In my childhood hometown, the ice cream man drove a squat little
truck emblazoned with color renderings of all the frozen treats
inside. We’d come running with our quarters, hearts racing since we
always worried he wouldn’t see us and would keep driving. We’d
stand around the truck on those hot summer days, licking the
melting eclair bars (my favorite) and wishing we could have his job
when we grew up.
Yet as he approached and as he left, the carnival music
broadcasting from the truck became discordant and Dopplered into a
parody of itself. This is a fairly good analogy for what the
age-honored tradition of ice cream manning has become.
In my childhood hometown, the ice cream man drove a squat little truck emblazoned with color renderings of all the frozen treats inside. We’d come running with our quarters, hearts racing since we always worried he wouldn’t see us and would keep driving. We’d stand around the truck on those hot summer days, licking the melting eclair bars (my favorite) and wishing we could have his job when we grew up.
Yet as he approached and as he left, the carnival music broadcasting from the truck became discordant and Dopplered into a parody of itself. This is a fairly good analogy for what the age-honored tradition of ice cream manning has become.
When I moved to Gilroy a few years ago, I saw my first ice cream man on bicycle, pulling along a little refrigerated case. I admired the bootstrap hard work of the men I saw pedaling them, and felt worried about their profit level, especially since I rarely saw them where children, their main customer base, congregate. Oddly, I did see them trying to sell their wares in the coldest and rainiest of weather (even days before this runs in the newspaper, I can already hear the snickers at my naivete), and in the least likely of neighborhoods.
Soon after our arrival, the Dispatch reported that an ice cream man was robbed and beaten badly enough to need medical attention.
I grieved over the depravity of a world in which the very symbol of childhood innocence could be so mistreated. And I puzzled over how much money the poor soul had taken in from his sales – surely not enough to warrant the theft? (Again, I hear the future snickers drifting in from you readers.)
And then finally someone kicked some knowledge to me. The ice cream men … at least some of them … were selling drugs.
It makes perfect sense. They’ve got a good cover, a reason for trolling in and around, and exchanging money for goods. I do wonder about those who legitimately sell frozen confections and how their livelihoods have been altered. As one person I talked to said, “Are all the ice cream men selling drugs? Or what percentage?”
I was recently told that drug deals go down literally in the police station’s backyard. On Dowdy Street, the high, fortress-like wall presumably makes the station solid and unassailable, but it also presents a blind eye. Hmm … ice cream men selling drugs, and criminal activity taking place inches from police soil.
The other day I was sitting at a red light on the outskirts of one of our high schools. I saw an ice cream cart parked on the corner with a small gathering of students around it. Another cart pulled up in a hurry (ice cream emergency!) and other students swiftly swarmed it.
I have to say, I’m terribly impressed by today’s technology, because this gentleman did not have to thrust his arm into the refrigerated caverns of his cart to retrieve a Popsicle. Instead, he produced something from his pocket. Today’s frozen treats now come in concentrated form, such that they are shrunk and flattened enough to fit in a glassine envelope.
This reminded me of the freeze-dried astronaut ice cream that first blew our minds in the 1970s. Yet I was still surprised that such a simple, yesteryear treat as ice cream would have such a devoted after-school following!
I don’t mean to harp on the subject, but the ice cream man selling drugs is like Donald Duck getting caught in a sex scandal (hey, he doesn’t wear pants …). What I’ve written here is hardly news to most of you, but it did evoke my nostalgia for a childhood that was simple and safe, where the ice cream man really did bring ice cream.
WAVING MY RAINBOW FLAG: I’m repeating my call here for any Gilroyans to contact me about their experience with gay marriage, whether they managed to do it in the legal window of summer 2008 or not. I support gay marriage, and I’m glad the District Court is examining whether Proposition 8 was constitutional. Please talk to me on the record so I can write about it.
WAVING MY CLOTH DIAPER FLAG: The Gilroy Las Madres group is holding its semiannual yard sale Saturday, April 17, from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m. at 791 W. Sixth St. (cross street Miller). This is a great opportunity to get children’s clothes, toys, and gear, as well as maternity items, while supporting a group that gives back to the community in many ways.
