It was a perfect summer’s day in Chicago; sheets of yellow light bathed the city. The sun may have been busy but I wasn’t, down to my last twenty dollars, I was desperate to find a job. Scanning the part time ads, my friend Sam wandered in, brandishing a ‘Boston Cooler,’ ice cream and root beer.
“Did you know, ice cream was invented by the Chinese in 200 BC,” he announced.
“Well, thanks for the history lesson but I’m trying to focus on these ads, what do I care about ice cream?” I responded.
“You should care, ice cream could be the answer to your prayers,” continued Sam.
“Look, I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, getting irritated. It was OK for him, he’d be spending the break from university up in Wisconsin with his family.
“I hear Mr Softie is looking for drivers, you can make good money this time of the year,” Sam declared.
“What me, an ice cream man?” I groaned.
“Don’t knock it, money is money, wherever it comes from,” he went on.
Desperate enough to try anything, I gave the company a call. It was all very casual and before I knew it, after a brief induction, there I was, trundling along in a Mr Softie van, feeling pretty soft myself and hoping no one would recognise me. It was an unwieldly thing, like trying to steer a great, white blancmange. Wobbling around corners, I thought, ‘what the hell have I got myself into?’
It was a Sunday and the supervisor had suggested heading out to the Chester Road district, but Sam, thinking he knew better, had recommended Garfield Park as it was nearer. It was a rough area but being impatient to get started, I took his advice.
Arriving at the park there were plenty of people around, playing games, sunbathing or just taking a walk. I turned on the ‘Tannoying’ system and out chimed some dumb nursery rhyme, talk about disturbing the peace! Yet it worked a treat, drawing people like bees to a honey pot. Before long there was a queue forming, mothers with children, teenagers and young couples, all eager to part with their cash.
After a shaky start, I began to get the hang of the ice cream machine and the cost of everything. ‘This is great, I’m going to clean up here.’ I thought.
Then someone in the queue caught my eye, a giant of a man, head and shoulders above the crowd. The burley guy must have been at least six foot six and weighing in at about a hundred and twenty kilos; his arms and neck emblazoned with a catalogue of badass tattoos, as if to illustrate a troubled life. The man’s granite face poured with sweat and his head kept jerking to one side like an annoying twitch.
When it was finally his turn I asked, “what can I get you?”
“Gimmie two of those cone things,” he growled.
“Sure, coming up, that’ll be five dollars,” I said.
“Uh, bloody rip off,” he grumbled, starting to rummage in a deep trouser pocket, but unable to find what he wanted, was getting frustrated and started muttering to himself. Eventually he seemed to find something but to my horror, what he pulled out was a handgun. It was a Glock 19, as he placed it in his left hand, the burnished steel glinted in the sunlight. I just froze, watching his hands intently, thinking, ‘this guy’s crazy.’
Again he started rummaging in his pocket, this time pulling out a handful of bullets, placing them in his left hand with the gun. ’This can’t be happening,’ I thought, ‘being held up for a couple of cones.’
Wanting to run but trapped in the van I started to tremble and said, “please take the cones, I don’t want any trouble.” At this, picking up the gun in his right hand and pointing it straight at me, he snarled, “calm down kid, if I wanted to shoot you I’d have done it by now.”
Fear had me by the throat; I ducked as he slowly squeezed the trigger and then heard the dry firing sound, as the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
“You see, the dam thing’s not even loaded,” he flared, smacking a five-dollar bill onto the counter. He took the cones which by now had started to melt and stormed off.
Terrified, I started to shake uncontrollably, then pulling down the shutter, stumbled to the driver’s seat and drove off in a panic, wishing to god I hadn’t listened to Sam.
I’d just have to go back to those ads and find another job; business you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does.