Marie, The Ice Cream and the Bus Driver

Word Count:  995



         “No one must EVER find out about this.  Promise?” 

         “Trust me.  I’m not telling anyone.”  Marie sat perched on the edge of the seat of the cab.

I wasn’t sure if this was because the seat was grimy, or because she was sticky.  Either way, she wasn’t her usual chic, put-together self.  The fifty-something wife of a CEO, Marie lived in a stylish suburb of Chicago.  She wore high-end cosmetics and designer clothes—twenty-five years before the ‘Sex in the City’ girls had made Cosmopolitans and designer shoes household words.

         Now, I was a different story.  Just entering my thirties, I was still clinging to clothes I’d worn in college, and wore makeup only under duress.  But to our surprise (and everyone else’s) we had hit it off immediately.

         August in Worcester is pretty uncomfortable.  It’s hot and humid.  Which is why most people went home for the weekend between the two weeks of the Workshop.

But that year we were stuck in town, our dorm rooms were ovens and we decided we needed to go out.

                We walked to a convenience store, because Marie was ‘jonesing’ for ice cream. And you know how it is?  When you have to have something…you have to have it! 

I thought she was going to get one of those little cups of ice cream.  You know the ones I mean—the ones with the flat wooden spoons.  All I wanted was a soda, so I stood out by the bus stop, while Marie ran in for our purchases.

                She emerged with the biggest soda I’d ever seen.  In fact, it was so big that at first, I didn’t notice the rest.  While I struggled to force the straw into the lid of my ‘Big Gulp’, Marie reached into a grocery bag and pulled out a half gallon of chocolate ice cream, along with two of those flat, tiny wooden spoons.

                She ripped the strip off the carton and opened it, while I, stunned, watched in silence. 

                Finally, I had to comment.  “Why on earth would buy all that ice cream?”

                “Because, I wanted ice cream, and those little cups are for babies.  Besides, this will stay frozen longer.  Come on, I see the bus coming.”

                She handed me a couple of bucks, and stood behind me and to one side—like the driver wasn’t going to notice her eating from this carton.  I boarded first, paid for the two of us and sat down in the empty seat immediately in back of the driver. 

                Marie only got about halfway in when the ‘discussion’ started. Obviously this poor bus driver had never met anyone like her.  Because, in spite of his protests, she mounted the steps and sat beside me—lips pursed and nose just a touch up in the air.

              We tried to ignore his displeasure and enjoy the ride.  I’d been sucking down my soda, but I didn’t seem to be making much progress.  Meanwhile, Marie was eating her ice cream greedily.  At least, I thought she was eating it greedily.  Then I realized, it wasn’t ‘greedily’—it was panicky.  Because, in spite of her very scientific theory, the ice cream was melting—FAST!

              She shoved a wooden spoon at me.  “Eat!”

              And even though I was pretty sure we were eating a losing battle, I ate.  But it was no good.  Have you ever tried to eat liquid with one of those little paddles? 

              It had been about 98° on the sidewalk, but the ambient temperature inside the bus was about 105°.  And even though we were up to our knuckles in chocolate pooh, we weren’t making any headway.

              Ice cream began dripping from the corners of the now deteriorating carton. Marie was trying to dodge drips and attempting to scuff them into the floor.  Did she really think no one was going to notice?

              With sudden inspiration, I tried to open the window, thinking I could chuck the damn carton out before the driver noticed.  I mean, what was he going to do?  Make an unscheduled stop and force us to pick up the carton?  I didn’t think so.

              But the window refused to budge, the ice cream was now completely liquid and Marie—cool, calm and in control Marie—was in full panic mood.  She had ice cream drips on her clothes, smeared on her face and nearly up to her wrists.  There was no longer any question of eating it.  We needed to get rid of it—any way we could. 

              And then it happened.  Someone, back in the bowels of the bus, signaled they wanted to get off.  They must have been woolgathering and had waited until we were almost past their stop.  The bus slammed to a stop, Marie lurched forward and the carton of ice cream went all over the driver—his head, his hair and down the neck of his shirt.

              The signaling passenger was not the only one deposited on the sidewalk.  Screaming we were never to darken Worchester public transport again, and with an oath I, for one, had never heard before, we were dumped, unceremoniously on the curb.

              In all fairness, I couldn’t really fault him, somehow in the melee, my ‘Big Gulp’ had spilled, right in his lap.  So there we were, stranded on a sultry corner somewhere in downtown Worchester.  I was splattered with cola and Marie was covered in what had once been chocolate ice cream.  And we hadn’t a clue as to how to get back to WPI.

              What else could we do?  With Marie again standing behind me, I hailed a cab and we climbed in. 

              No one was around when we were deposited pulled up to the dorm, and yet somehow, everyone had heard the tale by the end of breakfast Monday.  And, to our humiliation and shame, it is still remains a legend today, retold at workshops, year after year. 

              If only we had just stayed in the dorm.