by Rose Kent
Not that you could hear the music very well. The door was propped open, and the Salty Old Dogs were drawing crowds on the sidewalk with their upbeat Tejano tunes. Winnie and Melvin stood in front singing, and three gray-haired men sat behind them playing drums, a trumpet, and a fiddle. (I recognized Sam on trumpet from Ma’s test-market session.) Every so often Melvin picked up a harmonica and started playing that too, just like I told him the mariachis do back home. They all wore matching wide-brimmed hats and silver-studded charro jackets.
“Next customer, please!” Gabby called.
I thought of Ma. If she was here, she’d say the line of customers was growing faster than a weed after a month’s rain. People were getting antsy with the wait. A short lady with big hair and an even bigger mouth started complaining. Feeling pressured, I rushed to pack a double scoop of pistachio and crushed the cone in my hand.
“This long a wait, they must be milking the cows out back!” the lady whined to the man in front of her.
I felt my stomach knot. Then Ma’s voice channeling the Inside Scoop played in my head. No matter what, the customer is always right.
But before I could say a word, someone with a cultured voice spoke. “I’ve heard this ice cream is certainly worth the wait.”
I looked up to see a lady with a pinstripe blazer and a Louis Vuitton bag on her shoulder. Victoria! I waved at her, and she returned a glamorous smile.
“We’ll be with you as soon as possible, ma’am,” I said to the Complainer with my best soothing smile. The truth was I felt like spraying whipped cream in her beehive.
We needed another scooper fast. But who? Jordan was playing with Lucky in the storage room (and he wouldn’t hear customers anyway), Winnie was singing with the band, and Chief was in the street manning the concession stand, as he called it, with his own long line of customers to deal with.
I glanced across the dining area, where kids’ eyes were glued to Silly Billy pulling handkerchiefs from a hat. Son of Clown was standing off to the side with his arms folded, watching. Hmm … maybe he could take a break from clowning?
I tapped him on his polka-dotted shoulder. “Excuse me. I’m desperate. Could you pitch in behind the counter until Pete gets back? We can’t keep up.”
He smiled and adjusted his red nose. “Sure thing, Desperate.”
Pronto, Son of Clown tied an apron over his jumpsuit and started S&P’ing alongside us. He caught on quickly. Watching him, customers seemed to forget they were miserable waiting. Especially the little kids.
“Look, Mommy. The clown’s making ice cream!” squealed a little girl holding a balloon. Soon lots of kids were telling their parents, “I want the clown to make my ice cream!”
Five minutes later Pete returned. “Spoons R Us!” he shouted as he worked his way behind the counter with a bag and put his paper server’s hat back on.
“Are we glad to see you! We were so panicky, we recruited a clown,” I whispered, wiping splattered cream from my face with the sleeve of my smocked top. Looking down at my fudge-stained apron, I wondered why I’d worn my new clothes.
“Sounds like the crowd’s getting testy. Miz D. warned me this might happen. Time to dig deep into my soda-jerk training and bring out the shtick.”
With that, Pete ran over to the karaoke machine and grabbed the microphone. “Greetings, ladies, gents, and wee widdle ones. I’m Pete Chutkin, official soda jerk at A Cherry on Top. No, not jerk like the guy who cut you off in traffic, or the boy who stuck a KICK ME sign on your back. Once upon a time, I was the coolest cat in the ice cream biz. The master of the milk shake. The prince of the phosphate. And speaking of cool, get set for the Soda-Jerk Swing!”
Then, without one ounce of humiliation or the tiniest trace of reserve, Pete adjusted his bow tie and started tapping his shoes, rocking back and forth, and rapping.
“Hippity-hop
to A Cherry on Top!
Miz D. will make a shake
that you know ain’t no fake.
And ya say ya want fudge?
Tessy’s tastes nothin’ like sludge….”
Just when it couldn’t get lamer, Pete busted out the moves, break-dancing, spinning on his heels, and even adding a cartwheel that looked good until he crashed into the jukebox. And then Son of Clown charged from behind the counter and joined in as Pete’s backup dancer, shaking his wig, swinging his arms, and kicking his legs Charleston-style.
For the closing stance Pete blasted out the lyrics even louder:
“So grab those dollars
and all your dimes,
and march yo’ feet
to the beat
of this soda jerk’s rhymes!”
The middle-school me was so embarrassed, I was tempted to dive into the dipping cabinet and die of brain freeze. But as shop manager, I liked all this razzle-dazzle. The cash register was ringing, and customers kept smiling cheek to cheek like the wait was fine and dandy. Two little girls started copying Pete’s dance moves in front of the jukebox, shaking their hearts out along with all the braids on their heads. And even the Complainer flashed a teeny smile when the Soda-Jerk Swingers took their final bow.
Chapter 28
The proper way to scoop and pack a cone: (1) temper the ice cream so the dipper slides in easily; (2) move your hand in an arc to form a scoop the size of a tennis ball; (3) now easy does it as you pack it onto the cone.—The Inside Scoop
The Cinco de Mayo parade got under way at eleven. Mr. Bianco led the way down State Street, holding a baton and strutting in a skin-tight velvet blazer that Mrs. Bianco said fit him back in Sicily, thirty years and forty pounds ago. The Save Their Tails Animal Protective Society followed, with rows of dogs yapping and sniffing and lifting their legs at fire hydrants along the way.
The Rotary Club came next, wearing their own pit-bull scowls suggesting they thought the parade order had gone to the dogs. Next up were the Schenectady Light Opera Company, the Boy Scouts, preschool ballerinas pliéing along, and World War II veterans propped high in convertibles and waving tiny flags.
General Electric’s Young Inventors Club drew the most cheers. A bunch of brainy-looking kids in shirts and ties waved lightbulbs, cameras, and pictures of telegraphs. I overheard a lady explaining to her daughter the story of how Thomas Edison founded his company here and helped the city prosper. Back in those days the streets of Schenectady were paved with gold, I thought, remembering Pete’s words.
Ma had designed the parade route to travel west on State Street past Proctor’s Theater, turn right on Broadway, cross Erie Boulevard, and down to Union Street before looping back. Initially the RSSA wanted it to lap around Jay Street to please the mayor inside city hall, but Ma convinced them to have it pass through more struggling neighborhoods instead. “They need the extra TLC,” she said.
If this parade was a train, then the Salty Old Dogs were the caboose, walking in the rear as they sang and rattled tambourines. Only Winnie’s parade appearance came to an abrupt halt. The brisk pace got to her before she’d gone five hundred yards. From the window I saw her huffing and puffing as she clomped along in her heels. Worried that she’d faint, Pete and I ran outside with a water bottle.
“You okay?” I asked, gently pulling her out of the parade formation to a bench on the sidewalk.
“Never been crankier,” she said, guzzling the water and squeezing my hand as if to say thanks. “I love all this whoop-de-doing, but me and exercise never have gotten along.”
I smiled back. I hadn’t told Winnie about Ma being sick yet. Now wasn’t the time; she needed to catch her breath. She’d been on her feet performing for hours.
“People are raving about the Salty Old Dogs, Winnie. A kid from my school grabbed your flyer and asked his dad to book you for his bar mitzvah.”
“That so?” Winnie said, looking pleased.
“Yup! Diana Ross, eat your heart out—and gain some weight!” I shouted.
Now that brought a smile to her chestnut cheeks.
Honk-ho
nk. Chief’s truck pulled up beside us. “Here to pick up the diva!” he shouted, flashing a parade-float permit. “Hop in and we’ll catch up with the rest of the Salty Old Dogs. They might want a ride by now too. I’ve got special authorization to chauffeur the senior talent.”
“God bless the U.S. Navy!” Winnie shouted, standing up.
Chief piled blankets into the back of his truck to make it more comfortable for Winnie. That way they’d be visible to parade watchers. But just before she got in, she rested her tambourine on the grass. “Wait just a minute,” she told Chief, and she turned back to A Cherry on Top.
“I’ve got to get my little James Brown,” she said, inside the shop. “I know Jordan would love being in the parade and shaking his groove thing to the beat.”
We went back for Jordan. His eyes lit up when he heard the news. But then he signed, “Lucky come?”
Winnie shook her head. “Too loud. Lucky will be scared.”
“Jordan no go. Stay with Lucky,” he signed, looking like he’d burst into tears.
The line for ice cream was growing long again. Gabby and Pete were struggling to keep up. I had to get back to work. “Go, Jordan,” I signed quickly. “I’ll watch Lucky.” I pointed toward the counter. “Bring him to me, covered, so customers don’t see.”
“Promise you take care of my turtle?”
I pressed my index finger to my mouth and then placed my palm down against my other fist. “Promise.”
So Jordan brought me the bowl, discreetly covered with a towel, and I tucked it under the counter on a shelf near the extra cups. Then he and Winnie left to catch up with the parade.
The crowd inside the shop thinned out after another hour, especially when Mr. Harley announced that the grand raffle would be drawn at the jewelry store shortly. So Gabby, Pete, and I used the downtime to clean tables, restock topping jars, and replace empty ice cream tubs. Then Pete made a sandwich run to Barley’s, and we sat down to eat with the clowns.
Noticing a Lego toy left on a chair, Son of Clown told us he was crazy about Legos. “I just built the Star Wars Millennium Falcon, and that used five thousand pieces. Took me six months,” he said, and I thought about how long I’d been working on the piano-bench cushion for Winnie.
I tried to avoid making eye contact with Son of Clown, knowing how he must’ve been dying a thousand deaths wearing that wig. But the funny thing was, he didn’t seem embarrassed. He was boasting about how his dad graduated at the top of clown school. And they both beamed when they talked about “the family business.”
With only half my sandwich finished, I glanced up at the clock. The mayor would be arriving in thirty minutes for the ribbon-cutting ceremony. I had to get this place set up pronto—a TV reporter was coming too. And I had to think about what to say. I needed to sound informed and squared away, as Chief would call it.
So as the others continued talking, I started arranging rows of chairs for the audience and a makeshift podium with a microphone for Mayor Legato to use for his speech. Worry must’ve been smeared across my face like fudge sauce, because Gabby, Pete, and the clowns cut their lunch short and came over to help.
I pointed to the Inside Scoop lying on the counter beside the napkin dispenser and turned to Pete. “Did you study that training manual like my ma did?”
“You bet your egg cream I did. All two hundred fifty-six pages, including the yawner part on milk pasteurization and homogenization.”
“Can you summarize all that in five minutes or less? I need to sound like an expert around the reporter.”
Pete rubbed his forehead. “Where should I begin?”
“Give me a brief history, then explain what’s in quality ice cream, and end with why this shop is good for Schenectady.”
Pete took a deep breath and began spewing like a tour guide on his fourth cup of coffee. Legends about Marco Polo bringing the recipe back from China and how a Roman emperor killed his slaves if they didn’t fetch his dessert ice fast enough. How George Washington spent two hundred dollars on ice cream one summer, how FDR always picked chocolate, and how Ronald Reagan liked all flavors, so much that he designated July as National Ice Cream Month.
“And back in 2009, one of President Obama’s inauguration balls served up BaRocky Road,” Pete explained, and I smiled.
I felt like I had brain freeze from ice cream trivia overload, so I thanked Pete and we finished arranging chairs. Then Clown Dad started setting up a coin trick as a Little League team charged toward his table. I grabbed the piñata and went outside to hang it, but I couldn’t reach the awning. I turned to go back inside and nearly ran into Son of Clown holding a stepping stool.
“I can do that. I’m used to hanging model airplanes,” he said, setting the stool down. He hopped up, and before I could say Clown to the rescue, that giant papier-mâché ice cream cone was swinging in the wind.
“Thanks,” I said, sneaking a closer peek at him. He had warm, easygoing eyes—light green, like mint chocolate chip ice cream minus the chips.
Son of Clown shrugged under his polka-dotted jumpsuit. “Glad to help, especially since I heard the owner didn’t bother showing up.”
“Delilah Dobson made this business what it is. Don’t go blaming her if she’s sick!” I yelled.
He jerked back a step. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know….”
I didn’t stick around to hear more. I couldn’t. I went inside to string the ribbon.
Shake-shake. Jordan and the Salty Old Dogs burst through the door, rattling maracas.
“Attention: Mariachi bandits have entered the building. Turn over the ice cream and nobody gets hurt!” Winnie shouted. Melvin and the other men wore their sombreros. Winnie’s was on Jordan’s head now—cocked sideways. All their hair looked windblown.
Pete cleared his throat and raised his ice cream scooper to his mouth like a microphone. “As A Cherry on Top’s official soda jerk, I declare ice cream is on the house for all mariachis!”
“I’ll drink to that,” Melvin shouted, bowing ceremoniously before ordering a Schenectady Snow Shake.
Now, this was good timing. I worked my way over to tell Winnie what happened to Ma. But just as I got near, Catherine was wheeled into the shop by Jack. Winnie bent down to hug her, and they started talking.
I walked behind the counter again, put some fudge slices onto a plate, and returned to Winnie and Catherine. “Care for a sample, ladies? We serve the world’s best fudge. Thanks to an exclusive recipe from Mackinac Island, this stuff is flying off the shelves!”
Catherine smiled her elegant dancer smile as her trembling hand reached for a piece. After one bite she paused, then nodded. “Creamy, rich, and chewy. Extra scrumptious, just like when I was a young girl!” Then Jack wheeled her over to the dining area, and Winnie followed.
Minutes later Chief came inside from the concession stand with the empty tamale boxes. He stepped up to the counter arm in arm with Adelaine Heisey.
“I’m here to report four hundred and twenty dollars of sales. Those tamales sold like hot tamales!” Chief said, grinning. Then, gently touching Adelaine’s shoulder, he added, “Mee-lady here prefers sugar-free ice cream. Got any?”
“We have sugar-free chocolate chip, sugar-free black cherry, and sugar-free and fat-free caramel swirl,” Gabby said.
Adelaine picked black cherry. “I never order fat-free ice cream. What’s the point?” she said. “I don’t even trust the people who eat it.”
“Then give me two scoops of butter pecan, extra fat please!” Chief said, and Gabby and I giggled.
As Gabby scooped their cones, Chief leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You holding up, kiddo?”
I nodded and walked back behind the counter. I’d lost my chance to talk to Winnie; the line was growing again.
Ten minutes later, I was making an “I Loved Him Tender” Banana Royal for a woman police officer when I felt a tug on my shirt.
Jordan.
“Where’s Lucky?” he signed, pointing below the co
unter.
My eyes darted down. Uh-oh. The bowl was flipped over. I must’ve knocked it when I was reaching for more cups. Lucky had escaped!
I searched through every nook and cranny behind the counter—on the shelves, under the sink, and near the garbage pail—just as some kids shouted my name at the same time.
It was Ritchie, Kim, Devin, Malika, and the others—Mr. Win too—all wearing their Peer Mediation Club shirts.
“We heard conflict is reduced when people eat ice cream, so we’re here to test the theory,” Mr. Win said.
“And if you make my cone really big, I promise there’ll be no disputants,” Ritchie added.
“You got it,” I said, smiling. Meanwhile, my heart was racing and my eyes were scanning every square foot under the counter. Where was Lucky?
The door jingled open again, and a lady with thick makeup, a power suit, and high heels walked in with a guy carrying a video camera. That was no ordinary lady. That was the Channel 13 news anchor! She’d come looking for a story, and yikes, was there one to be found!
I turned to Jordan. He was crawling under the counter, yanking cabinets open and making a mess ripping through boxes. His face looked two tears short of a meltdown.
My mind flashed to the day that Jordan slipped out the back door and I’d blamed Ma. Here I’d promised I’d take good care of Lucky and I’d been the world’s worst turtle sitter.
I bent down and tapped his shoulder, my fingers nervously pleading. “I’m really sorry, Jordan. I’ll find Lucky. But it must wait. Very busy. Please be good.”
Then I braced myself, fully expecting FrankenJordan to unleash his angry shrieks and kick the counter—or worse, toss glass jars.
But instead, he wiped his glassy eyes with his shirtsleeve and stood up.
“Okay, Tess. I find Lucky myself,” he signed.
Chapter 29