Jubo, the Ice Cream Man |
Don't Just Stand There, Do Something! A collection of tales for young readers |
I don't know about the rest of you, but when I was a kid in the city during the summer, there was a sound and a sight that pulled me away from whatever I was doing. In fact, it got me literally running with all possible speed. You've probably seen it and know what I mean, because when it gets hot out there, the one thing that appeals immediately to a young mind and a burning brow is ice cream. It's better than candy, satisfies longer than a soda and is a lot easier to deal with than a fire hydrant. Everybody had their favorite flavors and types, wafered sandwiches,cones, sicles, pops, dixie cups, those 4th of July choclatey extravaganzas on sticks or the pistachio or raspberry specials doused with crushed cashews. The problem was, there were very few vendors that carried everything. Sometimes a neighborhood had to depend on the competition to get what it wanted, waiting for the different hawkers to come by and sell their wares. It was a burden, having to pass the time, but the reward was great when it finally arrived. Then one day, probably the hottest we had experienced that summer, there was a new sound in the air as a cold breeze shuffled by with its Arctic aromas. There was a sign alongside the white, refrigerated ice cream truck that read: "Jubo's Jubilee." That was not the only difference. Jubo, a fat guy dressed in a white outfit that made him look like a sugared doughnut with an official cap, bellowed out his presence with a new song. He repeated it often enough for us to easily memorize it and instantly know when he was a few blocks off and coming our way. It went: "Have you seen the ice cream man, the freezing van, the cool-down man? Time to ice the frying pan and bid the heat away." I can tell you now that this little song really got us mobilized. This was in the days before ice cream vendors used recordings over loudspeakers to mindlessly announce themselves with boring drivel tunes that don't really apply to the situation. We were mesmerized by his voice, his appearance and his truck that contained just about everything we could dream of in the way of ice cream. He didn't miss a trick and always had plenty on hand, never seeming to run out. It was paradise for the dripping stultified. He spoke very nicely to us too, not like some drivers who couldn't bear dealing with kids and let it be known that they couldn't wait to get out of our disruptive lives. I guess it was August, still burning up the pavement with its sun-drenched mirages, that a change took place. Up to then, Jubo always reached inside his icicle crypt with his long arm, without bothering to look, and always retrieved the very item wanted, no matter how obscure. None of us could ever figure out how he did that. We certainly did not suspect that something sinister was going on. But then, the day came when Jubo tried something new. He rolled steps down from the refrigerated vault so that anyone who wished to could reach inside for themselves and go for pot luck. A couple of kids tried and were rewarded with some really neat, unique flavors. It got to the point where those of us who hadn't made that attempt were eager to do so. Jubo must have mapped out a strategy of some kind after casing all the neighborhoods and deciding who he wanted. It happened very quickly. That was the day he put up a covered awning around the stairs so that no one could see what was really happening. He said he did that only once, for special people. I didn't know what he meant until much later. Most of us considered it a prize to be selected for the "awning draw," but we had no idea what his criteria might be. There was a little girl on our block that I had seen once or twice but never got to know well. He picked her. I was next in line, regretting the fact that I had not been chosen. I would have to be satisfied with a normal draw. I tried looking in the awning's alley as she walked in, her eyes big and bright and ready for a pleasant surprise. I heard Jubo tell the girl to close her eyes and stick her arm all the way in the tiny enclosure, just reach around and grab something no matter how cold it was. Suddenly. the awning collapsed and Jubo ran to get in his truck. "No more ice cream today," he shouted and drove off. I never saw that girl again. Neither did her parents. They raised quite a squawk about it, especially after I volunteered my information. That's when the detectives came to question me. I don't really know if they believed me or not. What I do know is that Jubo made the same kind of choices in several neighborhoods that day, after which he disappeared for good. There was a big hullabaloo in the newspapers and the radio about it. Everybody in the city went looking for Jubo, but they never found him, his truck or the kids that he snatched. I guess I was lucky. But except for those dozen kids who vanished, the rest of us never learned what icing the frying pan was all about. Sometimes, whenever I go for a creamsicle, I see that girl's image in the ice before it melts. She seems to be screaming something, trying to warn me away. But then, the moment I lick her face, she just disappears as quickly as she did that day. As for Jubo, he will always be a hidden igloo, far away in the polar regions where only bears and whales hear his song. I'll bet he sings about hot things, now. W.A.Rieser |
