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We All Scream For Ice Cream

By Deidra Garcia

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The children of Greentown were not happy. Which was fairly odd, since none of them were regularly beaten. None of them had uncles that were always inviting them into the darkened rec room. None of them ever fell into the creek, causing them to break their legs and miss the big Halloween parade. None of them were orphans, or pressured to smoke cigarettes.

The children of Greentown should have been happy. They had huge yards to play in. They were allowed to run around and scream and break their toys, and yet were still not sent to bed without dinner.

Basically, the children of Greentown had everything a kid would need to have a fantastic childhood. Except for one thing. But that one thing meant everything in the world.

Because Greentown was a town without an ice cream man. No gentle strains of childish muzak filtered through the streets on hot summer days. No one heard the stampede of small feet as children recklessly threw themselves into the path of oncoming traffic just to get a Rocket Pop. And no one could really say why there wasn’t an ice cream man. Old folks vaguely recalled having one years and years ago, but no one believed them because it was common knowledge that ice cream had been invented in 1974. With no gentle ice cream man to peddle his sweet wares up and down the main street, the children of Greentown grew bratty and lethargic. Their high school football team always lost the championships, and no one really knew why until someone would shake his head and say, “That’s the town without an ice cream man.” And then everyone would pity the poor football players as they trudged, broken-hearted, back to their bus.

This went on for a while, the children of Greentown building clubhouses, having sleep-overs, and attending school without any zest for life at all. Until one day, Old Zeb, the town barber, found something peculiar in a catalogue one of his clients had left in his barbershop. The catalogue was full of gleaming inventions and shiny gadgets, expensive toys for fancy folk. Suddenly, Old Zeb saw something that told him exactly what to do to get all the children out of their funk. He grinned a toothless smile, and without a word, turned around and went into his back room to get a pen and an envelope.

This was unfortunate for the customer he had been working on since he only had one side of his hair cut, but no one really minded, and it became a popular style for a while.

Three weeks later, a large brown box was delivered to Old Zeb’s Parlor.

“What’s in the box, Grandpa Old Zeb?” Jimmy, Old Zeb’s grandson asked him.

Zeb smiled and yelled, “None of your business, punk!” Jimmy sometimes wondered if Old Zeb had a hearing problem or was just a jerk.

The box became a thing of mystery in Greentown, a dark presence by Old Zeb’s shop. That is, until one soft summer evening when the children of Greentown gathered to play one of their half-hearted, boring games.

“What’s two plus two?” Aaron Smith asked little Jackie Berkeley.

“Four.”

“What’s three plus three?”

“Six.”

“What’s four and four?”

“Eight.”

“Nope,” he said, “it’s forty-four.” This game had been played millions of times, and each time the wrong answer was called, the child who didn’t get it right was supposed to be punched. Punched hard. But Aaron Smith didn’t have the heart to do that, even though he was in love with little Jackie Berkeley and should have only been able to show it through violence. It wasn’t even a real game, but no one felt like coming up with a new one.

“Come on, Aaron,” said Byron Chesfield, “pop her one.”

Aaron was about to turn around and go home to his boring toy collection, when suddenly a magical sound filled the humid, bright air.

All the children stopped their dumb games and listened.

“What is that?” asked Little Jackie.

Nobody knew, but before they could even investigate, they caught sight of a shiny metal object in the distance. As it crept closer, they could make out something about eight feet tall, shaped like a man, but with a grotesquely large head. A distorted rendition of “Roll Out the Barrels” seemed to be coming from its monstrous body. Its chest was barrel shaped, and it moved with strange jerky motions. It slowly made its way up Main Street to where the children were assembled. It stopped with a clank and “Roll out the Barrels” came to a deafening roar before it abruptly shut off.

In a metallic, gruesome voice, it croaked, “Ice Cream! Ice Cream here!”   

All the children stared at this fantastic apparition. Then each one of them screamed and scrambled for their respective homes.

“I thought it would help,” screeched Old Zeb when parents came to his shop to complain about their horrified children. “They‘re always playing that stupid number game outside my shop, disturbing the brain,” he hollered, “Maybe some ice cream’ll shut’em up.”

“But Old Zeb, the children are scared to death!” said Mr. Chesfield, Byron’s father.

“My son Aaron actually stopped wetting the bed, he’s so frightened,” said Ms. Smith.

Father Michaels pulled at his priestly collar. “Old Zeb, we appreciate the thought you put into this gift for the town,” he motioned at the metal giant standing beside the door, “but you have to realize what kind of impression this thing makes on our children!”

Old Zeb roared, “What are you talkin’ about? This thing makes the best dang ice cream I ever ate.” He motioned to the robot. “Hey moron! Come here!”

Obediently, the rusting menace made its slow laborious way to the group. From far away, the ice cream robot was unsettling, but up close, it was a nightmare. The catalogue Old Zeb had ordered it from had promised quality workmanship, but the thing was as pockmarked as a teenage boy’s forehead. The form loomed above the parents, threatening at any moment to simply stop working, topple over, and crush them all.

“Chocolate and vanilla swirl with a turtle shell!” Old Zeb raged up at the hulking body.

As the parents watched, streams of dry ice vapor poured from the robot’s eyes. A loud clanging sound rang out from its hollow chest. The robot began to shake and a low whistle rang out from somewhere deep inside it. Just as the noise became too unbearable to stand, a cone popped from the robot’s sleeve. It held it up to one ear, and chocolate soft-serve slithered out. It held the cone next to the other one, and vanilla plopped on top. Finally it held the dripping mess to its nose, and appeared to sneeze out a chocolate covering. It handed the ice cream to Old Zeb with a metallic claw and sang out in a hideous, grating voice, “Another frozen novelty! Compliments of Zeb Jr., the ice cream bot!”

Old Zeb took a lick and then threw the cone on the ground. “I said chocolate and vanilla swirl! Not separate, ignoramus!” The robot didn’t seem to mind the name calling and stood docilely before him, the faint whisper of chocolate drippings dribbling from its left ear.

Father Michaels shook with radical, religious rage. “Old Zeb, that was the most appalling thing I have ever been witness to! This thing is a disgusting horror and must be locked away!”

Old Zeb wiped his ice-creamy hands on his dirty smock. “Like hell he is!” he bellowed, “I paid 19.95 for him. Plus shipping and handling! It stays!”

Father Michaels turned as red as the fires of Hell. “We’ll see about that!” He started to walk away, then turned back, “This thing is an abomination before God!” he yelped, but unfortunately he was too far away for anyone to hear him. He made a note to give this same quote in his next sermon and stormed off.

“That was really gross,” said Byron’s dad as he slipped away. All the other parents left as well, casting bewildered glances at the hunk of junk behind them.

Old Zeb stood with the robot for awhile and then screamed, “What do they know?” He yanked the robot back into his parlor. The metal helped his TV reception some, and now he could watch his stories without going down to the Laundromat.

The monstrosity stood by Old Zeb’s door, scaring customers away. Although Old Zeb didn’t care a lick about the parents of Greentown, he grew tired of filling the machine with ice cream. All the children learned to stay away from Old Zeb’s house when it came time to fill the meaningless interval between when they woke up in the morning and dinner.

All the children except Old Zeb’s grandson, Jimmy.

“Why are all the kids afraid of you, Sparky?” Jimmy asked the hunk of metal. He had decided to name it Sparky since that was the name his parents said they would have given him if he had been a Labrador retriever instead of a boy.

The Ice Cream Bot stood motionless, unresponsive. But Jimmy thought he could detect a wet gleam in its horrible, dead eye.

“Awww, those kids are dumb anyway. They don’t like me ‘cause I wear this old engineer cap,” the little boy said as he motioned to the moth-eaten hat on his head. “But Grandpa Old Zeb gave it to me because he knows I love trains so much,” he scratched under the bill, “and to cover up that haircut he gave me.”

Seconds passed, then slowly, the massive head of the robot grated to one side and regarded the boy.

“Do you think trains are cool, Sparky?” The robot blinked vacantly at him and then proceeded to lose a poorly attached arm.

“I bet you do, Sparky, I bet you do!” Jimmy yelped, then picked up the arm. “Come on, I got some glue in my room!”

From that time on Jimmy and the robot were inseparable. It was a disturbing sight to see, the pair lurching down Main Street, trying to fish in the lake by the perfume factory, having a tea party that Jimmy was vaguely ashamed of. And no one really bothered with them much, as they were too busy leading their singular, boring lives in Greentown. So the summer passed.

August hung on like a blood-starved leech, and heat waves shimmered on the black pavement of Main Street. Here and there, the bodies of sweat-drenched children littered the sidewalk. Aaron Smith managed to drag himself over to his half-inflated kiddie pool and almost got second-degree burns when he dipped a foot in. The air was ripe with stagnant heat and brutal tension.

Mr. Chesfield fanned himself on his porch. “Oooo weee. Sure is hot, isn’t it Marge?”

Ms. Smith was lying on her lawn in a bikini that barely held her in. “Gets any hotter, I might have to get rid of this little old thing too,“ she said coyly, motioning to the straining swimsuit.

Mr. Chesfield shuddered at this image and desperately willed the sun to cool itself off. Mrs. Clark leaned out from her kitchen window where she’d been desperately trying to revive a toddler with ice cubes. “You know who I blame this on?” she yelled, “God!”

Father Michaels popped around the corner. “God hears all Mrs. Clark! God hears all!” He alone seemed unperturbed by the heat.

He stalked up to Mr. Chesfield’s porch. “Do you know what I blame this on?”

Mr. Chesfield looked up dumbly. “God?”

“No!” He pointed with fury at Old Zeb’s place. “That aberration before the Lord that sits over there!” He stared at the gleaming heap of metal, glinting sharply in the merciless sunlight. “It’s like a silver idol, biding its time, waiting for us to fall down in worship before it!”

Ms. Smith yawned. “Why do you hate that robot so much? Jimmy seems to like it.”

“The thoughts of a child do not concern me, Ms. Smith!” Father Michael looked at her yards of shiny flesh, “and let me remind you that there is a decency law in effect in this community!”

Mr. Chesfield scratched his head and called to the house next door. “How has Jimmy been, Mrs. Clark? Byron hasn’t bragged about beating him up for a day or two now.”

Mrs. Clark leaned back out her window. “How the hell should I know? I haven’t seen him since yesterday. I thought he was camping with your son.”

Mr. Chesfield said thoughtfully. “That’s funny. My son thinks your boy is a geek. Why would he go camping with him? And besides, Byron’s right over there.” He motioned to a sun-stroked body in the grass.

“Then where’s Jimmy?”

Everyone was silent a moment, then as one they turned to the silver ice cream man in the distance. It winked in the heat maliciously.

Father Michaels thundered, “The monster has destroyed him—as he will destroy us all!”

Mr. Chesfield put down his beer. “Aw, hell. I guess we gotta lynch it.”

Lynching the robot was easier than everyone thought. It was simply a matter of finding a rope, directing the robot to a tree, and then stringing it up. It did not put up a fight, and everyone was vaguely disappointed.

Father Michaels rubbed his hands, “And now let us say a prayer.”

Before anyone could even groan, a tiny voice came from the distance. It grew into a wail as it got closer and suddenly the small body of Jimmy Clark flashed through the crowd to the foot of the lynching tree.

“What did you do to Sparky!?” he yelped through a snot-filled nose.

Father Michaels bent down and gently put his hands on Jimmy’s shoulders. He said softly, “I know it’s hard for you to understand, but sometimes the Lord calls his creations up to Heaven so they can sing with the angels and float on clouds, and live forever and ever in perfect harmony with God.“ He patted Jimmy’s arm, “But not your robot, son. It was evil and we sent it to Hell.”

Jimmy looked around in confusion. “But Sparky never did nothin’ bad.”

Mr. Chesfield cleared his throat. “Well, Jim, first of all that’s a double negative right there. And second, we thought this robot had done something bad to you. Being as how your Ma didn’t know where you were.”

Jimmy turned to his mother. “But I told you that Grandpa Old Zeb was taking me to the train station so I could see the big engines.”

His mother scowled at him. “Well, I can’t keep track of everyone, you know. You could’ve left a note.”

“I did.”

“Well, next time don’t just pin it to my nightgown. Tape it to your brother! How many times do I have to tell you that?!”

Old Zeb stumbled into the crowd. “What the sam hill is goin’ on here?” He saw his magnificent robotic appliance hang from the branch and hollered, “My television antennae!” He rounded on the crowd. “Someone’s gonna pay for this! My shows are on in fifteen minutes!”

While the adults were fighting amongst themselves about who would let Old Zeb watch TV in their house, Jimmy made his way to the swinging robot.

He sighed, “You were my only friend.” A tear trickled from his little eye, and he put a hand on the dirty, rusty leg. “See you on the other side, brother.”

Suddenly the robot’s eyes flashed with a bright spark. The crowd stood in silence as the robot twisted its head until it broke the rope and fell to the ground.

Jimmy clapped his hands with delight. “Sparky! You’re alive!”

“Of course I’m alive, Jimmy,” the robot croaked in a voice a tankard of oil couldn’t sweeten.  “Everyone knows you can’t kill a robot.”

“Well, I’ll be shucked,” said Mr. Chesfield.

Jimmy ran forward and threw his arms around the gigantic form. “I love you, Sparky!” he yelled, looking up at the robot’s hideous face.

“I love you too, Jimmy.” Everyone said “Awww” as the Ice Cream Bot gave Jimmy a hug.

“Hey, Sparky,” Jimmy’s laughing, muffled voice said, “Let go! You’re crushing me, buddy!” The robot’s arms continued to circle Jimmy’s small form. “You’re huggin’ me too tight. I can’t breath….”

There was a sickening thud as every single one of Jimmy’s bones was broken.

The robot let go of the limp form and dusted off its hands. It looked at the crowd. “Now—who wants an extra special treat?”

The old man kicked at the fire that was dying down. “That robot killed every single man, woman, child, and pet in Greentown. Nobody knows who installed laser beams in its eyes, but it sure got everyone.” The old man tapped out the pipe he’d been smoking. “And that’s why ice cream was officially outlawed in the United States.”

There was silence around the small fire, as all the children thought about what the old man had just told them.

“You know, that’s not a very good story.” One of the children said.

The old man nodded. “Well. I’m drunk.”

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Deidra Garcia recently invested a lot of money to buy an English degree from New York University, and will now be paying that back for the next decade of her life. Following the attainment of this degree, she then worked at a snotty video store for over a year. She currently does freelance work for a small publishing company, and lives in NY. Deidra does not own any pets, but she has been able to maintain three plants through several apartment moves, so she’s got that going for her.