mobiusclimber
Active Member
(I wrote this about a million years ago. It's not that great, but not awful either, I hope.)
I don't have a home.
I have to keep moving.
I am the Ice-Cream Man.
The little children run to my truck and I sell them my brand of ice cream.
I make my own special ice cream.
This is the job I have always wanted.
As a small child, I used to dream of selling children my own special brand of ice cream.
And now I finally can.
Oh, how the children run to my truck, their little faces aglow with delight.
I make them happy.
I make them eternally happy.
I never had money to buy ice cream like the other children on my block.
They used to tease me.
I was the poor, dirty kid whose mom was on welfare.
I was the lost, scrawny kid whose father ran away because he couldn't stand the responsibilities of being a father.
The children on my block would shove their ice cream bars underneath my nose and laugh as I begged for a taste.
The children on my block would eat their ice cream in front of me and make happy grunting noises, smiling their sick, taunting smiles.
Now I make them ice cream.
I'm no longer that poor, scrawny kid they used to pick on.
I made my money, and now I use my money to make them ice cream.
I drive down the suburban streets, past white picket fences and well-trimmed lawns, and down the dirty neighborhoods, over pot-holed roads and oily alleys.
But I always keep moving.
I never stay in the same place.
I have a coin book beneath my candy counter which is nearly filled with coins.
Below each coin is a date and a street name.
I love my little coin collection.
I used to collect coins as a child, though I was more discerning back then.
I collected quarters.
However, I was never able to fill my book.
Every month, my mom would take my coins and spend them.
I don't know what she used them for, maybe to buy beer.
She drank a lot back then.
Before she died.
I tried hiding my coins from her, but it never seemed to work.
Every month, I would get my little coin book out and all my quarters would be gone.
But now I have my coins and I have my ice cream truck and I am happy.
I am the Ice-Cream Man.
I sell children my own special brand of ice cream.
The same children who laughed and smiled and taunted me because I couldn't afford to buy ice cream.
If my mother would've left my coin collection alone, I could've.
If my mother wasn't an alcoholic, I could've.
If my father hadn't walked out on us, I could've.
But those monsters never cared!
All they wanted to do was tease me because I couldn't buy a popsicle.
But now I sell them ice cream.
How I used to long for this job!
Some might think it's lousy because I have to sleep in motels.
I don't mind.
Some might think it stinks because I can never settle down anywhere, because I have to keep moving.
I don't care.
At least I'm following my dream.
I'm selling children my own special brand of ice cream.
Now one knows what I make my ice cream with.
The children don't know.
The parents don't know.
But I know.
I make it with milk, of course, white or chocolate.
If it's chocolate, I add tiny marshmallows.
If it's white, I add chocolate chips.
But, whether I use white or chocolate milk, I always add my secret ingredient, just enough for a small child.
Then I sell the children my ice cream.
And I read the newspaper the next day.
FOUR MORE CHILDREN FOUND DEAD FROM ARSENIC POISONING, the headlines read.
SIX CHILDREN AND THREE ADULTS POISONED BY ARSENIC, the headlines proclaim.
All I can think of is those children, dead on the pavement, their bodies stiff and cold like an ice cream pop, and the coroner wrapping their little bodies in a white sheet and lovingly setting them inside his freezer.
I smile at the thought.
For I am the Ice-Cream Man.
And I never had a complaint.
I don't have a home.
I have to keep moving.
I am the Ice-Cream Man.
The little children run to my truck and I sell them my brand of ice cream.
I make my own special ice cream.
This is the job I have always wanted.
As a small child, I used to dream of selling children my own special brand of ice cream.
And now I finally can.
Oh, how the children run to my truck, their little faces aglow with delight.
I make them happy.
I make them eternally happy.
I never had money to buy ice cream like the other children on my block.
They used to tease me.
I was the poor, dirty kid whose mom was on welfare.
I was the lost, scrawny kid whose father ran away because he couldn't stand the responsibilities of being a father.
The children on my block would shove their ice cream bars underneath my nose and laugh as I begged for a taste.
The children on my block would eat their ice cream in front of me and make happy grunting noises, smiling their sick, taunting smiles.
Now I make them ice cream.
I'm no longer that poor, scrawny kid they used to pick on.
I made my money, and now I use my money to make them ice cream.
I drive down the suburban streets, past white picket fences and well-trimmed lawns, and down the dirty neighborhoods, over pot-holed roads and oily alleys.
But I always keep moving.
I never stay in the same place.
I have a coin book beneath my candy counter which is nearly filled with coins.
Below each coin is a date and a street name.
I love my little coin collection.
I used to collect coins as a child, though I was more discerning back then.
I collected quarters.
However, I was never able to fill my book.
Every month, my mom would take my coins and spend them.
I don't know what she used them for, maybe to buy beer.
She drank a lot back then.
Before she died.
I tried hiding my coins from her, but it never seemed to work.
Every month, I would get my little coin book out and all my quarters would be gone.
But now I have my coins and I have my ice cream truck and I am happy.
I am the Ice-Cream Man.
I sell children my own special brand of ice cream.
The same children who laughed and smiled and taunted me because I couldn't afford to buy ice cream.
If my mother would've left my coin collection alone, I could've.
If my mother wasn't an alcoholic, I could've.
If my father hadn't walked out on us, I could've.
But those monsters never cared!
All they wanted to do was tease me because I couldn't buy a popsicle.
But now I sell them ice cream.
How I used to long for this job!
Some might think it's lousy because I have to sleep in motels.
I don't mind.
Some might think it stinks because I can never settle down anywhere, because I have to keep moving.
I don't care.
At least I'm following my dream.
I'm selling children my own special brand of ice cream.
Now one knows what I make my ice cream with.
The children don't know.
The parents don't know.
But I know.
I make it with milk, of course, white or chocolate.
If it's chocolate, I add tiny marshmallows.
If it's white, I add chocolate chips.
But, whether I use white or chocolate milk, I always add my secret ingredient, just enough for a small child.
Then I sell the children my ice cream.
And I read the newspaper the next day.
FOUR MORE CHILDREN FOUND DEAD FROM ARSENIC POISONING, the headlines read.
SIX CHILDREN AND THREE ADULTS POISONED BY ARSENIC, the headlines proclaim.
All I can think of is those children, dead on the pavement, their bodies stiff and cold like an ice cream pop, and the coroner wrapping their little bodies in a white sheet and lovingly setting them inside his freezer.
I smile at the thought.
For I am the Ice-Cream Man.
And I never had a complaint.
