An Eye for an Ice Cream Bar. A Tale of Crime and Punishment.

        My relationship with the ice cream man isn't perfect, but what relationship really is? The other day I was in raptures when I heard, through my own screams of anguish directed towards the state of existence, the unmistakable sound of an ice cream truck creeping its way up my street. I hurriedly threw on my terry cloth robe and ran out the front door. He was already a hundred yards ahead and I was standing in the middle of the road, about to give up all hope, when suddenly that sweet melody that emanates from the cone shaped speakers atop the vehicle changed their tune into a monotone signal, the truck was reversing.

       Before I tell you the details of our much longed for meeting, there is a story behind my amazement at this seemingly commonplace incident. Of course, ice cream trucks are supposed to travel down residential streets and attract crowds of smiling children. Readers who are familiar with my other work may intuitively assert that my brand of cynicism effectively reduces the probability of my being raised with this privilege to 'highly unlikely'. Well they would be correct, and even though I can't blame everything on the ice cream man I can sure as hell try.

       Growing up in a suburban neighborhood means coping with the conflict between what you possess and what your neighbors/peers/co-workers proudly claim rights to. You see, when I was a young boy, the sound of the ice cream truck was fainter than most of you may remember it. I'm not talking about the bittersweet doppler effect of that one encounters as the truck approaches their home and then continues on down the road. In my case it was the crushing realization that the truck is...how do I put this? GOING DOWN EVERY STREET BUT YOUR OWN!

         The first thing you ask yourself is always: What's wrong with me? But years of therapy have taught me to abstain from this type of inquiry. I decided to get the opinion of a young lady who I met at a party not long ago. Her response: "Hah, I guess there weren't many kids on your street." The fact is that I cannot be sure if there were other children on my street. You see my relationship with my neighbors was complicated by my intense fear of strangers and not everyone comes outside to cry "Was this in your fucking plan?!?! Well, was it!?!?!" when the ice cream man has once again decided not to grace you with his presence. 

       I am, however, acquainted with a few of my neighbors. For instance there are the chronically ill-we don't own a TV-evangelicals who reside next door. As I vehemently argued when I was young, instead of waiting for Him to save you, why not use your political influence and petition the local ice cream man for a little Good Humor? Alas, I resigned myself to accepting that my affair with the ice cream man just wasn't meant to be. Now imagine my surprise when, almost a decade and a half after our move to this town, I witnessed with my own eyes the emergence of the ice cream truck on my street. Here is a transcript of our fateful meeting:

Ice Cream Man: Hey there, I almost missed you! What can I get for you?

Me: Oh, I don't have any money, you see I'm unemployed right now.

Ice Cream Man: Is that right? Well then, you see, I can't sell you any ice cream.

Me: That's alright, what I want to know is why now? All this time I've heard you go down everyone's street but mine.

Ice Cream Man: [laughing heartily] So you want closure, is that it?

Me: No...not exactly. Just...will you be coming back?

Ice Cream Man: That depends on you. Are you willing to get a job, and join the rest of us hard working Americans in our struggle for success?

Me: I'm going to write about this on my blog later, does that count? That's got to be worth at least a Snowcone.

Ice Cream Man: That sounds like an ice cream sandwich to me. [reaching into the freezer bin] Here. I'll be watching!

       An ice cream sandwich, the most unacceptable of rewards. It reminded me of something that happened back in first grade when our teacher was given the same treat from a student of a class next door, in which they were having a 'party'. Repulsed, our teacher decided to offer the treat to one of the students in my class. We were told to guess a number between 1 and 500 and whoever guessed correctly would lay claim to the prize. My heart raced as I tried to decide on which number to choose. We were not given much time, and as the teacher walked around checking what each of the students wrote down I buckled under the pressure and copied the number the Indian boy next to me chose, '200'. Fortunately my turn came first, the guess was correct and I had won! So for the duration of the class, I devoured my ice cream sandwich, and the only sweetener I needed was the jealous gaze of that Indian boy.

       Then I realized, as I sat on the front steps of my house eating the ice cream sandwich, that it was the result of the labors of middle class Americans and that it was made for their enjoyment not mine. Who am I to feel any sort of entitlement when I am nothing but a hungry leech on the workforce's backside? The truth sent a stinging sensation throughout my body. I knew that I had to resolve the injustice that I had committed. I walked over to my invalid neighbor's doorstep and left the half-eaten ice cream sandwich in their mailbox. It felt good to do the right thing.

Ice cream truck image courtesy of knittinginthedark.com