Proximity Muse

The ice cream truck rolled down the street, gleaming white in the summer sun, advertising its wares in cartoonish paintings on its sides. The truck slowed to a stop, and parked at the curb allowing the kids chasing it to catch up. A slight rocking motion announced the movement of the driver as he moved from front to back and the waiting children clustered around the window in anticipation. With a clacking noise, bolts were drawn and the window slid back. Children clamored for their favorite treats, bumping and jostling each other, clutching small bills in their grubby fists. Like the truck he drove, the Goodtimes Man wore spotless white. A button-down white shirt and white pants were covered by a white apron. The paper hat on his head was white as was the neatly cropped hair the hat rested on. The smile he turned on the children came from gleaming white teeth. Even the whites of his eyes seemed brighter than usual, though his black pupils reflected none of his smile.

He surveyed the tiny mob in front of him and his smile grew wider, showing off more perfect white teeth in a predator’s grin. He chuckled the hollow laughter of a dying man.

“Make a line now, my sweets,” he smiled. “No pushing, no shoving. The Goodtimes Man has plenty to go around!”

The children arranged themselves into a ragged line and looked expectantly up at him.

“Cash only! Cash only!” He said. “What they used to call a promissory note. It’s a contract between buyer and seller. Step on up, my sweets, and make a contract with the Goodtimes Man.”

The children stared at him uncomprehendingly for a minute, and then his first customer held up a dog-eared dollar bill to him.

“Icy pops!” Said the golden haired boy. “I want the purple ones!”

“Of course you do, my sweet,” said the Goodtimes Man. He took the dollar and rang up the sale, the old cash register chiming merrily. With a flourish he reached into the freezer and pulled out a sticky-sweet package of icy pops. He passed the pops to the child, stick first and watched as the golden-haired boy raced off, ripping off the sticky paper. That night he dreamt he was a King, all clad in shining armor, with a beautiful lady wife. He travelled the lands on a great, white stallion dispensing justice and slaying foul brigands. As he lay dying of the wasting disease at 32, the taste of a purple icy pop filled his mouth and the golden-haired man (though his hair had long since fallen out) died with a smile on his face.

A girl, larger than the other children in both height and girth, pushed her way to the front of the line. Her dark hair fell in sweaty, greasy lines across her face and she glared up at the Goodtimes Man.

“Ho, ho now, my sweet! He said. “An eager beaver to be sure!”

“I want four push-pops and don’t you dare give me the old, nasty ones either!”

“Only the best for you,” said the Goodtimes Man with a grin and a wink.

She thrust her money at him like a duelist attacking a hated foe. The register rang and she marched away from the truck, already sucking on the first push-pop. As she lay in bed that night, she dreamed she was the most beautiful girl in the world and handsome boys vied for her attention. She was a movie star, a celebrity, and all the world worshipped her. The self-hatred came a later, born from imagined slights and pandering lovers. She traded in ice cream for more potent drugs and when she died from an overdose at 19, she died with the taste of freezer burn and orange on her lips, and an impotent fury in her belly at the feeling she’d been cheated.

The next child was barely tall enough to reach into the truck. He was small and thin and the clothes he wore were worn and threadbare. He spoke so quietly that the Goodtimes Man had to lean out dangerously far to hear him.

“I want,” the child whispered.

“Of course you do! Of course you do! What do you want, my sweet? A chocolate rocket? A gumball bar? The giant cone?”

The boy shook his head no, to each of these.

“I want a cookie ice cream sandwich,” he whispered. “But I only have a dollar.”

“No to worry, my sweet!” Said the Goodtimes Man. “Not to worry! A dollar from you is worth ten, to me!” He leaned even closer to the boy, “I’m not in it for the money,” he chuckled. The register rang and the boy shyly accepted an ice cream sandwich nearly the size of his head. Tossing in the tiny, unkempt bed in a room he shared with two brothers, the boy dreamed that his parents died and a rich uncle came to take him away. His uncle loved him and gave him everything he’d ever wanted. He made friends with the other rich boys he went to school with and the future was something to look forward to. As he wheezed out his last breath at 78 in his million dollar home, the richness of the cookie ice cream sandwich came back to him and he wept, feeling poor again despite the wealth that surrounded him.

One by one the Goodtimes Man handed out sweets to each child, the sales punctuated by the ringing of his register. His freezer never emptied, filled as it was by dreams and deaths. The dreams he sold for a song, the deaths he saved for himself.