AuntShecky
05-21-2009, 05:01 PM
The Ice Cream Truck Doesn't Stop Here Anymore
One of these days that sudden, shrill sound will be so startling it will cause a massive heart attack. At least the point had come where the ring of the console could be distinguished from that of the cell phone, but ever since Marilyn left, the receptionist’s desk had an irritating way of spinning Pat into confusion. He never could remember if he were supposed to answer it first and then push the button -- or vice versa.
He couldn't disguise the weariness in his voice. “ ‘Morning, Bridgeford Motors. How may I help you?”
“Pat? Are you busy? Listen, I just got a call from what’s-her-name -- Megan -- from the real estate place, and she says that the properties up in Saratoga are going fast, so if we want to get in –“
“Hold on, Sandy, there’s another call coming in.” He saw the red light blinking, but he wasn't sure how to put the missus on hold so he could answer it. “So what are you asking me?”
“They wanted to know if we were, you know, still interested, so I said that I'd check with you, and, well, I mean, why can't we go up there this Saturday? It wouldn't hurt to, you know, look.”
Saturday? Did it have to be Saturday, his busiest day? Used to be.
“You know, Pat, if we're ever going to buy a summer place, it really should be now. Megan said this is the best time, it’s a buyer’s market, and–“
The other red button kept blinking, persistent as an accusation. “I told you before, Sandy, we can't take on any more commitments right now. Okay, we'll look. Talk to you later.”
Sandy’s light went out, and the blinking on the second red light stopped when Pat pushed the button. Please, God, let it be a customer. “ ‘Morning, Bridgefor–“
“Hey, I was expecting Marilyn to answer, but it’s the man himself! How ya doin’, Patrick!”
At least the caller hadn't opened with “How’s business?” “Howie! You old son-of-a-gun! Don't tell me it’s that time of year again!”
“Yep. Little League season has a way of creeping up on ya. That’s why I'm calling. We've gotta finalize the orders on the uniforms, and we're just checking whether Bridgeford Motors is still in.”
“ ‘Still in’ after –how many years has it been?” For the Costello family, sponsoring a baseball team for the kids was not merely a charitable whim; it was a legacy established decades ago by Pat’s father. It was almost as if Bridgeford Motors and the Bridgeford Little League Association had been born on the same day. “Gosh, Howie. . .I didn't know it was so late. The kids will be getting out o’ school in just a few weeks, won't they?”
“Yeah, that’s why we gotta get on the stick and sign off on this puppy,” Howie said.
He swore he could hear a pencil tapping on the other end of the line. Though Pat had never been known as a high pressure salesman, now the shoe was on the proverbial other foot, and it pinched. “Gee, Howie, I, uh, could I get back to you a little later?”
Howie’s sigh could've been heard way up on the Canadian border. “To tell you the truth, Pat, I really, really have to resolve this thing today. What am I saying? Yesterday!” Behind the joking tone, a bit of the bonhomie had fled. “Aw, Pat, if you could've seen the look on some of those kids’ faces when I had to tell them the Wayside Diner had pulled out. . .” The implication, of course, was that if Pat reneged, he'd have to do the dirty work of breaking the bad news himself.
The tear-jerking image of disappointed kids infiltrated Pat’s mind. He saw the look on Marilyn’s face as well, the day he told her that he had to let her go. “Hallelujah, guess who just walked into my show room -- a customer!” he lied. “I thought they were all on the endangered species list. I'll call you back, A.S.A.P, ‘kay?” Pat hung up the receiver so fast he thought he had given his arm whiplash.
Jeez. Can you beat that? Don't they know times are tough? Sandy obsessing over a “second home” when their primary home mortgage was on life-support. Howie playing the guilt card. Doesn't anybody read the newspapers anymore?
Without getting up from the huge leather office chair, Pat pushed himself away from the massive desk and from underneath pulled out a large cardboard box that had “Valvoline” printed all over the sides. He stood up and walked over to the wood paneled wall where the framed photographs had hung for years. Down came the first one, which depicted two rows of small fry sluggers. Standing or kneeling, they each held a bat, vertically, like medieval knights with their swords. Most had assumed the unsmiling, serious expression of a Big Leaguer, and all wore spanking uniforms with the words “Bridgeford Motors” printed in a semi-circle above each individual number.
The date on the back of the frame indicated that these kids were old enough to have families full of Little Leaguers of their own by now. Pat blew away a fine layer of dust and placed the picture in the bottom of the box. It brought back memories, that shot. Long before the financial strain, sponsoring a Little League team had been a joy; Pat relished the role of semi-secret benefactor, a mysterious summer Santa. One time way back when Pat would come to see Jason play, he'd hang out behind the dugout and wait for the ice cream truck to arrive. The kids could order anything they wanted – Fudgsickles, Sno-cones, Bomb pops -- no charge. “Who paid for the ice cream, Dad? “ Jason would ask, and Pat would reply, “I could tell ya, but then I'd have to kill ya.”
Oh, and those games, the annual match-up between “his” team and Carlotti Toyota, a rivalry that was Bridgeford’s counterpart to the media-driven perpetual conflict between the Red Sox v. Yankees in the bigs. For thirty years Pat had pretended to hate Willy Carlotti, him with his franchises all over town – hell, the entire Northeast. But his competition had the luck and foresight to do what smart Wall Street investors used to do– diversify, with the Toyotas on Rte. 50, the Hyundais on Rte. 4. And the guy had cornered the high-end market as well, with Audis and Volvos. Nothing domestic. Pat used to kid his potential customers. “Don't bother going over to ‘see Willy,’ he'd tell them. “His name used to be Smith before he changed it.”
Pat was just about to take down the wooden plaque covered in a brass plate etched with the script: “Patrick Costello, Jr. Bridgeford Jaycees Man of the Year 1990,” when he heard the “beep beep beep.” The tow truck was here again.
Out in the lot, he saw that the tow truck was backing the ‘06 Town and Country into a empty space between a Jeep Cherokee and a Mountaineer, both new models. Pat didn't care if it were a recession or a depression – you don't park a repo with the ‘09s. “Don't unhook it just yet, Vito. It’s got to be moved.”
The operator of the tow truck gave Pat a look that would have curdled milk. Vito chomped down hard on the burning cigar and thrust a padded manila envelope containing the plates into Pat’s hands.
“Rough?”
Vito grunted. “They're all rough. The lady came running after me down the street, kid in her arms. ‘How am I supposed to make the payments if I can't get to work?’ she screams.” For some reason, this reminded Pat of Marilyn’s last day again. “I'll tell ya, Patrick, I'm this close to packin’ it in.” With that, Vito headed across the street for a cup o’ joe.
The beep-beep-beep sound occurred again and within seconds Tom was standing at his boss’s side. “This just came for you,” he said. “Looks like it’s from Corporate.”
Pat shrugged and stuck the Fed Ex delivery under his arm. The cardboard envelope was flat and thin, similar to the one that had held the parent loan application form to help pay for Jason’s college tuition.
“Aren't you gonna open it?”
“Why? I already know what it says. How’s Jennifer?”
“Aw, you know how it is, Pat,"Tom said. She has some good days, some bad days. Which reminds me--”
“Please God, please,” Pat silently prayed, “ don't let him ask me about the health insurance premiums again.”
“She has a chemo session this afternoon, and I'd like to um, be there to give her some support. I was wondering if I could sneak out a little early this afternoon. . .”
“What? Am I supposed to handle all these herds o’ customers myself?” With an exaggerated motion, Pat waved his hand across the lot, which except for all the cars gathering dust, was a concrete desert devoid of people. With the same arm, he grabbed Tom’s shoulder. “I'm just givin’ ya heat. Jeez. Take off. Tell Jennifer we're all praying for–uh, give Jennifer our love.”
Pat stood there in the dismal car lot for a long time. He looked kitty-corner across the street at the Dunkin Donuts, formerly a KFC, before that a string of pizzerias, both national franchises and local establishments, failing and falling, one after another. He thought about the town itself, ever-changing, but lately seeming to go in one sad direction. He saw the boarded-up stores downtown, the deserted billiard ball factory, the abandoned gas stations, their tanks long exhumed, with their flat concrete islands serving as permanent monuments . And he saw a future burdened with real estate plots that would be difficult if not impossible to be sold: the glass enclosed showrooms, the huge attached garages with empty bays, the concrete lots more expansive than that of a shopping mall.
To noone in particular Pat uttered an loud expletive, and with a healthy trot headed across the lot into the showroom. Like a thief he tore through the vertical file atop his desk until he found the manila folder he was looking for – and the address. Within seconds he was back going across the lot – this time, running.
He threw the license plates, still in their Jiffy bag, onto the passenger side of the SUV. In an instant he had climbed into the cab of the tow truck, where, in true Vito-style, the ignition key had been left. Pat started her up, and within seconds cleared both the truck and its towed vehicle relatively smoothly, although he may have side-swiped the
Mountaineer, he didn't know. Didn't care.
On the way out of the lot onto Rte. 9, the crane-like tow brushed the string of multi-colored plastic flags. Pat remembered the day a couple of years previous when he and Tom got the ladders and strung those little flags up for the town-wide Bridgeford Bonanza Days. Corporate had sung quite a different tune back then, actually springing for a 30-foot helium-filled King Kong that billowed in the wind and seized attention for miles around. It was a lot of work, not just for himself but for Tom and Marilyn and --oh, God, who were those two part-time sales guys --had he forgotten their names already? But everybody had fun. There were free hot dogs and soda for everyone and ice cream and balloons for the kids.
One of these days that sudden, shrill sound will be so startling it will cause a massive heart attack. At least the point had come where the ring of the console could be distinguished from that of the cell phone, but ever since Marilyn left, the receptionist’s desk had an irritating way of spinning Pat into confusion. He never could remember if he were supposed to answer it first and then push the button -- or vice versa.
He couldn't disguise the weariness in his voice. “ ‘Morning, Bridgeford Motors. How may I help you?”
“Pat? Are you busy? Listen, I just got a call from what’s-her-name -- Megan -- from the real estate place, and she says that the properties up in Saratoga are going fast, so if we want to get in –“
“Hold on, Sandy, there’s another call coming in.” He saw the red light blinking, but he wasn't sure how to put the missus on hold so he could answer it. “So what are you asking me?”
“They wanted to know if we were, you know, still interested, so I said that I'd check with you, and, well, I mean, why can't we go up there this Saturday? It wouldn't hurt to, you know, look.”
Saturday? Did it have to be Saturday, his busiest day? Used to be.
“You know, Pat, if we're ever going to buy a summer place, it really should be now. Megan said this is the best time, it’s a buyer’s market, and–“
The other red button kept blinking, persistent as an accusation. “I told you before, Sandy, we can't take on any more commitments right now. Okay, we'll look. Talk to you later.”
Sandy’s light went out, and the blinking on the second red light stopped when Pat pushed the button. Please, God, let it be a customer. “ ‘Morning, Bridgefor–“
“Hey, I was expecting Marilyn to answer, but it’s the man himself! How ya doin’, Patrick!”
At least the caller hadn't opened with “How’s business?” “Howie! You old son-of-a-gun! Don't tell me it’s that time of year again!”
“Yep. Little League season has a way of creeping up on ya. That’s why I'm calling. We've gotta finalize the orders on the uniforms, and we're just checking whether Bridgeford Motors is still in.”
“ ‘Still in’ after –how many years has it been?” For the Costello family, sponsoring a baseball team for the kids was not merely a charitable whim; it was a legacy established decades ago by Pat’s father. It was almost as if Bridgeford Motors and the Bridgeford Little League Association had been born on the same day. “Gosh, Howie. . .I didn't know it was so late. The kids will be getting out o’ school in just a few weeks, won't they?”
“Yeah, that’s why we gotta get on the stick and sign off on this puppy,” Howie said.
He swore he could hear a pencil tapping on the other end of the line. Though Pat had never been known as a high pressure salesman, now the shoe was on the proverbial other foot, and it pinched. “Gee, Howie, I, uh, could I get back to you a little later?”
Howie’s sigh could've been heard way up on the Canadian border. “To tell you the truth, Pat, I really, really have to resolve this thing today. What am I saying? Yesterday!” Behind the joking tone, a bit of the bonhomie had fled. “Aw, Pat, if you could've seen the look on some of those kids’ faces when I had to tell them the Wayside Diner had pulled out. . .” The implication, of course, was that if Pat reneged, he'd have to do the dirty work of breaking the bad news himself.
The tear-jerking image of disappointed kids infiltrated Pat’s mind. He saw the look on Marilyn’s face as well, the day he told her that he had to let her go. “Hallelujah, guess who just walked into my show room -- a customer!” he lied. “I thought they were all on the endangered species list. I'll call you back, A.S.A.P, ‘kay?” Pat hung up the receiver so fast he thought he had given his arm whiplash.
Jeez. Can you beat that? Don't they know times are tough? Sandy obsessing over a “second home” when their primary home mortgage was on life-support. Howie playing the guilt card. Doesn't anybody read the newspapers anymore?
Without getting up from the huge leather office chair, Pat pushed himself away from the massive desk and from underneath pulled out a large cardboard box that had “Valvoline” printed all over the sides. He stood up and walked over to the wood paneled wall where the framed photographs had hung for years. Down came the first one, which depicted two rows of small fry sluggers. Standing or kneeling, they each held a bat, vertically, like medieval knights with their swords. Most had assumed the unsmiling, serious expression of a Big Leaguer, and all wore spanking uniforms with the words “Bridgeford Motors” printed in a semi-circle above each individual number.
The date on the back of the frame indicated that these kids were old enough to have families full of Little Leaguers of their own by now. Pat blew away a fine layer of dust and placed the picture in the bottom of the box. It brought back memories, that shot. Long before the financial strain, sponsoring a Little League team had been a joy; Pat relished the role of semi-secret benefactor, a mysterious summer Santa. One time way back when Pat would come to see Jason play, he'd hang out behind the dugout and wait for the ice cream truck to arrive. The kids could order anything they wanted – Fudgsickles, Sno-cones, Bomb pops -- no charge. “Who paid for the ice cream, Dad? “ Jason would ask, and Pat would reply, “I could tell ya, but then I'd have to kill ya.”
Oh, and those games, the annual match-up between “his” team and Carlotti Toyota, a rivalry that was Bridgeford’s counterpart to the media-driven perpetual conflict between the Red Sox v. Yankees in the bigs. For thirty years Pat had pretended to hate Willy Carlotti, him with his franchises all over town – hell, the entire Northeast. But his competition had the luck and foresight to do what smart Wall Street investors used to do– diversify, with the Toyotas on Rte. 50, the Hyundais on Rte. 4. And the guy had cornered the high-end market as well, with Audis and Volvos. Nothing domestic. Pat used to kid his potential customers. “Don't bother going over to ‘see Willy,’ he'd tell them. “His name used to be Smith before he changed it.”
Pat was just about to take down the wooden plaque covered in a brass plate etched with the script: “Patrick Costello, Jr. Bridgeford Jaycees Man of the Year 1990,” when he heard the “beep beep beep.” The tow truck was here again.
Out in the lot, he saw that the tow truck was backing the ‘06 Town and Country into a empty space between a Jeep Cherokee and a Mountaineer, both new models. Pat didn't care if it were a recession or a depression – you don't park a repo with the ‘09s. “Don't unhook it just yet, Vito. It’s got to be moved.”
The operator of the tow truck gave Pat a look that would have curdled milk. Vito chomped down hard on the burning cigar and thrust a padded manila envelope containing the plates into Pat’s hands.
“Rough?”
Vito grunted. “They're all rough. The lady came running after me down the street, kid in her arms. ‘How am I supposed to make the payments if I can't get to work?’ she screams.” For some reason, this reminded Pat of Marilyn’s last day again. “I'll tell ya, Patrick, I'm this close to packin’ it in.” With that, Vito headed across the street for a cup o’ joe.
The beep-beep-beep sound occurred again and within seconds Tom was standing at his boss’s side. “This just came for you,” he said. “Looks like it’s from Corporate.”
Pat shrugged and stuck the Fed Ex delivery under his arm. The cardboard envelope was flat and thin, similar to the one that had held the parent loan application form to help pay for Jason’s college tuition.
“Aren't you gonna open it?”
“Why? I already know what it says. How’s Jennifer?”
“Aw, you know how it is, Pat,"Tom said. She has some good days, some bad days. Which reminds me--”
“Please God, please,” Pat silently prayed, “ don't let him ask me about the health insurance premiums again.”
“She has a chemo session this afternoon, and I'd like to um, be there to give her some support. I was wondering if I could sneak out a little early this afternoon. . .”
“What? Am I supposed to handle all these herds o’ customers myself?” With an exaggerated motion, Pat waved his hand across the lot, which except for all the cars gathering dust, was a concrete desert devoid of people. With the same arm, he grabbed Tom’s shoulder. “I'm just givin’ ya heat. Jeez. Take off. Tell Jennifer we're all praying for–uh, give Jennifer our love.”
Pat stood there in the dismal car lot for a long time. He looked kitty-corner across the street at the Dunkin Donuts, formerly a KFC, before that a string of pizzerias, both national franchises and local establishments, failing and falling, one after another. He thought about the town itself, ever-changing, but lately seeming to go in one sad direction. He saw the boarded-up stores downtown, the deserted billiard ball factory, the abandoned gas stations, their tanks long exhumed, with their flat concrete islands serving as permanent monuments . And he saw a future burdened with real estate plots that would be difficult if not impossible to be sold: the glass enclosed showrooms, the huge attached garages with empty bays, the concrete lots more expansive than that of a shopping mall.
To noone in particular Pat uttered an loud expletive, and with a healthy trot headed across the lot into the showroom. Like a thief he tore through the vertical file atop his desk until he found the manila folder he was looking for – and the address. Within seconds he was back going across the lot – this time, running.
He threw the license plates, still in their Jiffy bag, onto the passenger side of the SUV. In an instant he had climbed into the cab of the tow truck, where, in true Vito-style, the ignition key had been left. Pat started her up, and within seconds cleared both the truck and its towed vehicle relatively smoothly, although he may have side-swiped the
Mountaineer, he didn't know. Didn't care.
On the way out of the lot onto Rte. 9, the crane-like tow brushed the string of multi-colored plastic flags. Pat remembered the day a couple of years previous when he and Tom got the ladders and strung those little flags up for the town-wide Bridgeford Bonanza Days. Corporate had sung quite a different tune back then, actually springing for a 30-foot helium-filled King Kong that billowed in the wind and seized attention for miles around. It was a lot of work, not just for himself but for Tom and Marilyn and --oh, God, who were those two part-time sales guys --had he forgotten their names already? But everybody had fun. There were free hot dogs and soda for everyone and ice cream and balloons for the kids.