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Ice Cream
By
Greg Kaczynski
Ring ring. Ring ring.
He stood outside the apartment complex, short, brown, simple, ratty jeans and a dirty gray t-shirt over his stocky frame. His face blank, empty of thought, he stood next to his splintered weather-worn ice cream cart and rang the two bells that were pinched between the thumb and pointer finger of his gritty left hand.
Ring ring. Ring ring.
Hunching over his cart, he gazed up to the apartment windows, his eyes roved slowly past each of the twelve units. Someone was there, listening, paying attention. Someone heard the bells. It was unbearably hot, the middle of a Los Angeles heat wave, and all of the blinds were drawn, but he felt little ojos watching. A lazy breeze curled over the trees and surfed down his back, fanning the heat rising from the ground, boiling the air.
Ring ring. Ring ring.
Up on the second floor, in a dim apartment, a little girl, whose parents sometimes called Peach, leaned over the back of an old couch, listening to the tinkling of the bells, her blonde hair falling over her bare shoulders. By cocking her head at a particular angle, she could see down through the closed blinds and at the brown man, stooped, ringing the bells. His white cart had the colorful faces of a dozen frozen treats plastered all over it. A pink trace of tongue played along her lips as a bead of sweat rolled down her back.
Ring ring. Ring ring.
The skulls of a dozen or more other little girls grinned silently up from inside the darkness of the ice cream cart. Their tiny pearl teeth twinkled. Empty eye sockets gazed into nothing, if they still had a brain, they’d be wishing to be anywhere but here, if they still had a body, they’d be screaming for someone to please help them, to stop this.
Ring ring. Ring ring.
Peach’s parents had warned her to never leave the house alone, but she was so hot. The air in the apartment was stale and heavy, and even in the subdued dark of the apartment, the heat was stifling. She knew her mother would be home soon with groceries, and there would probably be something nice, wet, and cold, but an ice cream sandwich would be perfect right now. Her eyes reflected the outside sunlight as they flicked between the man and his cart. He looked up at the window one more time, meeting her gaze.
Ring ring. Ring ring.
The desire was there, he felt the eyes, the want; he stood up and lifted the cart, tinkling the bell even as he began the walk out of the yard and rolled the cart back to the sidewalk.
Ring ring.
He stopped. Looking up and over his shoulder, he saw movement behind the blinds on the second floor. There. His eyes moved up to the window and stared, holding the hidden gaze. A hungry mouth, an overheated child. Perhaps she was afraid. He turned fully around, easing the pressure, leaned on the cart with his elbow, and rang the tiny bells. He could wait.
Ring ring. Ring ring.
The front door of apartment 6 opened slightly, and Peach slipped through and across the threshold, a crumpled dollar bill grasped in her tiny hand. Sweat was stinging her eyes and the saving grace of an ice cream was irresistible to her. She bounded down the stairs and ran towards the ice cream man, shouting out so that he wouldn’t leave, waving her dollar bill in the air.
He smiled and extended his hand.
With her hand in his, they walked down the sidewalk together to cool down on this hot summer day with some ice cream.
THE END
Greg Kaczynski is a writer who lives in Sherman Oaks. It is
currently very hot in Sherman Oaks. Greg would like some ice cream.
Just to be perfectly clear!
All Rights to this piece reside with the Author