The New Dairy Queen

(When I was 15 years old, a family friend had started an ice cream truck business. He needed someone to drive and someone to hand out ice cream and handle the money: two people per truck, and there were five trucks. Naturally, hunting for money, I volunteer to work the money and ice cream part. It is towards the end of the summer, and I know the ropes by then. Parents often stand on the sidewalk and give the children the money, letting them order. My customer is about five years of age.)

Me: “What can I get for you, sir?”

Customer: *giggling* “I want ice cream.”

Me: “What kind of ice cream?”

Customer: “I can’t tell you that!”

Me: “Then how will you get your ice cream? I am the ice cream queen! I control all of the ice cream in this mighty vessel.”

Customer: “I need to talk to the Ice Cream MAN to get my ice cream, not the Ice cream QUEEN! I need a BOY! I need a BOY!”

(As this was not what I had prepared for, I quickly nodded, and ducked below the counter, and got a marker, drew a mustache, and sat up and spoke in a low voice.)

Me: “Her Majesty is a new worker. What can I get for you?”

Customer: *looking relieved* “Ice cream man! I want….that one!” *points to ice cream on the board*

(And all was well… besides the mustache I had for the next week. Thank you PERMANENT marker, you did your job. Parents, everywhere, tell your children of the Ice Cream Queen. Save a teenage girl’s face from fake facial hair!)