All night long, after Cora dropped me off, my mind spun.
What’s next? How can you top the bookstore? You gotta stay on top, Freddie Angel. You gotta blow their minds.
I poured a shot of vodka, just enough to take the edge off, and scrolled through social media that was becoming an even bigger addiction than the vodka in my hand. Only a swipe away, gushy messages from people who loved me could be accessed 24/7. I swiped and swiped so much a tender spot formed on my index finger and tingles crawled up my forearm from all the repetitive swiping.
The bookstore giveaway was a hit and amplified the online chatter. Each event came with an immediate surge of online activity, rushing endorphins to my head and heart. But even eight hours later, the surge dwindled to a trickle and I had to continually feed the fame machine to stay relevant.
When my shenanigans began, the internet chatter was focused locally, but as each act picked up more online momentum, I noticed messages were coming in from Canada and states as far-flung as Delaware and California. I’d love to say that the attention didn’t go to my head, but it did. It was changing the way I thought about myself, giving me the wings to dream about a future that I had long ago thought were clipped.
Each night, I would lie in bed and read through the messages, one by one, responding to them individually. Hours and hours would tick by in this fashion. Responding to every message was a blessing and a curse; it created even more messages which created an even bigger need to respond. It was like running on a treadmill. They just kept coming, and I was running so fast I didn’t know how to stop or even if I wanted to. Around sunrise, I got an epiphany while standing at the kitchen sink eating a fudge-filled Drumstick that I called breakfast.
Ice cream. Everyone loves ice cream.
The next day, Paulie hooked me up with one of his friends who owned an ice cream truck. Diego was skinny and lanky with a dark goatee that he endlessly stroked with his thumb and forefinger.
“You want to do what?” he asked, his arms folded across his chest, sizing me up. The extra scrutiny made me edgy.
“He knows,” Dad shrieked in my ear. I blinked long and slow, clenching my jaw and grinding my teeth. “He knows what a screw-up you are! You want to be the ice cream man? The kid that couldn’t even decide what kind he likes is now going to drive a truck full of it to the ghetto and give it away? That’ll never happen.” I sighed and pushed Dad to the deep recesses of my mind again.
“I want to rent your ice cream truck for a night. Pay you to drive it and head to the crappiest neighborhoods in the city, and I’ll give ice cream away to the people that live there.”
“You crazy, Ese,” Diego said with a quick smile, a flash of pearly white dancing across his brown face.
“How’s five-hundred cash to drive me for the night and another fifteen hundred for inventory?”
He shook his head as a slow smile spread across his face, then he extended a hand toward me. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Two days later, I was standing at the curb with a blindfolded Cora.
“Is this really necessary?” She pawed the air with her hands, searching for me. “At least hold my hand.” I laced my fingers through hers with a squeeze.
“Come on, it’s an adventure,” I declared. “He’ll be here any minute.”
“Who?” she asked as Diego pulled up and hopped out.
“Right on time. You can look now.” At my statement, Cora ripped off the blindfold and looked at the ice cream truck with confusion. “Ta-Da!” I sang out and waved both my hands at the truck and an uncomfortable Diego.
“Cora, I’d like you to meet Diego. He will be our driver during tonight’s Funology excursion.” Diego extended a caramel-colored hand that Cora shook, then shoved it deep into the pocket of his Levi’s.
“Can we?” I waved a handful of windshield markers at Diego.
“Sure,” he agreed with a shrug, and I passed markers out and wrote on the sides of the white truck. FREE ICE CREAM, #thefunologist, and #freddieangelisthefunologist were scrawled in huge letters on the back and sides of the truck. Diego revealed his hidden graffiti talent and kicked it up a notch with killer lettering and hand-drawn ice cream cones. I got lost working behind him, coloring our mobile canvas.
“Will you take a photo for us?” I asked and handed the phone to Diego, pulling Cora closer to me. Smiling widely, he fired off two shots that I posted to my social media. I pressed the video button on my phone. “Hey, Kansas City! If you see this truck, you better come running because it is packed full with ice cream and treats, and we are giving it all away. Be on the lookout for us in your neighborhood. Free ice cream is incoming! And thank you to everyone who has donated to make this possible. If you want me to continue doing outrageous acts of kindness like this, you can help fund the mission @thefunologist on Venmo. I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!” I pressed the end button and posted to Facebook, twitter, Tik-Tok, and Instagram. Then I turned toward Cora. “You ready, gorgeous?”
She smiled at the compliment as we jumped into the truck, and Diego pulled out and headed to our first stop. After he exited the highway, he turned on the carnival music that streamed out of the speakers as we turned down a dark street lined with old row houses that sunk into the ground, decrepit and leaning. Many were missing windows and doors, and sometimes entire swatches of the roofs were gone from a forgotten storm and years of neglect. Cora squeezed my hand, and I glanced over at her biting her lip, her expression pinched and worried.
“It’s okay. We’re perfectly safe here, sweetheart.”
I pulled the PA to my mouth and began to speak. “Hello, Elmwood! The Funologist is here! Who’s ready for some free ice cream? Come and get it!” The music continued to repeat and spin as the first porch lights came on and doors creaked open. Diego continued to cruise down the street and stopped at the end of the cul-de-sac. I handed stickers to Cora and Diego. “Slap these on the treats. Never know where that big break is going to come from.”
“Probably not from here, but whatever you want, man. I’m yours for the next three hours,” Diego replied as he began to stick the stickers on popsicles and drumsticks.
I opened the serving window on the side of the truck and saw the first swarm of people walking toward us. Teenage girls with babies on their hips or dragging boyfriends behind them, grandmothers with little ones following behind them like ducklings. In ten minutes, we were slammed. Cora and Diego handed out drumsticks and ice cream sandwiches, and I stood outside the truck like a carnival barker entertaining the masses.
“Step right up!” I shouted right into the loudspeaker. “Get your sweet treat!” I recorded little video snippets of the groups of children with huge smiles on their faces and posted them to social media. When there was a break in the action, we climbed back into the truck and went to the next neighborhood. The posts were picking up steam on the interwebs and being shared like a virus. At our next stop, the crowd was twice as big, and it was obvious we were going to run out of ice cream after only three stops.
“I’m down at Hidden Hills, where your donations are putting happy smiles on the faces of kids here. If you want to help the Funologist continue his work, hit me up on Venmo @thefunologist. You never know where I’ll end up next.”
I was engrossed in posting the video to all my social channels when I heard a gravelly voice behind me, “The Funologist, huh?” I whipped around to see the barrel of a handgun pointed at my face.
Cora screamed, and I heard the serving window slam shut behind me. My heart accelerated as the fight or flight mechanism kicked in. My eyes darted around, thankful the line of kids had disappeared and the streets were clearing out as porch lights clicked off.
“Give me the money,” he demanded.
“You’ve got the wrong truck, buddy. There isn’t any. We gave all the ice cream away for free,” I explained, looking for an opening. He shoved me roughly up against the truck, and my skull cracked against the metal, sending a jarring shooting pain to the back of my head. He was eye to eye with me, with skin so white it was bordering on albino. I smelled cigarettes on his breath. His eyes were ringed in red and bloodshot, and his thumb clicked on the hammer of the gun.
“Go ahead,” I said boldly. “Pull the trigger.” With wild eyes, I dared him, and behind me through the metal of the van, I heard Cora begin to cry.
“Don’t think I won’t,” he sneered.
“If you’re gonna do it, then get on with it,” I stated impulsively as he continued to stare me down. “You’re not doing anything I haven’t already thought about doing myself,” I confessed. “I’ve got a fully loaded shotgun in the back of my closet right now, ready and waiting, but my Ma always said I had a shitty work ethic,” I deadpanned. “Go ahead, save me a bullet.”
His hand slid up to my throat and squeezed, and I could feel the tremors in his grip.
He was afraid. I felt fear and desperation oozing from him.
“What are you waiting for? Send me out with a bang,” I taunted him, croaking out the words thick in my throat, taking small gasps of air through my contracted windpipe.
Completely confused, he stared me down, weighing his options. His pale eyebrows furrowed.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked him. He released his death grip on my throat, and I coughed as blessed air rushed in.
“Got to get mine,” he answered defensively, still pointing the gun at me.
“You’re scared,” I revealed to him like I was reading his tarot. “You live in fear and think you’re invisible,” I whispered as I tapped into his feelings like I was reading a book, and it rattled him. “Without that piece, you think no one will listen to anything you have to say, but you’re wrong.”
He pressed his forearm across my chest, pinning me to the truck. In the distance, I heard a siren wailing and hoped it was heading closer.
“I will,” I said bravely. “I will listen.”
“People stopped noticing me a long time ago. This is the only way to get their full attention.” He waved the gun at me.
“I don’t know about other people, but you have mine,” I said. “What do you want?” He was cutting off my air supply again, leaning in so close I could feel his warm breath on my cheek. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. A four-year-old little beautiful ebony girl, with rows of beaded braids clutching a pink blanket, was running toward the truck, and terror seized me. In a few short seconds, she would reach us. I didn’t have time to think, just to react. I head-butted him, and he yelped, biting through his lip and staining his lips crimson as he dropped to the ground and the gun went flying. I kicked it under the truck, and Diego opened the door and grabbed it.
The sirens were closing in. “Get in,” I said roughly and yanked open the door for him. Stunned, he hesitated for a moment.
“Now!” I shouted. “The cops will be here any minute.”
He sprang into action, and I jumped in behind him and slammed the door shut.
“Drive!” I shouted at Diego as Cora sat paralyzed in the seat, pressed up against the back of the truck silently. Her face ghostly white and pale, she clutched her hands to her heart. Diego peeled out of the neighborhood and took several turns as the sirens faded behind us.
I handed the bleeding man a napkin. “Here, put this on it.” I passed him a small bag of ice from the cooler.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Jerry,” he muttered. “Where are you taking me?”
“Wherever you want to go. Are you hungry?”
His eyes shifted to mine, and without answering, his eyes welled up with tears. He buried his face in his hands and began to sob. Uncomfortable, I decided for him. “Let’s get a pizza. Diego, can you drop me and my new friend at Giovanni’s?”
“Sure, Ese.” Diego pulled up to Giovanni’s twenty minutes later and left the truck running.
“You want to grab a bite with us?” I asked Diego.
“Nah, man, you crazy,” he said with a lopsided grin. “I need to go home and change my boxers. Pretty sure I shit myself back there.”
“Go inside and get us a table,” I told Jerry, who collected himself enough on the drive over to follow my directions.
I turned back to Diego, pulled my money clip out of my pocket, and gave him an extra three hundred dollars. “Sorry this took a turn, but we made a lot of kids happy tonight.”
“What are you going to do with that guy?” Diego asked.
“Love him,” I said. “He’s just as messed up as the rest of us. Don’t worry, I’m really good at reading people. He’s not going to hurt anyone. He doesn’t have it in him.”
“Can you take her home?” I nodded my head at Cora, who was still in shock, silent in the back of the truck. “And get rid of that gun.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Diego muttered under his breath and made the sign of the cross, but nodded in agreement. I crawled into the back to where Cora sat frozen and whimpering. As I pulled her into my arms, I felt her tremble.
“Everything is okay, sweetheart. Diego is going to drive you home.”
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered as I pulled her in closer. Her hands were so cold. I rubbed my hands on hers to warm them up.
“I don’t think anything else is going to happen tonight, but I can’t be certain and I won’t put you at risk.” I kissed the top of her head. “Go home, curl up in bed, and try to get some rest. You have to admit, it was big fun before all the drama, wasn’t it?”
Cora didn’t answer me, clinging more tightly to my t-shirt balled in her fists. I gently extracted myself and cupped her face in my palms. “Get some sleep, sweetheart, and I’ll message you later.” Then I brushed my lips across her clammy forehead. “You’re okay. It’s all over,” I whispered, and she finally nodded.
“Come on!” I egged on Diego. “Admit it, you had a blast!”
“I guess so,” Diego answered. “It was a crazy night. But I have a feeling crazy follows you wherever you go.”
“You might be right about that.”
“I’ll get her home,” he promised and pulled away from the curb, leaving a cloud of exhaust behind. I walked into the restaurant and sat down in the booth opposite Jerry.
“Pepperoni and a couple of beers?” I asked and he nodded.
A waitress took our order and immediately returned and set two bottles in front of us. Jerry pulled his to his mouth and sucked on it eagerly. He rubbed his weary face in his hands, rubbing his eyes with the balls of his fists. I studied him as he fought exhaustion.
“Just tell me why,” I asked. “It will stay between us, I promise.”
“I don’t know how I got here. I’m exhausted,” he confessed. “Fighting my way through life, while watching other people glide through it.” He took another long sip on his beer, and then the pizza was slid onto the stainless-steel stand and I served him the first piece. He shook the powdered parmesan over it until it looked like it snowed and then took a bite and yelped when the hot cheese burned the top of his lip. Fanning his mouth, he inhaled air and tried to push it around with his tongue to cool it off enough to swallow, but I was pretty sure he just succeeded in scalding his entire mouth.
I served myself a piece and waited. Sitting back in the booth, the adrenaline from being held at gunpoint finally dissipated enough to allow me to relax.
“Ever feel like a black cloud follows you wherever you go?” He asked.
“I know a thing or two about that,” I admitted and took my first bite.
“It’s been a real shitstorm for the last two years. My wife got cancer and passed away and the only promise I made to her, to take care of our daughter, is one I can’t keep. Then I lost my job and after six months exhausted my unemployment benefits. And don’t even get me started on the cost of child care in this country!” Anger filled his eyes again, and he pushed it down to continue bitterly. ”So I’m reduced to stealing bread from gas stations and picking up pop cans to try to feed my kid. I’ve missed two house payments.” He took another bite. “They repossessed my car last week, so we can’t even live in it when we get evicted.”
“That’s rough,” I said.
“When your back’s against the wall, you have nothing to lose. And when you have nothing to lose, suddenly those options you would have never exercised before seem perfectly normal.” He chewed on the crust, and I signaled the waitress for a couple more beers. Peeling the label, refusing to make eye contact, Jerry’s shoulders drooped and he continued, “Christmas is coming. The idea of seeing her eyes on Christmas morning, so hopeful and then empty, it just kills me.”
“How old is your daughter?” I asked.
“Five. It’s hard because she goes to school now, and she talks to other kids. Pretty soon, she’s going to learn that Santa is just a big fat disappointment.” He hung his head low. “And shortly after that, she’ll learn her dad is, too.”
I pulled my money clip from my pocket under the table and counted out the bills. Then I laid them on the table in front of him and pushed the stack toward him. “How about he comes a little early for you?” I whispered. “It’s four thousand. Get caught up on your mortgage and then make a special Christmas for your girl.”
He gasped, afraid to grab the money and put it in his pocket, yet afraid not to.
“Go on, it’s okay,” I said and nudged the money toward him.
“What do I have to do?” His eyes magnetized to the stack finally lifted and met mine.
“Never put another gun in another man’s face,” I said, looking deep in his eyes, and in seconds, he crumpled. Holding his face in his hands, sobs racked his body. “You might think life is rough now, but if the police had shown up a few minutes earlier, you wouldn’t be going home to your daughter tonight. You’d be sitting in jail, and she’d probably be put in the system.”
“Why are you doing this for me?” he asked as tears trickled down his pasty cheeks.
“Everyone needs a little help sometimes,” I said to him. “Truth is, until recently, I was one step away from where you are and it nearly destroyed me. I didn’t even have a daughter watching. So, I understand where you are at, brother.”
The waitress brought two more beers, and I lifted mine. “Can we make a toast?”
“Sure,” he replied, uncertain.
“To new beginnings and better days.” He reached out and tapped his glass bottle against mine. He repeated the phrase, letting it roll off his tongue. “I know it’s hard to believe in those, but they are coming. I hope tonight helps you see that.”
“You’re a saint.”
“Nah, far from it.” I pulled another piece of pizza onto my plate. “Just trying to buy my way back into the big guy’s good graces.”
“Thank you,” he said solemnly.
We finished our pizza, and then I called for an Uber. I dropped him off at his house and then, as the driver headed home, I pulled out my phone that I had shut off during dinner. Notifications rained down, dinging and ringing, sounding like a slot machine in Vegas winning the jackpot. “Oh, shit,” I said as I scrolled through social media. Videos and photos of us giving away ice cream to the kids were everywhere. I stopped to watch a video that had been uploaded to YouTube titled, “The Funologist Strikes Back” that was picking up likes, shares, and comments. Fascinated, I was riveted to the footage of a dark fuzzy form headbutting Jerry and kicking the gun under the truck. It was a surreal, out-of-body experience, and hard to believe I was watching real footage of real events that had happened only a few hours before. From a glance, it looked more like an episode of Cops.
Totally out of character. Look at you, big man!
Pride surged through me followed by fear, knowing that Cora had been in the crossfire. I scrolled through more messages, and there were three from her. I didn’t want to wake her up, but in case she was up, I sent a text.
All is well. Headed home. Will text you in the morning.
I checked the hashtags and discovered the video had been uploaded everywhere: Youtube, Facebook, and sketchy news sites. #thefunologist hashtag was trending on Twitter.
Then I opened my Venmo account and dropped the phone, my hands shaking so violently it was hard to make out the numbers at first. Forty-nine thousand dollars in one night.
I kept giving it away, and what was left multiplied like bunnies in the springtime. I was going to have to step up my game in a major way in order to give away all this money. Fame was rocketing me from obscurity to the milky way of celebrity, and the love bomb of notifications rolling in every minute went straight to my head.
“Marry me, Freddie.”
“Freddie Angel is an Angel.”
“I love you, Freddie Angel.”
It was the highest high of my life. Love pouring in from strangers across the country validated me. I wish I was one of those people who didn’t care what people thought. That I didn’t spend my days slaving for the approval of other people. But I cared. Deeply. And to finally feel that kind of love and acceptance wash over me was like being offered a cup of water in the desert, and I never wanted to live without it again.