Funny to talk to somebody from my old home and learn about the things that have changed in the meantime. They've cleaned up The Triangle, replaced the warm thrift stores with icy boutiques and the Ethiopian place with a sandwich shop and the punk kids don't hang out in front of Vintage Vinyl anymore. When a group of people just disappears like that you can't help but feel a bit like Holden did about those ducks and wonder what happened and hope that they've simply gone somewhere else, because you're surprised to find that the possibility of them having grown up or stopped existing is just terribly depressing.
The mosquitos are thirsty and it's cold out tonight. I've shut the windows as tight as I could and I can still hear the night going by.
The noises outside my window depend so much on the weather. Winter is edging near and it has me thinking of a time when the ice cream man would return for his runs around the neighborhood and I could hear his music trying to lure the little children from the swings and slides to his truck with the help of Do Your Ears Hang Low?
Or perhaps it may be inaccurate to say ice cream man -- perhaps the ice cream man was a girl who wouldn't in the least approve of her gender being casually tossed about -- but what do you do in such situations? Ice cream person seems to suggest something entirely different from 'one who sells ice cream,' and besides, much like exchanging snowperson for snowman, it really kind of just takes all the fun out of living.
Ho Hum. Anyway.
The ice cream man came to my house on Diane St. an exact total of 4 times when I was younger. All of these times were quite by accident, I'm sure -- they had perhaps hoped to turn down our road and uncover a subdivision teaming with ice cream deprived kids, but instead found nothing more than a few lonely mismatched houses on a little rock road. And something tells me they didn't pull up directly into my driveway to sell me ice cream so much as they had come to the dead end and needed to turn around. Fortunately I was a very spry child and was always able to run outside and assault them before they had time to drive away!
I think my favorite was the ice cream shaped like a foot. Do they even have those anymore? There was something so disgusting about devouring a pasty gelatinous appendage (with bubble gum toenails!) that I couldn't resist.
Anyway, after the fourth time, they seemed to wise up, and never again returned (despite the fact that the last one vowed to come back and save me Disney popsicle). Sometimes when I was outside in the backyard, I could hear them drive by on the main road, the sound of The Entertainer quickly fading behind them. I don't remember being bothered by the lack of sidewalks or having to ride my bike on an unpaved road or the distance and time from our house to every other point on a map; I just remember vowing that when I grew up, I'd live somewhere the ice cream man could easily reach me.
Don't worry. I am not fully grown up.