The Last Ice Cream Truck
She raced down the deserted sidewalk, dodging cracks and leaping over protruding maple tree roots, one fist clenched, the other hand outstretched as if to grab the bumper of his truck and pull it towards her. She wore a wide grin that made him scowl.
It was after seven in the evening. The early summer sky had already taken on cantaloupe colored tinges of dusk. He checked the gas gauge. Less than a quarter of a tank remained. It would take nearly seventy-five dollars to fill up the antiquated clunker. He considered ignoring the little brat; it wasn’t worth wasting any more gas and, anyway, he’d had enough of that goddamn, incessantly repeating jingle he had to listen to all day.
Do your ears hang low? Do they wobble to and fro?
It was worse that he knew the words because they etched into his brain during the day and continued to swirl through his furtive dreams each night.
He heard a sharp whistle and swiveled his gaze around in time to see a man standing on the sidewalk just ahead, gesturing for him to stop. He sighed and pulled over. The little girl was gaining on him anyway.
“Do you have any idea how annoying that so called music is that you play?” the man demanded. From a distance he had looked like a nice guy but, up close, his face was contorted with indignation and resentment. “We have noise ordinances in this town for racket like that.”
A serene young woman emerged onto a nearby porch and called out “If you’re not moving you should turn off the engine. I don’t want those exhaust fumes wafting into my yard.”
“Hey, buddy, what d’ya use to cool this thing?” inquired a grimy teen-aged boy. “I bet you got Freon in this system.” His voice was harsh and accusing. “Don’t you know what that does to the ozone layer?”
The driver turned quickly to find a tall, well-fed woman glaring at him. “This stuff is shit,” she shrieked. “Haven’t you ever heard of fruit juice? Granola bars?”
“What the hell, asshole. Every time you fill this thing up the Saudis get to buy enough ammunition to take out another village in Yemen.”
His head pounded. He hated his job. He hated music and children and laughter and bright colors.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Answer me.”
“Probably can’t. Doesn’t speak English.”
“Fucking immigrants.”
He shouldn’t have stopped. He turned away.
“Don’t you turn away. I’m talking to you.”
A hand grabbed his collar and ripped him out of his truck. He heard glass breaking, metal crumpling under the force of rock and baseball bat. He wouldn’t fight and probably got off easy because there’s no fun in beating up a flaccid and acquiescent victim.
“There,” said a distant voice. “That should do it.”
Footsteps receded into the dusk. He heard doors shut and dead bolts thrown into place with dry and decisive thuds.
Finally, he rolled over and opened his eyes. His truck looked bad but not irreparable. The windows were smashed, there were a few vicious dents, and the decals had been ripped off but nothing that couldn’t be fixed.
He sat up. Popsicles, Fudgesicles, Polar Bars, Rockets, and ice cream Snickers littered the street. The little girl stood nearby, licking a pale orange Creamsicle. He got to his feet. She unfurled her fist and handed him two damp and crumpled dollars. He took them. She turned and strolled back up the broken sidewalk, tending to the creamy drips of her Creamsicle as she went.
He shrugged and shook his head; at her, at his truck, the ice cream, the neighborhood, the limp green bills in his hand. It didn’t matter tonight but history would recall the fate and the import of the last ice cream truck.
