Ever since we moved in, we’ve been suspicious about our local ice cream truck. Oh, sure – it’s the requisite converted white postal Jeep, with a cooler and a sound system, festooned with pictures of various and sundry icy treats in colors unknown to nature. The truck is legit. The driver on the other hand…
No, we’ve long suspected that ice cream is really the driver’s sideline. He would fly down our street at top speed (a blazing 30 MPH or more!), past disappointed kids too young to realize that the Doppler-shifted rendition of “Daisy” emanating from the truck sounded eerily like Hal being shut down by David Bowman. Our street is, to an ice cream truck, the ultimate target-rich environment: lots of kids, plenty of parents with pocket change and a nostalgic yearning to recapture fragments of their own childhood… And yet… Yet…
He would have none of it.
No, his preferred demographic appeared to consist of the dissolute drifters and street kids who congregate in Gas Works Park and the homeless car encampments along Lake Union. His other locale of choice, earlier in ice cream season, would be the local junior high school right around the end of classes. Hey, he’s just going where his market is, right?
Right. I’m sure it was nothing but Bomb Pops® all around.
And so it has gone for at least the last three or four years, late Spring through early Autumn, psychotically-warbled “Daisy” tear-assing past demoralized children. Oh, he’d stop for an adult, particularly women (for big breasts, he’d practically lay down rubber) – but an unaccompanied kid? Yeah. Forget it.
And so tonight, upon hearing the electronically distorted burbling of “Daisy”, well, we didn’t expect much. We joked about getting a dime bag, ignoring The Boy’s eager face. After all, it wasn’t like he was actually going to get the chance to pick anything.
But tonight, something was… different. He was traveling slowly. Appropriately, even. And then…
…he stopped! For some kids!
Huh. No shit.
I fished out a dollar and gave it to The Boy, who ran out to the street and flagged down the truck. The Boy got his Bomb Pop® and a “Ooh, good choice!” from the driver. When the boy next door came running out, the driver told him to wait a minute so he could pull the truck up to the house where the boy’s moms could see him. And there he sat while our neighbors’ kids got their ice cream.
Whoa. Clearly the pod people have taken our old ice cream driver. Or Seattle P.D. Either way, it’s a nice start to summer.