Satan Drives that Truck

Okay, I was frustrated. I admit it. But just how do you explain this to two young daughters, ages four and six? And just what was the this I had to explain? I shall tell you presently.

It was the i-c-e-c-r-e-a-m truck!

Yep, that's right, the damnable ice cream truck. That brightly colored automobile that prowls the neighborhood, projecting those sickly-sounding jingles that hypnotize all children, transforming them into divided egos alternating between wimpy whiners and demanding dementors, causing them to beg and cajole for cash to exchange for tooth-decaying, body-rotting, life-destroying pseudo-food!

Okay, fine, perhaps that is a bit over the top. The problem wasn't the ice cream, per se, or the other sweets. I'm rather fond of them myself. The problem was parked elsewhere.

Across . . . the . . . road.

Yes, that's right. Hailing from hades, the "ice cream man" ever and always was parked across the street, the busy street, the one with fast cars and small children vying for space hurriedly to get to their destinations, even if that destination was self-destruction.

And then I heard them. The pitter patter of small feet . . . approaching, almost encroaching, to campaign for hope and change. Oh, it is so very, very evil.


"Could we get some?" she asked, almost in a whisper, an almost-excited whisper.

My heals firmly planted, "No, I don't think so," I retorted, trying not to growl.

"Why not?"she pleaded. Pleaded!

I searched for the right words. I paused. Then they came to me, like revelation from on high.

"Because, the devil drives that truck. That's right, Satan is right there, trying to get children to weave through the traffic, risking life and limb, all for a sugar high and some rotten teeth."

Okay, perhaps that isn't quite what I said, but its the gist of it. I don't remember quite what I said. But that doesn't matter. What matters is what happened about a week later.


I was working pacifically in my study when I heard some muffled voices in the other room. Haltingly, it seemed I had heard the siren song of the so-called "ice cream man" just moments before. I was tempted to seethe. I could have been tempted to chase the devil away. I knew handfuls of children were now at risk of their lives, and that for nothing more than diabetes and dental disaster.

I felt my study door open. There wan't any sound, just a slight rushing wind, as my wife entered. My emotions quickly changed from hatred to fiery affection.

"Hi honey," I entreated.

"Hi," she responded, somewhat more firm and flat than I expected. "What did you tell the girls about the ice cream man?"

Now, bear with me for a minute. Do you know that moment when you feel the rising blush, originating from right around your spleen, and you want to suppress it and simply man up to your actions? You know, you want the color in your face to say, I am confident that I have done only what is good and right? Well, that is what I wanted. It wasn't quite what received.

Mustering much courage, or at least as much as I could muster, I confidently muttered, "Why, what's up?"

She looked at me, right at me. I would have preferred if she had been slightly distracted -- you know, looking somewhere near me, or even through me. Frankly, I would have been satisfied with a hug. Yes, that is what I most desired at that moment, a hug, the embrace of affirmation. The one I deserved.

I was slowly (though not nearly slowly enough!) enveloped with an erupting blush. What shame. No, I mean, what a shame.

"Did you tell the girls that Satan drives the ice cream truck?"

Did she need an answer? Was that even a question? I don't think it was as question. No, it wasn't much  of a question at all. The emphasis on the two words made the others recede and become mere background. Regardless . . .


But it was true! I wasn't about to deny the truth. It was true, even truer than truth itself! It was ontological, metaphysical. Okay, it was metaphorical, but that didn't make it any less true! 


"Yes, I did," I blurted with bit of gusto. "That damnable truck courses throughout the neighborhood seeking someone to devour." (At least that's what I might say if faced with such an inquisition today.) "He always parks on the other side of the road. That street is dangerous. It is very busy. Most of the sheep are young, even tiny children. I think its horrible. He's clearly a devil."

Slightly tilted, she rather slowly shook her head as I spoke. It didn't phase her at all, not one bit. But it should have. 

She stood their, looking at me. Her eyebrows now raised. Hers was the face of inquiry, no, of inquisition, as if to say, will you just confess and get this over with? Confess? For what? For telling the truth?

"But it isn't true," she sliced trough my thoughts. "Just tell them the truth or they'll learn not to trust you."

"Hey, but he is a devil. He parks on the other side of that busy street. He lies about happiness. He puts little . . . lives . . . in . . . danger." I paused to breath. "And he charges too much. We could buy a whole box of ice cream bars for what he charges for just one or two bars."

My lover, she turned and slowly strolled away, leaving the study door open, trailing off with, "You know what to do."

I couldn't tell whether it was a blush of embarrassment now, or a blush of rage at the societal injustice of the so-called "ice cream man." I'm quite certain that it was the latter.

Yes, indeed it was rage . . . of a sort.