back into the driver’s seat, turned Song 7 back up, then pulled out and continued pacmanning.
I drove along with absolutely no business for another hour or so, sweating, Song 7 on repeat, drumming with my knuckles on the steering wheel.
There is something to be said for the song.
A perfect composition cycling endlessly.
You’d think it’d get annoying, but it only gets better.
I hummed and drummed to it, both feet on the floor of the truck, hoping not to kill a child.
I passed mail carriers.
I passed pairs of old women walking.
I passed shoeless drug addicts.
Construction workers.
In the back of a landscaping truck, a dirty guy on break looking at his phone, starting to bob his head as I passed.
Yes.
People waved to me.
I waved to them.
Eventually, I saw some school buses.
Kids walking around with backpacks.
Yes.
My herd.
I passed this kid—probably like three years old—and his grandmother, who was on a motorized scooter, hunched over so much that I couldn’t tell if she was awake/alive or not.
When the kid heard Song 7, he transformed.
He was taken.
I later learned this was standard.
Once the kids hear the song—once I flip the switch and go live—they go bonkers.
They go wiggy-bananas.
Something happens to their body where they seize up for a second.
They bounce in place.
They grab themselves.
They contort.
They scream.
I’m there.
I’m really there.
The ice cream man.
‘Ice cream man!’ yelled the kid.
He raced over to me.
He waved both hands in the air, looking at me, then back to his grandmother, who approached slowly from ten yards back, whirring along.
Waving his hands, he yelled, ‘Hold on, I gotta see if my grandma has money!’ and ran back to his grandma.
He was in a state of pure panic.
Which, I later found, was also common.
Is he going to leave?
Will he just drive away?
I pointed ahead a little and pulled over.
‘This is my grandma, she has the money,’ he said, looking up from the purse toward me again, stalling.
‘Hi grandma,’ I said, waving.
She waved.
He was dancing from foot to foot, gripping his backpack straps with both hands and making an exhilarated face.
‘What can I get for you, sir?’ I said, squinting against the sun as the kid looked at the menu, curling and smashing his dollar bills. ‘Take your time.’
Song 7 binged and bonged along.
Florida shit.
‘I like sour!’ yelled the kid, holding up some money with his one hand, as if he were about to knight me.
‘All right, how about this one,’ I said pointing. ‘Sour blue raspberry.’
‘Yeah!’ he yelled.
‘Two dollars please,’ I said, holding up two fingers.
He held out the money.
I had to lean far out of the service window because of how small he was.
‘Only need two of these,’ I said, handing him back a dollar.
I got the Popsicle out of the cooler.
The fumes felt holy on my face and neck.
I gave my client the goods and he thanked me, doing a jump with complete spin.
I returned to the sweaty driver’s seat and cranked the gearshift into drive, turning up Song 7 and crawling on.
. . . do they wobble to and fro . . .
The kid kept pace for a little bit, skipping, grandma trailing behind.
He held up the Popsicle and yelled, ‘This isn’t too sour for me, it just tastes like blue!’
‘All right!’ I said, giving him a thumbs-up.
He kicked the air and licked his Popsicle.
I creaked on, turning.
Made a few more sales to elementary school–aged kids.
‘Thank you ice cream maaaaaaan!’ yelled two girls on scooters as they pushed away.
You’re welcome.
I got into the driver’s seat to pull away, but two more people were approaching.
This toddler in a T-shirt and diaper came walking up with a woman probably in her twenties, urging him to walk faster.
‘Sorry, thank you,’ she said, smiling.
When they got to the service window, I noticed the kid was holding a bunch of plastic animal figurines.
‘Got your animals,’ I said.
The woman laughed and said, ‘He thought when I said we had to go, that we were leaving-leaving.’
The kid eyed me, staying close to the woman’s leg.
‘Gotta have your things in order,’ I said.
‘Never know what’s gonna happen,’ said the woman, shrugging, putting some hair behind her ear. ‘All right, baby. Come on now, pick something out.’
He walked a little closer to the menu—guided by her gentle pushing—all the while eyeing me.
I appreciated his slow-won trust.
This fella, he wasn’t gonna buy ice cream from just anyone.
He picked out a sno-cone-type thing with a gumball at the bottom.
‘That’s got gum in it. Is that cool, Mom?’ I said.
‘Yeah, he loves gum.’
‘Right away then,’ I said.
The kid smiled a little, and when I handed him the ice cream, they walked off, waving.
It was an odd feeling, I thought, cranking into gear and turning Song 7 up.
It was maybe the first job I’d ever had where people were happy to see me.
An odd feeling indeed, to wield this kind of power.
To be this kind of force.
As near to magical as any mortal should stride.
A technician of unspeakable joy.
<
br /> Braving the neon mountains to return with blue raspberry concentrate.
Tearing out sundae cone fangs from the mouths of snow beasts.
And so on.
I pacmanned forth, Song 7 at an early-evening-appropriate volume, clanking and creaking.
It was right before sunset, and temperatures were dropping just a little.
For this I was thankful.
For the truck was very hot.
The high top on the truck—meant to allow me to (almost) stand while serving ice cream—acted as a double boiler of sorts, or a pressure cooker, or some other cooking device I didn’t quite understand.
All day while the ice cream stayed frozen, I slowly baked in my own sweat.
I slimed myself, stewing.
In a rolling casket of ball steam.
Like a rainforest of ball sweat.
Like I was wearing a ski mask made of sweaty ball skin.
Fuck.
I mean, fuck.
I turned down a street I hadn’t been down yet.
Clanked and creaked.
There were a lot of ornamental mailboxes on either side of the street.
Dolphin: pretty cool.
Flamingo: nice.
Walrus: hell yeah.
Another bird: meh.
Shark: cool.
Florida shit.
I drove past a couple trailers.
‘Ice cream man!’ yelled two kids playing basketball on a bent hoop with no net.
I braked as one of them yelled inside for Mom.
But then he came back slouching, shaking his head no.
As I creaked on, his little brother ran alongside the truck.
‘Take me with youuuuuuuu!’ he yelled.
I drove around for a little while longer, selling maybe ten dollars’ worth of ice cream, then closed out my shift idling at a cemetery with Song 7 playing low, watching the last of the sunset and eating an ice cream cone.
Can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow?
*
When I returned to the office, I opened up the back of the truck to let out the dick smell and dumped out the water and ice from the drinks cooler.
It was dark and the cicadas murmured loudly.
Sweat held my shirt against me.
All I ever wanted was a paycheck, I thought, then laughed, tossing the drinks cooler back into the truck and slamming the double doors.
I plugged the truck into the generator and went inside with the bank.
The total for the day was about a hundred dollars, with fifty of that going toward gas.
They wanted the receipt.
‘Okay, so not bad,’ Nicky said, scratching his lower lip with all four fingers, looking ridiculously low to the ground in his computer chair.
I put my palm against the wall and leaned.
Not sure what it was, but I already disliked Nicky.
Something about him seemed bad.
He was an asshole, yes, true, but beyond that.
He was an artist of an asshole.
A master.
Someone about whom later assholes would say, ‘He’s the reason I got into being an asshole.’
On the wall he hung a T-shirt with Pac-Man on it, mouth open, going toward a dollar sign.
Let me put it that way.
He was rambling about something, don’t worry this and that, making better routes as time goes on, whatever whatever.
Gesturing with the money and receipt in one hand.
The other boss, Jerry, puttered around checking coolers, holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee.
He patted my shoulder as he passed and said, ‘And you know, this job isn’t for everyone. Maybe you find out ya don’t like it, who knows.’
I went back to staring at Nicky’s stupid gold crucifix.
Fuck.
‘Tomorrow you’re gonna wanna shoot for 150, maybe even 200,’ he said. ‘You know, we get you a good route going, you learn the areas and such. Get some big days going for ya. Get ya up into the fours and fives.’
‘All right man,’ I said.
*
The next morning I got there a little early, per Nicky’s request.
The trucks had a tracking thing on them so you could replay the map and route you took on the computer.
I sat there watching a slowly moving red line on a grid representation of Pinellas Park.
We went over how I’d driven.
It was really funny.
I watched my speed on the bottom of the screen fluctuate between four to seven miles per hour, a far cry from the ideal two and not at all appropriate for pacmanning.
Sheesh.
‘Yeah so, you got the pacmanning thing kind of,’ Nicky said, ‘But yeah just, let’s try and stay in that two to three miles per hour area, K?’
The red line continued to move around, roaming the grid like a harmless shark.
*
As I got out into the fray, pulling off a main road into Sunset Glen Terrace, I thought of a new strategy.
Because even just one day in, I’d realized there was a difference between doing the job and making money.
Sure, there was pacmanning or whatever, but then what?
Pacmanning and that’s it?
Let me tell you about the method of the Chuckling Squirrel.
A ‘good’ ice cream man enters a subdivision and drives around slowly.
But a great ice cream man enters a subdivision, idles a little bit, then drives around slowly.
The squirrel must chuckle for all to hear, before giving chase.
For then, the chase has a taste . . .
And so chuckles the squirrel . . .
I was already covered in sweat.
I pacmanned the entirety of Sunset Glen Terrace, making roughly eight dollars, selling a sno-cone to a man cutting his lawn and ice cream sandwiches to his neighbors.
And creaked on.
Then some dark sky came in fast, bringing rain.
Florida shit.
So I pulled over at a playground and idled there, wipers on, staring out the front window at a flooding field while Song 7 played at a low, mood-appropriate volume.
Sky totally gray.
Grass even greener.
Some kids were hiding in the tube slide.
I saw them and understood them and envied them.
I sat in silence amid the dick smell.
Can you throw ’em o’er your shoulder, like a continental soldier?
When the rain let up, I drove back out into the grid.
Terraces, boulevards, lanes, and drives.
I was to know them all.
Cul-de-sacs, courts, and dead-ends as well.
It didn’t take me long to learn the fruits of the cul-de-sac.
Cut off by sidewalks or passing streets, shunned by society, the cul-de-sac sought contact.
Having been neglected, the people of the cul-de-sac embrace you with love and loose change.
Yes.
They open their arms and coin jars to you.
Today when I neared one, right on cue, I got flagged down by a pack of kids.
Cul-de-sac kids.
Each aware of their place and duty, moving as a beautiful unit, like wasps.
There were about six or seven of them, two keeping pace with me, running and screaming, while the others went to get the adult.
A near-perfect effort.
‘Ice cream man ice cream man,’ they yelled.
‘Move back to the curb okay?’ I said, doing a pushing motion with one hand.
One of the kids, recognizing the tentativeness of the situation, organized a clearing of the street as I parked the truck.
I turned down Song 7 and idled by the curb in front of what appeared to be home base.
‘How’s everybody doing?’ I said, looking out the service window, both hands palm down on the counter.
The kids were various sizes and spirits, but all staring straight at the dope dealer.
‘We’re
having a pizza party!’ a smaller kid yelled, incapable of containing it any longer.
While we waited for the adult to come out, the kid—doing some nervous hand-wringing and tiptoeing in place—confirmed that I had arrived at the scene of an impending pizza party, the mere mention of which caused a general stir.
In addition to the pizza party, or perhaps by some insane and decadent stroke of fortune, as part of the pizza party, there were also plans to watch a movie.
And now, ice cream.
Wow.
I was made privy to all of this but not invited.
Wow.
‘Pizzaaaaa,’ one fellow yelled, either overcome with emotion or trying to keep everyone pumped, I wasn’t sure.
A woman came out of one of the houses, dog running alongside her as she sorted through an immense Ziploc bag of coins.
She approached, smiling. ‘Get ready!’ she said. ‘For some change!’
I clapped my hands and said, ‘I’m ready for some change!’
Kids began approaching her with hands held out, as she scrounged through the Ziploc bag, picking out quarters.
‘Okay okay, hold on,’ she said, looking at me and smiling. ‘Did they tell you we’re having a pizza party?’
‘Hell yeah,’ I said.
‘It’s gonna be SO much fun,’ she said, opening her eyes wide.
She dropped a stack of coins into a kid’s hand and the kid ran up to me and dropped the coins onto my serving shelf.
‘Sundae cup please,’ she said, breathless.
‘I’m sorry, all I have is broccoli.’
‘NOOOOOOO,’ said the kid, leaning her head back, smiling.
The mom laughed, dropping more coins into desperate hands.
I handed out cotton candy bars, face bars (a face bar is basically a flavored billboard of whatever cartoon), sno-cones, ice cream sandwiches, and the mom bought herself a caramel nut bar, using a giant handful of smaller coins.
The kids began to run away, all agreeing on a plan to save the ice cream for after pizza.
Pizza, THEN ice cream, THEN a movie.
Yeah!
‘Have a good pizza party,’ I yelled, getting back into the driver’s seat and buckling up.
‘Bye, ice cream man,’ some of them yelled.
A van had just pulled up in home base driveway and a young man holding an impressive stack of pizza boxes exited the passenger side.
Their new god.
And I, nothing now.
Forgotten.
Used.
Useless.
Though, having reached out my hand into this sun-sprayed day, to connect with yours, outstretched—having held the ice cream together—we were joined in this ceremony forever.
