The ice cream man here in Portland plays The Entertainer. Not too bad a
tune, except his computerized version is too tinny, and way too fast. My
wife, The BluesBabe,  is usually "sheddin'" in her studio in the front
parlor and just jams along with the tune until he turns the corner down at
the end of the block. He sometimes plays his alternate tune, Turkey in the
Straw. Give me a break, the tinny tunes, both in A-flat, grating on my
ears, my wife jammin' along with all her fancy sound reinforcement
equipment downstairs, while I'm upstairs in my home office trying to get
some work done. Da-da da-dat-du-dah... I might as well go out and work in
the shop for a while, except it only lasts for about 5 minutes. It really
drives me crazy, crazy, crazy. I'd like to give that ice cream man a piece
of my mind.



One day, Da-da da-dat-du-dah... and I ran out to have a little chat with
that ice cream man. I told him just what I thought about his "music," and
he agreed, "I hate it too!" It turns out, of course, that he's a real nice
guy. We talked about Rag Time, "the biggest music of the past century." He
picked that truck, because it played one of his favorite tunes. Now he's
heard it so much that he hates it! We talked about old time ice cream
favorites like the Drumstick, "an ice cream sunday in a cone," my favorite
as a kid. And we talked about business. My favorite Drumstick used to cost
a quarter in the 1950s, now it's $1.20. He liked talking business and I
learned that his profit margin is quite slim, about 2% of gross sales. The
high gas prices for his heavy duty truck had doubled his overhead and were
killing the profits.  I asked what the gross for the season would be right
here on my street. He said, "about 30 bucks." I calculated, "about 60 cents
profit." "Yeah, not much." was his rueful comment. I immediately saw our
opportunity. I offered, "How would you like to double your profits here on
Higgins Street, and cut your overhead?" He accepted, with a wry grin,
"Where do I sign?" I handed him $1.20 in cold hard coin and asked him to
not waste any more gas driving down my street. We shook on it, naming it
"The Biggest Deal of the New Century." He laughed and laughed, then handed
me a Drumstick, "on the house."  I sat down on the curb stone to eat my ice
cream and watched him drive on down the street. As he rounded the corner he
looked back and waved, still with a big grin on his face. I haven't seen,
or heard, him since.



John (doin' deals in the 'hood) Leeke

June 2004

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