I'm not sure if I thought it would be cool to drive an ice cream truck for the summer, but I knew it couldn't possibly be worse than the job my father had lined up for me. That's why I decided to answer the ad, so I wouldn't have to ride the train into Manhattan every morning to work in the mail room of some insurance company he deals with. My father is high up in his firm, and they give a lot of business to this one particular company.

They had to offer me a job for the summer, to keep him happy. Of course, that didn't mean I had to take it, as long as I could come up with some alternative. My first choice was to not work at all, but that wasn't an acceptable option to my father. It's not like I needed the money; my folks could easily afford to give me spending money for college, but my father has this work ethic thing. 

I dialed the number in the ad. After I gave the woman some information about myself she put me on hold for five minutes. When she got back on she told me to come in the next morning at seven and Max would set me up with something. I figured that meant I got the job, so I called my father at work and told him that I'd rather be an ice cream man this summer. 

"What are you, nuts?!" he said. "What the hell are you going to learn driving an ice cream truck?" 

I remembered how thrilling it had been when I was little, hearing those familiar bells grow louder as the ice cream truck came down our block. We'd come running, all the neighborhood friends, emerging from one yard or another to buy ice cream from the smiling old man. Now kids would come happily running to buy ice cream from me. 

"The same thing I'm going to learn in some mail room," I said. "Nothing." 

I could tell right away this was not the right answer.

"Yeah, nothing!" he said, his voice rising. "You kids are all so damn spoiled, if I had half the advantages you kids have..." Etcetera, etcetera.

I assume by "us kids" he meant me and my brother and sisters, but he could have meant everyone whose own father didn't take off when he was a kid. I let him go on for a while, until finally he told me we'd talk about it when he got home. 

As soon as he hung up, I went out with some friends and didn't come home until I was pretty sure he'd be asleep. In the morning, I drove over to Valley Stream to the ice cream warehouse. The woman in the office brought me to Max, who told me I'd be riding with Vinnie. 

"Vinnie's my best driver," he said. "He'll show you everything you need to know over the next couple of days, and if it works out we'll give you a truck this weekend." 

I was disappointed that he didn't give me a truck of my own right away, but I realized it made more sense his way. I nodded, and he led me over to a short man with slicked back black hair, a nose that had been broken once too often, and arms as thick as my legs. Vinnie shifted the case of ice cream he was loading, balancing it on his left arm, and shook my hand. You could tell he wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea of dragging me around with him, but Max took him aside and they talked. After a while Vinnie shook his head and sighed, and I could tell he would be okay because Max just smiled and smacked him on the shoulder. Then Vinnie came over to me and I helped him finish loading up. We got in the truck and drove away. 

"Glad to have you aboard, kid," Vinnie said. "You're gonna like this. You can make some good money selling ice cream." 

"How long you been doing this?" I asked. 

"This is my tenth season here, but I did it two summers before that over in Queens . I started the summer I was sixteen, before I even had my license. Told them all about it when I turned eighteen, and the asshole manager fires me. I was the best salesman he had, and he still fires me." 

"But why did he fire you if you'd already turned eighteen?" 

"He gave me some bullshit about insurance and my attitude and all, but mostly it was because I'm white. Don't ever work for a nigger, kid. You always gotta watch your ass." 

I nodded, unsure of how he expected me to respond to that. We don't call people "nigger" in my neighborhood, although I have to admit there are no black people living there. I didn't say that to Vinnie, though. 

We drove along the North Conduit and into some areas I'd never been in before, and went to a couple of parks with our bells ringing. Vinnie had me get the ice creams while he handled the money. He stood between me and the window, making sure I didn't serve any customers before they paid. They spoke Chinese or some other Asian language, and they kept pointing and nodding at us. Vinnie didn't seem to notice, or maybe he just didn't care. 

"I don't have a permit for these parks," Vinnie said when we were done. "But I figure if I don't do them someone else will. We'll head over to my route now."

He took side streets through Brooklyn , and I had no idea where we were. We passed some rusted-out cars and abandoned buildings, and wound up on Pennsylvania Avenue . 

"This is East New York ," he said. "My route starts around the corner. Just be careful what you say, cause we're the only white people around here." 

"Okay," I said, although I hadn't planned on saying anything offensive. 

I was ringing the bells when we turned to the right by some apartment buildings. The Projects, Vinnie called them. There at the curb, all alone, was one little girl with her hands clasped together, holding something. She looked to be about six, maybe seven, with smooth brown skin and her hair pulled back in a frizzy pony tail. Her sweatshirt was way too big, almost covering the little shorts that peeked out from underneath. She hopped from foot to foot, dancing with excitement that the ice cream man was here. 

As the little girl wriggled about at the curb, twelve or fifteen other kids came running to join her. They pushed in front of her and each other, jockeying for position. The girl used her shoulders to shove the others, but with her hands clasped tightly together she drifted inevitably toward the back. When the truck came to a stop in front of them, the little girl stood resignedly at the end of what passed for a line.

"Okay, what do you want?" Vinnie said, to no one in particular. 

The first kid in line asked for a cherry Italian ice, and I turned to get it while Vinnie took his money. One by one we gave them ice, ice cream, or candy, until there were only about four kids left. The little girl at the end of the line spoke to the bigger girl in front of her. 

"I'm getting ice cream today," she said. 

With hands on her hips and tilted head, the bigger girl replied, "Well, hoo-ray for you!" 

The little girl went back to waiting quietly. We served the three others, and it was finally her turn. 

"I'll have a push-up," she whispered. She had high cheeks, full lips, and the biggest brown eyes I had ever seen. I remember thinking they were open too wide for such a delicate little face. 

"A what?" asked Vinnie. "C'mon, speak up." 

"I'll have a push-up," she said, a little too loudly. 

I couldn't help smiling as I turned to get her ice cream. When I turned back I saw her opening her hands above the serving ledge, unloading a handful of copper coins. 

"No pennies!" Vinnie yelled, sweeping his hand across the chrome. He grabbed the ice cream from my hand as the coins scattered to the street.

"How many times do I have to tell you little brats I don't have time for counting pennies?" 

The little girl stood there, hard eyes fixed on us, her tiny fists clenched. I expected her to run away sobbing, the way my sister does when I go just a litle too far with my teasing. But she didn't run, and she didn't cry. She took a deep breath, her head and shoulders drooping forward as she exhaled, and surveyed the street where her pennies had landed.

The truck pulled away from the curb. I leaned  through the serving window and watched the girl until the truck turned to the left and she was out of sight. Then I sat down and stared out at the unfamiliar neighborhood. Vinnie was rattling on about something, but I wasn't paying attention. I spent the rest of the day and the train ride into Manhattan the next morning wishing I had climbed off the truck to gather the fallen coins at the feet of the little girl.

Author's Biography

William Joseph lives in Saint James, NY with his wife and sons, where he does "something with numbers" from nine to five. 

He's an average, middle-aged man doing average, middle-aged things, and remains unknown to all but his family and friends. In his fantasy life, though, William is a well-known writer and changer-of-the-world.

E-mail William at WilliamJoseph117@aol.com

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