On Monday, as on most days, I sat in this spot fumbling with the keyboard, trying to somehow weave various spools of thought into the fabric of the first-time novel I’m writing. (I would like to say that fabric will become a beautiful tapestry, but it’s more likely to end up like the ugly brown Afghan that Aunt Rosemary made.) It was an idyllic summer afternoon, and the windows were open to allow a tepid breeze to waft in out of the sunshine.
Just as I was trying to cobble together the ending of my latest chapter, faint strains of ethereal music began to float into the room, at first barely noticed, but growing gradually louder. All at once I sat up straight, my head tilted to the side, listening. The Entertainer was the song, no doubt about it. There was no mistaking the source, either: it was an ice cream truck.
I have always loved the idea of the ice cream truck. They’re sort of a quaint relic of mid-20th century Americana, like milkmen…almost as if nobody told the operators of these vehicles that the 1950s ended. Even the chimes themselves seem frozen in history. I mean, The Entertainer? Come on fellas, time for an update. How about some Metallica chimes for all the metalheads on your child’s block? They’ll come running, banging their heads all the way.
And of course, I still love them for the same reason I did growing up: Ice cream coming to you? Who wouldn’t like that concept?
As a kid I would get so excited upon hearing the first distant notes of those signature chimes. I’d run all the way to the end of our long driveway and tilt my head in much the same way my present-day self did, listening. Is it coming this way? It seems to be getting louder. Sounds like it might have turned down Laurel Drive. It’s stopped…there it is again, moving. A little quieter now…now louder…much louder…it’s coming this way!!! At last that cheerfully decorated white truck would roll into view from around the corner…and that’s where the excitement would end.
My few faithful readers will remember that I’m all in favor of not giving children everything they ask for. My parents’ philosophy, on the other hand, was to never give me what I asked for. I say philosophy, but it was more like a full-blown religion. Begging for ice cream money was futile. I’d spoil my dinner, or it was too expensive, or – when my mother was too tired to humor me with plausible excuses – just a flat-out “no” of the Because I Said So flavor. And so as that ice cream truck cruised past – its siren song now blaring loudly – I would watch longingly while its back end disappeared in the other direction. The driver never even slowed or gave me a second look; he came to learn quickly that I was just “that kid with no money”.
Back to this Monday. Head tilted. Listening. Ice cream truck…hey, cool. Thinking about those old days, so many golden summer evenings of sadness and disappointment. I could…nah. Don’t be silly. It’s getting closer, I think. Winding its way through the apartment complex. Don’t be silly! It sure is hot today.
Oh, screw it. I excused myself from the friends I was IMing with, clawed as much change out of the jar as my fist would carry, kicked on my sandals, and ran.
Outside, I lingered near my car for a moment, not wanting to actually make it obvious to onlookers that I was waiting for the freaking ice cream truck. It came into view and coasted to a halt just nearby, and I casually strolled over. I gave them the story that I had just happened to be cleaning out my car and ended up with a fistful of loose change, and saw the truck and figured Why Not? They were kind enough not to call me out on the obvious lie that this was.
Then I intentionally purchased the most childish treat they had:
That’s right, folks. Spider-Man. And he was every bit as delicious as my childhood mind had dreamed. Superhero. Photographer. Dessert.
Maybe things like this are just a pathetic attempt on my part to reclaim a bit of childhood. But it’s all too easy to forget the pure joy we used to derive from simple things when we were young. It was just a goofy-looking water-ice popsicle, but to a child’s mind that momentarily stepped into the future, it was pure delight. Hope you’re reading this, Mom.
