American Fez

The Ghost of the Good Humor Man

So the old ice cream shack at Golden Sands has finally fallen into the sea, victim of a crumbling shoreline as flimsy as the brittle waffle cones the shack used to serve. I recall how the burden of two scoops of vanilla would result in significant structural damage to the cone that supported them. God forbid anyone requested the additional weight of slivered almonds or other toppings. The trick was to devour your treat as quickly as possible before the cone collapsed and half-licked balls of ice cream tumbled to the ground with a sickening splat. In those days, the shack was always surrounded by many tearful children whose parents could provide no consolation.

But that was many years ago, back when I was an anxious and sweet-toothed adolescent. The shack itself had been abandoned sometime in the early 2000s and was now a weatherbeaten ruin even the town couldn't be bothered to demolish. Occasionally I'd stroll by at sunset, observing how the multicolored delights the shack once contained were all melted away, except for that single tub of unloved and unscooped Stracciatella which was no doubt still inside, cobwebbed in a corner like a rusting drum of toxic waste. Nobody ever ordered Stracciatella as far as I know, but since the owner was Italian he insisted it remain on the menu regardless. I wonder whatever happened to Sal Gelato? His family came to the New World and built a business on a part of it that was now eroded into nothingness. Prego. 

Who would want to eat ice cream here these days anyway? Even the golden sands the area was named after vanished back into the ocean during the late nineteen-eighties, leaving nothing but a narrow band of coastal wasteland. The washed-up sea-glass is still sharp and the seaweed smells like Death's armpits. I think I remember sun-kissed, curvaceous dunes and salty air but I'm not sure anymore. Perhaps it was always this barren and, hypnotized by summer and the illusions of a youthful sugar rush, I just didn't notice back then. It's probably best to let those memories be washed away with the shoreline before they reveal layers of rotting, flaky sentimentality.

And besides, there's a brand new ice cream franchise in the strip mall only a mile down the road, offering a larger variety of flavors in more substantial waffle cones, including fat-free frozen yoghurt and artificially sweetened sorbet. It's called Chill Out Palace, and despite not having water views, yet, you can take your time enjoying your ice cream without fear of it falling on the floor. Of course, I usually order the Stracciatella because that's become my favorite flavor in adulthood. Would Sal Gelato be smug or bitter? I don't know, he never gave much away. Whatever, his work at Golden Sands was definitely done in every sense of the term.

How To Look At The World

How to view the world in these troubled times: Through rose-tinted spectacles?Cheekily, through those over-sized joke shop glasses equipped with a big plastic nose and spiky eyebrows? Through defocused binoculars pointing backwards? With one eye through the cardboard tube from a roll of paper towels, pretending to be Admiral Nelson? Through repeatedly manipulating a child's kaleidoscope? Or perhaps from the relative safety of the International Space Station like the astronaut in David Bowie's song.

Alas, most people apparently view the world these days by constantly refreshing enraged social media posts on their computers and phones. Put your electronics down, I want to say to them, here is an Etch-a-Sketch representation of a human brain and it reveals as much truth about the world as the Internet does. Observe how the brain cells are instantly rearranged when you shake the Etch-a-Sketch and twist its knobs. Have fun with it, go crazy. Now shake your head and try the same thing with your real brain. The possibilities are endless although you might get dizzy.

As regular readers will know by now, I view the world through a process of Bibliomantic divination, using a combination of Guy Debord's Society of the Spectacle and Fodor's Guide to the Best Beaches in the Seychelles (1994 edition). The answer this oracle imparts is usually "Beneath the sidewalk, the beach!" which I guess is a type of confirmation bias, but nothing is perfect, obviously.

Genius loci

Jerry worked in Accounts Receivable. He died about two years ago. I don't think the pressures of the job killed him but you can never be quite sure these days. A career in  Receivable is a subtle assassin; a deft hand with its own voodoo enchantments and at serving up poisons disguised as ambrosia. 

Sometimes I think I see Jeff's anxious shade still wandering the empty cubicles, doomed to haunt the photocopier for eternity, seeking the replacement ink cartridges he could never find in life because our parsimonious office manager always hid them. Although her drastic tactics didn't help the bottom line one jot.

But such paranormal activity is just my imagination playing tricks, as I toil by myself in this deserted and silent former place of business. Everybody else is working from  home today and the phone doesn't ring anymore. I tap on my computer keyboard with one finger and it sounds like Chinese water torture.

I remember when the elevator used to ping as it arrived at our floor. Then a satisfying whoosh as the doors opened, discharging a gaggle of chatty executives into the lobby. Oh the days of dynamism and endeavor. Now there is just the monotonous hum of fluorescent lightning and the ghostly footfall of long gone colleagues. 

Even if Death had not taken him, I doubt that Jerry would still be here. We no longer have any accounts to receive so what would he do? I guess Jacob Marley is the only job he is qualified for in the current climate. But Jeff's spirit would not be caught up in his own chains, of course. No, instead he'd be enshrouded in spectral graph paper and unpaid bills. "I told you so. I did try to warn you," he would moan and wail, then fade away like all our profits of yesteryear.

So here I sit, acting the Hamlet in a desolate lonely conference room. But the situation is not really that Shakespearean except for the ghost, probably closer to the Theater of the Absurd, I'd guess, The Chairs by Ionesco maybe. Meanwhile, since I can't afford to retire or quit, I'll search the Internet for a reasonably priced exorcist. It's time for the spirit of this place to move on to a better place. Sooner rather than later for the sake of my sanity.

Stale

In the break room at lunch time, Terry always eats the same sort of sandwich. His ritualized repast begins at twelve-thirty on the dot. A semi-translucent Tupperware container is ceremoniously unsealed, revealing two rectangular assemblages of brown bread whitewashed on one side with mayonnaise then plastered with oval slivers of brick red ham and a square of fluorescent yellow cheese each. Perfect edible geometry not even disturbed by an anarchic flourish of lettuce nor polka-dotted with pickles. It's just sliced bread, mayo, meat and Swiss with no variety of vegetable at all, and methodically chewed through in glum silence. Bonn appetite, Terry. I imagine even condemned men provide more convivial companionship at their last meals, the execution chamber like party central compared to our break room. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if one morning he failed to appear at his desk, having hung himself in his kitchen at home, unable to face the unremitting repetitiveness of the daily grind.

Consequently, I avoid the break room when Terry is there, often eating my own lunch before noon or, if Terry is masticating especially slowly, as late as two pm. He's too reminiscent of the Jonah character in ancient sailing lore, the cursed deckhand destined to bring bad luck and disaster down upon his ship and fellow crew. If only there were a metaphorical desert island where we could abandon him, a remote cubicle located at the other end of the building, isolated from the regular office and its staff. He'd be allowed the Man Friday of an email account but unable to access any kind of visual communication. Then he could munch his monotonous sandwiches in private without depressing everybody else. Perhaps I will suggest this solution to Human Resources, such as they are, although collecting cash from my co-workers to buy him a box of sushi or Pad Thai every now and again would be much easier. Most people would contribute, I think. Just another tax we must pay to stop the insidious contagion of sterility creeping into our own lives.