Maybe This Summer
by Christopher Robin Smith
No one knew his real name. He was Frozen Eddie to everybody in the neighborhood, and the tunes his ice cream truck played were a siren’s call to the kids. It didn’t play “Turkey in the Straw, ” “Pop Goes the Weasel,” or any other standard ice cream truck fanfare. Frozen Eddie’s truck chimed the Beach Boys’ “All Summer Long,” The Lovin’ Spoonful’s “Summer in the City,” and Don McLean’s “American Pie” in its entirety.
Legend had it that Frozen Eddie grew up in the neighborhood. After a failed attempt in the minor leagues, a failed stint in the army, and a failed marriage, he bought his truck and filled it with dry ice and frozen confections. No one knew where Eddie lived or where he went during the harsh Ohio winters. Still, everyone knew exactly where to find him on a summer afternoon.
Frozen Eddie rode up and down the streets at precisely the same time every day. No one could confirm the regularity of his schedule. The only ones who cared were children, and time didn’t mean a whole lot to them, especially during the long days of summer.
Once Frozen Eddie’s radar detected the presence of enough kids running for his truck, he pulled over to the curb. The crowd grew around the pink and blue truck: one, two, seven, fifteen. Kids of all shapes and sizes, each with a fistful of change, studied the stickers on the side of Eddie’s vehicle like scholars poring over hieroglyphics. There must have been a hundred frozen treats to choose from, with names like “The Bomb,” “Eskimo Push-Up,” and “Fudge Frog.”
Frozen Eddie slid his little window open, and the first mound of sweaty change hit the aluminum counter. The kid might call out “Lemon Escape,” and Frozen Eddie’s arm would disappear, emerging seconds later with a frozen treat in a yellow wrapper. Regardless of the order, his hand came up lickety-split with precisely what the kid had asked for. He never faltered.
Frozen Eddie’s other notable skill was his ability to count change. He could eye a mound of pennies, nickels, and dimes and calculate the total in milliseconds. If the kid overpaid, Frozen Eddie slid the difference back to him. Sometimes a kid would get so excited about his treat that he’d run away from the truck without retrieving his change. Frozen Eddie would tighten his lips and let out a shrill whistle. He’d wrap the kid’s change in a napkin, and with the precision of a major league pitcher, he’d toss it over the crowd. Not every kid caught the flying money, but that wasn’t Eddie’s problem. His aim was true.
Sometimes, after all the kids had been served, Eddie would notice a kid still staring at the menu. Frozen Eddie knew it wasn’t indecision on the kid’s part. It was empty pockets. Without saying a word, Eddie would hand the kid a red, white, and blue “American Pop” or some such goodie. He always told the kid he could pay him another day, but no one remembers Eddie ever collecting. And no kid ever took advantage of Frozen Eddie’s generosity.
There are still heated discussions about when Frozen Eddie stopped wending his way through the neighborhood. Nobody’s been able to remember the year his chimes failed to chime. All anyone can agree on is that there was a summer when Frozen Eddie stopped coming.
Some say they’ve seen Frozen Eddie. They talk about a man who goes to every Indian’s home game. The guy brings a Styrofoam cooler and sits in the stands watching the game and eating Popsicles. He’s been known to finish a box of twenty-four during a doubleheader. At the end of the game, he tips the cooler over and dumps a small chunk of dry ice into the nearest drinking fountain. He stands and watches the kids drink from the smoky cauldron. Then the Popsicle Man disappears into the exiting crowd, his empty cooler at his side.
All the neighborhood kids, grown now with children of their own, still remember Frozen Eddie. Though each saw Frozen Eddie hundreds of times, none remembers exactly what he looked like. They all have excuses: the window on his truck was too small, the sun was in their eyes, or they were too excited about their ice cream to pay attention to his features. But they all wonder if the Popsicle Man is Frozen Eddie. No one’s sure, and no one’s ever asked him.
Maybe this summer.
Maybe This Summer
by Christopher Robin Smith
No one knew his real name. He was Frozen Eddie to everybody in the neighborhood, and the tunes his ice cream truck played were a siren’s call to the kids. It didn’t play “Turkey in the Straw, ” “Pop Goes the Weasel,” or any other standard ice cream truck fanfare. Frozen Eddie’s truck chimed the Beach Boys’ “All Summer Long,” The Lovin’ Spoonful’s “Summer in the City,” and Don McLean’s “American Pie” in its entirety.
Legend had it that Frozen Eddie grew up in the neighborhood. After a failed attempt in the minor leagues, a failed stint in the army, and a failed marriage, he bought his truck and filled it with dry ice and frozen confections. No one knew where Eddie lived or where he went during the harsh Ohio winters. Still, everyone knew exactly where to find him on a summer afternoon.
Frozen Eddie rode up and down the streets at precisely the same time every day. No one could confirm the regularity of his schedule. The only ones who cared were children, and time didn’t mean a whole lot to them, especially during the long days of summer.
Once Frozen Eddie’s radar detected the presence of enough kids running for his truck, he pulled over to the curb. The crowd grew around the pink and blue truck: one, two, seven, fifteen. Kids of all shapes and sizes, each with a fistful of change, studied the stickers on the side of Eddie’s vehicle like scholars poring over hieroglyphics. There must have been a hundred frozen treats to choose from, with names like “The Bomb,” “Eskimo Push-Up,” and “Fudge Frog.”
Frozen Eddie slid his little window open, and the first mound of sweaty change hit the aluminum counter. The kid might call out “Lemon Escape,” and Frozen Eddie’s arm would disappear, emerging seconds later with a frozen treat in a yellow wrapper. Regardless of the order, his hand came up lickety-split with precisely what the kid had asked for. He never faltered.
Frozen Eddie’s other notable skill was his ability to count change. He could eye a mound of pennies, nickels, and dimes and calculate the total in milliseconds. If the kid overpaid, Frozen Eddie slid the difference back to him. Sometimes a kid would get so excited about his treat that he’d run away from the truck without retrieving his change. Frozen Eddie would tighten his lips and let out a shrill whistle. He’d wrap the kid’s change in a napkin, and with the precision of a major league pitcher, he’d toss it over the crowd. Not every kid caught the flying money, but that wasn’t Eddie’s problem. His aim was true.
Sometimes, after all the kids had been served, Eddie would notice a kid still staring at the menu. Frozen Eddie knew it wasn’t indecision on the kid’s part. It was empty pockets. Without saying a word, Eddie would hand the kid a red, white, and blue “American Pop” or some such goodie. He always told the kid he could pay him another day, but no one remembers Eddie ever collecting. And no kid ever took advantage of Frozen Eddie’s generosity.
There are still heated discussions about when Frozen Eddie stopped wending his way through the neighborhood. Nobody’s been able to remember the year his chimes failed to chime. All anyone can agree on is that there was a summer when Frozen Eddie stopped coming.
Some say they’ve seen Frozen Eddie. They talk about a man who goes to every Indian’s home game. The guy brings a Styrofoam cooler and sits in the stands watching the game and eating Popsicles. He’s been known to finish a box of twenty-four during a doubleheader. At the end of the game, he tips the cooler over and dumps a small chunk of dry ice into the nearest drinking fountain. He stands and watches the kids drink from the smoky cauldron. Then the Popsicle Man disappears into the exiting crowd, his empty cooler at his side.
All the neighborhood kids, grown now with children of their own, still remember Frozen Eddie. Though each saw Frozen Eddie hundreds of times, none remembers exactly what he looked like. They all have excuses: the window on his truck was too small, the sun was in their eyes, or they were too excited about their ice cream to pay attention to his features. But they all wonder if the Popsicle Man is Frozen Eddie. No one’s sure, and no one’s ever asked him.
Maybe this summer.