A child’s favorite pastime during summer months is the infamous ice cream truck. To hear the delightful bell, horn, or looped melody approaching causes a thunderous amount of unexplainable joy. The feeling is one that never leaves your senses. As an adult, even after the onset of lactose intolerance, one still feels a slight urgency to purchase one or two scoops.
Having a small child means you must have money each time the top ten melody goes into rotation. Recently my family changed zip codes, but in all of my sexy years on this earth, I have only known Mr. Softee. A blue and white truck with a cool looking cone dressed up to every child’s fancy. Mr. Softee definitely isn’t prejudiced, he serves everybody. You don’t need a number, just get in line and watch your toes – eager children could care less about your twenty-five dollar pedicure.
The truck is equipped for the hearing impaired – the loud top ten hit that can be heard from miles away, and the blind. – the looped music that continuously plays over and over, so don’t worry if you make a few wrong turns - keep tapping that walking stick until you find it.
My new zip code doesn’t include Mr. Softee but the new and improved text message aged Mr. Ding-a-Ling! WHAT? Yes, Mr. Ding-a-Ling! Is it just me or when you read this did your mind go kiddie playground porn-tastic?
The first time I saw the truck thankfully I was alone. The laughter that exploded from me! My goodness, a person laughing alone could be categorized as a bad drug mix. “Oh, she must have taken some of the good stuff’” is the statement that I looked like.
Am I a horny woman looking for a quick orgasm at each corner? Hmmm, I don’t think so. The thought that ran through my mind after my laughter subsided was, “And we wonder why our kids feel that oral sex isn't sex! We hear the dayum bell and they run to the truck with our money to get their licks on!”
Yesterday Mr. Ding-a-Ling stopped on the street that we live on. My daughter and I ran down the stairs, but unfortunately he pulled off before we made it. My child cried an anguished, “No!” and continued to cry as we made it back up the stairs. It took me at least ten minutes to console her. My untold thought, “Shit, I didn’t want you licking none of his stuff anyway.”
Mr. Ding-a-Ling had his way. He returned three hours later. I heard him, grabbed my wallet, yelled out to Doobah, “Come’on!” and dayum near broke my neck getting down the stairs. Doobah yelled, “Don’t leave me!’ but I was already down the stairs on the sidewalk. Mr. Ding-a-Ling would not leave us this time.
Maybe I am a horny woman. Although Mr. Softee is the keeper of some of my life’s most fond memories, I really don’t want to meet a man that proudly says, “Hi, my name is Mr. Softee.” Mr. Ding-a-Ling is straight to the point. That name on an ice cream truck though, for me, keeps me asking, Uhm, What Are You Selling?
Wanda D. Hudson