It’s ice cream truck season. Lately, that familiar twinkling tune — you know the one — trills almost nonstop through the streets of Brooklyn, doling out lickable, lopsided renditions of Spongebob and crumbly cones blanketed with chocolate and nuts.
I wonder whether the drivers despise that song they have to sit inside all day long; whether they tear through packages of Q-tips before bed at night, grimacing, trying desperately to wipe the cheery melody from their ears, to no avail. (It’s a sticky one, as addictively saccharine as the frozen treats.)
Or, maybe, they ride their vans like kings in chariots, proud to be beloved by every giddy kid given a dollar for a popsicle. Maybe that ditty is their anthem. Maybe they hum it, smiling, while they get dressed every morning, and whistle it while they wind up and down the same repeated roads. Maybe they feel lucky that their jobs make them drivers of joy.