The Ice Cream Man and Other Stories

by Sam Pink

  She’s standing next to me, arms folded.

  She’s four feet tall, boy’s haircut.

  ‘Scrappy.’

  She goes to Notre Dame.

  We became friends through inappropriate joking.

  Mostly about dicks, but lately about our/everyone’s moms.

  ‘You ready, Scrappy?’ I say.

  ‘Your mom’s ready . . .’ she says, smiling, ‘for sex with me.’

  We laugh.

  ‘Nice.’

  When the meeting disbands, she and I hang out in the kitchen.

  She toothpicks meatballs and places them on a fancy tray.

  I funnel salad dressing into glass containers.

  Somebody has stolen my trusty blue cheese dressing funnel.

  ‘Why they gotta do that shit, Shane?’ I say, throwing around utensils and contraptions on the shelf. ‘You can do a lot to a man, but taking his blue cheese funnel, that’s too far!’ I yell, ‘That’s too far!’ at an incredible volume.

  I accuse people coming in and out of the kitchen of stealing my blue cheese funnel.

  Every excuse they give I label ‘convenient.’

  ‘Ceremony’s about to start,’ says the lead server coming back into the kitchen, finger over his lips and looking at a piece of paper.

  Everything is pretty much on hold until that’s over.

  The legal end.

  The business end.

  Da paperwork.

  The shortest, least interesting portion of the whole thing.

  My coworkers and I have begun using the classic ‘fingers rotating over each other’ hand signal during this part.

  Music plays from the hall.

  A blessing.

  A speech from the priest.

  A reading from the parents.

  Some words from bride and groom.

  The couple is married.

  Cheering.

  Acoustic guitar music.

  Official.

  People clapping, stomping their feet as the bridesmaids exit arm in arm with the groomsmen.

  Then the bride and the groom.

  Two teams become one.

  Something has happened.

  But really it’s nothing.

  All just some play.

  Some audition.

  Everything anyone ever does, or expects done by another, is part of some audition.

  You’re always auditioning.

  Every move, every choice, every look, every word, enters the audition.

  The people getting married, they’re auditioning for their parents and relatives, after auditioning for each other.

  How the food was.

  How the bride looked.

  A description by one attendee to a neighbor the next time they cross paths.

  Even me.

  The way my hair looks to the guests in the reception hall, the words I use, my voice, the way I walk, everything I do.

  All taken into account on someone’s ledger.

  The audition.

  You can opt out of the audition, but not really.

  You’re still performing, just careless of score.

  Which adds up.

  Until, eventually, you’re just holding the lights for someone else’s audition.

  And what then?

  ‘Quit whackin it,’ Sandy says. ‘It’s go time.’

  ‘Whack(in) it’ is a phrase Sandy used to mean virtually anything.

  ‘All right let’s go,’ says the lead server. ‘Everybody go.’

  We go out and move the room around behind a closed curtain while the guests go to the bar for cocktail hour.

  We stack and unstack chairs.

  Move tables.

  Check the map and make adjustments.

  The room is ready for dinner.

  After that, I bus glasses in the bar/cocktail area while Sandy and others distribute appetizers.

  Navigating through the undrunk small talk.

  The hugs.

  Cologne and makeup.

  Babies fawned upon, passed around.

  Men hold up hands for little kids to punch.

  Little girls twirl in dresses, holding chocolate-covered pretzel rods, the chocolate of which is the only part eaten.

  Things are said.

  Family news reviewed.

  Who’s going to what school.

  Who’s doing what.

  Who’s who.

  I grab some glasses, wink at a server carrying a tray of appetizers.

  Meatballs.

  Pretzel bites.

  Crab cakes in tiny bamboo boats.

  How do I eat this.

  Can I eat the little tray thing.

  A glass breaks.

  I go to the kitchen and grab the broom and dustpan.

  Sandy is reloading her wooden tray.

  ‘Are they enjoying the balled meat, Scrappy?’ I say.

  She says, ‘They have been putting their lips all over my balls of meat.’

  The head cook, Annie, yells, ‘Knife!’ and comes around the corner holding a knife. She says, ‘Pfft when was the last time you handled some balls, girl.’

  Sandy says, ‘I haven’t handled balls in a long long time, thank God.’

  She walks through the door holding her wooden tray.

  ‘How you doing, Annie?’ I say.

  Annie smiles at me with her eyes closed and says, ‘Hey honey.’

  She’s extremely short with a butch haircut, glasses that make her eyes look huge, and a pentagram necklace.

  There are burns and other scars all over her arms from the kitchen.

  She points to a kitchen worker who is looking at her phone.

  Annie holds up the knife and mouths, ‘I’m gonna kill her.’

  ‘Always with the killing stuff,’ I say, shaking my head.

  The first shift I worked there, she told me she was getting ready to kill her ex-husband.

  I told her I’d help her dispose of the body.

  That’s how we became friends.

  That’s how we remain friends.

  She proposes violence and I offer to help.

  That’s all some of us need sometimes, to know someone else is in on some violence.

  Just nice to know you’d be helped.

  The last couple weeks Annie has been wearing Halloween-themed T-shirts/blouses, with, like, a smiling pumpkin on the front and SPOOKED OUT! (eyes in the oo) beneath it.

  Sometimes a witch hat.

  Pajama pants with candy corn on them.

  ‘I like your earrings,’ I tell her, as she carefully dries the knife with a hand towel.

  She holds out a dangling skeleton, blinking her eyes a couple times. ‘You like em? My grandson gottem for me.’

  She takes out her phone, knife in other hand.

  She pulls up a picture of her grandson and shows me.

  ‘Look at him,’ she says. ‘He’s so fucking cute. Gah, I just . . . he’s so fucking cute I just wanna . . . isn’t he so cute?’

  She tells me about some new action figure/show her grandson likes and how you’re supposed to collect them and fight them and how she has to get the video game at her place so he could play there.

  I drink the rest of my coffee, listening.

  I don’t have grandkids or grandparents.

  What the fuck am I?

  I’m simply whackin it.

  ‘How’s it going out there?’ says a younger coworker, who’d started a couple days ago.

  He eats a tiny bite of a dinner roll.

  ‘We need you on ‘Living Ottoman’ tonight,’ I say.

  He laughs.

  The kitchen is steamy.

  Sandy returns holding an empty tray and says, ‘They have ravaged my balled meat.’

  *

  After cocktail hour, everyone returns to the main room and takes their seats.

  The bridesmaids, groomsmen, and the newlyweds come into the room again to a crowd of seated onlookers.

  This is them being introduced as different peo
ple.

  They’ve changed.

  They’ve gone to the mountain of matrimony and returned new, whole.

  They enter to loud music from the DJ.

  The bride wears sunglasses and does a dance.

  Groom wears matching glasses and does a similar dance.

  A big moment, a moment of fame, a moment of pure attention.

  Once everyone’s seated, I grab a tray full of salads and walk out into the hall.

  The hall is grand, open, well lit, murmuring.

  The DJ plays low-volume lounge music.

  He has three empty pop cans on his soundboard.

  People at tables.

  General mingling.

  Nervous groomsman reviewing his speech on his phone.

  Father of the bride collecting himself by smoothing or otherwise fastening various parts of his attire.

  My coworkers and I take salads off the trays and place them before attendees.

  I always have the urge to whisper, ‘I touched your dressing’ to guests, right into their ears, maybe kiss their earlobes a little.

  But I’m a shadow.

  I don’t exist.

  All black, apron.

  Invisibled.

  And that’s how I like it.

  We deposit salads as the father of the bride says a few words.

  A few words we’ve all heard many times.

  [Bride] is a handful.

  [Groom] is just the man for her.

  Or other way around.

  Stories of youth.

  Jokey, then a sentimental turn.

  Welcome to the family.

  They knew right away/They weren’t sure right away.

  And then when [example] happened, they knew [Groom] was serious.

  She came home from [place she’d moved and interned] and there was this guy and [Wife] and I thought uh oh.

  (Crowd laughs.)

  But then [Groom] held the door for her getting into his [cool brand/model of car] and I knew he was an all right guy.

  Then, best man/maid of honor speeches.

  Couple of jokes revolving around childhood mischief, who could beat up who, the bride being boy crazy, et cetera.

  ‘I wanted to be just like [Groom/Bride].’

  Childhoods summarized.

  You’re my brother man, I love you.

  Glad to have [Bride] for a sister.

  Maid of honor crying multiple times.

  ‘Eye’m zo happy to have [Groom] as my new brother.’

  Silverware against glasses.

  Best man raises his glass.

  Bride and groom kiss.

  People cheer.

  I watch the two female bartenders watching, hands on their chests.

  One of them points at me, teary-eyed, does the ‘finger across the neck’ thing.

  A coworker wheels a coffee cart into the hall, making a subtle face to me that suggests, ‘Kill them all.’

  And then—it’s dinnertime!

  *

  I carry trays of lidded dinner plates out.

  I set the trays on stands and the friendlier servers unlid them and place them before guests.

  Who has the beef.

  Who has the veggie lasagna.

  Gluten allergy.

  No dairy.

  Kid’s meal.

  I didn’t have the [x], I had the [x].

  This is undercooked.

  We need three more salmons and a veggie lasagna.

  Back and forth from the kitchen.

  Coming out with full, heavy trays.

  Perfect form, elegant and proud.

  Hard, resolute, powerful.

  A servant.

  No look on my face, not a single facial muscle tensed in any way.

  A scrimmage in disappearing.

  ‘Someone bitched about the chicken,’ I say, tossing lids on the meal prep counter.

  Annie holds up a knife, talking to herself and making an evil face.

  I help plate for a while, to catch up.

  Gravy on mashed potatoes, then microgreens on top of that.

  Scrappy says, ‘Nice load’ as she watches me ladle gravy, waiting for a tray to carry.

  I breathe in loudly through my nose as I close my eyes, bite my lip, and ladle a big load of gravy onto a mound of mashed potatoes.

  ‘Bro that’s gross,’ Shane says, smiling and slapping down a scoop of potatoes before sliding it over.

  And after a panicked half hour, dinner is all served.

  Plated, lidded, trayed, served.

  Silverware against glasses.

  The bride and groom kiss.

  People already at the bar.

  Some make the rounds at different tables.

  Bride and groom take first dance.

  Say hello to the new Mister and Missus.

  A meaningful song.

  Then [Groom] with Mom.

  [Bride] with Dad.

  Photographers move around for the right shot.

  Sunlight catches the wood floor just the right way.

  The open ceiling.

  The decorations.

  A look between father and bride communicates whatever.

  Some people watch.

  Some look at phones.

  Kids hit each other.

  Strays peruse the dessert table.

  I’m collecting plates.

  Silverware anchored, napkin covered.

  Clean, with leftovers, untouched.

  No one says thank you.

  I touched your dressing . . . you little shit.

  I carry stacks of dirty dishes, scraping significant scraps onto a top plate, then putting the empties beneath it.

  Stacks.

  Stacks and stacks.

  Trays lifted and shouldered, carried through the narrow hallways into the kitchen.

  The general dancing begins.

  The bride and a three-year-old are the only ones on the floor at first.

  The bride waves a doll around as the three-year-old spins in place.

  An old lady in a chair nearby taps her foot, smiling.

  Things are heating up.

  I withdraw deeper into the shadow realm.

  Stacking dirty plates on trays.

  After bathroom breaks, drink retrieval, leg stretching, everyone else gradually converges on the dance floor.

  Reserved at first, then the alcohol does what it does.

  The music picks up.

  Dance moves improvised, recalled from music videos, or simply ‘just enough.’

  Arms up, asses out.

  Body parts all over.

  A young man in a bow tie is break-dancing to a growing circle on the dance floor.

  The bridesmaids, dancing together, laugh and pump their fists.

  A groomsman jumps into the circle and break-dances as well.

  A tie tied around his head and aviator sunglasses and drink in hand remind people that he is ‘crazy.’

  Cool aunts and uncles dance on the fringes, taking over when they recognize a song.

  The unsuspecting, caught on the way back from the bar, do a few dance moves under duress of enthused group before shuffling off to the safety of the table, to slouch and snack.

  Retreat with the old folks and out-of-shapers.

  Conversing.

  Coffee for some.

  Nursed beers for others.

  Grandma puts a Band-Aid on the foot of a small girl who has twisted and shouted on a piece of broken glass barefoot, and the girl runs back over to the side of the dance floor, where cousins take turns jump-kicking each other.

  Grandma points and laughs, covering her mouth.

  I explain to a coworker, as we clear the corner of the room, that partying like an old woman is ideal.

  They have maybe one or two drinks, if any.

  They eat sparingly, though broadly.

  They dance a little.

  They keep order.

  They entertain, are entertained.

  They leave at just the right time
.

  Having seen the sights, done the dos, tried the tastes, commented on the space, told a few old stories, been told a few, and left leaving everyone wanting more.

  They even probably feel better the next morning.

  ‘Got that, cowboy?’ says my coworker.

  I wink and lift a tray full of water glasses.

  I sway, hip pivoting, and sidestep the traffic, gracefully carrying the tray.

  Because as long as I hold it, the tray is my baby.

  I move like a feather in the wind.

  Like moonlight through trees.

  I move and move.

  Holding many pounds of glass, I move through war zones of dancing, buzzed gesturing, kids fighting each other, and people who, simply, won’t get out of the way.

  I begin just walking through people.

  Knocking into them with my shoulders.

  I pass by Sandy in the hallway.

  She spits a huge ice cube back into her plastic jar of pop, which she holds with both hands.

  Smiling, she says, ‘What’re you doing out there, you whackin it?’

  ‘I’m whackin it,’ I say.

  She tells me, gesturing with her watch, that it measured ten miles of steps last shift she worked.

  ‘Fuck you, nerd,’ I say.

  She laughs.

  I dump the water glasses into a plastic bin by the kitchen door, then stack the glasses into trays, carry them into the kitchen.

  Shane turns around and holds out his elbow.

  I bump it with mine.

  ‘What do you see here?’ he says, gesturing to a mostly empty sink area.

  His face is completely serious.

  Proudly serious.

  ‘Rogue agents,’ I say.

  I take a break with another server, Summer, in the other reception hall, which is empty.

  We polish silverware to muted dance music from the other room.

  ‘Did three of these tubs last night,’ Summer says, shaking a tub of silverware.

  Butter knives, steak knives, forks, the occasional spoon, oyster fork, et cetera.

  We polish and sort.

  She’s only a few years older than I am but already a grandmother.

  She shows me pictures of her granddaughter on her phone.

  Her granddaughter was born premature.

  Twenty-four weeks.

  She shows me with her hands how small she was when she was born.

  ‘Like a little gerbil,’ she says.

  The baby was on a breathing machine.

  Summer wasn’t allowed to touch her.

  Visited every day and watched her one-pound body hooked up to a machine.

  Then one day, the baby’s lung collapsed, causing the other lung to overexpand.

  They gave her until the end of the day to live.

  Summer said they did the handprints and everything.