The Ice Cream Man

By Peter Bowden


The ice cream man rolled through the neighborhood, his truck churning slowly over the sun-baked pavement. The jingle of his music cut through the thick summer air, a bright, tinny tune that called kids from shaded porches and backyard sprinklers. He leaned forward over the wide steering wheel, his forearm tanned and strong, the smell of engine oil and sweet cream mingling in the narrow cab. He watched the children spill onto the sidewalks, their voices sharp and hopeful, like the first burst of fireworks on the Fourth of July.

He eased to a stop at the corner, the engine rattling into idle, and slid open the glass hatch. Cold air billowed out, wrapping him in the familiar scent of vanilla and sugar, the faint tang of dry ice. The children, their faces bright with summer, gathered like swallows, coins clutched in tight fists, shouting orders through the rippling heat. He moved with the slow, practiced hands of a man who has sold a thousand cones, who knows the feel of each wrapper, the snap of the freezer door, the soft crush of wafer in a child’s grip.

As he watched them scatter back to their porches, dripping sticky trails of cherry and lime, the music chimed again, echoing through the sunlit streets. He hit the gas, the truck’s engine grumbling as it pulled away, his world framed in the dusty heat of his side mirrors, the sound of children laughing and the click of bicycle spokes lingering in his wake. He turned the corner, music trailing him, the song fading into the distance, swallowed by the hum of summer.

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