The Ice Cream Man

Recently I was walking in downtown St. Petersburg on the pier which stretches out into Tampa Bay. Baring the burden of summer time in Florida, I longed for relief.

I spotted an ice cream vendor. Instead of asking "what do you want?" he said, "Hi. My name is Gus."

I smiled. "I'm Jason, pleased to meet you."

As he recited the menu, I studied him. Burnt skin. A t-shirt that had been washed in a sink. A few teeth. Disheveled black hair turned sandy red. Worn out tennis shoes. Scrawny. Maybe 60 or 61.

I know you're not supposed to judge a book by its cover but sometimes a man's face is a story.

I saw it all.

Dad was stabbed to death before he was born. In 8th grade, he dropped out to work on a shrimp boat. His mother needed medicine and he wasn't paying attention in Geography class.

Shortly after momma passed, he got himself fired for showing up drunk.

His time at the gas station was alright. The manager let him sleep on a cot in a small broom closet behind the garage.

There were D.U.I.s, missed child support payments, bad bets and eventual banishment from every bar in Gibsonton.

The Marines sent him off from Paris Island. He just couldn't take the physical punishment of Boot Camp. A half finished eagle was on his right forearm. Beneath was inked "Semper" because the tattoo artist realized half way in that he didn't have the entire amount.

He cleaned up. Starting going to a Church where folks wailed like banshees and danced. He never could get in to the spectacle.

Odd jobs picking mangoes and washing dishes. A couple of house break-ins. Pawn shops, thrift stores and men's shelters. Holding a cardboard sign near the Walmart hoping somebody would donate money instead of canned peas.

Ritalin. Counseling. Job training.

Set backs.

Opioids. Late night deliveries in sketchy neighborhoods. A bum leg that prevented him from mowing lawns or picking grapefruit. Nights spent around a campfire flaming in blue, rusted metal, industrial barrel drinking spoiled port wine from a carton.

But then, eleven years ago, he ran into an old bar buddy. He was retiring from running the ice cream cart. Gus offered to take over at no cost. This way he could still receive a few bucks regularly after he had retired. They shook hands. Gus got the ice cream stand.

Since then, Gus has been sober. Six days a week come rain or shine. He learned to park his 1989 Bronco early in the morning in back of the abandoned art gallery. No charge.

Things had finally worked out for Gus.

By the time he recited "Nestle's Toll House Cookie Dough" my tour of his life had ended.

"I'll take the cookie dough."

"Comin' right up. What kinda cone?"

"Sugar cone."

"Sugar cone? I ain't never heard it called that. You must be from up north."

"Haines City."

"Oh, so you're a Country boy?"

"Far from it."

"I just always heard it called a Waffle Cone."

"Oh yeah. My bad. Waffle Cone please. One scoop."

As he scooped up the treat he said, "I got a friend in Lakeland. What is there to do in Haines City?"

"Nothing. It's just a satellite city of Orlando."

"$3.29. How long you been there?"

"Twenty years. When I moved in it was wall to wall fruit trees. Today, it's all housing developments and shopping plazas."

"Enjoy." He handed me the cone. Which was rapidly disintegrating by the overwhelming eat and humidity. "When I was a boy in Gibsonton it was a handful of farms, orange groves, lemon groves and fishing camps. Nowadays, houses are popping up everywhere. Progress is good but I miss seeing Old Florida."

"I understand." I licked swiftly as the evening one began to collapse in on itself. "I'm going to go get in the shade. Maybe I can still salvage it."

"Gotcha. Have a nice day."

"Same to you."

I found a table beneath an umbrella and sat down. I really enjoyed talking to Gus and I know he appreciated it too.

Sometimes people need confirmation that they're not all alone. Make time today. Without ever saying the words, tell a stranger that God loves them. You never know the impact from just an ordinary day.