Messing With The Ice Cream Truck Was The Final Straw

I lived across the street from a family who were… trashy. I mean trashy in a rather literal sense. The parents decided that their “street corner medications” were more important than, say, paying the garbage bill. The trash and filth (including dirty baby diapers) accumulated in their home and side yard and backyard until the garbage bags were taller than the father, who was six-foot-something). 

Complaints about the smell, mice, and cockroaches that infested the neighborhood were prolific but had no impact. It wasn’t until child services were called that they were forced to clean up, screaming swear words at the tops of their lungs as fermented diapers exploded at the slightest touch and weather-worn garbage bags disintegrated, spewing their foul contents in all directions.

Now that you’ve had a peek at the parents, I submit for your disapproval the oldest of five children: the eight-year-old. 

Like most neighborhoods, ice cream trucks tinkled and blared their time-worn jingles as they trundled through the neighborhoods during the summer. Well, the children wanted their popsicles every time the truck came through. Their parents had no money left over to give them, so they would flag down the truck and order their ice cream and then be unable to pay.

The driver wised up after the first time and asked for the money at the time of ordering. When the kids had no money, no ice cream would be produced.

Child: “GIVE ME THE POPSICLES, YOU MOTHERF*****!”

Truck Driver: “There’s no need for that kind of language. You can have the popsicles when you have the money.”

Child: “I DON’T HAVE ANY! GIVE ME THE MOTHERF****** POPSICLES NOW!”

Truck Driver: “No money, no popsicles.”

The child screamed swear words, punched the truck, and seized rocks from their front yard and started throwing them at the truck. The rest of the children followed suit.

Unfortunately, the rest of the neighborhood kids and parents were subjected to this horrific example of inhumanity, and the parents of the good kids were forced to hustle their children out of the way of flying projectiles.

I could hear the distinct CRACK of the windshield taking a rock just the right size to spiderweb it.

Then, the child grabbed a large rock and tried to climb through the open portal to get inside the truck, screaming about stabbing a motherf***** if he didn’t motherf****** get his motherf****** popsicles.

Recall that this was an eight-year-old boy doing this.

The poor truck driver had to catch the little devil by the throat and forcefully shove him backward out of the truck while he was too stunned by the loss of air. The truck then gunned off down the street faster than the speed limit. 

The whole pack of kids chased the truck, screaming, “STOP! STOP NOW!”

The police got involved, and the father had to be forcefully subdued and arrested for attacking the cops. Apparently, meth was found in the home, and the house stood empty for months afterward while the place was made livable again.

It took five years for the ice cream truck to resume making its rounds along our street again