The Bad Humor Man
We've observed an interesting phenomenon. The Bad Humor Man.
Like all other kids raised on the Flag, Mom & Apple Pie, we associate the ice cream man with happiness and joy. Not so here.
On just about every block, you can find an Heladeria, or ice cream store. They normally stock artesan or gourmet ice cream in a variety of flavors. Unfortunately, without exception, the employees, whether young or old, are permanently crankypants.
Yes, crankypants. Hostile, angry, rude, somehow put out that we are bothering them by asking that they serve their product.
At first I thought it was because we were breaching ice cream protocol. (We breach a lot of protocol, see "Eureka," discussion re coffee before lunch, supra).
I can explain how it works. Generally speaking, one gets two scoops of ice cream when one orders a cone. Protocol says that each scoop must be a different flavor. However, those who know me know that I like my flavors unadulterated. I like what I like, and by gum, I don't want my cherry ice cream polluted with (horror of all horrors) chocolate or something else.
For example, one time in an Heladeria I ordered cherry ice cream and the adolescent staff became belligerent when I said I wanted both scoops cherry. One might reasonably conclude that the hostility is a product of disaffected youth, angry simply by fact of being adolescents. Not so.
Last night Greg walked into an Heladeria in search of good humor. Here is what transpired:
Greg walks into Heladeria. There does not appear to be anyone there. As it is quite a small store front, it is unlikely that the heladero (ice cream man) is there. Just then, a man sitting casually at a cafe table on the sidewalk in front of the Heladeria says, "you do want ice cream?" (in spanish of course).
Although Greg thinks his presence inside an Heladeria should have made it quite obvious that ice cream was exactly what he wanted, he responds, "Si."
The man at the cafe table nods, gets up, goes into the store and walks behind the counter. Not to serve the ice cream of course, but to wake up the ice cream man who is sleeping on the floor behind the counter.
The bleary-eyed ice cream man, in his late 30s or early 40s, serves Greg his ice cream. Greg can't help but feel the resentment radiating off of this man interrupting his nap.
I now buy my ice cream from the friendly corner store where they sell sundries and internet time. It may be pre-packaged (and even imported from the U.S.) but it comes with a smile.
Like all other kids raised on the Flag, Mom & Apple Pie, we associate the ice cream man with happiness and joy. Not so here.
On just about every block, you can find an Heladeria, or ice cream store. They normally stock artesan or gourmet ice cream in a variety of flavors. Unfortunately, without exception, the employees, whether young or old, are permanently crankypants.
Yes, crankypants. Hostile, angry, rude, somehow put out that we are bothering them by asking that they serve their product.
At first I thought it was because we were breaching ice cream protocol. (We breach a lot of protocol, see "Eureka," discussion re coffee before lunch, supra).
I can explain how it works. Generally speaking, one gets two scoops of ice cream when one orders a cone. Protocol says that each scoop must be a different flavor. However, those who know me know that I like my flavors unadulterated. I like what I like, and by gum, I don't want my cherry ice cream polluted with (horror of all horrors) chocolate or something else.
For example, one time in an Heladeria I ordered cherry ice cream and the adolescent staff became belligerent when I said I wanted both scoops cherry. One might reasonably conclude that the hostility is a product of disaffected youth, angry simply by fact of being adolescents. Not so.
Last night Greg walked into an Heladeria in search of good humor. Here is what transpired:
Greg walks into Heladeria. There does not appear to be anyone there. As it is quite a small store front, it is unlikely that the heladero (ice cream man) is there. Just then, a man sitting casually at a cafe table on the sidewalk in front of the Heladeria says, "you do want ice cream?" (in spanish of course).
Although Greg thinks his presence inside an Heladeria should have made it quite obvious that ice cream was exactly what he wanted, he responds, "Si."
The man at the cafe table nods, gets up, goes into the store and walks behind the counter. Not to serve the ice cream of course, but to wake up the ice cream man who is sleeping on the floor behind the counter.
The bleary-eyed ice cream man, in his late 30s or early 40s, serves Greg his ice cream. Greg can't help but feel the resentment radiating off of this man interrupting his nap.
I now buy my ice cream from the friendly corner store where they sell sundries and internet time. It may be pre-packaged (and even imported from the U.S.) but it comes with a smile.
posted by genevieve dara sapir at 11:45 AM
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