Do you live near a park? I do; and thanks to the Ice Cream Man and the music/aversion therapy piped, loudly, from his truck, I now associate “It’s a Small World After All” – segue-ing into “Three Blind Mice” – with elevated blood pressure.
Sunday the park was filled with soccer players, their parents, their siblings. And with the sunshine and the children comes the Ice Cream Man.
I was sitting in my living room, thinking blog-like thoughts and eating an industrial-sized taco salad when he came creeping down the street.
I was okay for the first hour, the music, the bleating of the children. “Mom! Mom! Maaaaaaaaaaaah!”
For cryin’ out loud, would someone give that kid a dollar?!
I have nothing against the ice cream guy, honestly. He has a right to make a living. Driving around peddling frozen treats? Hey, we do what we have to do. But announcing it with the repetitive, crazy-making, and distracting electronic tones of the same 16 bars of a song has triggered the irrational and potentially homicidal woman I long suspected lived within me.
I’m off now, on my way out the door to talk to Mr. Ice Cream. I will ask him to turn the music off if he’s going to stay parked in front of my house, appeal to his sense of decency, and buy a couple ice cream treats.
If my appeal to his sense of decency fails, however, I shall have to kill him. It’s nothing personal – he no doubt has friends and family who love him – but if I can trap the jury in a room and play the repetitive 16 bars of music that have been assaulting my ears for the last hour or so at the jury, I think I’ll walk.
Season of the Buffalo
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