For Ron, it was only bad for the first two weeks.
That infernal song – a whining rendition of "Do Your Ears Hang Low?" – became his life's soundtrack. It played in his dreams and over breakfast, in the shower, at church and on the street.
In his early days on the job, says the rugged 42-year-old, the tune so thoroughly invaded his brain that he sometimes thought he was being followed.
"You're constantly looking for an ice cream truck."
It got better, though – his mind learned to block out the music, even as it blared from his truck. Now, five years after he first got behind the wheel and flipped on that nails-on-a-chalkboard tune, he doesn't even hear it.
It's noon on a Friday, and Ron is pulling his '88 Ford Econoline van – which somebody once used for dog grooming – out of a lot on E. 34th Street in Tampa.
Time to get down to business.
Ron and his fellow drivers at Ice Cream Patrol roll out six days a week, bringing 39 ice cream varieties to your doorstep. In converted vans, ambulances and an old Krispy Kreme truck, the 10 Ice Cream Men and two Ice Cream Women blanket Tampa Bay. One heads downtown, another goes to Lakeland. Ron, who asked that his last name not be published, takes his Ford to the massive maze of subdivisions known as Riverview. He's seen the area evolve: the orange groves razed, the houses built and the families moving in. And he's sold ice cream at every step along the way.
"A monkey could do this job if he had a driver's license and could do math," Ron says, a Full Flavor 305 cigarette between his fingers. He wears a dark pair of aviators; the skin around the glasses is well-tanned. His goatee is flecked with white, his hair receding slightly at the sides. His gray "Ice Cream Patrol" shirt hides the dirt it collects as he drives around Riverview's construction sites. His khaki pants hang low, not that any of his customers will see them. Ice Cream Men are like newscasters – cut off at the waist.
Ron drives with his left foot as he maneuvers the circular neigborhoods – it's easier to get to the sales window that way. These are safe, deed-restricted communities with identical houses and perfectly manicured lawns. Riverview is predictable, and so are the customers – Ron guesses 75 percent are regulars. The only thing he can't be sure of is which ice cream will be the biggest seller.
"It all depends on the taste buds of the day," he says with a laugh.
The Ice Cream Man works with the controlled ease of a seasoned schoolteacher. The job isn't glamorous – AC is of little use when there's an open window on the side of your truck, and tracing cul-de-sacs at the breakneck speed of seven miles an hour can get a little tiresome. But Ron enjoys seeing kids become transfixed as he comes around the corner, and he finds a way to keep his cool when a 6-year-old takes ten minutes to choose a flavor.
It's only when someone stops him to buy a 25-cent Blow Pop, a transaction on which he barely breaks even when you factor in today's gas prices, that he can get ticked off.
"The name of the game is to get out and hustle," he says, a small metal fan whirring behind his head. It's important for his ride to be as comfortable as possible; "I practically live in my truck," Ron says. He keeps a picture of his 14-year-old daughter, who lives in New York with her mother, taped to the dash, and an ashtray next to the steering wheel. He installed a radio, which stays permanently tuned to 94.9 FM. It's superstition – if the station is changed, sales will drop. And the Ice Cream Man can't have that. "I'm out here to make a living."
With a reporter in the car, Ron has been told not to talk about money by Ice Cream Patrol's owner, Juan Toro. His company is in a constant battle with independent operators (it only takes a few thousand bucks to set yourself up with a truck), and he doesn't want this article to encourage any would-be competitors.
There are at least three other trucks working Ron's territory on Friday, each with varying prices and products. The ice cream wars can be vicious. Other operators have told police he was a child molester, Ron says, and that he was dealing products more addictive than frozen sugar. (Police records in Hillsborough County come up blank on both charges.) His competitors may cut into his business among the ever-present construction crews in Riverview, but Ron is sure that his relationship with neighborhood youngsters is safe. "Kids are loyal to their ice cream man," he says. "Adults? They don't care. That's why I love kids – they don't know how to screw people over yet. God bless 'em." Often, Ron knows what kids want before they walk out the front door, like a bartender with his regulars. "I got one kid," he says proudly, "I started serving him when he was in his mother's belly."
"Sometimes I feel guilty about … ripping off kids and their allowance," he says after a little girl spends $8. She would've spent the entire $20 she had in her hand if Ron hadn't reminded her to save some for tomorrow. He remembers being a kid in upstate New York and blowing all his money at Mister Softee, and he knows she'll wish she had it back once her Choco Tacos are gone. "But then I think, 'Somebody's gotta do it, right?'"
He's still got a few hours left in his shift. So the Ice Cream Man throws the truck into drive, heads off around yet another corner and plays the song that only he can't hear.
This article appears in May 18-24, 2005.