ice cream and minor crimes

It got up to about 70 degrees today, and as I was strolling home from the train station this evening, on the way home from a band interview around dusk, I saw a line of cars stuck behind a very familiar white van -- the ice cream man.

The van was creeping down the street at an ungodly speed that made me pity the six or seven cars trapped behind it, all the while blasting that creepy music box-esque melody that sounds like something you'd hear in a psychological thriller movie just before someone scoops somebody's brains out and eats them out of a waffle cone.

And other than that charming image, it made me recall getting Flinstones push-pops and Mickey Mouse ice cream from the ice cream man back when I was a kid, way back when my family still lived in our house on Lyndale, in Midtown Memphis. I would be at my friend Matthew's house, and we would hear that music drifting into his backyard and we'd run in and beg his mom for quarters. And I remember a few times specifically that I knew I shouldn't be having ice cream, because I'd be leaving Matthew's house any minute to go home for dinner. But of course, being the goddess of self control that I have always been, I divulged my sweet tooth anyway and slurped down a red, white and blue bomb pop.

In order to cover my tracks, on the way home I stopped my bike next to a parked car at the end of my street, checking out my reflection in the window to make sure there was no tell-tale pink ring around my mouth, confessing my crime for me. I may have even stuck out my tongue to examine its color as well. I was a thorough detective. This pit-stop, however, would've been a very momentary pit-stop, considering that this was also the corner where I was routinely chased by a pack of wild, blood-thirsty, barking dogs (read: three highly domesticated, yapping dachshunds) as I rode past on my bike, rendering me terrified to come to a halt anywhere within 50 yards of the house where they lived.

In fact, those damn dogs scared the living bejesus out of me so very much that I, on at least one occasion, became hysterical with tears as I pedaled past their yard because I just knew. I just knew they were going to catch me and eat me alive or, even worse, chew the pom-poms from my handle bars, DEAR GOD THE HUMANITY. In my defense, I would like to note that I was making these assumptions about the motivations of three dogs whose combined weight probably didn't tip 50 lbs. with my five whole years of life experience. So cut me a little slack.

I will always remember the day I realized, all on my own accord, that if I just kept pedaling they would get bored and run (waddle quickly, really) back to their yard to prepare to yap at the next person who walked by. It's a lesson for life, really, except now you can replace weiner dogs with men of all ages and instead of barking, sub in "Sup boo. How you fillin?"

cheers,
elizabeth