"The Entertainer"

Can you hear it—sailing through the cotton-candy leafed trees and ping-ponging off the asbestos sided homes; bouncing off the sticky, hot asphalt and splashing the backboard over sweat-stained t-shirts and friendly banter—?

That song.

That simple jingle.

Who would have thought that Joplin’s classic ragtime piece, passed down for over a century, would stay in the child-like hearts of millions as a gentle reminder of the change of season and longer days to come with family and friends.

As the sunlight lingers through the dusk-coated window overlooking the porch, parting the valance like an elderly couple on a swing, I look up at the clock to see half past seven. Right on cue like a successive rooster crowing at a sunrise, my dog jumps up at the door, tapping the glass with her nails and circling like a vulture in the desert. I hook on her leash and open the door, breathing in that crisp, warm breeze carrying “The Entertainer” and whiffs of frozen dairy treats past my ears and nose.

“Whoa!” I struggle to yield my dog. She's trying to catch up to the young children we haven’t seen since the last Fourth of July that are now a few inches taller and galloping to the stop-sign with their mitts and baseball caps. I see a face pop out of the side of the truck window, his white paper hat leaning towards one side, reaching out a hand holding a cone with pink swirls on top glazed with a glistening chocolate river. He exchanges it to a young girl for a few shiny quarters, and she picks her bike up off the lawn and pedals away, one hand on the handlebar and the other cautiously raising her dessert to her lips, dipping her nose in it as she rides over a manhole cover.

My dog squats patiently behind the boys in front of us, tongue and head bobbing in and out as she stares at the man in white and crinkles her wet nose, trying to get a better smell of the fresh ingredients on the menu today.

“Hi there, what can I get you?” he asks.

My dog brushes up against me, her toes stepping on mine; she sneezes.

“I’ll take a medium banana shake, please,” I say.

“Coming right up!”

I pat my dog on the head and reach into my pocket for my wallet. She turns stiffly to the boys sitting on the curb licking their fudge-pops, eyes locked and ears erected, ready to dart at any moment. I stand, creasing my sneakers to peer at the one-man assembly line occurring inside. His stainless steel utensil struggles to peel away at the eggnog-hued ice-cream, leaving behind in the container moon crater impressions. It delicately curls into a perfectly waxed snowball scoop—two scoops. He flings them into the mixer with a waterfall of crystalized cow’s milk from the chilled glass bottle in his free hand. I can see the brown spotted, sun-saturated yellow fruit swaying on a hook as the ice-cream man walks back and forth, testing the truck’s suspension. He clasps the stems, producing that slow, airy sound that a soda can makes before being cracked open, and he rips two bananas off, undressing and splitting them in half. My dog innocently cocks her head at the boys, then glances back at me as the milkshake mixer turns on, tuning out the booming motor of the idling refrigerator on wheels.

I look around and see people of all ages making their way to the corner. Some hand in hand, some brothers and sisters, some black and white, but most– waving and chatting.

“That’ll be four dollars, please.” I hand him a five and step to the side of the truck to make room for the next customer. I can already feel my palm dampening as the heat from the side-vent and muffler form condensation on the thick paper cup. We begin walking away, my sour-face reddening as I try to slurp up the thick malt through the thin straw.

The beverage rests at my left hip while my dog frolics at my right in a two-step fashion to the pitch-bending Doppler effect of the fading ice-cream tune. She stops occasionally, trying to lick up any tiny droplets of sugary delight on the rocky road that I drop. I indent the few plastic bubbles on top of the lid with my index finger, anxiously waiting for the drink to melt to a more drinkable form. We can still hear children’s laughter in the distance as we finish our walk around the neighborhood, spotting left behind whiffle ball bats and scooters, and lawnmowers and gardening tools on lawns. The taste of pure, creamy, dopamine-filled banana appeases my senses.

We arrive back at the house about three-quarters of golden elixir lighter and a few pantings heavier. We sit down on the stoop, and I pop the lid and straw off the milkshake cup, holding out the remaining sticky treat for my best friend to mop up. She pokes her snout through the opening, her nose wearing the cup like a top hat, and she scoops up the liquid with ease. I tilt and rotate the cup to ensure she gets every drop. Pulling it back, I can see the tiny, fine hairs on her lip soaked, matching my milk mustache. I laugh as she looks at me goofily and begins running her tongue like a carousel around her mouth. I let the leash extend a distance, and she runs onto the grass, rolling around with her paws and belly pointing to the sky; she’s smiling. I look up past the orange clouds, and I smile too. Summer’s finally here.