…But Only for the Ice Cream (Playlist)
Dear Yelp,
It was bad enough that Dr. Banks 1 hour Zodiacupuncture clinic was out of network, but when I got there, there was literally nowhere to wait: no chairs, no Highlights magazine, no nothing. I’m standing in line in the parking lot, when this kid walks by holding something suspicious in his pocket. A woman at the back of the line shrieks “it’s a gun! What is your list of demands?”
So I do what any red blooded American would do, I dive across the parking lot, which throws my chi even more out of whack than it was to to begin with! There I am, lying on the ground with the malt liquor bottles and taquitos wrappers, only to learn the kid had no gun at all. It was just a ruse so his mom could jump to the front of the line. And the receptionist just let it happen. I mean, come on! I tried to plead my case with her, and the best she would do is give me a coupon for a free ice cream cone at the shoppe they share office space with. Pretty weak if you ask me.
That said, I attacked that ice cream like a gangsta, leaving nothing but spent napkins and broken plates (kind of like my chi). In hindsight though, the ice cream was nothing but a distraction, because when I was done, I looked up at the suburban jungle of dollar stores and Starbuckses (Stabucksi?), and there was not a zodiacupuncturist in sight. Against my better judgement, I approached the receptionist again, “How much longer till I see the man with the psychic needles anyway?”
“60 revolutions” she said, without looking up from her phone.
“Oh that’s just great” I spat sarcastically, “we the common can just sit here and stare at our not Highlights magazine!” She smiled silently, but her smile said enough. It was one of those “stick it down a mineshaft” smiles, you know? And then it occurred to me, if the kid could do it, why can’t I? I walked back up there with my finger in my pocket, like a cartoon gun. “Dr. Banks now, or every last one of you gets it” I said, looking down at my finger gun for emphasis. That made her look up…barely.
“2nd door on the left” she pointed at a door through the glass storefront. I strode through confidently, but when I entered the second door on the left I heard a clicking sound behind me, and I found myself face to face with a mop, a bucket, and a box of sawdust. This was no doctor’s office, but a damn broom closet, and even worse, I was locked in.
My mom always said, “You are so good at being in trouble.” And now I was finally starting to believe her, as I waited for the karma police (sorry not on this mix) to arrive and haul me off to some psychic prison or something. When the door finally did open though, I was relieved. I mean, it wasn’t paradise, but it wasn’t the 3rd eye 5.0 either. It was the janitor, grabbing his mop for a night’s work.
“I don’t know who you are, but you can’t treat my mop closet like a dressing room” he says. “You are not some movie star.”
“Everybody is star” I answered.
“Sure, keep believing that” he said, “keep parading around like you are Bud Biliken or something…” I stared at him. “I was being sarcastic” he barked, “vamonos… move it!”
“I’m going” I say. “It’s not like I wanted to be in there, the receptionist locked me in!”
“Eres más lento que el muerto.”
“What?”
“You are slower than the dead! GO!”
I run out of there, away from the rude janitor, and as I am walking back to my car the same damn kid with the fake gun is standing in the parking lot. “Where did you come from” he asks.
“I am from the future,” I say mysteriously.
“The future has been cancelled. Give me all of your money”, he says, pointing his finger gun at me.
“Look, I know the gun is fake, and even if it wasn’t, what are you going to do? Send me to your Mousou Tengoku”?
“My what?” he asks indignantly.
“Your paranoid heaven. What did you think I said?”
“Something in Japanese. I don’t speak Japanese man”
“I don’t either, just a glitch of my static mind, I guess. Anyway, get the hell out of here before I call your… well your mom probably put you up to this. Just get out of here,” I yelled, grabbing his finger through the jacket to prove I knew it wasn’t a gun.
All in all the day mostly sucked. Zero stars on the zodiacupuncture, though solid ice cream. They used real cream, not skim milk and chemicals, you know. The janitor was rude, and the fake kid robber was bullshit. I’d go back again, but only for the ice cream.
– …But Only For the Ice Cream © Mike Chernoff 09/2017
About the Story: “…But Only For the Ice Cream” was written as part of a CD club we were in. Each month someone in the club was responsible for creating a mix and sending it to everyone else in the club. And then when it was not your month, you sat back and got a mix CD in the mail, old-school style. It was very cool to see what everyone else was listening to. Anyway, my “theme” was that I wrote a short-short-story and incorporated the song titles, in order, into the story. It let me make whatever mix I wanted, and also gave me a creative writing prompt. I tried very hard to just make the mix first and deal with the fallout of whatever weird titles came up in whatever order. For the most part I didn’t change things around.
The Mix, minus 3 songs that are not available on Spotify, are here:
…But Only for the Ice Cream (Playlist)
There were several songs that are not available on Spotify:
Track 2: Nowhere To Wait – Wugazi
Track 15: Bud Billiken – Kids these Days
Track 19: Mousou Tengoku – Mamadrive
Chernoff Writing.com 