One of the many wonderful things about living in Southern California is how warm it is year round. One of the deterrents is that it's always ice cream weather. I used to associate the sound of the ice cream man with late spring, the freedom of summer, and the happiest 15 minutes one dollar can buy you. Then again, I grew up in a a small suburban town in New Jersey, where there was an Italian Ice truck that drove around playing "Popeye the Sailorman," who would only stop if you chased him down yelling, "Stooooop!!" The chase was half the fun. But, you never heard that song more than twice a day. you never hated the damn Italian Ice truck, or Popeye, for that matter.
In Southern California, that truck doesn't carry Italian Ices, but generic shitty vending machine-style ice cream snacks; it plays "It's a Small World," and it parks near a school for an hour every day to lure kiddies and mommies away from soccer games and practice. Living within earshot of a school, I now hate ice cream trucks with a passion usually withheld for those who thoroughly oppose equality.
I might be crazy. I might have a few blood cells that are frenemies with my other blood cells. I might excel in a cut throat industry, but 99.2% of the time I am a lovely and delightful human being... that is, until the time of day when Mr. Ice Cream Truck parks his device of audible torture two blocks from my house. From approximately 5:45 to 7:15 pm, I am a fire breathing dragon, ready to melt away Mr. Ice Cream Man's stupid business.
In my defense for what I am about to tell you, Reader, playing the same song continuously year round should be classified as torture. It should be banned as a direct violation of a Constittional law forbidding 'cruel and unusual punishment,' in the form of noise pollution. It should be fought against and banned. It is directly disrespectful to those who live near a school to have to endure, nightly, the banal sounds of "It's a Small World." He uses it, most likely, to trigger the same excitement children feel at Disney world, which is two towns over, where one is most likely to hear that song played over and over again. No one lives close enough to Disney, though, to become sick of the music. Living in close proximity to a school shouldn't be a regrettable location. It's a drug free zone, the homeless are kept away, there's a positive police presence, and your neighbors are quiet, family-oriented, and polite to each other. It shouldn't be a location where people are aloud to market unhealthy treats at high volume every single day.
One day, I was coming home from work. I hadn't had a bad day. Actually, it was a productive, good day - full of good news and pleasant conversation. It's always nice leaving work feeling like you bonded with someone. But then, I came home and Mr. Ice Cream Man was already parked outside, music blaring - a failed siren call since no children surrounded his truck. What a small world, after all; here I was face-to-face, alone with my nemesis (well, alone if you didn't count the populated soccer game one field away, but we were alone on the street).
I pulled over, window rolled down, honked my horn a few times to get his attention. He looked up and I shouted out, "YOU'RE A BAD MAN!! SHAME ON YOU!! THAT NOISE POLLUTION HAS EARNED YOU A PLACE IN HELL! IN HELL!!!!! BAD!!!"
I did not stop while I yelled this, just slowed the car to a crawl. It was important to stay in motion in case he decided to leap out and attack. I didn't expect him to come after me, but you never know how people are going to react. We were in Long Beach, after all. I mean, Snoop Dogg grew up there - not on my side of town, of course, but in the same town nevertheless and I didn't know in which neighborhood Mr. Ice Cream Man resided. If I did, I might have slashed his tires and trashed his speakers ages ago. In other words, his secret ice cream lair was better left a mystery from the scary woman on the preppy side of town.
I did notice, as I pulled away, that the soccer game had stopped. I don't think it stopped because of my yelling, but it did give everyone there, players and onlookers alike, a chance to look away from the field and check out the crazy lady screaming at their local frozen dairy hero. Children and parents stood staring at me, their gaping mouths wide open in silent shock. At the end of the glance in that direction, before my eyes swept back to the road, I saw one parent was smiling.
I drove on, shocked at what I had actually done, curious as to whether the amused parent agreed with me or just loved a good old fashioned shit show, and simultaneously pleased... I'd had told that horrible man what I thought of him. Odd behavior, maybe, but brave behavior. I did one thing that day which scared me... and that brings me back to the Eleanor Roosevelt point at the top of this post.
She's claiming the stupid people gossip about other people, average people talk about what went down, while intelligent people debate theology, philosophy, aesthetics, and morality. In all this, I discussed Mr. Noise Pollution, who, despite his obnoxia, is a person; I discussed the glorious event of me drive-by-yelling at him; and I discussed the ideas behind my actions which I believe wholeheartedly. According to Roosevelt's theory, I am all at once small, average, and great. Why didn't someone think to ask her at the time, "What if you discuss all three at once?"Because that's what I'd like the answer to.
