Recently, I was reminded of a long passed (or so I thought) suburban phenomena…the ice cream man. Back in the days before there was CNN or the internet or unlimited txt plans to expose them – there was a lone kid, (I say this, imagining a late teen’d, early 20’d skater dude) who drove through our neighborhood selling wares from the back of his beat up pick-up truck. He came by just after dinner…and he drove slowly, as if a fisherman trolling for bass.
His little bell would ring, and you would have to run nearly half a block and amass a moderately sized mob to qualify to actually make him stop. All the while, screaming your fool head off, “Ice cream man…STOP! I have money!” oh, and wildly shaking your arms above your head as you ran. He’d finally stop, and then you handed him a pile of sweaty coins in hopes you had enough to buy a giant pink foot with a gumball toe (or, if you were my friend Amanda, you handed him your Monopoly Money and got handed, in return, your marching orders).
Either my perceptions have severely changed, or they’ve taken to giving ice cream man jobs to recently released pedophiles.
The ice cream man in my neighborhood makes ME scared to contemplate buying something from the back of his rusted out ’82 Datsun pick-up. I’ve also now taken to questioning whether I’d ever be able to live with myself for spending close to $20 for a family of 5 to sample what I could easily pick up from my local Wegs for about $3. My children have yet to learn what that strange bell ringing is at approx. 5:30pm WHILE we are eating dinner – Seriously?!? You can’t wait 1.5 hrs longer in the summer months to hit kids who already ate? …and that is coming from someone who is aware they feed their family pretty early, relatively speaking.
Instead, it is me who runs to the window or the door to see him casing out the ‘hood, and to decide who it is. I’ve started playing a game with myself. I’m coming up with new & creative names for each of the ice cream men I see (whether it is in my neighborhood or someone else’s). [as a side note – my husband has tried himself to name these men…and failed miserably].
In total, I’d like to say, “Let me introduce you to: “ but in actuality, that isn’t happening, b/c I doubt I’ll ever meet them myself, but here goes: scoping out kiddies on my block is Matt, Matt – could use a bath. The suburb one over from me across a mere bridge has Mitch, Mitch – the biker bitch who peddles there [in example – my husband named him ZZ Top. Creative, honey]. In my friend’s area on the east side of town is Randy, Randy – don’t you want some candy? And lastly, over by my work is Tim, Tim – I’m not sure he’s a him, who’s trying to seduce me with his(?) Nutty Buddy…
All in all, these charming and dashing gentlemen have ruined a treasured pastime that I had hoped to share with my children. Instead, they leave me feeling cold and empty with a slight suspicion of anyone driving slowly past my house. I just can’t care, no matter how alluring your Bomb Pop just might be.
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