I’m eight and the ice cream truck drives me out of my mind. It’s a frenzy; we’re all in on it, we slam into high gear and haul ass inside for coins. We don’t know why we’re crazy for the idea. We just are.
On this day, all the bigger kids with bikes ride off to find the ice cream truck. It’s 90 degrees in the shade and I’m wearing flip flops and sitting on the curb, waiting, waiting. I want a rainbow sherbet push-up but hell, I’ll settle for a Dixie cup of kool-aid. I’ve got nothing. I’m glad I’ve got mosquito bites on my shins so I can scratch them when I’m bored. Like now.
I think to myself, “This is supposed to be the best time of my life? I don’t think so.” Even as a kid I take the long view.
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