Joyous Jackolantern Smiles

Its the end of the summer, and for the first time in my life this means nothing more than August is ending and September is sweeping in right on time behind it. I don't have to worry about packing my life into boxes and moving back into college. I don't have to look up a book on sparknotes because I forgot to do my summer reading. And I don't have deal with the pressure of choosing seats on the first day of class. But with the end of summer comes the end of opportunity for me. I dropped the ball and have just come to grips with what I lost, even though it was at my finger tips.

It has been another summer without driving an ice cream truck. My dreams and ambitions of playing the tunes of children's happiness is washed away when Auntie Autumn shows up, wearing something way to revealing for a woman her age, and making all of the leaves change color from embarassment. Only once in my life do I want to drive around that magic truck of good times, delievering joy in the form of an overpriced Flintstone's push-pop. It is very important for me to accomplish this at a young age because the girls that babysit these children aren't getting any older and soon it will not only be illegal; it will just be plain creepy.

Sure, most girls of legal age have legitimate jobs working at ice cream stores but every so often there's one whose job revolves around the lives of their neighbor's children. Those are my targets. How do I know how old they are? Simple, I would have to card every person coming up to my truck because who can make enough money just selling ice cream. I'd be a moble liquor store, tabacoo palace, and gun shop. Kids love ice cream, but they also love firearms. There's nothing qute like the look on a youngin's face when you hand them a fully loaded 12-guage shotgun and they can live out their wildest counter-strike fantasies. Of course, I don't let the kids keep the gun, that would be immoral and wrong. I just let them pick off a few pigeons; feel the power.

In fact, I probably won't have enough room on the truck for the ice cream with all the other merchandise. But I'll still have the jingle. The sweet call of the ice cream man, who sells knives, chinese throwing stars, and electronics he got from a guy. The innocence of children walking up the truck and ordering their choco-taco, pep-pills, and placing a bet on Hope Mom Doesn't Walk In to show in the 5th race at Saratoga. The warm feeling in my heart after a toddler walks away from my truck with his Astropop, proximity trigger mines, or cigars of only the finest Cuban tabacoo.

Some think what I'm doing for these children is going to make the headlines someday. They stand on the street yelling "I am calling someone about this. You will get what's coming to you!" and I simply tell them not worry themselves with rewards. I'm not in it for the fame or the money. I'm all about seeing those little faces smile.