Lee is sitting on my couch, nursing a hangover. We both had Miller Lites and Marlboros for dinner again last night, and neither of us are feeling too pretty. We’re talking about banana popsicles, the go-to cure for all that ails our 20 year old bodies. Neither of us have the energy or inclination to go to the store. I pour us both a Dr. Pepper, but it’s not the same.
In the distance we hear the magic bell. Lee stands up, reaches into her pockets for quarters and takes off out the door. She’s running like mad after the ice cream truck, her bare feet churning over hot asphalt. One hand is over her head and waving, trying to flag down a stop. The truck speeds up, the bell now in a maniacal frenzy. Lee’s yelling and I’m laughing my ass off. And the ice cream truck, he’s zooming around the trailer park like it’s Talladega.
Lee picks her way over the pine cones and sharp gravel, remembering now that her feet haven’t yet toughened up for the summer. I’m laughing at her and wondering how she hasn’t figured out the ice cream man isn’t interested in selling ice cream.
That night at 11:00 p.m. we pull into the convenience store and see the ice cream truck again. The driver’s in the phone booth, making his orders for the next day.