Friday, February 3, 2012

The Crack Truck

I don't know how it happened but I've always had a Pavlovian response to ice cream trucks. I hear the magical jingle. I'm instantly excited. I stop what I'm doing, I walk out the door. Period. That's how it is. I'm too old, or I mean I should be too old, but it's beyond my control. I don't even like half the stuff he sells.
This guy, his name is Oswaldo, comes twice a day, every single day, even Thanksgiving, even Christmas. Don't get me wrong, I still have a reaction. I still have the psychic secretion (did you know that's what Pavlov called it when the dogs salivated at the sound of a bell?) but it's a little different. Now I know Oswaldo, I know about his family. I know about his wife Maria. He asks about Mo's wedding, and Harry's black belt and Dar's high school visits. He asks about my goddam dogs, and my poor eyesight. I can't really ask him for a blue popsicle and still feel good about myself.
Shame is a lot stronger than the Pavlovian response.

No comments:

Post a Comment