Summers came and went in mid-Michigan Monkey Keys. This summer was no different than any before it up to that point. We were kids in middle school and did the usual asortment of kids’ stuff that none of us would find interesting for more than a nanosecond today. The day’s activities up to that point included going to a friend’s house and making fun of bad television by putting it on mute and playing music over the actual dialog. I believe we had it on the third or fourth music video from MTV before the laughter of Ozzie singing Ace of Base began to subside. Our attention span waning, we turned our gaze to the outdoors.
It was three of us. Keys Habeck, Pelton and myself. The trampoline in Pelton’s yard caught our eyes first, and soon we were risking life and limb for the adrenaline rush of assisted gravity defiance. It was then we three heard it. It came soft at first (as many melodic tunes drifting over the suburban wasteland do) and perhaps we mistook it for a car radio. Few car radios blast “She’ll be Comin’ Round the Mountain” though, and soon we all knew what it was we were dealing with. The ice cream man had come to town.
Being in middle school, we weren’t endowed with an abundance of currency. This was hardly a deterrent for such up and coming entrepreneurs as ourselves however. As the music approached, and our will to feast grew, we sprang into action. In the absence of a civilized means for acquiring goods and services, we enacted a crude form of bartering. It was rough around the edges, but the plan made perfect sense to our pubescent minds. We were going to purchase our glorious treats with some socks found in Pelton’s garage.
The exact exchange rate for old socks was unknown to us, but simple logic seemed to dictate that the ice cream was a fleeting joy. The socks had already endured the trials of time, and may have brought their new owner many more moons of happy foot warmth. Or perhaps he would simply trade the socks himself once he realized the amazing deal that had fallen into his lap. Regardless of the outcome, the creamed ice would soon be ours. As the truck creped it’s way down the block, we flagged it down.
A large stubbly man greeted us as we stood at the end of Pelton’s driveway with socks in hand. He expressed passive joy in seeing three eager consumers ready to cool their troubled minds with fresh ice cream. We each placed our orders making sure we chose the most suitable flavors for our distinct tastes. EDITOR’S NOTE: I believe I may have tried for a Ninja Turtle ice cream bar as I was prone to doing at that age. However, I may have also gone for the more formal creamsicle. Please use your discretion when envisioning the scenario.
The man took no notes when hearing our demands. He simply leaned out the small window in his oversized van and listened. At the conclusion of our individualized order soliloquies, he spouted off a number that I can only now assume was some kind of Greek pickup line. We looked at each other a moment, and then made mention of our plan to get our treats in exchange for the socks in hand. By way of a blank stare, several expletives and screeching tires, our ice cream was soon driving away.
This was unacceptable. We had come too far, and fought too hard, to lose out on such nourishment now. We mounted our trusty Huffy steeds and gave chase. The day would be ours. Surely some simple reasoning would educate this salesman on the error of his ways. Maybe he just wasn’t aware of the many benefits of wearing a warm sock. Perhaps he had never had gangrene of his big toe for instance. EDITOR’S NOTE: By this guy’s outward appearance, he probably had endured gangrene of a toe or two in his day.
Several blocks later, the plump, angry salesman stopped his truck. We again appealed to his sense of judgment and reason. We were clearly losing out on this deal. Surely any sane man would come to this same rationalization. After our second explanation, with smiles on our faces, we awaited our ice cream.
“I have a shotgun in the truck,” he said with a deadpan, lifeless scowl. “I’m not afraid to use it if I see yous again.” With that, he crept off down the road. Now, being threatened by large firearms wasn’t a common occurrence for us, but this meant little. This was ice cream, Keys! It’s not everyday ice cream is brought to you on a silver platter inside a rusty truck. We had to try one more time. This was for the glory of the treat! With hardly a word to one another, we climbed back onto our bikes and followed.
We peddled as fast as we could, and finally caught up with the ominous truck as it approached a crossroads. We were within smelling distance of the cream when the truck screeched to a halt. The happy music that had been blaring from its mammoth speakers abruptly went silent as well. It was as if all the animals of the suburb knew what was about to transpire as extreme silence fell about us. We three were stopped in the middle of the road about 100 yards from the truck. For ten seconds, nothing happened.
When the music kicked in again, it was nearly deafening. “Old Suzanna” erupted into our eardrums with a thunderous force, and the truck peeled out in reverse. The large man executed a perfect reverse three point turn as fast as the rickety truck would allow. Then he rocketed toward us.
There was no time to scream, only to react. The three of us slammed our feet down and peddled for our lives. We could never outrun the truck. Our only hope was to outmaneuver him. The gap between us closed quick. In another few seconds, we would be roadkill. Someone shouted to turn left, and we all cut down a side street. The truck had been too close to react in time. We heard a terrible screech as he tried to correct his trajectory.
The move had bought us time. We flew down the street faster than we ever rode before. Soon, we made it around a bend, and came to a gradual stop. Silence had fallen over the homes again. No music was to be heard. All of us stood in the middle of the road, eyes transfixed on the bend we had just rounded. He seemed to be gone. I breathed a sigh of relief, and looked up just in time to see the metallic beast drift silently around the bend.
“Merry Had a Little Lamb” was suddenly reverberating off every tree and house nearby so that it seemed to be coming in every direction at once. We rode again, this time with no side street to escape down. He was closing too fast. It would all be over in a matter of seconds. On guttural instinct, I yelled something about getting off the road. Habeck motioned right, and we all hopped the curb. Using my last strength, I forced the Huffy forward into a strangers backyard. It was our luck the stranger’s house bordered a small forest. We didn’t stop riding until the road was far behind us.
Exhausted, I collapsed next to a tree. For some time after, as we hid in that forest, we could hear the terrifying echoes of children’s songs worming their way through the trees. He was out there, hunting. At length, the three of us packed up our bikes and socks, and crept out of the forest the opposite way from where we came.
None of us ever saw the ice cream man again. None of us got ice cream that day, and none of us ever attempted a bartering situation with a shady character again. Lesson learned?
Nah.
