Spaceships and Ice Cream

The mission was supposed to be simple. But things happened—unforeseen consequences spoken into existence. Now the Space Rangers just needed to get the spaceship out of the alien’s targeting system. There are buttons to press. Orders to yell. Dramatic balancing acts to display as the ship flies erratically through an uncharted location in space.

Sweat stains shirts and faces. Voices mix in a frenzy. It’s been hours, from morning to noon earth time. And from how it’s looking, this won’t end anytime soon. The ship makes a sharp left turn and a right turn and then a deep dive down and all the crewmates can do is hold on to something—anything. The pilot makes erratic spins to dodge the fire of lasers.

No! The ship’s hit. The crewmates tumble and fall.

Press the buttons! Any buttons! Pull a lever! Take hold of the controls! One of the crewmates flies off. Another is dazed. The pilot keeps driving, dodging laser beams, while the others are scrambling to be useful.

But then, in the vastness of the galaxy, through the stars, planets, and the noise of intergalactic battle, a far-off twinkling tune plays. Everyone freezes. They listen to the growing sound. Eyes searching for a command.

There’s an agreement among them.

SCATTER!

Dirty soles take off in a sprint.

The sun now beams through the trees and shines on the grass and swings and quick-footed kids. Some skip every other concrete step to get to second-floor apartments cause the kids living on the first floor had a head start. Entering clean homes with adults lounging. The kids say that the merchant is here, and he needs coin for his wares. And usually, it’s only then the parents notice the tune. The kids hold out their hands as the parents look through their wallets and purses, all the while keeping their ears open to the sweet sound. Before the money touches fingers or palms, bodies are already twisted and turned towards the door.

Run-run-run.

Some are already there, luckily living next to the driveway or those first-floor homes. But that’s okay because they hold the elusive Ice Cream Man there. To this day, the merchant's face is blurred while the Ice-Cream Truck is in the forefront of memory.

The kids scan through picture after picture of every frozen treat, even though one is gonna get the tri-colored popsicle they always get. Just like the other friend who always gets one with chocolate and banana. And then there’s the one who likes the misshapen faces—never a true likeness of any character, but that’s the fun of it. The taste is still sweet.

Now, time slows. The Ice Cream Man leaves along with his fading twinkling tune. On to the next neighborhood. The group of kids walk back and sit on concrete steps or lean against walls, or lounge on the spaceship, which for this moment, is just an old decorative wooden bridge with scratch marks and empty spider webs. Sweat is still running down foreheads. It’s quiet, except for the crinkling of plastic and occasional slurps. Fingers sticky, lips cold, tongues stained.

One kid asks another, “How can you bite your ice cream like that? Doesn’t it hurt?” The answer is a confident shrug and a big cold bite of an icy popsicle—brain freeze. Laughter.

One wonders how far they can jump off the biggest tree. Another is concentrating on a traveling roly-poly. The rest are thinking of fleeting things or daydreams. After a bit, only wooden sticks are left. It’s time to walk back inside to throw out the remnants...and maybe wash hands and faces.

It’s time to go back onto the spaceship. Voices rise. Laser beams shoot. Space Rangers try to fight back, and maybe with this newfound energy from the sweet summer treat, they can finish the mission.

If not, there is always tomorrow and the next day and the next.