Here's My Advice: Stick to Your Standards

It's getting warmer outside. I enjoy the sunshine, but I'm wary of the weather. Summer is the time when people bend their morals, justifying decisions that they just wouldn't make if it weren't for the heat.

I'm talking, of course, about making purchases from the ice cream man.

If I had to point to one thing wrong with the world, one thing to blame all the ills of society on, it would be the ubiquitous white truck who prowls the street in the summertime looking for pudgy faced kids and their helpless and hapless mothers. Sure, there was a time when I, too, felt a rush of excitement when I heard the tinkly chime of "When the Saints Go Marching In." That was before I realized the militant persistence that qualifies ice cream men to make their $6.55 an hour. I have successfully ignored one stubborn worker who made four tours around the south parking lot of a playground, only to have him enter the north parking lot immediately after. There's only so much stiff mothering you can dole out before you cave and spend $4.50 on a Mickey Mouse Ice Cream bar whose red dye will permanently stain your clothing.

When I was in high school, the scariest time of year was AP exam season. This was the time teachers convinced us that how we did on these four hour tests was crucial to our success in the afterlife and that if we did well, we could pretty much count on our calling and election being made sure. We received COLLEGE CREDIT for these exams. Those two words struck fear in my nerdy sixteen-year-old heart. A group of friends and I sluffed school to study for them. I want to go back to the girl that I was, pull the pencil out of her hair, and tell her to go skiing. You know, do something worthwhile with your sluffing.

We had just wrapped up an intense study session where we reviewed trivia about the first industrial revolution. We walked out my front door to go somewhere. Probably back to school. We headed to our cars which were parked in front of my house when we heard that familiar jingle. "Hey!" one friend commented. "It's the ice cream man!" We all felt a rush of excitement, broken only when another friend noted, "Does it look like the ice cream man is veering to the right?" We all analyzed his angled trajectory until it hit it's inevitable end point, my friend's Nissan Sentra. "Dude!" one of the group yelled. "You just got hit by the ice cream man!"

The ice cream truck corrected to the left and then pulled over to stop in the gutter. At least that's what we thought he was going to do. Apparently he was just weaving around a bit more, a fact that became obvious when he hit the gas and sped up the street, James Bond style. James Bond to a soundtrack of "You Are My Sunshine."

The owner of the Sentra jumped in the car and began a wild car chase up Del Mar Drive. The ice cream truck finally stopped at the top of the street, where my friend jumped out to get his information. He ignored the beer bottles littering the floor of the ice cream truck and got straight to the point. "What's your name?" he asked. "Joe," replied the driver. Joe handed over his license which listed his name as Chris Matthews. "What happened to Joe?" asked my friend. "That's what my friends call me," he said.

After exchanging information, the ice cream man drove away, taking care to turn on the twinkly music. "Do Your Ears Hang Low" chimed out Joe's drunken shame.

Tyler recently bought Talmage an ice cream cone from the ice cream man. I would have preferred he buy him Playboy.