In Good Humor
For one summer, I made the people of South Portland dance in the streets.
The early morning heat promised a scorcher. Luckily, my truck was waiting for me. I climbed in and checked the coolers: cold and stocked. With a final twist of the volume knob, the mechanical tones of "The Entertainer" announced to the citizens of South Portland I was ready to begin my summer job. I was ready to become an ice cream man.
My first customer was working on his car - or, rather, under it. As I waited to cross Broadway, he slid out from underneath the axles. His face, smudged with grease spots, resembled a toddler's after his first Fudgsicle.Worried I might not view him as a potential customer, he rolled up the right cut-off pant leg of his denim shorts and stuck a gleaming, bristly thigh out into the road, provocatively bent, as if to lure me with his siren shins. My ice cream truck crawled toward the flirtatious mechanic.
"How could I pass that by?" I called out, as the burly man approached.
"I'm dyin' out here," he said, sopping his forehead with a dirty rag. "You weren't gonna get by me."
The man ordered a coconut bar and a chocolate éclair ice cream. As I pulled away and glanced in my side-view mirror, I saw him sit down on the curb, looking at which to open first.
Others were less receptive to my tenacious song. While cruising through Pleasantdale, a small neighborhood that juts into the Fore River, I came upon a pack of skateboard kids, all about twelve or thirteen years old. "You guys want some ice cream?" I asked. Each of them scoffed at the question, answering with their own apathetic response: kicking up the board into a hand, or trying to jump onto the curb but falling and skinning a knee. I was more saddened than upset. A world where the ice cream man merits such disrespect must be a sad and lonely one in which to live.
To most everyone else, I was a savior, their favorite person ever, an icy refuge. I soon learned what in the industry is known as "The Ice Cream Dance." Upon seeing me headed their way, children had the inescapable urge to jump up and down, sometimes shifting from side to side or running in a tight circle. The dance was often accompanied by the Ice Cream Man Song, whose verse, chorus, and bridge repeated the same catchy lyrics: "Ice cream man! Ice cream man!"
One would think a truck full of frozen treats would be a cool, refreshing work environment during a sweltering summer day. Not so. Heat flows upwards from the motor just below your feet, causing the immediate driving area to be ten to twenty degrees hotter than outside.
With sweat collecting in my eyebrows, I turned down Free Street and pulled up to an older man waiting by the curb.
"Snickers cone, please," he said.
"You got it!" I lifted the foldable metal covering off the middle cooler and grabbed what looked like a sugar cone topped with a chocolaty, nutty orb. A golden retriever trotted up alongside the man.
"Would you like a Frosty Paws for your dog?" I asked, referring to a frozen dog treat that's wrapped in bright blue plastic and features a smiling, cartoon terrier.
"This is for him!" the man said, bringing the cone up briefly like a torch.
"Lucky dog," I said, as he turned and sat down, unwrapping the covering and bringing the cone near a set of panting, slobbery lips.
Not everyone loves the ice cream man. Once I drove up to a parking lot adjacent to Willard Beach, nearby Fort Preble overlooking the sand. Perfect, I thought. The beachgoers agreed. They lined up by my window in seconds, like a platoon of soldiers reporting for duty. Then a woman scooted up to my idling truck and called out, "You're not allowed here!" She stood there, arms crossed, waiting. I puttered away, shrugging my shoulders "Sorry" at the hot, unsatisfied line-up. The woman headed back to her post. With her gaze diverted, I leaned over to the crowd.
"Follow me over there," I whispered, pointing forty feet down the street. And follow me they did, creeping along the curb, looking over their shoulders for the evil beach lady. I was the Popsicle Pied Piper of South Portland. They bought their Bomb Pops, their ice cream sandwiches, their Aloha Mickey's, and happily returned to their towels, chilly reward in hand, ready to bask in the hot summer breeze rolling in off Casco Bay.
My first customer was working on his car - or, rather, under it. As I waited to cross Broadway, he slid out from underneath the axles. His face, smudged with grease spots, resembled a toddler's after his first Fudgsicle.Worried I might not view him as a potential customer, he rolled up the right cut-off pant leg of his denim shorts and stuck a gleaming, bristly thigh out into the road, provocatively bent, as if to lure me with his siren shins. My ice cream truck crawled toward the flirtatious mechanic.
"How could I pass that by?" I called out, as the burly man approached.
"I'm dyin' out here," he said, sopping his forehead with a dirty rag. "You weren't gonna get by me."
The man ordered a coconut bar and a chocolate éclair ice cream. As I pulled away and glanced in my side-view mirror, I saw him sit down on the curb, looking at which to open first.
Others were less receptive to my tenacious song. While cruising through Pleasantdale, a small neighborhood that juts into the Fore River, I came upon a pack of skateboard kids, all about twelve or thirteen years old. "You guys want some ice cream?" I asked. Each of them scoffed at the question, answering with their own apathetic response: kicking up the board into a hand, or trying to jump onto the curb but falling and skinning a knee. I was more saddened than upset. A world where the ice cream man merits such disrespect must be a sad and lonely one in which to live.
To most everyone else, I was a savior, their favorite person ever, an icy refuge. I soon learned what in the industry is known as "The Ice Cream Dance." Upon seeing me headed their way, children had the inescapable urge to jump up and down, sometimes shifting from side to side or running in a tight circle. The dance was often accompanied by the Ice Cream Man Song, whose verse, chorus, and bridge repeated the same catchy lyrics: "Ice cream man! Ice cream man!"
One would think a truck full of frozen treats would be a cool, refreshing work environment during a sweltering summer day. Not so. Heat flows upwards from the motor just below your feet, causing the immediate driving area to be ten to twenty degrees hotter than outside.
With sweat collecting in my eyebrows, I turned down Free Street and pulled up to an older man waiting by the curb.
"Snickers cone, please," he said.
"You got it!" I lifted the foldable metal covering off the middle cooler and grabbed what looked like a sugar cone topped with a chocolaty, nutty orb. A golden retriever trotted up alongside the man.
"Would you like a Frosty Paws for your dog?" I asked, referring to a frozen dog treat that's wrapped in bright blue plastic and features a smiling, cartoon terrier.
"This is for him!" the man said, bringing the cone up briefly like a torch.
"Lucky dog," I said, as he turned and sat down, unwrapping the covering and bringing the cone near a set of panting, slobbery lips.
Not everyone loves the ice cream man. Once I drove up to a parking lot adjacent to Willard Beach, nearby Fort Preble overlooking the sand. Perfect, I thought. The beachgoers agreed. They lined up by my window in seconds, like a platoon of soldiers reporting for duty. Then a woman scooted up to my idling truck and called out, "You're not allowed here!" She stood there, arms crossed, waiting. I puttered away, shrugging my shoulders "Sorry" at the hot, unsatisfied line-up. The woman headed back to her post. With her gaze diverted, I leaned over to the crowd.
"Follow me over there," I whispered, pointing forty feet down the street. And follow me they did, creeping along the curb, looking over their shoulders for the evil beach lady. I was the Popsicle Pied Piper of South Portland. They bought their Bomb Pops, their ice cream sandwiches, their Aloha Mickey's, and happily returned to their towels, chilly reward in hand, ready to bask in the hot summer breeze rolling in off Casco Bay.
- By: Jonathan Irwin
