Ice Cream Truck/ The Soviet
It calls me from down the street. It has a ping like radar in the movies. Faded stickers on the side of it, as one would expect. Taking a beating from the sun in the heat usually. But it's the end of March. It's not even April. I walk up to him.
"Hi, what you want this time?" says the greying Armenian man. "We got laughers, screamers, poppers...you want something with nuts on it?" he gives that nervous, close-mouthed smile, and I see some spittle at the corner of his mouth. I laugh nervously.
"Um, no, it's ok. I'll just take the one with three colors on it. Tangerine cherry."
"OHH, you like popsicle. Good choice, young lady." The holographic wrapper crinkles in my hands as I pass over the money.
"Don't be afraid to have good time!" he exclaims, enthusiastically. I'm unclear on whether his comment is sexually charged.
I walk away slowly, deliberately unwrapping the treat. It's certainly hot enough for ice cream. With a barely-fading loudness, the disabled music from the truck keeps pinging periodically, like sad radar.
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I don't remember his name, but in my head I always call him "The Soviet." I think he's Russian-Armenian, and he seems to take the greatest pleasure in procedure and bureaucracy at his job. Relentlessly stoic. I'm unable to tell whether he loves or hates everything. But woe unto they who do not prepare their packaging correctly. With his stony demeanor, this guy could have the psychic equivalent of bulletproof glass in front of him.
One day I'm in there, and I have everything ready to go. Everything labeled, sealed, just so, the way I know he'll accept it. I drop off my package properly. Then I tell him I need some stamps.
"What kind you need?"
"Forever stamps, please."
A moment passes.
"You want....Halloween??" I look up from my pocketboot. He's taken out jack-o-lantern stamps and placed them on the counter. It's December.
In that moment, he had endearingly stereotyped my goth heart. We make unexpected eye contact and the bulletproof glass softens, for just a moment.
"Yes!" I exclaim excitedly, as if we're now old friends and he's gotten a special present just for me. I finish up my transaction. I had to use all my effort not to exclaim "fuck yeah" in the post office.
That's the only time I remember The Soviet acting like that. I'm sure that if I go back and package my things to be mailed horribly, dire consequences and lack of service will result. And shit, maybe the guy just had so many leftover stickers from Halloween, and the glass hadn't come down at all. For just that day, though, I felt like I'd cracked The Soviet.
"Hi, what you want this time?" says the greying Armenian man. "We got laughers, screamers, poppers...you want something with nuts on it?" he gives that nervous, close-mouthed smile, and I see some spittle at the corner of his mouth. I laugh nervously.
"Um, no, it's ok. I'll just take the one with three colors on it. Tangerine cherry."
"OHH, you like popsicle. Good choice, young lady." The holographic wrapper crinkles in my hands as I pass over the money.
"Don't be afraid to have good time!" he exclaims, enthusiastically. I'm unclear on whether his comment is sexually charged.
I walk away slowly, deliberately unwrapping the treat. It's certainly hot enough for ice cream. With a barely-fading loudness, the disabled music from the truck keeps pinging periodically, like sad radar.
-----------
I don't remember his name, but in my head I always call him "The Soviet." I think he's Russian-Armenian, and he seems to take the greatest pleasure in procedure and bureaucracy at his job. Relentlessly stoic. I'm unable to tell whether he loves or hates everything. But woe unto they who do not prepare their packaging correctly. With his stony demeanor, this guy could have the psychic equivalent of bulletproof glass in front of him.
One day I'm in there, and I have everything ready to go. Everything labeled, sealed, just so, the way I know he'll accept it. I drop off my package properly. Then I tell him I need some stamps.
"What kind you need?"
"Forever stamps, please."
A moment passes.
"You want....Halloween??" I look up from my pocketboot. He's taken out jack-o-lantern stamps and placed them on the counter. It's December.
In that moment, he had endearingly stereotyped my goth heart. We make unexpected eye contact and the bulletproof glass softens, for just a moment.
"Yes!" I exclaim excitedly, as if we're now old friends and he's gotten a special present just for me. I finish up my transaction. I had to use all my effort not to exclaim "fuck yeah" in the post office.
That's the only time I remember The Soviet acting like that. I'm sure that if I go back and package my things to be mailed horribly, dire consequences and lack of service will result. And shit, maybe the guy just had so many leftover stickers from Halloween, and the glass hadn't come down at all. For just that day, though, I felt like I'd cracked The Soviet.
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