The ice cream truck was an innocuous presence in the streets of the neighborhood, but it’s hard not to think, if one has the means and mixed blessings of perspective, that the man driving its old mail truck frame has some sort of a seedy story to tell. If you glance down at the intersection of Orleans and B from your second floor apartment, you can see the unwashed white van make its way through the rows of family homes. A whitewash
crusted over with years of uncertain futures: the days of making ends meet with perverted capital, boxes stocked with antique sugar pops and frozen liquorish. If you begin to throw your cultural instinctive imagination at the faceless man behind the bug-caked windshield, you would almost resort to typical perversion and Hollywood Sicko-Habeeb-Islam-Terro-Fuck hypotheses. So you pull back a bit,
focus your curiosity on the children. Some scrambling down the sidewalk with obvious disdain for grace, some patiently standing as at a bus stop, knowing of the peddler’s persistent salesmanship. You shot down the hallway, abruptly typing these words, certain you had a character to develop. And then, followed by the slinky vanity of awareness, you arrive in the bleached presence of flashing blue lights.
crusted over with years of uncertain futures: the days of making ends meet with perverted capital, boxes stocked with antique sugar pops and frozen liquorish. If you begin to throw your cultural instinctive imagination at the faceless man behind the bug-caked windshield, you would almost resort to typical perversion and Hollywood Sicko-Habeeb-Islam-Terro-Fuck hypotheses. So you pull back a bit,
focus your curiosity on the children. Some scrambling down the sidewalk with obvious disdain for grace, some patiently standing as at a bus stop, knowing of the peddler’s persistent salesmanship. You shot down the hallway, abruptly typing these words, certain you had a character to develop. And then, followed by the slinky vanity of awareness, you arrive in the bleached presence of flashing blue lights.
