My last run of addicted street life was during the summer months of this past year, and it was often well over 90 degrees during the day. The way that I stayed fed was to simply go up to street vendors, tell them that I was homeless and hungry and they would feed me more times than not.
Being that it was hot, and I thought vanilla soft serve would cheer me up i started approaching ice cream trucks in just that way. It was pretty reckless because ice cream isn’t exactly a “stick to your homeless ribs” kind of meal, it was more about the emotional pick up.
“Listen, I'm homeless and I'm having a really rough time, could i please have something vanilla?”
That always worked too, but there is one ice cream man worth mentioning.
He told me to look at myself, he told me I looked like “dog shit”. He told me that I was a handsome guy who was blessed to have all of my hair (he wasn't similarly blessed), and that I was throwing my life away. He then gave me a big vanilla soft serve with chocolate sprinkles and told me he didn't want to see me again.
The ice cream didn't cheer me up, but i never forgot that interaction with that ice cream man with a thick Italian Brooklyn accent. The truth delivered in that accent cuts in a way that sticks in you.
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