The Flavors of Life

THE FLAVORS OF LIFE

         "I wish he'd come," I said, straining to see the end of the block without stepping off the curb. "I can taste that ice cream now."

         "What kind ya gonna get?" My best friend, Casey, asked, clutching his dollar tightly.

         "A Torpedo! No...an ice cream sandwich. Or maybe an Igloo Pie..."

         Casey rolled his dark, expressive eyes. "Good thing they only have about a million kinds, Jason, or you'd never make up your mind."

         We stood together at the curb in the afternoon heat, awaiting the Frostee Freezee truck. I scratched at my left forearm. My fingernails left a trail of white streaks on my sunburned skin. Casey's coffee-colored flesh showed no signs of sunburn. Casey cupped his hand to his ear. "I think I hear it. Listen."

         Then I heard it, too. Pop Goes the Weasel played tinnily from the truck as it turned the corner onto our street. Casey and I hopped impatiently until the truck, brakes squealing, pulled to a stop in front of us. We slapped our dollar bills down on the wooden shelf of the open-sided truck and examined all of the full color pictures of the different ice cream for sale.

         The driver scooted from the driver's seat and picked up my dollar. A toothpick hung limply from the corner of his thin lips. "What'cha want?" the young man asked.

         "Where's Mr. Taylor...the usual driver?" I asked. Mr. Taylor reminded me of my grandpa.

         "Sick. Now, what'cha want?"

         "A Pecan Bar, please," I said, grinning at Casey and shrugging my shoulders.

         The driver handed me my ice cream and my change. Then he squinted at Casey. Something ugly happened to his upper lip. He put his hand next to Casey's dollar and flicked it with his finger. It flew off the shelf. The wind caught the bill and sent it twisting and fluttering across the sun-dried grass.

         "Hey!" Casey yelped, running after his money.

         The driver leaned his head out the driver's side window. "Sorry, kid...I don't have no watermelon ice cream." He laughed, threw the truck into gear and pulled away.

         Casey caught his dollar and walked back to me with tears rolling down his dusky cheeks. "Hey, don't get so excited," I said, patting him on the back. "I'll share with you."

         "It's not the ice cream, Jason," Casey sniffed.

         "Huh?" What do you mean?"

         "The truck driver did that 'cause I'm black. And all black people are s'posed to be crazy 'bout watermelon, you know. Gives me a rash," Casey explained, trying to joke, but unable to hide his hurt feelings.

         When his feelings hurt, so did mine. We shared my ice cream in a silence unusual for seven-year-old boys.

         The next afternoon we again stood at the curb as the ice cream truck pulled to a stop. Mr. Taylor was back. "Hi, boys. What will you have this beautiful day?"

         "I'll have a Purple Popper," I answered.

         "And you, son?" Mr. Taylor asked Casey.

         Casey looked at his own sneakered feet. "Can I have an ice cream sandwich?"

         "Sure. You can have anything you want."

         "Even watermelon ice cream?" Casey asked softly.

         "Pardon me?" Mr. Taylor said. Then, seeing Casey's lips tremble and tears blossom from his eyes, added, "Something wrong, son?"

         I told Mr. Taylor what had happened the previous day. His face flushed very red and his gray eyebrows drew together over his nose, like a fat caterpillar. He looked the way my dad did the time I painted his bowling ball.

         Casey and I both took a step away from the truck.

         Then Mr. Taylor smiled and waved us back. "Don't worry, boys. I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at Joe, the man who drove my truck yesterday. He had no right to do or say what he did. I apologize to both of you for his behavior. He won't be driving my truck again, I promise you that."

         Casey sniffed, "But why did he say that to me, Mr. Taylor?"

         Mr. Taylor rubbed his jaw with one hand. "Well, because he doesn't understand that life is sort of like this old ice cream truck. Wouldn't it be boring if I only had one flavor?"

         Casey and I nodded.

         "Sure. But I have lots of flavors. Each one is good in its own way, and that variety makes for a better ice cream truck. Just like different kinds of people make for a better world. I guess you could call people the flavors of life. And you boys know that God wouldn't make a flavor that isn't good...would he?"

         "No sir," Casey and I said at the same time.

         "Some people, like Joe, don't know what they're missing by not getting to know the other flavors," Mr. Taylor finished.

         "We like all flavors, huh, Jason?" Casey said.

         I took a big bite out of my Purple Popper. "Yep. 'specially each other!"

The End