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Man down on his luck forgets all about his dreams after his immediate problem is taken care of.
The clattering ice cream truck sputtered to a halt. It was evening, 9: 00 o’clock or so, and the boulevard was full of cars, almost all going home from happy hours here and there. Despite all the bright lights from the nearby shops, the lamp posts, and all those cars, the space where he ground to a stop seemed somewhat lonely and devoid of light. He pressed the small button on the dashboard which turned the emergency blinkers on, stepped off the truck, and breathed a tired sigh. Why could he not be one of those drivers in one of those shiny cars? He started to walk toward the nearest intersection, at least half a mile away. There were hotels and motels on his right and a large residential area on his left, across the street, separated from the main boulevard by a narrow two-lane drive lined with large shade trees. He could easily imagine the children in all those houses getting ready for bed, perhaps being read their favorite stories before doing so, perhaps not. These were not his children. His lived in a crowded house near downtown. The lights in the large parking lot to his right illuminated large areas of unoccupied parking spaces, maybe left empty by cars whose owners were out sightseeing or attending business functions or parties or maybe just out at one of the many bars and grills nearby. In any case, he wasn’t them. They were not him. He consciously tried not to pity himself. As he walked on the very edge of the wide thoroughfare - there was no sidewalk, only a wide expanse of lush grass between the hotels and the road - his thoughts turned to his struggles with work. He knew it would be hours before he would get home. He turned to look at the ice cream truck. Why did he care about it, anyway? It wasn’t his. The blinkers were still going. He had remembered to bring the money bag with him and it was beginning to feel heavy from all the change in it. He would have to borrow a couple of quarters from the bag in order to make the call for help, and then he would have to account for them at the ice cream warehouse. He remembered his father, his children’s grandfather. He remembered their store, the fire that burned it to the ground, and the sadness. He remembered his father’s failure to convince the insurance man to pay up.
The insurance company people had said they suspected him of setting the fire and if he pressed them, he would end up in jail. He began to feel angry again, as he had felt then. The loud honking of a passing car startled him back close to the curb. I’m going to be fifty five - too old to be holding down two jobs like this, he thought. My two jobs together don’t amount to one real job. He looked back at the truck again, and again he saw him in his mind, his boss at the ice cream place. He worried about what might be said about his getting stranded like this. He might even make him pay the expense of fixing it. Ridiculous, he thought. An old man worried about an old truck and an old boss. But, this was what he worried about - the reality of intimidation - .the reality of being helpless and being stuck. What could he possibly do for his children?
My father in his rut, me in mine, and my children in the same rut still. We live in a world of ruts, he thought. The poor in theirs, the rich in theirs, the old and the young in theirs, the sick and the healthy - the educated and the ignorant, also…. Still, he thought, some ruts are better than others. I should not fail my children, rut or no rut. Walks like this, whenever there was trouble, made him thoughtful. Give me a bag full of money - real money - and I can give you a real rut-changing kid. He chuckled as he was thinking this. The truck can’t move without the ignition. I can’t move without the money. Money has been the biggest mystery in my life. I have not learned to respect it until too late in life. I was as smart as the next man, and had good health as well, but not the ambition, not the provocation, not the motivation. Why the hell not? That’s the mystery. My life has been the life of a catfish. I have lived on scraps. I have wasted my energy on scraps. I have had talent, but no imagination. Yet, my life is not over. I can try something new He was almost at the corner, and it looked like a very busy intersection. Too much activity, he thought - too many people going about. He also noticed he was the only pedestrian. His white uniform would make him quite visible to all those drivers. There was still some respect left in the world for pedestrians, wasn’t there? No need to be so afraid. He would cross with the green light and run across as best he could. The evening had started to get a little windy, and he felt as if his trek had begun long ago. He was hoping to find a pay phone nearby. That’s all he needed right now, a working pay phone. He started to cross as soon as the light changed, but he stopped suddenly and returned to the curb. “Hey, Mike - over here,” he yelled at the top of his lungs. His was the yell of a man determined to be heard. Mike was the driver of another of the trucks in the fleet of eleven. Mike drove Flipper, the name of his truck, for all the trucks had different names, and these names were painted on their sides. Bob’s was Godzilla. The screech of brakes braking suddenly was heard, and with the screeching came vast relief for Bob. Everything was fine now.After they got Godzilla going again, Mike invited him to a cup of coffee and a cheese Danish at a nearby Village Inn. Everything was fine now.
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