Softee
By Elizabeth Gassman

Anthony arrived in his truck on a Tuesday in June. It was the summer I learned to shave my legs.

I was working the register at Bodiddley’s market, where I had to wear a stiff, red cotton vest and khaki shorts. No denim. Mr. Bodiddley—Al Peterson was his name, but everyone, including his wife, called him Mr. Bodiddley—was very strict about this. In his truck, Anthony wore a white tank top curdled with sweat and chocolate stains. It was an ice cream truck. And even though there was a freezer full of desserts I could purchase for 25% off at the market, I bought a drumstick from Anthony every day for the rest of the summer after I saw him that first afternoon.

He was hairy, unlike any other man I’d seen. When I told him this two weeks or so after he started showing up, while I counted out the cash for my cone, he laughed.

“That’s cause they keep ’em clean shaven down here. Boot camp ready.”