The Ice Cream Man and Other Stories

by Sam Pink

  I turned around in the cul-de-sac at two miles per hour, Song 7 up loud—because fuck it, the day was young.

  Live young along with it, I thought.

  I drove on, squinting and cooking in my own ball sweat.

  *

  After the first week, it all started to feel normal and I even worried less about running over kids.

  I just kind of cruised around barely making money.

  Hadn’t been keeping track exactly but I had to be close to getting paid, I figured.

  Had to be.

  As I pulled into my first subdivision of the day, I quietly and tonelessly said, ‘Get some, motherfucker,’ and flipped on Song 7.

  Here I am.

  I’m here.

  But the subdivision looked empty.

  Yes, I’d learned all the marks of my clientele.

  Small plastic kitchens or playgrounds.

  Bikes.

  Miniature basketball hoops.

  But there was none of that.

  So I went down a kind of hidden road, off a dead-end, where the houses were just double-wides on cinder blocks.

  Piles of broken shit in the front yard and lawn ornaments all over.

  Plywood add-ons.

  Mostly mud lawns.

  Big drainage ditches.

  Rusted cars surrounded by weeds.

  Florida shit.

  A couple kids began running alongside the truck.

  ‘Ice cream!’ they yelled.

  I pulled over in front of a trailer with some people on lawn chairs out front, drinking.

  A drunk guy with HARMONY tattooed on his neck came up. ‘Awright Kaley, pick out whatchoo want, and get eybody else sum’n too.’

  The little girl picked out stuff for everyone.

  The guy said, ‘Shit man, I ain’t seen a ice cream man since I’s a keed.’

  ‘I’m back,’ I said.

  ‘Awright, good to hear,’ he said. ‘And, uh, I’ll take one of those caramel nut boors, cousin.’

  A mosquito landed on his forehead.

  He set his money hand and his beer can hand on the serving shelf, tapping along to Song 7.

  I reached into the cooler of holy fumes and gave him his ice cream.

  Joined in this ceremony forever.

  ‘You come around I’ll keep you in bih’ness,’ he said, biting the wrapper and pulling it open with one hand while he defended his legs from a wiffle-ball-bat-wielding youngster with the other. ‘Quiddit Randy, o’I’ma beatcher ass AND eatcher ice cream, BOAH.’

  Randy ran away laughing, dropping the wiffle ball bat into the grass.

  I said thanks to everyone still gathered, including the obligatory ‘shit out of luck’ neighbor kids.

  I got back into the driver’s seat, instructing everyone to move across the street and out of the way.

  The Ice Cream Man on his way, creaking and clanking.

  . . . do they wobble to and fro?

  Into the glow of midday.

  I waved to some people walking their dog.

  Sold a couple things to some guys working on a house.

  Sold Italian ice to some kids skateboarding.

  Other than that, nothing.

  So the Chuckling Squirrel had to become . . . the Hunting Cheetah.

  I turned down a boulevard.

  Saw a guy out on his front lawn on the other side of the street.

  His dogs, a giant poodle and a small orange dog, were running around and playing with each other.

  The man looked like he was in his fifties, in khaki cargo shorts, sandals, a short-sleeved button-up shirt, carefully trimmed beard, and modern-looking eyeglasses.

  In other words, someone who buys ice cream for himself.

  ‘What are we doing, we want treats here?’ I said to myself, U-turning on a throughway between boulevards.

  He seemed to be looking so I drove past him slowly.

  I waved, smiling.

  He waved back and said, ‘Yeah hi, get out before I call the cahhhhahhps!’ in a singsong tone.

  The fuck . . .

  I braked.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘I said get out. You’re soliciting. Get out before I call the cops. I’m sick of it.’

  Stopped in the middle of the street, Song 7 blasting, I weakly recited the boss’s thing about solicitation only being door to door.

  But you really can’t convince someone already stupid enough to want to call the cops on the ice cream man.

  You just can’t.

  Laughing, I said, ‘Call the cops on the ice cream man?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, nodding with his eyes open wide.

  And I wondered who this man was.

  This man, he does crossword puzzles.

  This man, he has had problems with the neighbors over property boundaries.

  He is divorced and has a son and a daughter, who visit him twice a year and politely listen to all his favorite quotes from articles about current television shows.

  This man has standards for everyone but himself.

  He owns collectibles.

  He is an asshole.

  For this person, there is no pain, and yet there is only suffering.

  ‘Byyyee,’ he said, waving at me in my rearview, as his dogs ran in playful circles around him.

  I drove two miles per hour to the end of the boulevard and started back toward the guy’s house.

  Call the cops on the ice cream man.

  What the fuck . . .

  I parked nearby, like half a block away.

  I saw the man talking to some concerned neighbors.

  He was pointing at me and saying something, gesturing, shrugging.

  I turned up Song 7.

  It didn’t have to be this way . . .

  We didn’t have to be enemies . . .

  But now it’s like this . . .

  I geared into drive, took my foot off the pedal, and let it roll.

  I saw him gesturing toward me as I moved closer and closer.

  The neighbors walked away.

  Song 7 in full blast, crescendoing.

  DO YOUR EARS, HANG, LOW . . . bing . . . BONG.

  Here I come, motherfucker.

  You wanted me to leave, well now you got me.

  Nearing, I slowed down even more.

  The guy had his phone to his ear, and said, ‘Okay, I’m calling the cops.’

  ‘Why are you calling the cops?’ I said, arm outside of the truck, shrugging and smiling.

  ‘Because you’re soliciting and obstructing traffic.’

  Sissniffitiss sniff-snerz.

  ‘I’m done with this,’ he said, shrugging, ‘I’ve had the police out here before.’

  ‘Hey,’ I said, turning down Song 7 and leaning out the window. ‘FUCK you, pussy.’

  I creaked away, Song 7 at full blast again, maintaining unblinking eye contact.

  The world: mine.

  The tears: his.

  Victory: forever.

  *

  And then it was Labor Day weekend.

  My second weekend, but my first real big holiday weekend.

  Pretty much THE weekend for the ice cream business.

  Plus Monday would officially be two weeks, so I’d be getting paid.

  The first two days of the weekend had gone by smoothly enough.

  Same shit, just a little busier.

  Florida shit.

  And Monday seemed no different.

  I’d sold probably seventy dollars’ worth of ice cream before it began to die down right before evening.

  There were still a couple hours left to pacman in creaking clanks.

  Needed to find a ‘billionaires only’ pickup basketball game.

  Or just a bag with money in it.

  I came to a grouping of apartment buildings off the side of a main road.

  I pulled in slowly.

  Kids emerged, yelling, from bushes, patios, gangways, everywhere.

  Large kids, very small kids, sibli
ngs, a whole crew.

  ‘Hi ice cweam man!’ one yelled—clearly the leader.

  The mayor, I thought.

  I motioned for them all to move back and said, ‘I’m gonna park up here.’

  The mayor gathered everyone on the curb, away from the truck.

  I pulled over and was swarmed.

  Neon tank tops, Spider-Man shorts, pigtails, braids, rollerblades.

  ‘What’s up, everybody?’ I said, getting out of my seat and leaning out the service window.

  They started asking about prices.

  Most bowed out, disappointed.

  The mayor himself stepped up and said, ‘Hi, thank you foh stopping, Ice Cweam Man. Um, can I have a popsico and a sucko pweez?’

  He smiled, holding out two dollars.

  ‘There you are,’ I said, handing him the goods. ‘Anybody else?’

  Everyone shook their heads.

  There was much sadness.

  I felt it too.

  ‘Okay, bye,’ I said and went to pull into gear.

  ‘Hoad on,’ said the mayor.

  He approached the window of the truck and held out the popsicle and sucker.

  ‘I wanna retoan these.’

  I looked at his hands for a second.

  ‘Nobody ehwse, um, has any money.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, holding the stuff. ‘All right man, yeah.’

  I went to put the already melting Popsicle back into the cooler.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. Then asked for the money’s equivalent in gum and candy, the cheapest things on the menu.

  I handed him a bunch of gum and candy, some suckers too.

  He handed it out among the crew.

  ‘Thank you, ice cream man!’ they yelled.

  ‘Have a nice Layboh Day,’ said the mayor, waving.

  I smiled and waved.

  I told them to get everyone away from the truck, which was hard because there was still a lot of lingering excitement and fanaticism.

  ‘Guys!’ yelled the mayor, ‘He needs to toan awound and not smack into us!’

  He put his sucker in his mouth and motioned like an airport runway employee.

  They obliged.

  Because he was the mayor.

  And when the way was clear, I turned Song 7 back up, cranked into gear, hit the horn a few times to wild cheering, and went on.

  I left the subdivision and crossed the main road and drove around aimlessly.

  The sun was starting to set.

  Had about two hours until I was home, including the bullshit back at the office.

  But at least I was getting paid.

  Money . . .

  My long lost friend . . .

  Hello, yes, come in, sit down, have some soup.

  I drove around to the reception of friendly but mostly uninterested faces, the breeze cooling my sweat.

  Past a high school, with only a couple cars in the parking lot, lights on in the cafeteria.

  Past dimming front lawns, American flags barely moving, smoke scent from somewhere.

  Florida shit.

  A white rabbit on someone’s front lawn paused, eyeing me, then ran off.

  There was always a weird sadness right before sunset, when the sky was dark blue, with orange and light pink translucence along the horizon, and it seemed as if not a single person was out, or even alive.

  I heard a whistle and, ‘Hey . . . yo!’

  There was a group of younger adults, in an abandoned strip mall parking lot, hanging around a car with the doors open.

  I pulled into the parking lot and parked the truck in a series of awkward and unnecessary turns.

  A pale overweight guy in huge basketball shorts and stretched-out white T-shirt came shuk-shukking up in his sandals, tapping his hips.

  ‘What’s up man,’ he said, looking at the side of the truck and smiling. ‘Nicky still work there?’

  ‘Wuh?’ I said, leaning out the service window.

  ‘Does Nicky still work there?’ he said, looking at me. ‘I used to do this shit.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yeah, Nicky’s one of the bosses.’

  The guy laughed and said, ‘Shit. Figures. Fuckin Jerry.’

  He tapped his hips and returned to looking at the menu.

  ‘How’d you like working for them?’ I said.

  He closed his eyes and shrugged. ‘They still got you doing like fourteen-hour days?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did they explain the deposit bullshit to you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He nodded, scanning the menu again.

  ‘I should be getting paid today. It’s been two weeks,’ I said.

  ‘No man. You don’t get paid after two weeks, you START getting paid after two weeks.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yep, and only if that “deposit,”’ he said, doing air quotes, ‘is paid off, which it probably isn’t, because you owe them for gas too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And, let’s see, you probably spent fifty dollars a day on gas right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Okay so think about how much money you’ve collected, subtract gas money from the bullshit cut that is yours anyway and you probably made 160 dollars for two weeks. So you still owe them for the deposit. And it’s not a deposit, because you don’t get it back since you “don’t have to rent the truck then.”’

  I stared back but he just smiled.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘They hold on to it for you then give it to you when you reach three hundred or after two weeks, whichever’s first.’

  Still smiling, he slowly closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘No dude, they’ll start paying you your cut now, because it’s been two weeks. But you still owe them three hundred dollars.’

  ‘I’m not getting paid for the last two weeks?’

  ‘Not at all, my good man,’ he said, clasping his hands and raising his eyebrows, still smiling. ‘Now lemme get a turtle bar.’

  ‘What the fuck,’ I said.

  I must’ve been staring off, because I heard, ‘Yo, hey, turtle bar, please.’

  And all the features of the material world returned.

  I went to the cooler and opened it, staring into the lit-up frost fumes and the neon packaging.

  Those fucks . . .

  Stealing from the ice cream man . . .

  I shut the cooler.

  Fuck.

  I handed the guy the ice cream.

  ‘I’m assuming this’ll be on the house,’ he said, smiling and opening the package.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  I gave his friends some ice cream too and then sat in the driver’s seat, staring forward in idle, Song 7 on low, looking at the shop window for an out-of-business hair salon.

  Some Styrofoam heads on the ground.

  Florida shit.

  I texted Nicky, ‘So today’s payday, right?’

  He eventually responded, ‘Jerry explained the deposit to you, right? We can talk about that back at the office.’

  I bit down hard and made two fists.

  Motherfuckers.

  The fucking motherfuckers.

  My first inclination was to just go kill them.

  But that seemed bad, overall, in some way, maybe.

  So I sat there ‘powering down’ for a little bit, Song 7 repeating at a low volume.

  . . . hang . . . low . . . bing-BONG . . .

  Slowly, I began some humming accompaniment.

  Then slapping my hands on my thighs.

  Then using my feet.

  Hell yeah.

  Song 7.

  . . . do they wobble to and fro . . .

  Yes.

  Song 7 is not the song of defeat, I thought.

  No.

  Song 7 is the song of the champion.

  The warrior, returned.

  The hero, having lifted low-hanging ears, which wobbled to and fro, throws them over their shoulder to continue on.

  I turned Song 7 up all the way, crackling the speaker
a little.

  Cranked the truck into gear and drove off.

  I got out onto a main road again.

  After a little bit I found the apartment complex I was at earlier.

  I turned in and braked to a slow creak in the parking lot.

  Gradually, they reemerged—from bushes, stairwells, between parked cars.

  Siblings, friends, one and all, the kids of the various buildings.

  The mayor was with them, skipping along and cracking his knuckles.

  He waved.

  I motioned to keep everyone back so I could pull over in the same spot as before.

  I pulled over, lowering Song 7.

  ‘What’s up, everybody,’ I said, nodding to the mayor and leaning out the service window on my elbows.

  ‘Hey, how come yoh back?’ said the mayor.

  ‘Hi, ice cream man!’ a younger, no doubt more stoogey fellow said, waving to me and kicking some mulch around.

  It was still really hot, and the air smelled like barbecue and lawnmower exhaust.

  ‘We don’t um, have any money,’ said the mayor, fidgeting with his hands. ‘But maybe tomowo!’

  ‘It’s all right, I got it,’ I said.

  His eyes got wide. ‘Fwee?’ he said.

  ‘Fwee?’ yelled the smaller goon, looking at the others.

  ‘Yeah, what do you all want?’

  The excitement grew and they celebrated.

  I opened the cooler.

  ‘Ice Cream Man!’ they yelled.

  The Machine Operator

  I went to a temp agency in Tampa.

  Temp agencies are big in Florida.

  There’s a lot of bullshit jobs that need near-constant staffing.

  The kind of jobs that ask for your weight in sweat, every day.

  The kind of jobs where someone says, ‘Hey, you came back!’ if you show up after the first weekend.

  And I should’ve known—by how nice and accommodating the temp office worker was—that the job would be of inverse niceness and accommodation.

  I was filling out paperwork in his office.

  The temp agencies always had some kind of alarmingly unclear name too, like Business Arc Solutions or Syn-Tec Distribution or whatever.

  It didn’t even look like an office, but instead like some people suddenly became aware that someone was about to come in expecting an office.

  The temp office worker said, ‘Alllllright man, lemme go plug this in and we can get you started tomorrow. For the position of’—he checked the paper—‘machine operator. Cool?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ I said.

  And he left to process the paperwork.

  I began to envision things like: the panic-free purchasing of food, the foreknowledge of a source for rent money, and the slightly more advanced concerns/problems I’d then discover.