(Donna Block*)

Don't Ever Let the Ice Cream Melt by NICK MEADOR

The tale of a college student who takes a last-resort summer break job driving an ice cream truck through Detroit's northern suburbs.

Before I first applied to veterinary school, I spent my college summer breaks trying to accumulate the desired amount of hands-on animal experience. Unfortunately, no veterinarians had an excess of work to offer, so that meant taking a part-time, unpaid position following one around. Since this provided no monetary income, I had to find paid work with flexibility to fill in the rest of the weekdays. In the metro Detroit area -- which was already in a drought of jobs, in addition to the lag in the national economy -- this sometimes meant stooping to new lows. That's why, in the summer of 2004, I responded to an ad in a local newspaper from CK Ice Cream, a delivery and bulk sales business that was hiring truck drivers.

At first, I was hesitant. Had I descended so far that I was willing to subject myself to ridicule by suburban mothers and their grubby little children? On the other hand, the idea of the job had a sort of twisted charm to it. I thought of my childhood summers, when every sunny day over 75 degrees was spent in our backyard pool. Whenever we heard the ice cream truck jingle within a quarter mile distance, we would leave the water, grab whatever loose change we could find, and start running down the street.

It is generally assumed that ice cream men are creeps. But who cared if I got made fun of, if I knew a certain number of people would also envy me. I called the number from the ad and a young woman answered the phone. I told her I was interested in the job, and she invited me in for an interview without much questioning. It seemed like they weren't highly selective -- or maybe they were desperate. I agreed to come in and learn more about the job, and see if it was right for me.

The following Monday, I drove to the shop around noon. South on I-75, then east on I-696. It was located in Center Line, an industrial wasteland on the northern border of Detroit. Approaching the building, it looked more like an auto mechanic shop than an ice scream store, and when I think back, I guess that's what it really was. They weren't an ice cream store like Dairy Queen or a custard shop. They only dealt ice cream in bulk amounts and managed the trucks. So in terms of what actually went on there, auto maintenance far outweighed anything having to do with ice cream.

A ten-foot chain link fence surrounded the entire property, which was encircled by large warehouses. Along the fence, yellow and white ice cream trucks of varying age and condition were plugged into electrical circuits. As I would later learn, this was to keep the freezers running while the engines were off.

I parked my car and walked to the door on the side of the building. The small waiting room had a few plastic chairs against the wall, and a tiny television above the counter displayed a daytime talk show. I approached the counter, behind which a short brunette stood, flipping through some papers. I figured she was the young girl who answered my call.

"Hi. I'm Ken Roberts. I'm here for the truck driving job."

"Oh yeah--Hey. Did you have trouble finding it?"

"No," I thought to myself. "I just followed my gut instinct towards hell."

Out loud, I said, "Nope, I used Mapquest."

"Well my name is Amanda."

Amanda explained that the truck drivers earn 25 percent commission of whatever they sell, and are paid the next day in cash. It would be untaxed, but there wouldn't be any guarantee of an income. She said that I could ride with someone today, and if it seemed tolerable, they would start me on a route in a few days.

After I had waited for about a half hour, the man chosen to instruct me walked into the room. His name was Carl, a heavy, sweaty man wearing a purple basketball jersey. We introduced ourselves with a hand shake, and then he took me out to his truck. He gave a brief rundown of the multitude of ice cream products that they carry.

"The first thing you do when you come in is take an inventory," said Carl, holding a clipboard with a yellow sheet in his hands. On the sheet was a checklist that we would use to order ice cream from the main freezer. Basically, you fill in the gaps in your truck's stock before you go out, and then check again at night to see how much you sold.

Once you finish inventory, you turn on the truck, unplug the external electrical cord, and drive through the ice cream pick-up station. You hand the staff lady your yellow sheet, and she brings out the boxes of ice cream. Then you pull to the side of the parking lot and sort the products into their designated spots in the truck freezer.

As Carl started cutting open the boxboard containers with a razor blade, he said, "You want to hurry during this part. That's lesson number one in the ice cream business. DON'T EVER LET THE FUCKING ICE CREAM MELT!" I tried my best to commit it to memory. I didn't want to let sweaty Carl down. He also told me that I was allowed to sell candy, pop, or bottled water for extra profit, and I didn't have to give anything to our boss.

Carl's truck was one of the least attractive in a lot of really worn down vehicles. He told me that it had been converted from an old postal truck. It was painted white, unlike the standard yellow. I sat in a metal kitchen chair in the passenger spot -- which, he informed me, was sometimes occupied by his girlfriend on sales routes -- and we left for his route in New Baltimore, almost 25 miles northeast of Center Line. On the highway, my eyes started to burn because of all the dust and debris coming in the windows. We were, after all, going 70 miles per hour on a four-lane highway in a dilapidated, rickety truck. Plus, I wasn't wearing a seatbelt, because -- lo and behold -- the kitchen chair was not equipped with one.

We exited I-94 at 23 Mile Rd, in the sprawl-iest of all Detroit's suburban sprawl. These were the farms-turned-subdivisions filled with endless rows of identical ranch houses, purchased mostly by people who grew up between 8 and 12 Mile, in withering towns like East Detroit (now Eastpointe) and Roseville.

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