The Ice Cream Giant
by
Robert Tell
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010
License Notes
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Note: The story in this book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons -- living or dead -- is purely coincidental."
Also by Robert Tell at Smashwords:
Thirsty Planet: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/9509
Dementia Diary: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/9565
Other Work: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bobtell
The Ice Cream Giant
Things are often not as they appear and neither are people. Think about it. You believe you know someone and, suddenly, you don’t recognize him or her. Even your wife or husband…even your kids or parents…it doesn’t matter. The more intimate the relationship, the bigger the surprise.
Take me for example. The Ice Cream Giant. A $40,000-a-year entrepreneur. That’s who I am now, but not who I used to be. My wife, Clara, knows me as Larry Schwartz, fifty-six years old, paunchy (from eating too much of my inventory), slightly bald—but only on the very top of my graying head—and generally happy and easygoing. It’s a disguise that has worked well for me for the last twelve years, although I must admit that sometimes it’s been a strain.
The old me was…
…but I’m getting ahead of myself.
***
On this particular summer Sunday in Deerfield Beach, business is brisk. It’s a hot and humid Florida evening. The last of the after-movie crowd has left. The rocky road and strawberry shortcake canisters are sold out, and all the other flavors are scraping bottom. The cash register is full.
I’ve put the “closed” sign on the door, lowered the lights and am cleaning up. Usually, Sandra, my counter girl does this, but I gave her the evening off. She went to a movie with Harold, her latest, and I’m a softy for romance. Anyway, I really don’t mind cleaning up, especially after a day like today.
The door opens and I realize that I’ve forgotten to lock it. A young man enters. He is African-American, about six foot tall, and sparsely bearded. In spite of the hair mask, I can tell he isn’t more than nineteen. He wears a green t-shirt that says “Charade” on the front in faded orange letters, and faded blue jean cutoffs. His biceps protrude from his t-shirt sleeves making him appear like a cross between Charles Atlas and Arnold Schwartznegger. He doesn’t look friendly.
“We’re closed,” I say.
“I don’t want Ice cream.” His voice is higher pitched than I expect considering his muscular appearance.
Uh oh! I think, and prepare myself for the gun that must be hidden in a pocket. My eye goes to his right hand, which is indeed in his pocket. His eyes follow mine. I have no gun of my own in the store but, if I can get to him fast enough, I do know some defensive martial arts techniques that could disarm him. I begin to calculate the time-distance issue and the chance of success. It doesn't look promising.
I try to sound calm. “Then what can I do for you?” I ask. I don’t like the way my voice comes out. To me, it sounds weak and I don’t want to project weakness right now.
My visitor takes his hand out of his pocket and I tense for the mugging. Then I smile from ear to ear. Instead of a gun, an envelope appears in his right hand. He smiles back at me and asks, “Are you Larry Schwartz?”
“You’ve caught me,” I reply. “Do I know you?” My voice sounds steadier to me now and I feel myself relaxing. Whatever this kid wants, I can handle it. How much damage can he inflict with an envelope? Little did I know.
“A guy gave me fifty bucks to deliver this to you,” the boy says. “So take it and I’ll leave so you can finish closing up.” As I said, people are often not what they appear to be.
I take the envelope. It’s a standard business size, sealed, with “Larry Schwartz, The Ice Cream Giant,” neatly printed on the front. I put it on the counter unopened for now. There’s only one person I know that would spend fifty dollars to deliver a message when a cheap postage stamp would do the trick. He always did have a flair for the dramatic gesture.
“Who gave this to you and where and when did he do it?”
“I was on the beach in Ft. Lauderdale today,” he says. “I go there every day looking for ways to make a buck. Sometimes I find coins for my next meal buried in the sand. Anyway, a guy I never saw before came up to me. He was a big fat guy wearing a blue bathing suit. He says, ‘hey kid, would you like to make fifty.’ I say, ‘do I have to do anything illegal?’ He says, ‘nope. Just deliver this to the Ice Cream Giant in Deerfield.’ I agree and he leaves. That’s all I can tell you.”
“What did the guy look like?”
Grinning from ear to ear, he says, “As I said, he was a real porker. He was also white and all you white guys look alike to me.”
I decide not to go there. “Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”
The kid hangs around a few minutes like he’s expecting a tip or something. But he’s already made fifty bucks and I don’t know yet whether he’s done me a favor or not. Finally, he says “’bye,” and I’m again alone in the shop. Except now there’s an envelope on the counter.
Why am I so afraid to open it?
***
The drive from the shop to our house in Coral Springs takes about half an hour. Sometimes longer if the snowbirds are around. Snowbirds are great for the ice cream business but they sure do clog the roads and beaches. A neighbor says that happiness is a New Yorker going north with a Canadian under each arm. Maybe. But my happiness is a full cash register and I usually make enough in “season” to carry me the rest of the year.
Average speed to go anywhere by car between November and May is fifteen miles an hour, even if you take I-95. The rest of the year, that freeway is less congested but more deadly. Twenty year olds doing eighty and eighty year olds doing twenty. Tonight I’m behind a guy creeping along in a 1988 Bonneville, but I can’t pass him because of the maniacs zooming along in the adjacent lane. He gets off at the next exit without a signal. The jokers say that Florida cars are special built without directional signals. Sometimes this is believable.
Taillights pop on and traffic screeches to a stop. It doesn’t matter though. My mind is on other things. In fact it’s racing. My hands on the wheel are sweaty and it isn’t the humidity. Inside the envelope, the words of the letter are brief, but what it says could change my life. Again.
“I’M HERE FRANK AND I KNOW WHERE TO FIND YOU.”
So I’ve started worrying. Actually, for fifteen years I never stopped worrying. Sooner or later this had to happen. I sometimes manage to push it to the back of my mind, but it’s always there, nagging at me, snickering smugly about how my past will someday ruin my future. Tonight it no longer sleeps in a corner of my mind. It’s front and center and I know…how did they used to say it…the jig is up.
But I’m accustomed to the jig being up. The last time that happened I built a new life and I like it. So what do I tell Clara? The truth could kill our marriage. Oh, let me talk about our marriage. It ain't perfect. What marriage is? But it’s been the best thing that ever happened to me and I’ll do anything to protect it. Even lie if I have to. After all, my whole identity with Clara is a lie. So what? She’s happy. I’m happy. What’s wrong with a lie that makes everyone happy?
I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Sooner or later a lie gets exposed. Then you get into the “Trust” thing and it all falls apart. Any happiness you get from a lie that you used to build a relationship is temporary, ephemeral, can’t last forever. Still, what would you have had me do? Oh, I forget. You still don’t know what I’m talking about. Anyway, here’s my driveway. I’m home.
***
Two weeks that feel like years have passed and everything I've built is falling apart. Clara still doesn't know and it's killing me. She's suspicious, yet she doesn't suspect. I have to tell her soon…tell her that everything she knows about my history is false. But I'm scared.
There was a close call yesterday when Joe phoned. Joe Bick. The guy I double-crossed. The one who spent fifty bucks to send me a hand delivered message. I race for the phone when it rings and beat out Clara by a hair. Thank God.
"I got it," I snap, grabbing the phone inches from her hand.
As she stomps out of the room I hear her mutter, "What's going on with you Larry? You're acting like a guy with secrets to keep." She meant for me to hear that. It was obvious. Well, I do have secrets to keep, don't I?
With my hand over the mouthpiece, my voice follows her out of the room. "No secrets, Clar. I'll fill you in later." But I doubt she hears. I know she's pissed at me for shutting her out. This is new behavior and cannot last. But how to tell her?
Anyway, into the phone I say, "Hello," hoping for a wrong number.
I'm not that lucky. "Frank…it's Joe." Bick's voice is hostile. It was always hostile. I know I have to see him. Can't stall any longer. But as soon as I do, Larry Schwartz will be history and Frank Foster resurrected.
Who is Frank Foster? Me. I'm Frank Foster. Or I was until fifteen years ago when, for me at least, Frank Foster died and Larry Schwartz was born. What was I thinking? I created a whole new life with this alias, but always knew that it was a house of cards…and that someday, I'd be playing the joker. Seems like that time is now, but I'm not laughing.
"Frank,
are you there?"
"I'm here," I grunt, mind spinning,
grasping for words that will give away nothing if Clara is listening.
"So let me repeat what I told you yesterday," Bick says. "Either we meet by tomorrow or I tell the wife. Which will it be?"
I feel trapped. "Meet me at my store at 9 am." I suggest. "We'll have privacy. No one buys ice cream at 9 am. You know where it is?"
"Are you kidding?" Bick chuckles. "I've had my eye on you for a month. Had to be sure it was you before I made contact. You've changed. You're older, fatter, balder…I don't know…different. And yet the same. Yes, I know where the store is. I'll see you there at 9. And no funny business, Frank. I'm armed."
After I click off, I call to Clara. "I'm off, hon."
Too quickly she appears. She had to have been listening. And she gets right down to business.
"Larry, we have to talk."
Oh Oh. When a woman says that, a guy knows he's in big trouble.
***
Joe Bick sprawls on one of my ice cream parlor chairs, his puffy buttocks hiding the rather small cushion on which he is perched. He is huge. Much fatter than I remember. He was always obese, way back in our high school years when we first struck up a friendship in the cafeteria, but now he's enormous.
Joe always liked ice cream too. So here he is, facing me across one of our small faux marble top tables, one elbow on the table, a rocky road waffle cone clutched in his beefy hand. It's his second one in half an hour—on the house, of course. His Neiman Marcus tee shirt is already spotted here and there with drippings, reminding me of his natural sloppiness. That, at least, hasn't changed.
"That's all you want?" I ask.
I am incredulous. For fifteen years I dreaded this confrontation and hoped it would never happen. Now it has and, shocker, it's going okay. I know, I know. You still have no idea about what happened way back then to cause me to go into hiding from this corpulent former buddy. Well, don't hang up. You're about to find out.
"Look, Frank……." Bick's tone is surprisingly unthreatening.
"Call me Larry, willya?" I interrupt.
Bick scowls. "I can't get used to that, but OK, I’ll try." He takes a bite from his cone, and claps his other hand to his head."
"What's wrong," I ask, although I know. I've been selling ice cream for a long time.
He squints. "Ice cream sinus headache. " He sighs deeply and continues. "I'm OK now. Boy, that's cold. Why do you keep it so cold? Anyway…Larry…I was very angry for a while. I fantasized revenge constantly. But then I met Arnie, and my love for him crowded out my fury at you. I even think I understand why you walked out on me."
"You do?"
He grins. "Yeah. Look, what's the first thing you did when you left? You got married. To a woman." He drags out each word, slowly. "So…you're…not…gay…are…you? You never were."
He has me cold. "You're right on target, Joe. For a long time, I thought I was. I was young and had to sort things out. Most of my friends were gay. It was so easy to go along with the herd. But then something happened. I woke up one morning and realized that I was pretending, that I didn't really want your lifestyle. So I left. While you were out, I just ran away. It was cowardly, I admit, and I'm sure it hurt you. I'm truly sorry."
"I was devastated Fr…uh, Larry." Bick locks onto me with his steel grey eyes. "But the worst part wasn't our relationship tanking. It was the way our professional partnership ended. You'd been my buddy on the beat since we were police cadets. It wasn't easy to explain your disappearance and they guessed the truth."
"I know," I say, looking at my knuckles. They're white from gripping the table too hard. "And I wasn't there to share to pain when the other cops arrived."
Joe swallows the last of his cone and asks for another. It's his third in less than an hour. Of course, I serve it to him. "In those days," he says, "as you well know, it was a different world. None of the guys had come out of the closet yet. The stigma was enormous and for gay cops it was a nightmare trying to keep it secret. When the guys came for me, they beat the shit out of me. I was in the hospital for weeks and, when I got out, I found out I was off the force. You should have been there to enjoy your half of the beating I took."
I nod. "I know, Joe. But I'd already left town and changed my name. If I'd stayed, I would have been called as a witness at the hearing that got you canned. I couldn't bear that. And remember, I was fired too—in absentia."
Bick shrugs. "For the longest time, I thought that you were the guy who squealed…who sold me out to the department. When I found out it was Tony Pinto, that SOB, I was shocked. But that's when I decided to forgive you."
I'm sure the relief shows on my face. "Tony Pinto?" I whisper. "I had no idea. I guessed that you blamed me…it was one of the main reasons I went underground. I figured you'd kill me if you ever found me. And you said you were armed today."
Bick chuckles. "I was just playing with you. I always pack one. Don't worry, it's registered and legal. I'm a private eye now and I have to tell you…I'm making a fortune. So all I really want from you is closure—a handshake and your agreement to never tell Arnie about our past."
"That's it?" I'm astonished. "Anyway, I don't even know Arnie and we'll probably never meet. So," I say, stretching out my hand, "you have a deal…on one condition."
Bick raises an eyebrow as he grasps my hand in his chubby paw…the one not clutching the bottom dregs of his third ice cream cone. "And the condition is?"
"To never tell Clara about our past."
"That's easy pal. You don't know Arnie and I don't know Clara. Mum's the word."
I exhale loudly. "You know," I say, "I'm HIV negative, Joe. So I never felt compelled to tell Clara about my youthful experiment with gayness. Otherwise, our relationship is very open—but she's been very suspicious of my squirrelly behavior since I got your note…"
He beams from ear to ear. "Yeah. Wasn't that a cute way to say hello?"
I frown. "I don't know about cute. Dramatic maybe. Not cute. Anyway, she made me promise to tell her everything when I get home today. I thought I'd have no choice. Now I'm not sure what the hell to tell her."
Bick and I shake hands once more and say goodbye, probably for the last time. Even though we'd been lovers, many long years ago, I feel no loss, no regret, only massive relief that the need for my masquerade is over. Regardless, my name can now remain Larry Schwartz for the rest of my days. I don't need Frank Foster and he doesn't need me.
The funny thing is that I decide to tell Clara the truth and she says she knew it all along. She checked me out thoroughly before we were married and heard that I might be bi-sexual. It didn't bother her because she's bi-sexual too.
As I said, things are often not as they appear and neither are the people. Even your wife or husband…even your kids or parents…it doesn’t matter. The more intimate the relationship, the bigger the surprise.
######
Dear Reader:
Thank you for taking the time to read "The Ice Cream Giant." If you enjoyed it and would like to sample the author's other work, please check out the following link:
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bobtell
*Thirsty Planet — An Adventure Novel of Future Earth
*Dementia Diary, A Caregivers Journal — A book length memoir
*Bard Memorial Hospital — Poems and Narrative Miniatures
*25 — A Psychological Crime Brief
*Conflict of Values — Faith vs. Medicine
*He Says…She Says — A Spoof on the Eternal Battle of the Sexes
*A Question of Judgment — Was it Malpractice or an Error of Judgment?
*Parable — A Tongue in Cheek Fable About Arms Merchants
*The Medical Director's Divorce — Tragedy Strikes a Modern Hospital
If you like these books, a brief review on the appropriate Smashwords page is always appreciated. Thank you.
About The Author
Robert Tell lives in Farmington Hills, Michigan. His award winning poetry, and his columns, articles, and creative non-fiction, have appeared in many periodicals.
Bob's novel, "Thirsty planet," is a green adventure tale about future Earth. It was originally published in a print edition with the generous support of a grant from Arts Council England.
Bob's semi-fictional memoir "Dementia Diary, A Caregiver's Journal," uses compassion and humor to describe his mother's long struggle with dementia. The book has won much praise from geriatric care professionals everywhere.
"Bard Memorial Hospital" is his first book length collection of poetry and what he calls "miniature narratives" dealing with dramatic moments in hospitals.
Bob is a member of Detroit Working Writers, a 110-year-old group of published writers. He currently devotes himself full time to writing in a variety of genres. Bob was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York and educated in Public Health and English at Columbia and Long Island Universities. He nurtured his writing habit while working as a hospital administrator, health policy professor, and business owner.
Bob's books are available in print editions from on-line booksellers or purchased as e-books in all digital formats.
Connect with Bob Online:
Website: http://bobtell.com/
email: mailto:bobtell@mac.com