The Ice Man

It’s a hot August night, so I put on some Neil Diamond and grab a drink. I usually won’t add ice to a drink. I like to let the temperature of the drink stand on its own – no need in trying to affect change just to suit me. If it is served right out of the box or bottle – well so be it. It may be a lazy choice, or it might be due to a childhood experience that has stayed with me.

I grew up in a neighborhood where fun and adventure was always available. There were abandoned brewery caves, horses corralled next door, a farm down the street, vacant lots, a tired-out gravel pit, a livestock sales barn, the river, an empty church with a full cemetery, highways and alleys, 106 kids and Hespy’s.

Hespy’s was a gas station on the corner of two busy streets. There were usually two uniformed men working there – Hespy, the owner, (a shortened version of his last name), and his faithful mechanic – Vern, I think. They proudly pumped Texaco brand gasoline.

Our lawn mower ran exclusively on Texaco gas. When the need arose I would grab the red one-gallon metal can marked gasoline and bike down to Hespy’s. Because it was a full-service gas station, Vern or Hespy himself would fill the can and take the 35 cents. While they did that I would check out the candy machine.

They had the best candy machine in town. For a nickel you could buy a candy bar the size of your arm. The machine was tall with a big dial on the side to rotate the display. Once your selection was brought into the right spot, you pulled the knob to release the sugary goodness. I would ride home with one hand holding the full gas can, the other hand maneuvering the bike, and my mouth full of candy.

But the single most vivid memory of Hespy’s involved the icehouse. Behind the gas station was an icehouse where you could buy ice in two different sizes: the block and the bag. Other than for ice-carving I still don’t fully understand the need for a block of ice.

As little boys my brother Dan and I would often go along with Dad to get ice. The short trip chilled us with fear and foreboding as Dad would fire our imaginations with stories of the little man that lived in the icehouse. If you gave him enough money he would give you some of his ice.

A vision of a Rumpelstiltskin-type character inhabiting the icehouse was usually more than enough to keep the two of us away. But one time we had worked up enough courage to seek a little adventure and see if this was just another of Dad’s stories.

We rode our bikes over to Hespy’s and slowly approached the icehouse. In addition to the smaller door where the ice was delivered there was a larger door – which we guessed was how the iceman got in and out.

Dan knocked on the door to test the truth of Dad’s story. We stood there for only a few seconds before the door slowly started to open. That was the only proof we needed – the iceman was coming. We screamed, jumped on our bikes and pedaled for our lives.

I don’t know who opened that door forty years ago. My friend Mark likes to remind me that “ice is life’s least expensive luxury.” But whenever I am offered ice for my drink I feel a familiar chill run down my back.

“No thanks,” I say.