Those Old Wintertime Cliches

Earl wiped down the counter for what seemed like the hundredth time, even though there had been no actual business to get it dirty.  Most men would have given up and gone home already; trying to sell ice cream during a New York snow storm was like trying to sell a skateboard to an arthritic grandmother.  Not totally impossible, but not a business one could really rely on to bring home the bacon, either.  Still, Earl Anson Golding III, owner, proprietor, and sole employee of Earl’s Swirls Ice Creamery was not “most men,” at least not when it came to the ice cream business.
         
              That didn’t mean, however, that the current customer drought wasn’t bothering him.
         
                As if sensing his despair, the dairy gods sent him a gift.  The door burst open, rattling the chimes that were normally aggravating in the extreme, but now seemed heaven like.  A dark haired girl stumbled in, no doubt being blown about by the fierce wind outside.  She was tall and willowy, and had a dazed look about her that Earl instantly associated with college students.  She absentmindedly brushed the snow off her coat, and looked about as if she was noticing for the first time that she was even inside, little less in the greatest ice cream shop of all of Manhattan.
         
              “Worst storm I’ve seen in five years,” Earl said, trying to subtly draw the girl closer to his display counter. 
         
                “Yeah,” she replied in her bemused state.  Her eyes finally flickered over the counter, taking in the rainbow of sherbets and ice creams.  “Um, scoop of Neopolitan, I guess.” Her eyes lit up as something on the side caught her attention.  “Oh, and a scoop of pistachio, please.”
         
                Terrific.  He got one customer during the entire day, and she wanted pistachio.  If there was any dessert that Earl would say no to, pistachio ice cream was it.  He abhorred the stuff, absolutely loathed it like nothing else in the world.  The only reason there was a small pint shoved in the back of the display was the fact that his mother-in-law insisted he keep some.  (Earl was positive, in fact, that his mother-in-law didn’t like pistachio ice cream either, and simply enjoyed torturing him by making him reorder it every month.)  He scooped up the sickly looking stuff, dumping it on top of the previously unsullied Neopolitan.
         
              “That’s an . . . interesting choice.  Not many people have a liking for pistachio.”
         
              “I hate it.”  The words slipped out of her mouth unintentionally, for after moment she blushed.  Earl merely raised an eyebrow.  He wasn’t a barkeep, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t met his fair share of people with stories to tell.  Besides, the girl had just gone up in his estimation, because anyone that hated pistachio ice cream had to be at least a bit intelligent.
         
                “My sister loves it,” she offered, fidgeting under his gaze.
         
                “Ah.  And where is this sister, and why is she not eating her own foul flavored stuff?”
         “She goes to Maine State.  She’s going to be a nurse.”
         
                The detail was trivial, but obviously important to the girl.  It seemed that, despite her disgusting fondness for pistachio, this sister was very much loved by the girl standing in his shop.  But if that was the case, then why was said girl not with said sister?  It was winter break, and most of the college kids were home for Christmas.
         
                Earl picked up a glass and began painstakingly polishing it.  The years had taught him that people were more wont to talk if he didn’t look them straight in the eye.  There was a story here, and Earl was sick of wiping his counter.
         
                “What’s your name, kid?
         
                “Molly.”
         
                “Molly, I’m Earl.  Nice to meet you.  So, how come your sister’s not home for Christmas?”
         
                “She is.”
         
                “Then you’re not?”          
               
                Molly stirred her ice cream, blending the creams, browns, pinks, and greens together. “No.”
         
                “Mind if I ask why?”
         
                There was a pause for a moment, and then she started speaking rapidly, as if she was afraid that once she stopped she wouldn’t be able to start again. “I couldn’t . . . I mean, I could’ve, but there’s something here that I just . . . can’t leave right now.  I’ve got to figure something out, and it has to be here.  My family . . . doesn’t really understand.”  She looked at Earl as if she wanted to be understood but clearly wanted him not to ask any more questions.  So Earl, in a way that few people could do, obliged.
         
                “Molly, when I was twelve, do you know what I wanted to more than anything when I grew up?”
         
                The girl blinked at the seemingly non-sequitur.  “Um  . . . open an ice cream shop?”
         “Nope.  I wanted to be a lawyer.  My dad was a pretty famous defense attorney back then, and it only seemed natural that I follow in his footsteps.”
         
                “So what happened?” She leaned forward in spite of herself, clearly intrigued.
         
                “I worked my tail off in high school, spent two years at the top of my class at Columbia, made my parents proud and myself utterly miserable.  I wasn’t ever cut out to be a lawyer, and it took getting away from my folks to realize that.”
         
                “Is there a point to this?”
         
                “Maybe. When I told my parents that I was giving up an Ivy League education to open an ice cream shop, they panicked.  And within reason, too.  But once they saw that my mind was made up, they eventually supported me.  And look at me now.  I’m happier than I’ve ever been.  I’ve got two kids, a wife, and the best ice cream shop in all of New York City.  Now, the reason for all this that, if this is something you really think you have to do, and your family is worth anything, they’ll understand sooner or later.  You’ll be okay kid, just wait.”
         
              Earl finished with a determined nod, as if the any other alternative was impossible simply by his willing it.  Molly managed a bewildered smile and a small thanks, then made noises about an appointment with a counselor.  She slid off the stool, and disappeared into the storm as quickly as she had come.
         
              The forgotten pistachio leaked on the counter top, and Earl went to wipe it again.