This experience was countered by a recurring one with an older woman down near 15 Mile and Dequindre who, every time I passed her house, no matter what time of day, would buy a Strawberry Shortcake bar, unwrap it, and immediately feed it to her yellow lab. And my fantasy was ruined...

What a strange nomadic wandering I had undertaken. Despite the low pay and the relentless heat, I never felt totally dejected. Roaming around Sterling Heights, the suburb just east of my home in Troy, I think I truly loved metro Detroit for the last time. An unforgettable feeling overtook me while I drove through the curvy streets, especially on idyllic summer evenings, as the sun was setting and giving way to a seemingly never-ending twilight. The heat remained thick as darkness came on, and the humidity coated every inch of my skin.

In some places I could smell the sprinklers watering lawns, and the moisture emanating from the warm ground, preparing to leave a soft dew for the following morning once the chill midnight air sent the water molecules recoiling back to the ground. Lawnmowers provided even stronger smells of fresh-cut grass and gasoline fumes. Children played tag in front of their houses as their parents sat on the porch and shared stories of the day. But nothing equaled the occasional stop at the baseball fields on a summer evening, where I could hear the ting of a metal bat hitting the leather ball, as the crowds cheered in support of the young athletes, battling under the bright field lights.

I used to love suburbia for all of these things. It was a sort of romantic illusion, giving one the impression that this was the epitome of human settlements. To children, places like Troy and Sterling Heights are probably close to perfect. But there's a void behind the surface appearance, a horrible emptiness that cannot be ignored. From one perspective, these places are little more than a place to raise children, where adults subsequently hide from the world on their private, modestly sized plot of land.

I literally had to get over Troy when I left for college, so that each return didn't leave me searching for old friends and memories. My subdivision alone was home to at least 10 boys my age, but by 2004, all of their families had moved away except for mine. The economic boom of the late '90s had ended, and the local Kmart headquarters, which had provided upper-middle class living to so many, was about to shut its doors altogether.

All throughout my time on the job, Amanda was like the anchor reminding me of the reality of the ice cream business. For Amanda, there was no romance or joy in ice cream. In her brown eyes I saw only sorrow and regret. I had to request some time off in early August during the week my family always spends in northern Michigan. Such requests were submitted to Amanda. To mine she responded, "You're so lucky. I couldn't even take time off for a honeymoon after my wedding."

I had no idea what to say to that. "Your wedding?!" I thought to myself. "But you're younger than I am." I was 21, and it was inconceivable to me that anyone in modern times would get married before the age 24. She must have been about 19 or 20. She had an adorable little daughter as well, who was often playing in the office during my check-in. I imagined that Amanda had either gotten pregnant accidentally, or had married early because she perceived her future to be hopeless. She foresaw no grand adventures or accomplishments, and so resigned herself to a position as office manager of an ice cream truck business, and repressed all wishes and desires forever. I could only hope that her husband looked upon her each night with loving eyes.

I never would have thought that delivering ice cream could get so...heavy. Most of the time it wasn't, and the days just kind of rolled on like the idling wheels of my janky truck. Far too often I found myself developing crushes on the women who bought ice cream, even if we shared no more words than were required for the purchase. The older sister at 18 and Ryan was one of these; so was the strawberry blonde who bought the shortcake bar; and the young mother holding a baby. One time it even happened with someone I never met. During a sale, a mother who noticed my MSU hoodie asked:

"Oh, you go to State?"

"Yep. I just finished my junior year."

"Well, I should introduce you to my babysitter. She also goes to MSU. She's not here today though."

I was strangely intrigued, and even thought of passing back by the house in the future to see if the babysitter was there. The crush phenomenon was probably due to the fact that, with the exception of my previous bagel shop job, this position provided more random social interactions than any other time of my life.

I definitely got a unique view of the residents of Sterling Heights -- both genders and all ages -- during my few months on that route. That was partly because an ice cream truck catches people by surprise and puts them in an awkward situation. I'd come along when they were busy cleaning up after dinner, loading in the car to run errands, teaching their children to ride a bike sans training wheels, or halfway through a driveway basketball match. One such group dropped their basketball and ran over to my truck, but none of us noticed the ball rolling down the pavement to the street. The ball lodged itself in front of my rear tire, so when I left after the sale, it exploded under the weight of the truck. I felt bad, but not accountable, yet I was surprised that they didn't try to make me pay for it.

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