Essay: Cockroach Ice Cream
There is something about summer in New England. I know, I know, New England is supposed to be all about autumn. And trust me, I love the autumn here. Actually, I love every season here, who am I kidding?
But summer in New England (and Massachusetts specifically) is truly special. Long sandy beaches, dilapidated lobster shacks and extremely aggressive ice cream trucks.
Do you remember the ice cream trucks that used to drive through your neighborhood growing up? Our ice cream man had a low model truck, no music there, just a loud ringing bell.
I loved the sound of that bell! My parents, however, hated the sound of that bell. That bell meant yet another round of pleading from my sister and I would begin. We’d beg, we’d whine, we’d stomp our feet and do our best to remind our parents why they stopped at just two children.
Fast forward to present day, I am an adult without children. I have different feelings about the ice cream truck now. Usually the ice cream truck wakes me up from luxurious afternoon weekend naps. Or forces me to jump out of the way on my rare afternoon jogs.
I live in a neighborhood considered to be on the line of good city/not so good city. The first time I heard the ice cream truck drive around my neighborhood, I got very excited. The ice cream man thinks this neighborhood is likely to have growing families. Growing families with disposable income to spend on frivolous things like overpriced ice cream. He does NOT think this neighborhood is likely to get him truck-jacked, stabbed in the belly or worse. This can only be a good sign for property values.
“Yes!” I said, pumping my fist in the air.
It was the third time I was out jogging and listening to the ice cream truck music when I suddenly realized what song the ice cream truck was playing:
I know I live in an ethnically diverse area, but is it really appropriate to play a song about Mexican cockroaches while trying to entice me to buy your delicious, frozen wares?
Wait, I’ll answer that for you: no, it is not appropriate. I understand you may be catering to the vast Spanish population of my neighborhood and the surrounding areas, but pick a better song! Now I can’t stop thinking about cockroaches. Frozen cockroaches. Cockroach ice cream. And you can be sure as shit, I won’t be buying any of your frozen cockroach ice cream.
You just lost a sale, mister!