Author’s Note: This is a follow-up to yesterday’s story Fudgsicles. Telling the same story from the opposite point of view was the suggestion of reader Daniel Stockton and I am indebted to him for the compelling idea and for his continued support of Roulette Weal.
If you didn’t read Fudgsicles don’t sweat it, I don’t think the order you read the stories matters…I don’t think…I could be wrong. But take your pick and let me know.
Also, while I have your attention, I am still the ONLY writer I know of publishing quality fiction every day. Please tell your friends. A monthly subscription is only twenty-five cents a day which is a damn great entertainment value.
Thanks for reading. Your comments and observations are always appreciated.
His Statue of Liberty was an ice cream truck. His cousin sent the picture, a crazy human-looking cartoon on the side of a rolling box that he would soon learn was a famous fictional man named Homer Simpson.
His wife had a mountain of blue hair. In the other pictures he saw from America, none of the women had mountains of blue hair. The woman must be special. The truck was certainly special. It made his cousin a good life.
His cousin said that Samir’s own truck waited for him if he could make it to America.
After a year and a half bussing tables at a resort in Cyprus and a plane ticket from his cousin he made it.
Got his driver training from a man who spoke seven languages, though he hoped the man spoke the other languages better than he spoke Farsi.
His cousin found him a place above a garage, a loft they called it, though it was nothing like the lofts in the magazines their second cousin had at his barbershop.
America was beautiful. Bright, loud, electric, scary sometimes, but beautiful in a much different way from home.
His cousin went by Johnny now, which took some getting used to, and Johnny encouraged Samir to go by Sammy.
“Trust me,” he said. Sammy.
Sammy’s first route was in a bad neighborhood, Johnny was honest about that.
“Drive from dusk til dawn if you have to, but sell all the ice cream. No credit. No bullshit, no, ‘I’ll pay ya tomorrow’. You sell ice cream, you’ll move up to better places, places with parks, schools, more kids, more ice cream, more money.”
Johnny spoke great English, wouldn’t even speak Farsi to Samir.
Johnny knew a guy who installed cable TV. Johnny made the guy a deal, Samir-in his head he was still Samir- had more programs than he could count.
“Watch TV all the time with the captions on. Learn the words. You’ll do fine.”
Johnny came to check on him one night, he was watching a soccer match in Spanish.
“My friend can turn this off as quickly as he turned it on,” Johnny said, snarling and angry.
“English, always. You learn. The ice cream truck is the first step. You can run a liquor store one day, a phone store. Some guys wind up as sales representatives. Free cars. You can’t go on a date in an ice cream truck. It starts with good English.”
Samir promised.
He drove the truck all day, sometimes until after dark. If it was cold and rainy he sold very little ice cream. On a warm clear day he would drive until after dark. Sometimes he would buy the last ice cream himself just to say he sold out. Then home to the TV.
He learned about his new home, learned English from the TV. The English made him happy. What he learned about America made him sad.
There was a program all about crimes. He liked the man’s voice, the way the man spoke the English. But he hated the stories, the bad things grown men would do to children.
He was glad he came to America as an adult.
He got to know the kid’s names, what they liked, which kids would keep him waiting while they decided. He was patient, he liked the kids. He saw the same faces every day, tried out new words with them.
Some of them collected returnable bottles for ice cream money, others cut grass.
Some parents paid in pennies. Didn’t matter. Sammy smiled and took the money.
Lots of the houses were abandoned, boarded up. It made him sad. He saw stories on the TV about what happened in those houses. He watched. No one would hurt his kids.
He had become Sammy the Ice Cream man.
He learned where he could park and they’d come to him.
Heyden, right off the freeway, where some kids walked home from summer school.
Someone had taken pride in some houses, put up electric lanterns in the front yard, right next to houses that were burned, spray painted, rotting.
Some kids knew he’d be there and would walk up slowly. They just stared. Never had money.
Cut some grass, Sammy thought, but he would never say it out loud.
He was handing a strawberry shortcake to a little girl with a handful of nickels when he saw the white man talking to his kids.
Made Sammy nervous. The white men in this neighborhood were scrawny, with crisscrossing marks of blue ink on their forearms. This man was tan, had muscles. He didn’t belong.
An older woman bought two Bomb Pops, tipped Sammy a quarter, walked back across the street.
The man stood in front of Sammy. Sammy smiled and pulled the ice cream and popsicles the man asked for from his coolers. But his spine sweat. He didn’t trust this man.
As he handed over the ice cream, he noticed the man was breathing heavily. Was he nervous? Why would buying ice cream make someone nervous?
The man handed the ice cream to three boys who never had money. Sammy didn’t even know their names, but they were on his route, so they were his kids.
The man didn’t know their names either. Why would a strange man buy ice cream for kids?
The man glanced at the abandoned house next to one of the nice ones with the lanterns. Only bad things happened in those houses. Samir watched the stories on the TV, learning English to be Sammy the Ice Cream Man.
No one was gonna hurt his kids. He threw the man’s money on the stainless steel cooler and grabbed him around the neck.
The shirtless man struggled. Samir felt it was a sign of guilt. The man’s sweat rubbing off against Samir made Samir feel sick, but he was not going to let this man go. The man grunted, twisted, and a cold pain shot through Samir’s arm.
***
Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash
Ice Cream Rashomon!
Wow. These two linked stories are really engaging. I find the concept of exploring things from various points of view so interesting. Thank you for these.