You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy!
Going to an ice cream shop when it’s 18 degrees outside.
It’s January and it’s cold. The weather man is on TV screaming about frontal systems and black ice.
Run for your lives! Winter is upon us.
It’s so cold on this night, that water has become the enemy. water becomes slush. slush becomes ice. ice becomes dangerous.
14 degrees ago the precip surrendered it’s innocuous self to the elements, allowing its molecular structure to be transformed into something evil, something cold, something that can kill.
It’s so cold on this night, Eskimos won’t rub noses, dogs won’t stop to sniff each other’s butt, pan handlers won’t pan handle.
The asphalt is covered with a layer of black ice so furtive, so shimmering, it fools your tires into thinking traction can be attained.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
The grass is stiff with frost, like a platoon of soldiers watching a USO tour with scantily clad Angelina Jolie on stage.
When I say it’s cold, it’s not just cold, it’s deep purple on the weather map cold.
Being out in this weather is dumb. Eating something colder than tundra scrub even dumber.
Getting ice cream during a winter advisory is like going to an outdoor soup stand in Miami in August. It’s like showering after getting caught in a rain storm. It’s like eating saltine crackers and washing them down with saw dust.
It just seems unnecessary.
But when is life is crazy, unnecessary is part of the plan, and ingesting ice cream when it’s 18 degrees outside is par for the course.
So I take the kids to the local ice cream parlor. There isn’t a car in the parking lot.
“is it even open,” my son jokes from the back seat.
Good question.
A gust of wind from Nome Alaska blasts against the side of the car. The windows are closed, but the wind is so ferocious, so invasive, it seems to infiltrate the passenger compartment.
I shudder as I look at the snow flakes whip like an angry winter tornado against the building illuminated in the car’s headlights.
I stare at the ice cream parlor. The sign in the door says open and there is a lot of pink neon spilling out of the business. .
“You guys ready. It’s not 18 degrees in there. Let’s do it.”
We get out of the car and the winter wind blows into our faces. It’s shocking to the sense like a dealer pulling a 5-card-21 when you stood on 20!
I feel like the guy trying to plant the flag at the North Pole instead of the guy just trying to put some sugary goo into his kid’s blood streams.
“It’s cold,” a voice shouts behind me.
I don’t recognize the voice. I’m sure it’s one of my kids, but it’s too cold to care. The wind is in my ear, whispering evil thoughts.
“I’m going to freeze your face off motha-f****!”
I look up at the starless darkness. Did the wind just say that to me or am I hallucinating?
Old man winter’s a son of a bitch I think to myself.
“OK, let’s go,” I say as we head to the door with the inviting image of a cow who can never eat enough ice cream.
We put our heads down and lower our bodies to aerodynamically push against the gale force wind.
I suddenly understand what the violinist on the deck of the Titanic was thinking as the ship began swirling around the drain pipe of the Atlantic.
It’s mind numbing cold.
I pull open the door and there is the immediate rush of air.
It sounds like the vacuum seal of two space ships when the hatch is opened and the air from each ship rushes to fill the other vessel.
I only hope the stagnating air of the Russian ship does not smell of Vodka and body odor.
I hear a melodic ding dong over my head as we step in.
The kids move quickly, as if there are free itune cards piled inside.
I let the door close and I stand still. I let the 65 degree ice cream store warmth bathe me in resuscitation.
The store is quiet. I can almost hear ice cream screaming from the frozen case; “go away. Leave us alone. You don’t want us. Who eats ice cream on a night like this? What kind of father are you?”
I look around the store. It’s as empty as the brain of the cast of Twilight.
“Where is everyone?” my daughter says moving to the ice cream counter.
I immediately get a bad feeling. Have the employees been robbed and they are tied up in the back? Is the gunman still in the ice cream store and I am going to have to throw sugar cones at him because I left my 357 in the car?
Suddenly a cute 17 year old pops out of the a rear office.
“Hi,” she says with an I’m sorry kind of grin. “You guys are our first customers all night.”
We all laugh at the absurdity of the statement.
In the summer time, this place is rocking till midnight with lines out the door.
Tonight, when you can even see your breath inside, we are the lone dollars meandering the strip mall.
“What can I get you?” the young girls says.
The kids move to the counter.
“How bout another coat?,” i joke.
She smiles and the kids begin pointing at buckets of rich delicious goo.
We had a great time together, but 18 degree ice cream night is certainly crazy.