I'm working today, on a Saturday for those of you who read this late and would like to know what day of the week "today" is, and a familiar tune echoes up and down the street outside. "Pop Goes the Weasel." That's the music played by the local ice cream truck as it trundles slowly through the neighborhood.
Seriously.
There's nothing that rips the wind out of the sails of autumn like the sound of summer music echoing with obnoxious familiarity. I checked the temp outside on my iPhone. 68 degrees.
Kids are out there buying ice cream the weekend before Thanksgiving? I don't think so. More than that, when my kid wants ice cream in the summer, he has to run the ice cream truck down. This guy does NOT beat the bushes for business.
So what is it that makes this guy get up and wind through the streets on a fall day? Gotta run out the gas in his tank so he can get a fresh fill?
I don't know. But I'm writing today, which means I'm creative. And by that I mean I can tickle my paranoia a little bit and come up with all kinds of scenarios for the local ice cream truck driver.
He's a spy (name your agency/government/clandestine purpose).
The truck got stolen by a gang of thieves and they're using it as a command post while they break into houses.
He's a child molester trolling the neighborhood.
He killed his wife/significant other and has the body chopped into pieces in the freezer compartment to throw out to the neighborhood dogs or in the creeks.
I'm not going to know what brought this guy out here unless I ask and I don't want to be the only adult chasing after the ice cream truck on a fall day. That would make my neighbors start wondering about me and what I'm doing.
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