Waiting all week for a Monday sundae
Kids kept one ear cocked for the sound of the ice cream truck coming down the street.
Every Monday around 3 p.m., some sharpeared kid would hear bells on the next block and yell, “American Bar is coming!” Kids scrambled in every direction to get a dime, as Gus, the ice cream man, drove his sparkling white truck onto Clarendon Drive on Long Island, New York.
My dad, Tony, loved ice cream and Monday was his day off. He’d buy ice cream for any kid who didn’t have money. Gus knew a good thing when he saw it and parked his truck right in front of our house.
It was the ’50s, and Gus, a Greek immigrant, owned his American Bar truck. Painted on the side of the truck were colorful photos of ice cream sandwiches, bars, sundaes and pops, so that little kids who couldn’t read could just point.
My mom, Lee, approved of Gus’s neatly ironed white pants and starched shirt, black bow tie, and white captain’s hat with a black brim. His highly polished black shoes didn’t escape her notice either.
Gus knew everyone’s favorite ice cream. He’d try to get me to order something else, but I stuck with vanilla and my sister, Fran, always got a sundae cup. My brother, Joe, got whatever was new and colorful. When I started dating, I was surprised that Gus knew my boyfriend’s name. “Joey, what are you doing on this street?” he asked.
Years later, our son, another Joe, got to meet the American Bar man. Gus handed him a vanilla pop: “Your mama’s favorite.” Joe was impressed— for his fifth birthday, he asked for a change-maker, so he could be like Gus.