The Ice Cream Obligation

Here’s that short story I was telling you about. It was nice revisiting this old story, and it was a nice surprise to find a memory of an old friend.

Where had it all gone wrong? Everything used to seem – no – everything did used to be simpler. I was sat in the park on my dinner hour, fed up and trying to escape it by reading – in between bites of my cheese and tomato sandwiches – but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept going over the same sentence over and over again. I was searching my mind for a time when I was happy with myself, happy with my place in the world.

I’d just lost the Holmes account. I didn’t care, but my boss did, and he told me I was paid well enough to.

He made it sound like I’d sold out, and the truth was, I had. I’d been with the firm for nearly five years, and seemingly, through no hard work of my own – just from people leaving to have babies or better careers or whatever – I had risen amongst the ranks. The only reason I stayed was because of the reasonable salary and a potent mix of laziness and paranoia.

Once, after one of the many endless meetings about the future of the company, one of the leading directors had pulled me aside because he “just had to tell me” how impressed he was with my presentation. I had a “natural talent” and I was going to make the company “a leading force in the market,” whatever that meant. Maybe he was right, but as the fat old man with a head shaped like the muffins he ate blabbered on, I remembered something that my English teacher Mrs Baxendale had said to me a lifetime ago. I had a rare talent, and that if I could be bothered to nurture it and work a bit harder, I could go on to be a good writer. Maybe even a great one. But that was it, wasn’t it. I couldn’t be bothered. I was unwaveringly lazy, and that laziness had led me to a place I didn’t want to be, and ultimately, didn’t have the energy to escape from.

I’d been all too willing to take the advice of everyone who’d told me that even if I did manage to finish a novel – which, apparently, was highly unlikely – it would take a miracle to get it published, unless I was famous already for something else. So, I’d gone with the easy option and ended up miserable, with nothing but regrets to reflect on, but hey, at least I could pay the rent each month.

Suddenly, something caught my attention. Something that was hurtling towards me at an alarming speed. I vaguely recalled passing it over on the opposite side of the park, near the path which led onto the Locomart car park. It was an ice cream van, and it screeched to a halt just a few feet away from my feet, its exhaust fumes penetrating my nostrils and making me feel slightly sick.

Seconds later, a desperate yet jovial looking man with a shiny bald head and red cheeks – he kind of reminded me of a Ninety-nine without the flake – leapt out.

‘Can you just watch my van for a couple of minutes, mate?’ he said. ‘I need to nip to the loo.’

Well, needless to say, I was a bit taken aback by this request. I couldn’t remember ever being asked to watch someone’s van before, and I knew that I’d never been asked to watch someone’s ice cream van before. I don’t know if I mentioned, but I’m a naturally paranoid man. If I had a more dangerous lifestyle, I could claim that this is what keeps me alive. As it is, it’s probably what keeps me from having any kind of life whatsoever.

Despite my reservations, I heard myself saying: ‘Okay, sure.’

He said thanks in that desperate way and stated again that he would only be a couple of minutes and dashed off.

It only took a few seconds for my paranoia to pounce and pin me to the ground. It started throwing questions at me, like:

‘Why did he pick you to watch it?’

‘Is this some kind of setup for one of those annoying hidden camera shows?’

‘Does he expect you to sell his ice-cream to anyone who turns up?’

I started to feel obligated. This big responsibility had suddenly been thrust upon me with no prior notice; no thought as to whether or not I wanted to do it. In fact, his asking me was just lip service. He may as well have just parked it on my foot and said “Hey, mate, you’re going to watch my van, and if any of my stuff goes missing, I’ll kill you.”

What could I do? I suppose I could’ve just walked off, but I was in the middle of my lunch. And I couldn’t do that anyway, could I, lunch or no lunch. Like it or not, I was tied to that ice-cream van; our fates intertwined and bound together by the ice-cream man’s claim that he was desperate for the loo.

How did I know that was true? How did I know he was an ice cream man even? I should’ve asked him for some ID. For all I knew, he was a drug dealer or something and one of his jobs had gone south, as they say. Maybe he’d pulled a fast one on some rich and influential clients and they were heading over to “ventilate him” and his van. and I’d get caught in the crossfire. What if they thought I was him? They might not have actually seen him. They could’ve done their deals down a badly lit back alley that stunk of rat droppings or worse.

It’s hard being me y’know. All these worries spinning around in my head, like trapped bees under a jar.

I tried to get a grip. It’d probably only been a minute, anyway, and he’d stipulated a couple of minutes. Not very specific. That could mean anything up to and including four minutes, I guessed, depending on what he’d gone in there to do. The average person doesn’t tend to enjoy sitting on public toilet seats, so more than likely he’d be in and out of there – whatever his business – if indeed, he was in there at all.

I told myself to ignore the worry bees and get back to my book.

 

With his hand pinned to the floor by the assassin’s blade, David had no way of moving out of the range of the sniper’s bullet. With his hand pinned to the floor by the assassin’s blade… With his hand pinned to the floor…

 

It was no use. I couldn’t concentrate.

Where was he? He’d been ages, and_

And then, there he was, striding back towards me and his van.

He looked like an entirely different man, and I felt a pang of jealousy at the relief on his face. The desperation was gone and the redness in his cheeks had been replaced by a pasty, bland white; he kind of reminded me of Charlie Brown from the old “Peanuts” comic strip.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I’ve been holding it for ages, and I couldn’t do it any longer; not without serious health and safety violations, anyway.’ He laughed at his own joke, unlocked his van and started up the engine.

Wait a minute. He unlocked his van. So why on Earth did he need me to watch it for him? All sorts of questions started buzzing around my head again, but before I could pin any of them down, he poked his head out of the vending window, or whatever those things are called.

‘Do you want an ice cream, mate?’ he shouted above the din of the engine.

I must’ve looked confused and hesitant, because he followed it up with four words that everyone should hear at least once in their lifetime:

‘… A free ice cream?’

‘Um, yeah sure. Thanks,’ I said, my words and manner belying the way I really felt about the offer.

By the time I’d made my way over to the vending window he’d already made up the most amazing looking ice cream I’d seen in a very long time.

‘I thought you’d want all the toppings, mate.’

That was no exaggeration. It had sherbet, cherry sauce, toffee sauce, and two flakes sticking out of the top like two cartoonish chimneys. It looked like the witch’s tempting cottage from “Hansel and Gretel” through the eyes of someone suffering from a really bad – or really good, depending on your perspective – acid flashback. Just looking at the thing made my fillings tremble, but just as I couldn’t refuse to watch over his van, I could not refuse a free ice cream with all the toppings in the known universe.

I wrapped my mouth around it, and… Wow. I never say that, but that’s how it tasted. I could try to go into more detail, but my words would somehow take something away from the beautiful simplicity of it. The only other thing I want to say on the matter is that it tasted so good that my paranoia almost lost its grip. Almost.

‘So,’ I said, my tongue dripping with ice cold ice cream, ‘why did you ask me to guard your van? You locked it up. No one could’ve nicked anything.’

My question seemed to shock him, because he stopped what he was doing and his head snapped towards me like a startled cat, suddenly aware of a predator in its midst. He looked at me as if I’d just rumbled him, which to be fair, I had. Then his eyes seemed brighter, somehow, and as he leaned forward, a smile slowly crept around his face. I felt as if I’d been rumbled, which I hadn’t.

‘Well done, mate,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry? What?’ A mouthful of cherry sauce landed on my shirt.

‘You have passed the test, my friend. I knew I’d find someone, some day.’

‘I’m sorry? What?’ This was fast becoming my new catchphrase.

‘You’ve won. You get to take over the running of the ice cream van.’

My mouth was full, so my eyes asked the next question which was pretty much the same as the last two.

‘I needed…’ He paused, presumably for dramatic effect. ‘I had to find someone who was honest and stout of heart to succeed me, and I have: You!’ As he said all this, his hands were flapping about all over the place, like a weatherman with too many energy drinks in his system.

‘I’m sorry? You want me to take over your business? On a permanent basis?’

He looked more serious, but still with that glint in his eye, and as he leaned closer to me, he sounded sombre. ‘Would you, if you could?’

‘I… um…’ As you might have picked up on, I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t sure whether the sun was getting to me, or if he’d slipped another type of topping onto my ice cream.

‘It’s okay, mate,’ he said, leaning back against the fridge behind him. ‘I was just messing with you. Ever since I read “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” as I kid, I’ve always wanted to do that to someone, but now that I have, it seems kind of cruel. Sorry about that; you just looked like you needed a bit of a laugh, but as usual, I got it wrong.’

My ice cream was almost melted now, but I didn’t mind too much. I’d managed to eat at least half of it, and as I thought about what the ice cream man had just told me, I felt something happening to my face. It felt like a twitch, but slower and smoother. Then I realised: it was a smile.

Then, something else happened. As I thought about the ridiculousness of what the ice cream man had tried to do, I started to do exactly what he wanted me to. I laughed. Not a chuckle or sniff-of-the-nose laugh. No. It was a proper, out of control laugh that more sensible people look down their noses at. It was a kind of vicious circle of a laugh, because the more I did it, the more surprised I was that I was doing it, and this made me laugh even louder. The sound of it was so alien to me; like an echo of the past that I’d all but forgotten.

Suddenly, a memory – one of the memories that I’d desperately been searching for earlier – came back to me. It was from when me and my mates used to sit in Sarah’s Café, drinking coffee through straws, laughing about the stupid things our manager had said that day. Brilliant. I hadn’t laughed like this in years. Why hadn’t I? Another memory popped up of when we were in that same café and a random old guy had come up to me and said “Don’t ever lose that laugh, lad. It’s what keeps them at bay.”

I never found out who he was talking about, and I think he was probably drunk, but I didn’t care. My laugh was back.

‘Well, I’m glad I cheered you up,’ the ice cream man said.

I’d almost forgotten he was there.

‘You looked so sad sat there on your own, like your life was falling apart. I’ve been there.’

I looked up at him, that wonderful smile still spread across my face.

‘I wanted to just give you an ice cream, straight out, but I thought that would seem a bit suspicious.’

‘Well, I was suspicious enough when you asked me to watch the van,’ I confessed. ‘I thought you were a drug dealer or something.’

At this, he looked startled, and said conspiratorially, ‘I am. My other van’s got blacked out windows.’

I laughed at this, even though it wasn’t that funny. It seemed my returning laugh had brought my sense of humour back with it. I hadn’t even realised it was missing.

‘Anyway, that’s why I asked you to watch over old Bertha here for me, so I’d have an excuse to give you an ice cream – I suppose I locked it just in case you turned out to be a wrongun – and now you’ve got the added bonus of a funny story to tell your mates.’

‘That’s true,’ I said, still smiling.

As I left the park, a truth filled my mind. Life may be dark, depressing and all too real most of the time, but shiny little surreal moments like that one always find their way through the darkness. I knew that whenever I’d be sat in one of those endless meetings, bored to tears, I would always look back at this moment and smile.

 

 

For Karen