Waiting for the Snow Cone Man

It was late afternoon, and the sun began to sneak a peek beneath the mimosa tree out by the curb, chasing its shadow across the yard and up against the house. Terry crouched down on the back of his ankles—teetering forward and back on his toes—still holding the nickel he got from his mom in his hand. He wondered about the snow cone man.

Masking tape held four good-sized magnolia leaves by their stems, a big, floppy, green X affixed neatly between his shoulder blades on the back of a purple tie-dyed t-shirt his mom made in a pot on top of the stove.

Two long strands of dry spaghetti still stuck up straight from the back of his head, held in place by string partly hidden in his hair and tied in a knot on his forehead. He was a bugged little bug beginning to wonder about his plan to make the snow cone man laugh.

That's the deal they had. If he made the man laugh, Terry got to keep his nickel and have a snow cone on the house, but only in a flavor of the snow cone man's choosing. "On the truck!" the snow cone man would announce, laughing loudly. But if the man didn't laugh, then it seemed like giving up a lot more than a nickel to the kid, even if he got exactly the flavor he wanted. He liked the free cones better because they took longer to make. And the longer they took, the more fun the little bug had watching the man sort through his syrup, looking for just the right colors to mix together, like a mad scientist turned artist, to show the kid what colors became other colors when drizzled all over each other.

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