Thursday, June 25, 2009

I Scream for Ice Cream

Everybody smiles for the Ice Cream Lady. After spending an early summer day riding with Concord’s Ice Cream Lady, I can attest that everyone’s happy to see her – grandparents, babysitters, moms, dads, construction workers, guys in sports cars and on Harleys, cops, crossing guards, and of course kids – lots and lots of kids of every stripe. Gap-toothed, shirtless, wild-eyed, well-dressed, sprinkler-dashing, whiffle ball-playing, timid, bold, polite, rude, skinny, portly and even a little nutty – all of them love the Ice Cream Lady.

Susan Prowell drives a white 1973 Chevy truck outfitted with an enormous freezer, a tinny speaker mounted on the front and, I soon realize, minimal rear suspension. This last part I learn as we pull away from the front of Concord High School to begin our route. This is Susan’s fourth season selling ice cream. “I spent the last three seasons in Londonderry, but this summer, I’m here in Concord,” she explains as we head to White’s Park for our first stop. “We start when the weather gets warm, and we close up around Columbus Day,” Susan tells me, adding, “And I’m out in the truck every day it’s sunny. When the sun shines, I’m selling ice cream.”

After a quick peek in the massive silver freezer – two rows of four hatches each – I figure Susan must sell lots of ice cream. There’s every kind you’d ever want - ice cream sandwiches, bomb pops and bomb pop juniors, chocolate éclairs, strawberry shortcake (bar or sandwich), chipwiches, toasted almond treats, sundaes on a stick, snow cones, ice cream cones and a wide variety of misshapen non-dairy treats vaguely representing cartoon characters if their heads were on sticks and they had bulbous gumballs for eyes.

Ice cream trucks are heard before they’re seen, and as we roll into the new lot at White’s Park, a handful of customers heads towards us, the steady refrain of Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer” drawing them to the truck like a sugary siren’s seductive song. Susan can play four songs on her speaker, but she’s partial to “The Entertainer.” “‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ drives me crazy!” she tells me as we park the truck.

A teenager in a Weezer tee shirt buys a chocolate éclair for himself and a Tearjerker Bomb Pop for his date. A little boy in a green striped shirt and an intense look in his eyes runs up with his mom. He looks like he’s been waiting since mid October for this moment. Susan asks, “What do you want?” “I want Batman.” Susan explains that it’s the only one she’s out of. “OK, what other one do you want instead of the Batman?” “I want Batman,” he repeats, and he’s staring so hard at the picture menu on the side of the truck that I’m wondering if he’s trying to use his X-ray vision to scan the freezer’s contents for himself. His mom intervenes, and he settles for Spongebob Squarepants for him and his toddler sister.

An older woman – maybe a grandma – approaches with a young girl. The grandma asks for something Susan doesn’t have, and they walk away empty-handed. The little girl looks back over her shoulder, either ready to cry or to find a new, better grandma who knows that a chipwich is just as good as Grammy’s frozen bread pudding any day.

We make a left turn into a cul de sac, and two grown men approach. They’ve covered in sweat, and we can see the building materials in the background, a new home awaiting its finishing touches. The older man – the foreman, I think, saunters up and in a wide grin asks for more details about the Cherry Chill. “Can I drink it? Do I need a spoon? How long will it take to melt?” he wants to know. He buys it and three sodas and heads back to work. You’re really never too old to enjoy a Cherry Chill. Which reminds me - it’s been over an hour and I’ve yet to sample the goods.

Susan motions to the freezer – “Take what you want,” she tells me. I choose a Blue Bunny Vanilla Big Dipper, a pre-scooped ice cream cone lined with chocolate, stuffed with creamy vanilla ice cream and topped with nuts. Every bite is Heaven, pure Heaven. I’m lost in the moment, and when I come around, we’re in a new neighborhood, parked at the corner with a line five people deep. A little boy brandishes a plastic sword and yells “Hi!” to Susan. “He’s not buying any today,” she says, the boy motionless on his lawn, the sword dangling at his side. I watch him as others approach, some with their moms or big sisters, but Susan’s right – no ice cream for the South End Gladiator today. A young mom approaches with her toddler son on her hip. “This is his first time getting ice cream from an ice cream truck,” the mom announces with pride. The boy points to a foot-long ice pop, but his mom selects something more manageable, pays a dollar, and we head off. “Some days I don’t want it to end,” Susan says, and I believe her.

Susan is part saleswoman (“For an extra quarter, you can get two.”), part flavor consultant (“Well, the Two Ball Screwball’s gonna have sort of a sour taste.”) and part debt counselor (“OK, you can pay me what you have there, but next time, ask your mom for another fifty cents, alright?”).

On we go, now towards Fisherville Road. We pull into a side neighborhood and as we slow down, a pack of children and moms approaches, a six year-old boy leading the way. He’s shouting at Susan, pointing down the street. We can’t hear anything, Scott Joplin drowning out the boy’s voice. But Susan follows him in the truck. The boy keeps turning around, pointing at us and then in front of him. We finally catch up at the corner where the boy’s mom tells us he wants us to follow him to his house, so across Fisherville Road we go. This Pint-Sized Moses has led his people to the Promised Land, and others emerge to partake in the fruitful bounty that he’s delivered to their doorsteps, his driveway now the land of frozen milk and honey. Mini Moses bounces back and forth as others choose their ice cream. “Be patient,” his mom says, but he’s full of questions. “Excuse me. Excuse me. Can we still get the Batman? Do you have any Batmans left?” The boy points to another choice. “What’s that taste like? What’s it like?” He settles on a Spiderman, walks away, reemerging a minute later. “Are these Spiderman eyes gum? Are the eyes gum?” Susan assures him they are, and he takes a lick, looks over the dissipating crowd and yells to us, “We’re here every day! Come back!” Susan makes a note of it, and we drive on. As I look through the back window, I see my Pint-sized Ice Cream Prophet wedging the left side of Spiderman’s frozen head into his mouth, doing a little jig of honest joy.

It’s been over four hours since Susan began her shift, and we’re somewhere near Shaker Road in a neighborhood packed with kids and parents. It’s past dinner time and everyone’s outside enjoying the early summer air, this one of the few nights it hasn’t rained in weeks. Kids approach on every corner. “Give me a drumstick with the chocolate chips!” “Yeah! I got a Sour Wower!” “I’ll have two Bomb Pops and a Tongue Splasher!”

A dad, his two kids feasting their eyes on the exhaustive menu, proclaims, “We’re just looking tonight,” and asks Susan a series of questions about the ingredients and whether the ice creams are individually wrapped. I’m tempted to tell him that window shopping at an ice cream truck is like eating a meatless hot dog at Fenway Park. What in God’s name is the point? But Susan is the model of customer service, answering all his inane queries with grace, ending with a smile and a promise to stop here again tomorrow.

I’ve been in the truck for almost five hours and am getting a little punchy. Susan lets me take over the sales pitch, and as a group of kids approaches, I announce, “We just ran out of ice cream, but we have lots of broccoli and yams.” Not a single smile. Susan jumps in and reassures the kids we’re flush with treats, and as they reach the front of the line, each kid gives me the stink eye. Ice cream is no joking matter. Just before we hit the highway to head back home, I reflect on what I’ve seen - dozens and dozens of smiling, happy kids and parents, every one of them thrilled the Ice Cream Lady stopped by for a visit. So next time you hear “The Entertainer,” keep an eye out for Susan and her white Chevy. Have your money ready because it’s worth every penny. Just remember to smile.