Ice Cream Shop

“Ice Cream Shop” by Holly Sheidenberger

My dad made me get a job scooping ice cream. Today’s my first day.

A tall man in a tailored black suit walks in. He’s alone.

His polished black shoes clack aggressively on the tile floor. He monitors the time on a gleaming gold watch.

I’m intimidated.

He steps up to the counter. “One scoop of bubble gum. On a cone, please.”

Bubble gum? Really?

Dumbfounded, I scoop his cone.

Then in one foul motion, the vivid pink ice cream falls off and splashes down on his raven-black shoe.

Dread descends like a thundercloud. I’m going to be yelled at. And probably fired.

But the man smirks.

“I’m going to need another scoop of bubble gum,” he says.

This time I deliver it successfully. He turns and saunters out, never even bothering to clean his shoe.

I don’t know who that guy was, but I want to grow up to be him someday.