Nicotine and Ice Cream

Childhood is fucked up, but it’s only when you look back on it that you realized how really fucked up it is. I was somewhere in Oakland, it was 2 o’clock in the afternoon on a Sunday and I had cold, weak beer in my hand.

Shit, I even had a God damn sundress on. What the fuck was I doing? Tex had woken up full of sunshine and happiness and dragged me here to his co-workers house for a barbeque. They were outside now standing around pitiful grill, killing four Cornish game hens for the second time and burning the corn on the cob.

I was in the house with the girlfriend, wife whatever the fuck she was. I was paralyzed with the beer sweating in my clammy hand staring out the window at a man that I didn’t care for at all. A temporary diversion had turned into a big mistake.

Beyond the men admiring the food on the grill I saw the top of an ice cream truck over the fence, it turned the corner but I could still hear it’s music. I listened as it grew faint and haunting. It was stupid, but growing up my neighborhood ice-cream man always gave me popsicle, even when I didn’t have the money. No he wasn’t a fucking perv, just a sweet old man.

During the summer, I couldn’t wait for him to come ‘round and I was always sad when it turned cold. One summer, less than a week before school let out I skipped down the driveway in my holey Keds and cutoff jeans—I practically jumped through the window—the hands that caught me had dirt under the fingernails and were stained with nicotine. A toothless face grinned at me touching my arms for a little bit too long. The smell of stale cigarettes tweaked my nose as I pushed back to the ground.

“What can get for you darling?”

I shook my head no.

“Don’t be shy now.”

I turned and ran back into my house, bypassing the living room where mother was arguing with her boyfriend. I curled up on my bed mourning not seeing my friend—later I would find out he had died from a massive heart attack.

I didn’t want to be here that day, I wished I could simply disappear from Earth without anyone taking notice. Today I felt the same, a crushing sense of loss for something I could never have—I downed the beer in two gulps and reached for another. Halfway through it when I finally surfaced for air the girlfriend was staring at me with two big brown eyes on head 2 feet above a very pregnant belly.

She smiled at me, flipping a dishtowel over her shoulder.

“Do you need any help?” I stammered out what I thought was the correct thing to say.

“No” I’m done. She smiled warmly again and I shifted my feet.

Fuck this.

I turned to bolt out of the front door; I couldn’t breath in this fucking dress. It was ridiculous, it was Jane’s and I was getting the hell out of here.

A small hand encircled my bicep.

“Why don’t we sit down.” the wife smiled at me again.

I downed the rest of the beer, she brought me another.

I made quick work of it.

“So, what’s your story?”

“I don’t have a story.” I frowned.

“Everyone has a story.” She leaned her head against the couch and played with her hair.

When I didn’t answer she continued.

“James has never brought anyone over, we have known him for three years.”

As if on cue, I heard him laugh.

I felt sick.