The Ice Cream Truck in Winter- A Prologue

 Author's note- I'll be the first to admit that I can't write dialogue from scratch. I accept it. However I will take credit for stealing conversations from friends, even strangers overheard, and fattening them up, adding a little bit of seasoning and claiming them as my own. I've done this for over a decade in my writing, and I'm doing it here. The following is a prologue to a future post about a show review. The writing styles would give you a seizure if you read them back to back because they seem written by two different writers (and maybe they are). So I decided to split it into two parts, a Prologue, and a Gonzo show review. I also never include dedications in my regular posts, but this post is dedicated to Melissa, Elizabeth First, and Kentucky Pete (are you happy now Sis?).

The Ice Cream Truck in Winter

   "Jesus, there it is again. Don't you hear it? Doesn't anybody else hear it?"

   Matt is hysterical, yet nobody says anything. We are all out at the pool at the House By The Beach and it is January and we are dealing with the remnants of something called a "Bomb Cyclone" and it is uncharacteristically cold, especially for the West Coast and we are trying our best to just be comfortable. "We" are myself, Trent who is a DJ and amateur photographer, Matt who is an unemployed homosexual, Scott who works in the film industry, Amy who is Trent's wife, but is currently dating Scott, and occasionally sleeps with me, and also has no job. There is also Oakley, who is our personal trainer and the only black person that we know, and Ribbonhead who I just met and may have already OD'd on the damn patio.

   We are comfortable because of the four giant heaters that Trent's father installed around the patio and pool (which is also heated but no one can dip into). There are also elaborate artificial heat lights suspended above us so that we all can maintain our tans during this brutal winter. At one point Scott mentioned, "Do you realize the hazard of one of those falling into the pool?"

   "That would be the least of our worries. Also, who says 'hazard'?" Trent replies as he writes something into a notebook I have not noticed before.

   There is a line of eight heavy, fur-lined coats hung up near the pool, all stolen by Ribbonhead, in case any of us need to make the sixteen foot walk from the pool to the house in this cruel weather. The extra coat is ominous, a warning. Who is it for? Is there actually someone else here at the house by the beach that nobody knows about. It is a large house and we basically stay at the pool all day. Is this person also trapped here, unable to leave?

   "Jesus Christ, don't any of you hear it?" Matt cries again, and I imagine the set director administering glycerin tears to his face to really nail the point home. Nobody says anything. But I do hear it. It is the ice cream truck again.

   All of us at the House By The Beach are trapped here. There is no possibility of leaving, and for the past few days we can hear an ice cream truck drive by once a day. The reason we can't leave is not part of this story. The reason we can never leave is up to you. It is whatever you want it to be. At one point we actually took time away from watching "The View" to discuss the ice cream truck.

   "Who is driving an ice cream truck in January?"

   "Why is somebody driving an ice cream truck in the winter?"

   "Could they be sick?"

   "Why does it always stop here outside the gates? It fucking lingers, man. Lingers."

   "What if nobody is driving it? Green comet was spotted," Amy says, finally speaking and then swallows a Valium.

   We spend the next 15 minutes watching the trailer of "Maximum Overdrive" whooping and hollering, slapping high fives, and then I have to break up the party...

   "It could be Roddy Hogan," I finally say, getting the joke out of the way so I can continue with this story and Constant Readers would no longer be distracted. (Look it up).

   The ice cream truck finally drifts off and we get back to watching "The View", but it is boring so everybody starts shouting out topics: Dana White, Spike Lee, a transgender dragged for sounding too much like a man, The Munsters but in Washington, famous voice actors, and clones.

   "All of this is boring. I need a story. I need a saga. Metro, tell us a story, one of those zany ones. Flip the writing style," Trent shouts.

   "I dunno. I went to this show with some zany people. I guess I could spin that," I reply, not ready to flip the writing style.

   "Let me guess... 'Me and E First get drunk and then stuff happens.' You're so predictable," Scott says and slaps high five with Trent as Amy glares at me.

   "Nahhh, she's not in this story," I start as we all hear the ice cream truck coming back, "But I'll give it a shot."

   "Can't wait," Trent says, possibly sincerely.

   "Yet you couldn't leave her out," Amy mumbles.

   "Hey guys, do any of you realize that this is the first time the ice cream truck has come back twice in a day?" Matt asks, tears in his eyes maybe, and none of us reply, and then we hear a door open and close. Someone has gotten out. Multiple thoughts and questions run through my mind: What is really in the ice cream truck? What happens when somebody in the outside world stops the ice cream truck in winter? Will it even stop? Does it stop even if nobody is flagging it down? What is on the film reels that Trent keeps in the Darkroom?

   I am shaken by this absolute paradox by my messenger buzzing. I check and see that it is from E First. Before I open it I look to see if Amy is watching. Amy is watching with a look that can only be described as "I told you so" merged with sheer contempt. I ignore Amy and click the message.

   "I fear October/November might not be good for me," the message says and I flinch, which puts a subtle smile on Amy's face. "Oh fuck, she's pregnant," I immediately think and then wait three minutes before replying with a vague, "What do you mean?"

   "I just hate my birthday," she replies, oh thank god.

   "I understand," I reply, "That's actually an obtuse synopsis of my debut novel 'The Invisible People'."

   "I know. I was there," she says, a reminder tinged with a warning.

   "Well hey, there's nothing that says we can't evolve and make the most of it," I counter, and Amy gets up, whispers "Asshole", takes one of the fur coats, and goes into the house.

   "We've never fit in," she says, either a lie or another warning, "Why would we want to now?"

She clicks off.

   This entire exchange has left me exhausted so I turn my attention back to the ice cream truck. The music is still playing but I am positive that someone(thing) has gotten out of it. I scan the pool area. Matt and Oakley are making out, and Scott is working on a film script that is about a fractured, dysfunctional family isolated in a cabin in a forest, but maybe a desert, and the cabin or maybe the area is haunted by a ghost (named Janet) which ultimately brings them all together with help from a medium whose car breaks down because a deranged gas station attendant, this real crazy guy, sabotages it (a possible spin-off). The current title is "The Corrections".

   I turn and notice that Ribbonhead might have actually OD'd which, surprisingly, would be a first at the House By The Beach, and Trent is reading the latest issue of Esquire, the headline "When Did Hollywood Get So Puffy?" Everyone is too lazy, or dead in the case of Ribbonhead, to go to the sentry post to go check on the ice cream truck. Then again, maybe it's too cold.

   All of a sudden the buzzer on the front gate buzzes and some of us jump. The ice cream truck is still playing music but somebody wants something.

   "Metro," Trent says, putting down the Esquire magazine he was pretending to read, "About that story. How about you spin it. And spin it quick. I told you I can't wait."

   "Right on. Got it," I start and then continue because we might be running out of time, "So I get a call from my friend and bootlegging Wizard Kentucky Pete and he says, 'So I have this extra ticket for you if you want it. These guys have been around for 40 years. This could make a good post.'"

"I'll make sure it will be," my reply.

From the Iceman Commeth

The Boy Next Door

Dr. Bryan Metro