Tyranny of the Ice Cream Truck

Tyranny of the Ice Cream Truck

By Matthew Dicks  /  Illustrated By Sean Wang 

I’m standing on the 17th hole at Rockledge Golf Course in West Hartford, Conn. By some miracle, I’m one stroke better than my friend, Jeff, with one hole to go. I’m staring down a 12-foot putt that would give me a two-stroke lead going into the final hole. It might be enough to guarantee my victory. 

I’m a good putter. I can’t do much on a golf course, but I can putt. This is the kind of shot I can make. I need to read the green, find the break, make a plan, focus, concentrate and execute.

One problem…focus and concentration are impossible today.

The serene quiet of a golf course, interrupted only by the occasional chirp of a bird, is instead being violently disturbed today by something so monstrous as to make all rational thought impossible: the godforsaken ice cream truck.

Mr. Softee or The Screaming Freezer or Mister Sticky Fingers is somewhere nearby, with its incessant calliope music rolling across the fairway, over the greenside bunker, and into my ears and mind. All hope for focus and concentration is gone, thanks to this monstrous machine designed to bring children frozen bits of joy.

Except it doesn’t. It’s a false flag operation.

Allow me to explain. The ice cream truck is a fixture of the suburban summertime landscape, driving around town, pouring forth an endless stream of repetitive, nonsensical, painfully distracting music designed to attract the attention of otherwise inattentive human beings. It’s an auditory nightmare. 

I know what you’re thinking: “But Matt! Children love the ice cream truck. Have you forgotten what it’s like to be a child?”

No, I have not. I remember my childhood better than most, which is why I understand the insidiousness of the ice cream truck. Yes, it’s a vehicle filled with dairy and sugar delights. And yes, it brings these dairy and sugar delights to you. No need to drive to the store to buy a Klondike Bar, Drumstick or popsicle. These objects of tasty goodness are brought directly to your street, baseball field, park or wherever else you may be.

And yes, occasionally a mother or father or even baseball coach will spring for an icy treat, but for every time a child is given the cash reserves required to purchase one of these confessionary miracles, there are at least as many denials and rejections.

• “We had ice cream yesterday.”
• “I don’t want you to spoil your appetite.”
• “You just ate dessert.”
• “I don’t have any money right now.”

These and a thousand other excuses to deny a child a moment of creamy bliss, which makes the ice cream truck something truly insidious. A rolling casino of possibility and peril. A lottery of both destiny and defeat. 

The ice cream truck essentially says: “Hey, I’ve brought ice cream directly to you. It’s just a few feet away. An entire truck piled high with creamy, delicious, sugary ice cream magic.” 

But there’s a catch. You must now convince your parent, who is well armed with ten million reasons to say no and a desire to constantly teach you lessons about nutrition and well-balanced diets — and, “Not always getting what you want!” — to fork over their hard-earned dollars so you can eat a Fudgy the Whale or a Super Duper Sno-Cone Blasteroony.

Your chances? 50/50 at best. It’s a coin flip, kid. The music of this infernal machine signals happiness or disappointment; there’s no telling which will befall you on any given day. Good luck!

The ice cream truck is happiness in disguise. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. A brightly colored punch in the face. At least some of the time. And for some children, most of the time.

And for a golfer, trying to sink a putt for a two-stroke lead, it’s also a disturbance in the Force. An intrusion into an otherwise godly game. An offense to all that is holy and righteous about golf. 

It’s noise pollution. Auditory waste. An affront to all that is good and right. 

So, as I line up my putt, I remove my phone from my pocket and send a text message: “Victor, can you turn that off for three minutes?” A moment later, the calliope music stops. The venomous sound waves have ceased. Victor, you see, is my former student, but he is also the ice cream truck driver in this neighborhood. He does me this favor whenever I ask.

I make my putt. I am now in possession of a two-stroke lead, which I am perfectly capable of losing on the final hole, except I also have one more card to play. I’ll be asking Victor to crank up the volume while Jeff is lining up his putt, in hopes of disturbing his concentration because golf is a lot like the uncertainty of the ice cream truck. Some days, it’s complete bliss. Other days, and for me, most days, it rips your heart out. I come back again and again, hoping for greatness, only to be disappointed. So much like the godforsaken ice cream truck. 

I’m hoping for a little luck today. And maybe later, after I win and walk off this course with my head held high, a Blizzard Bonanza from Victor’s truck, because for an adult whose children are sitting at home, and with money burning a hole in his pocket, the ice cream truck is always a joy to see. Especially when it is silent. 

Matthew Dicks is an elementary school teacher, bestselling novelist and a record 55-time Moth Story SLAM champion. His latest books are “Twenty-one Truths About Love” and “The Other Mother.” Connect on Facebook Instagram @matthewdicks.

Sean Wang, an MIT architecture graduate, is author of the sci-fi graphic novel series, Runners. Learn more at seanwang.com.