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that's you, who drive our trucks. We service those trucks every day. We supply the best ice cream that there is, not just one brand. But YOU own what you are selling." Marcus was dazed by this. "I could lose my shirt." The crew chief answered even before this was uttered, "You won't lose anything, just your idealism. This is a very serious money maker. You have to be smart. Billy will break you in. Your first load is on us." A momentary digression, "Sol said that you were dressed to kill when you applied for this job," holding his nose then laughing, "S'OK. You don't smell so bad. Lemons, right? Anyway, wear, uh - here, wear these. They look right, if not change 'em at the front office." The pressured presentation went on, "Just remember that you essentially make nothing on ices. They are the big trade mark item for many of the ice cream companies, but considering your overhead, they are money neutral. You stock ices to keep the natives happy and - well Billy will show you that - well just remember that pints are good profit and gallons are what you live for. Tubs are Zion. The more ice cream in the least packaging, the more money, period." There was an art to loading ice cream. If you could divine just what would sell and in what order, then the last to go gets packed in first, in the back. Make space later. But you need some kind of order to handle crowd selling. Can't have time lost in looking for things. We tend to organize in thirds. Late night in the back. Evening in the middle. Early sales nearest the freezer door. Fill the late day reaching lanes with dry ice. Keep the center path clear, just in case." "Of what?" "Tubs. Never can tell."