The Bell of the Ice Cream Truck -- Iannuccilli

The Bell of the Ice Cream Truck -- Iannuccilli

It was a sound clear enough to hear miles away; the tingling bell of the ice cream truck that ambled along, street to street, stop and go, laden with its rich treats. It arrived after supper. “Finish your meal or I won’t give you the nickel, Edward.”

Herbie, the Humpty Dumpty man, was a short-statured, serious frenetic guy like Alice’s Mad Hatter. He had a hook-shaped nose and owl eyes set back in his small face. He sold the ice cream from an armored freezer that was sitting on the rear deck of his panel truck, adroitly pulling the order without looking.

When he arrived, we were standing by the curb with money in hand, thinking of the myriad of delicious treats inside and ever puzzled about which to get.

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Across the front of the truck, from the top of the windshield to the freezer, was a buttoned-down, soft canvas cover. There were no doors.  As he squeaked to a stop, I thought of drumsticks, popsicles and ice cream sandwiches, but this night I could taste the smooth Creamsicle, an orange Popsicle covering a vanilla ice cream center.

Dan came out of his house eating an apple. When he saw Herbie’s truck, he tossed the half-eaten apple high, such that it landed on the canvas cover.

I strolled to the truck planning to punch the canvas to launch the apple into the air. My timing was perfect. As I approached the passenger side and launched the punch, Herbie had turned in his seat and, hunched over, exited that same side. I hit something soft. I backed away to look for the flying apple, but it was nowhere in sight. Rather, I saw Herbie with his hand over his eye. I realized then what had happened. I had punched him! “He’s coming after me.”

He paused, stunned, surprised, and motionless.

“What the heck did you do that for?”

“What?”

“Punch me!”

“I didn’t punch you!” I turned to an audience of friends squirming, bent, smuggling a laugh. “I was trying to punch the apple on the canvas. I didn’t know you would come out at the same time on the same side? I’m sorry.”

“Aw, baloney!”

By now, my friends were rolling with laughter. “No more ice cream, ever, for me,” I thought. I would be lucky to live, never mind eat. With his hand over his eye, Herbie walked to the rear of the truck, opened the freezer door and took out a Creamsicle which replaced his hand. He glared at me with the other eye.

“What the hell do you want?” 

“Uh, uh, uh . . .  a Creamsicle?? . . . puh…please.” 

“Sure, what else! Sonofabitch. Man this hurts.”

He took my nickel and zoomed away; one bell rung, the other fading.

Herbie returned the following evening. I hid behind a maple tree, peeking and bobbing like a pigeon. He exited the driver’s side.  His eye was black. I shuffled to the truck. He glared. “What?”

“Uh, I’ll have a drumstick.”

 

Dr. Ed Iannuccilli is the author of three popular memoirs, “Growing up Italian; Grandfather’s Fig Tree and Other Stories”, “What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner” and “My Story Continues: From Neighborhood to Junior High.”  Learn more here.