lamentable complaint.

It’s the desert.
Highway 62 is half an hour behind.
Sizzling heat and hostile shrubs. A man, in his 30’s, is walking along a dirt road.
Boots, dungarees, a light coloured sports jacket, a baseball cap.
Carrying a black tote bag. Light breeze, stirring the dust, not making a noise.
His pace is steady, he knows where he’s going.
Kicks a stone every now and then. A jingle is heard from afar.
Tin-can, three-tone and off-key.
This does not belong. An ice-cream van comes into view about half a mile ahead.
Parked along the dirt road.
Baby blue. A window on the side. Him, the van, the chime.
Nothing else for an eternity. His pace is unchanged.
The distance to the van is visibly diminishing.
Its jingle is getting louder as he’s nearing it. Bluer and bigger, the van now has volume.
By now he could whistle along the chime.
He’s heard it so many times. There’s a large torso in the van’s side window.
A stationary silhouette.
Resting on two elbows on a tiny counter. The crunching sound of the man’s boots
is now overpowered by the van’s jingle.
Jingle and van are now close by. Checking his pocket for loose change.
He has a few quarters.
Collecting them in his fist. Now, in quick succession: the van’s windows snap shut,
the engine comes on, the van shudders,
a gear is engaged and the van lurches forward. The man stops abruptly, a feet or two from where the van had been.
Releases the loose change from his fist.
Massive dust cloud blurs the scene, a blue dot in the distance.