In another subdivision -- an older one probably constructed in the '50s or '60s -- some kids came out with only a few pennies and asked what they could get. I sadly informed them that the cheapest item was a double popsicle for 25 cents. Later, my mother would say that I should have given them a popsicle for free -- and I agreed with her, but neither of us were bred for business.

These older neighborhoods -- the kind without sidewalks -- reminded me of McManus Drive, where I lived from age three to 10. The children running through the ditches, riding bikes, and climbing trees -- they all brought to mind my first best friend Adam. Now I've totally lost contact with him, and yet I can feel him close to me at all times.

Other than these small tragedies, the most vivid memories of the job are from the embarrassing moments. In a block of mini-mansions on the north end of my route, two salesmen were going door-to-door selling discount cards for a new local restaurant. They stopped my truck and actually attempted to sell me one. The cards cost $20, which you supposedly would recuperate by getting various deals. Even as I agreed, I felt like an idiot. First of all, I wasn't making enough money to buy something like that. Secondly, the restaurant was too far from my home to go there frequently. Third, the one salesman who talked had a lying stink to him, and I should have been more willing to reject his empty promises. As a feeble response, I tried to push my own product.

"Would the two of you like some bottled water? They're one dollar each." I figured they'd be thirsty walking around like fools in this sun and heat.

"Sure," the crafty one replied. "I see how it works. You buy the pack for four bucks, and then sell each bottle for a dollar. That's the way to get a profit." As if he was in a place to lecture me on consumer manipulation! That comment made me wish I was carrying a flame thrower. I wanted to burn this man's flesh and watch him writhing in agony on the ground.

There were also enemies within the industry. For a stretch of one or two weeks, I felt like a competitor's ice cream truck was following me around the subdivisions. It got to the point where he was considerably affecting my sales. I even called Amanda once about it, to find out what I should do. She said it was probably an independent truck, and that I should just try to mix up my route patterns. In my mind I imagined a film inevitably titled Ice Cream Wars, about warring factions of curbside dairy dealers who have violent showdowns over who owned what turf. I could see myself adorned in tattered camouflage, feeling trigger happy, ready to hoist my bazooka when another truck rounded my corner. This could definitely become a summer blockbuster.

The absurdity waned only when it rained, but that also meant no business, and I didn't get paid unless I sold ice cream. When the drawn-out storms of Michigan summertime hit, I had to decide between waiting it out and returning to the truck yard at the company depot. If I waited, it could mean many hours sitting with no sales and nothing to do, on some barren side street or in a strip mall parking lot. But I'd have to keep the engine running, because that powered the ice cream freezer, and the engine used gas. It was my responsibility to fill the tank on my way in each night, and I paid for gas with my own money.

Even when it didn't rain, I was usually the first one to return my truck at night. Many drivers didn't even leave until 3 or 4 pm, since they could sell more ice cream in the evening. Some of them would stay out 'til 10 or 11 each night, hanging around at baseball fields and tennis courts -- anywhere where crowds lingered outdoors late at night. I wasn't willing to do that, so maybe I missed out on some sales.

I never really felt like an unsuccessful ice cream man, even with the crying kids and complaining mothers and idiot salesmen and incessant heat and crappy pay. I think that's because, from my point of view, no one is really a successful ice cream man. That company probably never dealt out "Driver of the Month" awards. And my fellow drivers were likely also working at CK Ice Cream out of varying degrees of desperation.

Now a part of me is still roaming in the place where I grew up, in a truck that's about to break down, with a bin full of frozen goodies, trying to find the one bar that will fulfill its grander promise and not just provide a momentary satisfaction. I'm still searching for that figurative bar, but I never stopped loving ice cream.

One of the best feelings I had the whole summer was when I finally left my route to visit my sister and her friends. My mom had informed me that they were having a pool party, the kind I used to have when I was that age, and she insisted that it would be worth the drive. I pulled onto our street and the kids were already waiting at the end of the driveway. My sister greeted me as they began devouring the menu with their eyes. She ordered a Spongebob bar, one of the other trendy choices at the time. She was simply ecstatic to see me in the truck, and I could tell she was proud to be my sister. To her, I was practically a hero. And that kind-hearted approval of a child was enough in itself for me to feel content with the way my summer had gone.

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