Posted in Open Letters

Open Letter to The Ice Cream Man

Dear Ice Cream Man,

Imagine that you are an alcoholic. Okay, now imagine that every day at about 7:30pm a truck full of nips and frozen drinks heads down your street. Imagine that it plays “100 Barrels of Beer on the Wall” very loudly, to let you know that it is coming. Imagine that you sit in a panic, thinking “I want a Mudslide. Or a small bottle of lemon vodka. Just one bottle.”

Now how frightening is this thought? And yet you are making a career of throwing me into this kind of panic attack every evening as you slow to a crawl in front of my house. The Entertainer crackles in the air as you wind up to cruise my neighborhood. We’re the first house you hit once you leave the too-busy cross street, so you sort of park about 100 feet from my house and crank up the music. You pause for effect, in case the people who live in my house are scrambling to find change under the sofa cushions.

In reality, my son is either in bed or watching a little Teletubbies before turning in. He doesn’t know what the music means. Yet. I am standing frozen (no pun intended) with 100 different thoughts running through my head. “I have a couple of dollars in my pocket. I could just go out there. If I went out right now I could stop him. I don’t need the calories. I have some low fat ice cream in the freezer, if I really want ice cream. It’s too expensive. I can’t leave Mookie in the house while I run outside to make my selection. I’ll go outside and it will be too late, and I’m not going to chase the ice cream truck down the road. I would really really like to buy something today.”

I pray that you will fly by before I give in to the temptation and find my wallet or raid the change jar. Just one Drumstick, right? One Strawberry Shortcake can’t be that bad, can it.

You are evil. You are evil in a white truck playing a very loud, very old song on a crappy speaker. You are not doing me any favors. If you were an “alcohol man” you would be outlawed. Well I’m a snack addict and there isn’t a rehab to be found. Think about this Mr. Cone, next time you are firing up the beast to ease past my house at 2 miles an hour and I don’t come outside. Because every day that I don’t buy something from you, I win. I WIN!

See you tomorrow, man in white.