We're in the depths of Spring here in St Clair Shores. With Spring comes the warm weather. With the warm weather come the Ice Cream Trucks. Normally they creep through the neighborhood to a crude loop of The Entertainer.
Since 2pm Saturday an Ice Cream Truck has been parked in front of my house. Parked. No music, no motion. It just sat there. All day.
And all night for all I know. It was there when I got up on Sunday and it's still there now, Monday morning.
The Ice Cream Man sits there at his window, thumbing through a copy of Popular Mechanics. Every so often he looks up at my house with a scowl.
The truck is filled with ice cream. It's not a decoy. It's filled with Ice Cream this Ice Cream Man refuses to sell. I know. I asked. He just glared at me in silence. I even offered him double for an Electric Dinosaur Bar. No deal.
He has an uneven mustache and three gold rings on his right hand. The Popular Mechanics is from October 1987 and features a rocket on the cover. He's got one of those round Band-Aids on his cheek, which is browning around the edges.
I asked him why he's parked in front of my house. He said nothing. I asked him to leave. Again, nothing. I insisted he leave and threatened to get the hose. He snickered, then went back to an article on desert plants.
That was Saturday evening. I haven't left the house since then and I've used a sick day to stay here, inside, where it's safe. I spent Sunday drawing pictures of the truck and it's occupant (some cross-sections, some fully rendered, some with the truck surrounded by a herd of giraffes). I plan on spending today coloring them in and giving them to the mail lady.
I don't have any stamps, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.
We’re in the depths of Spring here in St Clair Shores. With Spring comes the warm weather. With the warm weather come the Ice Cream Trucks. Normally they creep through the neighborhood to a crude loop of The Entertainer.
Since 2pm Saturday an Ice Cream Truck has been parked in front of my house. Parked. No music, no motion. It just sat there. All day.
And all night for all I know. It was there when I got up on Sunday and it’s still there now, Monday morning.
The Ice Cream Man sits there at his window, thumbing through a copy of Popular Mechanics. Every so often he looks up at my house with a scowl.
The truck is filled with ice cream. It’s not a decoy. It’s filled with Ice Cream this Ice Cream Man refuses to sell. I know. I asked. He just glared at me in silence. I even offered him double for an Electric Dinosaur Bar. No deal.
He has an uneven mustache and three gold rings on his right hand. The Popular Mechanics is from October 1987 and features a rocket on the cover. He’s got one of those round Band-Aids on his cheek, which is browning around the edges.
I asked him why he’s parked in front of my house. He said nothing. I asked him to leave. Again, nothing. I insisted he leave and threatened to get the hose. He snickered, then went back to an article on desert plants.
That was Saturday evening. I haven’t left the house since then and I’ve used a sick day to stay here, inside, where it’s safe. I spent Sunday drawing pictures of the truck and it’s occupant (some cross-sections, some fully rendered, some with the truck surrounded by a herd of giraffes). I plan on spending today coloring them in and giving them to the mail lady.
I don’t have any stamps, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
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