'the sun is shining, the weather is sweet, makes me want to move my dancing feet...'

so mancat and i are at a lazy diner on sunday afternoon, neither of us have much to say, and an ice cream man comes by in his little truck. his little sensory overload bliss of a truck.

'reminds me of when i was a kid.'
'duh. not like i grew up in the third world.'
'no, we had ice cream man turf wars when i was a kid.'
'you're hungover worse than i thought.'
'OMELETTAS FOR MY BOYS!!'
'why is she screaming.'
'she's upset about your ice cream wars.'
'asshole.'

when i was a kid, my neighborhood was inflicted with delivery people; the world came to us. like new york now, but thirty years before (ok, twenty) and not common like it is now. it was always a pleasure to see the bugman, the guy from the village who drove a big truck that spewed white clouds of insecticide all around the neighborhoods with no warning, but with only the eerie sound that only he made. i can't explain the sound. my mother, however, would get one inkling that he was coming and we were drawn in the house, every window was shut, and the bugman would gas the whole block, then the whole peninsula, then the whole village. only the badass kids (with parents who didn't care thankyouverymuch) would be outside, nevertheless FOLLOW him. never had mosquitos as a kid. (or birds, come to think of it.)

then there was the knife / scissor sharpener. drove a truck, had a jingle the neighborhood women recognized, and he'd sharpen their knives. (tell me that doesn't sound dirty, ahem.)

the meat delivery people.

oh and of COURSE the liquor delivery people. now keep in mind these weren't people who were called on by appointment, they were people who showed up regularly to service their territory. the liquor people were most welcome. (especially by my next door neighbor who drank martinis with breakfast, bless his soul.)

but the only ones i really appreciated were the ice cream men. there were a few: the low-budget guy on his bike, peddle your goods elsewhere, dork. there was 'louie' our neighborhood hero, and then, for special occasions, the good humour guy. (nobody knows if louie were his real name, but he had marino's italian ices with the little wooden paddles and red / white / blue bomb pops, so who cares. and only at that age do you not care that wood is coming in contact with your tongue and that there is an ice pop named after a 'weapon of mass destruction.'

oh louie. he had powers over every one of us youngins in the hood, and there were plenty of us. if it were a slow day, he'd hit balls with us if we were playing ball. one time, he hit it farther and faster than any of us, we assumed he had to be from the pros. he was our little hero, circa 1986, and we loved him and his goods. even one of the spawn of the 'good' catholic family up the street (good meaning one of six kids) got so whooped up upon hearing louie's goddam music he got on his bike, peddled like a bat out of hell, one thing led to another, stitches in good sam hospital. he was a saint to us, saint louie of icecreamland.

then one day it happened: i was drawing on the street with my neighbor kim and my brother with street chalk. we heard the faint sound of the expensive (and lame) good humour man AND the familiar beckoning of st. louie. like a b movie, good humour man (ghm) came from the north side of the circle, and st. louie from the south side. their trucks stopped facing each other about two houses up. we gasped.

it was like a gang-war out of the wanderers. the shit was SO going to hit the fan.

now i forgot to mention that the good humour truck, in its infinite deluxness, had three stairs that led up to a little counter in the back of it. you had to go IN to the good humour truck to make your purchase. it was all part of the charm.

well, st. louie went up those three stairs and we waited with baited breath. never heard a raised voice, but my dad, having heard US suddenly get quiet, came to the door. 'boys! where are you?' [hushed] 'here! there's gonna be a fight!' [seeing the two trucks and us with chalk and kim and turning white,] 'ok, dinner in ten minutes.'

we decided that st. louie kicked ghm's ass, for we never, ever saw him on our block again. ever. maybe the 'grown-ups' know what happened, maybe they recognized each other from ice cream man training school, 'louie, is that you you old sonofabitch!' 'peter, i see you graduated to good humour, your pompous bastard!' who knows. we just know that we never, ever got good humour ice cream again on my block.

to this day.