Yesterday, 12:24 PM
Ice Cream for a Dollar
Before the nurse could end his life, my nephew
ran away. He’s full of good decisions. I always thought the lyrics
to that one Joanna Newsom song were Made me bold
/ like a whore. It took seven years for me
to learn instead she bolts, like a horse. My sister’s hopeless,
harmless boy. I caught up to him outside
Radiology, loving on the vending machine,
clutching at his hoodie like a baby
was inside. “Hey,” I said, unhelpfully, and then
for good measure, “hey.” “Uncle Luke—” the boy
was almost sobbing—“I really don’t like needles. Like, who wants
to get hurt?” I told him no one does.
With kids you have to be prepared to lie and lie
and lie again, like old people, or Castro. Ronnie is from Cuba,
but he doesn’t smoke or drink. He came here in the 80s
on a student visa, bought an Art Deco apartment, owns a home gym
and an ice cream truck. Everyone that’s living
in Miami Beach today is happy to be dying soon
except for Ronnie. “Old people don’t understand
how money works,” he says, massaging coconut oil
into his guns, curling forty pounds. “They think ice cream
costs a dollar, so I charge them a dollar. That way,
everyone’s happy.” On slow days, or if I’m too drunk, I’ll ask him
about communism. “Not so bad,” he tells me
every time, “if you don't get shot."
Before the nurse could end his life, my nephew
ran away. He’s full of good decisions. I always thought the lyrics
to that one Joanna Newsom song were Made me bold
/ like a whore. It took seven years for me
to learn instead she bolts, like a horse. My sister’s hopeless,
harmless boy. I caught up to him outside
Radiology, loving on the vending machine,
clutching at his hoodie like a baby
was inside. “Hey,” I said, unhelpfully, and then
for good measure, “hey.” “Uncle Luke—” the boy
was almost sobbing—“I really don’t like needles. Like, who wants
to get hurt?” I told him no one does.
With kids you have to be prepared to lie and lie
and lie again, like old people, or Castro. Ronnie is from Cuba,
but he doesn’t smoke or drink. He came here in the 80s
on a student visa, bought an Art Deco apartment, owns a home gym
and an ice cream truck. Everyone that’s living
in Miami Beach today is happy to be dying soon
except for Ronnie. “Old people don’t understand
how money works,” he says, massaging coconut oil
into his guns, curling forty pounds. “They think ice cream
costs a dollar, so I charge them a dollar. That way,
everyone’s happy.” On slow days, or if I’m too drunk, I’ll ask him
about communism. “Not so bad,” he tells me
every time, “if you don't get shot."