Meanwhile, Back At The Ice Creamery

Chapter Seven
Meanwhile, Back At The Ice Creamery

Pamela carried the strawberry sundae to the table where the old man was very busy getting his skinny old butt in place on the bench seat; his rollie walker within arm‘s reach. She held a spoonful of peanut sprinkles in the other hand. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t clear if you wanted the peanuts or not.”

“That would be splendid and enchanting,” he replied dryly. She emptied the spoon over the sundae. “But no. I’m allergic.”

“Oh, come on! Are you shitting me!” Pamela tore the visor off her head and thumped it onto the table. “I quit. Honestly. I quit.” She stormed away a few steps, halted and turned. The old man was slowly shakingly delivering a bite of sundae toward his open mouth. “Hey, no!” She rushed back and knocked the spoon from his hand. He sighed forlornly. and raised his eyebrows at her. “What are you doing! I thought you said you were allergic!”

“I was joking,” said the old man. He tipped sideways and looked down at his spoon sitting on the floor in a small puddle of ice cream.

“Well, it wasn’t funny.”

“I want another spoon.”

“Oh, you want another spoon? You can have another spoon alright. I‘ll get you another spoon!” She stormed back to the service counter, reached over, grabbed a giant cup full of plastic spoons, marched back to the table and overturned the cup so the spoons spilled down over the dessert. Several remained on the table while many bounced and skittered off.

Those remaining, the old man fingered through, before finally selecting one.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. He sat there among the sea of spoons and began the arduous process of delivering himself a bite. Pamela drew a cell phone from her pocket and snapped a photo of this. She then grabbed back her visor and returned to her station where she went about updating her facebook status.

A shadow then appeared on the glass doorway followed by a man in black suit and goatee entering the ice creamery. He approached the girl.

“Welcome to - dammit. Thank you for choosing Queen O’ The Dairy Restaurant and Ice Creamery. How may-”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” said Philbert.

“Huh?”

“This wasn’t my choice. I have a question. Tell me: Is there real cheese in your strawberry cheesecake blitz?”

“Well, it’s real cheesecake.”

“So yes, then? There is real cheese?”

“No. There’s real cheesecake.”

“And real cheesecake is made with real cheese. No?”

“I doubt it. Not around here, mister.”

Philbert sighed. “You don’t know for sure?”

“You think I eat this crap?”

“I don’t care what the hell you eat. My butcher may be a vegetarian for all I know. But I damn well expect him to know what he’s selling me!”

“Corn oil,” croaked the old man at the table. He slowly turned his pale old face to them. Philbert jolted backward, thinking this the face of a vampire before him, with a string of red liquid snaking down from the corner of the old man’s mouth. A glance at the man’s strawberry dish then comforted him.

“I beg your pardon, old-timer?” said Philbert

“Corn oil!” spat the old-timer. “Your butcher sells you meat. This place sells you modified corn oils. It’s a chain restaurant; a corporation. That’s how they do things. It’s not profitable to sell real food. If you want real cheese, go to a market or independent grocer.” He then turned ponderously around and began to arrange another mouthful of dessert onto his spoon.

Philbert eyed the girl behind the counter, who looked back tiredly. “Good day then,” he said. He turned his back to her and departed the store.

Pamela squinted, looking through one of many wide windows at the gleaming white Rolls which the black-suited man approached. “Officious prancing snot,” she said aloud. She had no idea what officious meant but she had heard this phrase uttered once in a movie and it had made her giggle. She was then distracted by a new vehicle pulling into the lot; a long sleek black limousine. “Uh oh,” she said. She put her cell phone device away and immediately began assembling a row of six large cups.

The familiar chauffer in black cap came through the door, glancing at the old man, then giving Pamela a perfunctory nod.

“Hi Bruce,” she said. “The usual?”

“Yeah.”

“Three peanut butter chocolate; three cookie dough?”

“No. Your six most popular. One of each.”

Pamela chose to interpreted this as the six varieties most easy to make; in other words, the six most popular with her. She began filling the cups. “So who you got in that limo, Bruce? You can tell me. I won’t breathe a word.”

“You ask every day,” he said, shaking his head.

“When are you gonna tell me?”

“Trust me. It’s no one famous,” said Bruce. At least not yet. He leaned against the counter, looking through the window at the pair of limousines; old and new. Pamela continued filling cups with ice cream. “Who’s in the Rolls?” said Mr. Willis.

“I’m not telling,” she said. Bruce half-grinned and nodded. “See!” she said. “See how I can keep a secret! Come on. Tell me. I know it’s like - a whole family or a famous boy band or something.”

“Nope. One guy.”

“No one guy eats six large blitzes for breakfast every day.”

“This guy does. And if you saw him, you’d believe it.”

“Oh my god! It’s Cee Lo Green!”

“No. But you got the colour right - in a manner of speaking.”

“So he’s black.”

“No more clues. Excuse me. I’m gonna use the can.”