Pool_1

ever approaching evening jingle of the ice cream man. Orange sherbet with a vanilla cream center, chocolate pushies, tubs - oh yeah - the tubs. "Mah-meeee, he's coming. Mah-meee, hurry, I need money." The jingle was slow in coming over the rise. It had to be. All those little legs running, all that looking both ways before darting across the road to home to the please please pleases shaking mommy's purse, and the, "I promise I'll eats." Oh, and of course the totally logical and perfect compromise, "If we get the tub, we can have it after we eat!" Ice cream trucks are to children perfecting their skills with projectiles as fire hydrants are to dogs. Very attractive, very attractive indeed. They make a great targets for crab apples and pea shooter beans. How many summer evenings gave themselves over to children lying in stealth along the ball field bank, prone, passing time in story telling - beans piles at the ready - awaiting the jingle of an approaching Piper army? He thought back to being defeated by a mere calling out of names, "I see you Marcus! I see you Jack. Hi Linda." Being named was being hit, taken out of the attacking force, that, and, of course, there was the baseball cards. Maybe he won't give us any cards if we hit the truck. Maybe. But ice cream drivers always knew just how much to give and how much to take. This was a job for a Solomon. It required more than a little explaining to the Piper crew chief as to why a nearly naked slimy malodorous guy only half covered in a tiny pink baby blanket, rambling about steamed puke ought to be entrusted with one of their ice cream trucks. But Marcus had gotten good practice with his dad in the lawn mowing affair. At least the crew chief wasn't clutching his head screaming out middle initials for Nazarene. He did go a bit still and softly grim in expression when Marcus asked if he could use their bathroom. "Uh.. No. uh-uh, maybe tomorrow. Be here in the morning at five o'clock -