Ice Cream With Charlie Russo

Charlie Russo had moved back to town a few weeks ago with Natalia and the kids, but I would have given anything not to see them. People thought I hated Charlie for stealing Natalia in high school, but the reality was more complicated.

Charlie was an asshole. He had a man bun and calf implants and smiled like an asshole. Even his kids were assholes. But the worst part? He and Natalia looked happy.

My life was another story, though. I drove a 1992 Pinto, lived in a tumble-down shack, and delivered ice cream for a living.

Let’s face it: I wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box; I had to take what I could get. And what can I say? For guys like me, it’s a cruel world.

But just when I thought life couldn’t get worse, Charlie and his son appeared on the corner one day while I was delivering ice cream.
Fuck my life, I thought as I pulled to the curb.

Charlie flashed a smug grin when he saw me. “Hey, Virgil. Long time, buddy.” He slapped the tin-can truck, laughing. “Wow. What a piece of shit. Sucks to be you.”

I clenched my fists and swallowed my fury. Charlie hadn’t changed much, aside from his fake teeth, which glistened clownishly in the sunlight, almost blinding me as they reflected off the glass.

Douche.

“What do you want?”

“Service with a smile?” Charlie laughed at his own joke. “And two fudge pops for me and junior here.” He pulled his scowling son closer. “He’s got his mom’s eyes, doesn’t he?”

Charlie studied me for a reaction, but I wouldn’t take the bait. Then, he pulled out a wad of cash, slyly glancing at me as he counted each dollar bill.

I rolled my eyes. “It’s six bucks, man.”

He slid me some bills, smiling again as I shielded my eyes. “Keep the change.”

I rolled up the window and counted the money. One, two—three bucks? He owed me six. Asshole.

Fire rushed to my face, and rage coursed through me like a rebel tsunami. First, Natalia. Now, this?

I whipped the truck around, then shouted out the window, “Hey, kid. Get lost.”

After the kid scurried off crying, I fixed my eyes on Charlie standing in the street. Then, my foot took on a life of its own, slamming against the gas pedal—tires screeching and engine roaring—as the ice cream truck raged forward.

Charlie’s eyes bulged as the truck smashed into him, mauling him down on the concrete. His body crunched under the tires, flattening like a ham slice on the pavement.

“Ha, ha, ha!” I cackled as I raced toward the freeway. But my victory cries were short-lived. Police surrounded me within minutes.

Now, I’m serving twenty-five years to life. And Natalia still sends me hate letters.

“Do you regret it?” she writes.

But my answer never wavers: “Not for a minute.”