Friday, August 08, 2008

Ice Cream Man

I had never met Bobby when he was alive and could still talk for himself.  We hospital chaplains often have to get the story from a patient’s family.  But I wasn’t getting much information from his ex-wife, Kim.  Kim was one of our nurses’ aides, and she did double duty that week as the only visitor at Bobby’s bedside in the days after his accident. When he died, she didn’t shed a tear. She just shook her head and sighed, “Oh Bobby.”

I walked Kim out to the hospital parking lot afterwards. She wasn’t carrying leftover flowers because nobody had sent Bobby any ... just a snapshot of Bobby’s dog and a Dale Earnhart cap someone had hung up on one of his IV poles.  “Will you do his funeral?” she asked me, lighting a cigarette. “Yes,” I said.  “But I like to meet with family beforehand, so I can get to know the person a little better.” She shook her head.  “He doesn’t have any family.  Just his daughter, but she won’t come.” “There must be somebody,” I said.  She dropped the cigarette and crushed it with her heel.  “I’ll see what I can do.”

Two days later four people sat down with me in the hospital chapel to talk: Kim, two lanky middle-aged guys with sunburned necks, and Bobby’s daughter, a silent teenager with piercings and a dog chain around her neck.  One guy held up a cigarette, “OK if I smoke?” “Ah, no,” I said.  The other guy gave him an elbow and said, “Yeah, TQ, where’s your manners?” I asked them to tell me about Bobby, but my usual open-ended questions only resulted in shrugs.  “I dunno,” said TQ, “he was just a guy.” The other man said, “Well, he liked his dog.” “Yeah,” said TQ.  “He was really good with that dog.  You can talk about that.”

Kim looked right at me.  “Look, chaplain, Bobby was a screw-up, ok?  Nice guy, but he couldn’t hold a job, he had a drinking problem, and he’s six years overdue on child support.” She picked up her bag.  “The service is at Morning Glory funeral home, the discount place out by the bypass,” she said.  “Keep it upbeat.  And short, okay?” TQ raised a hand.  “Can I bring his dog?”

Then Bobby’s daughter spoke.  “He liked driving the truck,” she said.  “He drove a semi?” I asked.  “No, an ice cream truck,” she said.  “Tasty Cream. You know, those old US mail vans painted yellow and white with a cooler inside?” TQ nodded, “Yeah, he was good at it.  He drove real careful, and he’d always take us other drivers out for beers.  Spend a whole day’s pay on the guys.” “That was a waste,” said Kim.  “Was not,” said TQ.

On the way out I stopped Kim at the door.  “How many people do you expect at the funeral tomorrow?” I said.  “We’re probably it,” she said.  “And the daughter won’t come.  He never paid any attention to her.” “Okay,” I said.  “See you tomorrow.”

The next morning I pulled off the bypass a couple blocks from the funeral home, fifteen minutes before the start of the service.  As I approached the driveway I worried how Bobby’s daughter would manage.  Where she would find the stories and support in years to come?

That is, until I turned into the driveway.  Because there, nearly filling the parking lot, sat rows and rows of yellow and white ice cream trucks.  Each one parked neatly in rows as straight as any white stone at Arlington.

And up on the top step of the discount funeral home, in a black dress, stood Bobby’s daughter, greeting each sad ice cream truck driver with a hug and a smile we’d all remember, long after my words were forgotten.

Broadcast by Jeff Nixa on August 08, 2008
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