The Ice Cream Man and Other Stories

by Sam Pink

  I exhale sharply, immediately weakened, grabbing the horns.

  Warm blood pours out onto my hands.

  Onto the horns and head of the stag, steaming in the moonlight.

  Through my throat and out of my mouth, into my beard and down my neck.

  I try to make a sound but it’s just like eccckkkk.

  And everything gets colder as the edges go.

  I slump to the ground—wet dirt on my face the last thing I feel as the stag walks back into the darkness.

  EPILOGUE

  Robby

  I hadn’t talked to Robby in a while.

  We’d lapsed again.

  But I was going back to Chicago for a couple days.

  First time I’d been back in years.

  And it was right around his birthday, so I figured I’d text him.

  I messaged him ‘Happy Birthday, saucemaster,’ and asked him what he was doing.

  He said he’d skipped work and was going fishing at Humboldt Park if I wanted to come by.

  So when my train got in, I rented a bike and rode over to Humboldt.

  The streets were still mostly empty.

  Morning reaching pace.

  Cafe workers putting out chairs for restaurants along the Division Street strip.

  Last night’s rain in small puddles, to steam through the day.

  Middle of summer.

  Puerto Rican flags hung everywhere for the coming parade weekend.

  I hadn’t thought much about Chicago.

  But there it was.

  And it all came back to me.

  Not all of it good.

  Not all of it bad.

  But all of it.

  When I got to the park, I took a path toward the lagoon.

  There were city workers discussing things in neon yellow shirts.

  Measuring.

  Pointing.

  Few kids on the playground, nannies standing watch.

  Sticks on the ground from the storms the night before.

  People setting up carts to sell shirts and flags and food.

  Airbrushed T-shirts.

  Some homeless people, dancing off the last of the previous night’s drunk, or retuning.

  Playing dominoes.

  I passed by a marshy area.

  There was a blackbird perched on a stake.

  The blackbird was beautiful.

  It turned its head to look at me as I neared.

  Then flew off the stake, coming right at me, screaming.

  I couldn’t see it for a second, but felt a scratch on top of my head as my hair ruffled.

  And for a moment, I’ll admit it, I felt true terror.

  I was terrified.

  Whatever the blackbird was trying to do, it worked.

  I laughed.

  Hell, I got it.

  Nice work, friend.

  You win today, friend.

  I found Robby in a nook off the main area of the lagoon, with two poles in the water, drinking a beer.

  ‘Ah, the North American Asshole,’ I said.

  He laughed and turned around.

  I said happy birthday and we hugged.

  ‘Good to see you,’ I said.

  ‘Good to see you,’ he said, smiling.

  We stood by the water and looked out.

  The lagoon was covered in lily pads and white flowers.

  A breeze blew through the trees.

  A cloud cover, but still very bright.

  Seemed like a day that wouldn’t ever really get going.

  And that was fine.

  I left my pole in the water unattended.

  Robby reeled in his line, struggling with a lily pad a little, then whipping the line back into a tree, where he had to untangle it.

  Told me he was fishing for catfish, which he’d caught there before.

  I told him about the blackbird.

  ‘Fucked me up,’ I said.

  Robby laughed, slapping his thigh.

  Talked about how in the blackbird’s mind that must’ve been the right thing to do.

  And to some degree it was.

  Because for that split second, I was very intimidated.

  I . . . got the message.

  ‘They’re probably mating,’ I said.

  ‘Or guarding eggs,’ said Robby.

  Then he talked about how that’s intimidating, yeah, but like, he explained, you know, if I/we were blackbird egg hunters, or whatever, we’d have no problem.

  Like ultimately, we had the power.

  Yeah.

  ‘Sometimes you just gotta remember that,’ I said vaguely.

  We looked out at the water for a while, catching nothing.

  After a while, Robby switched from bait to a lure.

  He explained the lure he was using.

  It was a neon-colored octopus thing.

  He showed me a small amount of what looked like broom bristle material, covering the hook.

  It kept the hook from catching on lily pads, but was easily disengaged if something bit, exposing the hook.

  ‘I mean, it looks like something I’d eat,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if it works.’

  Different kinds of lures.

  Different ways to catch fish.

  Although, Robby explained, it didn’t really matter, because fish will eat anything.

  A fish will eat anything smaller than it, he said.

  They’re sick bastards.

  Fish will eat their own offspring, frogs, anything smaller.

  ‘People say it’s a dog-eat-dog world,’ Robby said. ‘But it’s more of a fish-eat-fish world.’

  We stood there in silence for a while.

  Robby smoked a cigarette.

  Some kids yelled at the playground nearby.

  The park got busy.

  People playing soccer, bicyclists, paletas salesmen, dominoes/chess games.

  Humboldt Park.

  Robby said his wife usually accompanied him fishing, reading recipe magazines and asking him why he keeps reeling in lily pads.

  ‘She doesn’t know shit,’ he said, laughing. ‘She always asks why it’s not a fish.’

  I stared at the line right where it went into the water.

  Robby explained how the fish should be happy he’s the one who catches them.

  Because he always puts them back, and he knows how to take out a hook.

  A blue crane swooped down and landed near the lagoon.

  ‘Ey look at this guy,’ I said.

  We watched the crane poke around bushes for food.

  It began to rain a little and we moved back beneath some trees, both poles left unmanned in the water.

  I watched a spider climbing back up into a tree.

  Fuck this shit, it’s raining!

  I imagined the spider crouched beneath a leaf, just waiting.

  The sun came out just a little.

  A rainbow connected the sky to the lagoon.

  Robby reeled in then cast again.

  I worried about him pulling the line back and hooking my eye.

  Seemed not only possible, but likely.

  When the rain let up, we stepped back out.

  The clouds moved on and it was very bright.

  A mother duck and her babies swam into our area of the lagoon.

  The babies were small and soft feathered, glowing in the sunlight.

  ‘Fish’ll eat baby ducks too, man,’ said Robby. ‘Especially the bigger fish. They’re bastards. People say dog-eat-dog, but it’s more fish-eat-fish.’

  I watched the ducks swimming around the lily pads.

  Gently dividing the murky water.

  It went from feeling like a day that’d never get going, to one that’d never end.

  And that was fine too.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to acknowledge everyone who has or will join the goon force. Special acknowledgment to Yuka Igarashi, a wonderful and talented editor.

  © Devyn Waitt

  SAM PINK’s books include Pers
on, The No Hellos Diet, Hurt Others, Rontel, Witch Piss, and The Garbage Times/White Ibis. His writing has been published widely in print and on the Internet and translated into other languages. He currently lives in Michigan and sells paintings from instagram.com/sam_pink_art.