Had a biopsy yesterday. Need one more, I fear. My time may grow shorter than I thought it would. And I never thought I’d make it this far.

I’ve been an asshole for so long that now, looking back, I’m both amused and ashamed. But mostly amused.

Because when I was a quiet, abused kid, I had coping mechanisms that, looking back, I didn’t think of that way.

In the hot summers, from 1965-1973, I and my siblings had a few things to look forward to. It wasn’t much. But to us, any Oasis in a sea of barren sand was a treasure. One of them was the summer ritual of the Good Humor man making his rounds, jingling the bells in his open cab truck.

He had ice cream sandwiches. The Good Humor Bar. Toasted Almond and Chocolate Eclairs. Nutty Buddies. Twin pops.

When I was younger it all seemed so innocent. But it wasn’t. Maybe nothing ever was; I don’t know. Seemed like it. Well…for a while. And that was okay with me.

He’d get out from the right side when you stood by the side of Dutch Ship Road. In the back of the truck and on the right side there were small doors from which incredible treats came. He wore a change holder on his belt. It was loaded with coins. That was part of the ritual. He was always nice, polite, very kid-friendly. He was our hero.

David Stinchcomb ran a Kool-Aide stand. He was very good to my younger sister and gave her free drinks in Dixie cups. No small thing considering he lived on Edgewater Road and had hills to negotiate on his bike.

God bless him. Her life was already so miserable.

Then of course we had Sealtest dairy. They delivered fresh milk in glass jugs with foil caps. Mom could leave a list in an aluminum box with a cork lining. Butter, milk, eggs, orange juice and even ice cream sandwiches.

But my favorite was always Mister Softee. I can never forget the creepy ice cream cone-headed mascot or that magical music box. I could hear his truck all the way down in Boulevard Park, across Gray’s Creek, and I knew we were next. What magical treats he had! Soft Ice cream in cones. Sprinkles. Round ice cream sandwiches called Cartwheels. And everyone’s favorite, the banana boat, a banana split served in a plastic boat.

NEMISIS

Sometime between these years my behaviour changed. Out of sight from my house, over on Edgewater Road, I attacked without reserve. Without remorse. Without mercy.

Toward the end. Before my father heard the shit I was doing and made me spend my summers working for him in his Glen Burnie warehouse so he wouldn’t get any more phone calls from outraged neighbors.

The first target was the Good Humor man. He often had a young teen girl riding the hump on the right side. She was a “helper”.

Bullshit. What was a grown man doing riding around with different girls doing? I had no money for ice cream and that pissed me off. The beautiful older girls pissed me off. Talking to me in baby language. Fuck that; I asked Mr. Dressed-in-white, “Does her mother know your helper is sucking you off?”

And “Does her dad know she sucks your dick?” Mr. White Suit was not listening to any more of this. He asked me my address. I didn’t give it and he forbade me ever to approach his truck again.

On to Mister Softee. One day all I had was a nickel. I asked what I could get. This motherfucker gave me the frights. Sometimes you just know, especially if you’re a victim. He was a monster in an inverted sailor’s hat, a slob never having any business handling food. He said that for a nickel he could maybe give me a squirt of ice cream in my hand. Now there’s no way I could get a hand far enough in the window to get a squirt of ice cream in my hand. That meant I would have to go inside the truck. And I wasn’t about to let myself fall for a trap like that.

I said, “Fuck you, asshole. Does your wife know you trick little boys inside your truck?”

Yes. At 12-years-old I did have such a vocabulary.

He got mad but just closed his window and drove on.

But I wasn’t done. I was on a mission. I wanted him to quit and go away. It got to where even if there were other kids waiting, if he saw me, he wouldn’t stop. So I began to hide in the woods. When he stopped and opened the window, I’d come out and ask him if his wife knew he liked to have little boys. I asked him why he came in cream cones before filling them with vanilla ice cream. I told him his wife was with other men while he was working. I said she told me it was because he had a tiny dick.

Twelve years old and I was driving this guy mad. I was an ice cream dude’s terrorist.

And I knew more about sex than anyone else did. The other kids didn’t know half of what I was talking about. But after a while, they got on me for constantly ruining their magic moments with the Mister Softee dude.

One day I popped out of the woods and accused him of something so evil and foul that he asked where I lived. I didn’t answer. He asked the other kids. For once, they stuck up for me. No one told him. Boy was he pissed.

I’d pushed my luck far enough. A friend’s mother sent over a treasure trove of comic books. I knew it was a trick to keep me inside, but it was okay with me. You ever heard of Blackhawk or the Metal Men? I had Justice League, Action Comics, Charlton Comics, Aquaman, you name it. Classics I wish I still had. But…it worked. It drained some of my rage, desperation and idleness.

But I look back, you know? A bit of shame and lots of mirth. Because for a while, I was the kid who was the bane of an adult’s existence. I can still picture him getting into his truck and popping a pill or taking a toke and praying that he would not see me that day.

It was a bad gig. No doubt. But for a while, by acting insanely, I preserved my sanity.

To this day I can’t eat Good Humor or soft serve ice cream.

I’d rather eat thumb tacks dipped in cobra venom.