SCOOPS

VILE SELF PORTRAITS, CHAPTER SEVEN

---

It was a brilliant Sunday afternoon. I was leaning against the counter watching traffic flow to and from downtown. The cars sailed past lazily, one after another. A balmy breeze pushed the green leaves. I had a blank pad of paper and a black ballpoint pen. The register read zero zero zero. I wore my pink Scoops t-shirt, cut-off jean shorts, and a fudge-smudged white apron. My fingers were tinted purple. The soft serve machine grumbled and mumbled and the refrigerator spewed its electric chill.

I was trying to write a poem.

For a girl.

A square sedan pulled up and a woman of about thirty-five jumped out. She didn’t really jump out, but I remember thinking she didn’t look so bad and that, if I had the chance, I would’ve fucked her—a thought I had about most women when I was sixteen. She came to me in a thrift-store sundress with gleaming tan legs. Her eyes were ground cinnamon, half-hidden by sunglasses.

I opened the window.

"Hey, how’s it going?" she said, showing me her shiny teeth. Her voice was velvet. She studied the menu. It was simple, just a list of flavors and either one, two, or three scoops. Sundaes. Milkshakes. Banana splits. Soft serve. Small, medium, or large. Sprinkles cost a quarter. Chocolate or rainbow. Cup or cone.

I ogled her and wondered what color her nipples were.

"Hi there, what can I get forya?"

"Hmmm… I’m just pickin’ up somethin’ for the kids. I’ll have two small chocolate soft serves with rainbow sprinkles."

"Cups or cones?"

"Cups, please."

"Sure, anything for you?" I smirked grossly.

"Oh, I don’t know, I’m watchin’ my weight." She let out a suburban chuckle.

"I’ll make you something special."

I winked and shut the window before she could object. Two minutes later I had the soft serves and an extra-creamy vanilla milkshake ready. I opened the window and heat seeped into the shop. I punched three blank buttons on the register.

Beep beep beep.

“That’s seven dollars, please."

"Even with the milkshake?"

"That’s on me! It’s fat-free," I lied with a smile. She blushed and fumbled through her purse. I could see her sweat. I wanted to lick it like a dribbling cone.

"That’s so nice of you… what’s your name?"

"Joe."

"Well, Joe, you can keep the change!" She handed me $15, flashed her teeth, and strolled back to the square sedan. The wind lifted her dress and gave me a peek. I took a mental snapshot for later, pocketed the cash, and closed the window.

The register read zero zero zero.

I sighed and walked to the rear of the shop. The refrigerator was stuffed with milk jugs and metallic cans of whipped cream. I took a can out, held it upright, and released the nitrous into my lungs. Something reverberated throughout my head, but I couldn’t hear anything. I inhaled the entire can and nearly passed out, steadying myself on the freezer as watery white cream streamed from my mouth.

Inspired, I returned to my blank pad.

They fired me a week later.

---

Paperback/ebook here.

THE BARMAN© IS HERE, SUBSCRIBE NOW

VILE SELF PORTRAITS© AS AN ALTERNATIVE TO DRUG ADDICTION