Like scum on the edges of a stagnant pond, American capitalism seems to allow for a quota of small, aggressively niche businesses to thrive on the outskirts of highway towns. That may seem like an inherently negative metaphor and I suppose, in many ways, it is, but I invoke pond scum more for its resilience, its value to the ecosystem, and its universality rather than whatever an initial interpretation might suggest.
Though, these places are often dirty.
‘Mickee’s Freeze’ is the latest in a number of these particular businesses on my list and its specialties are ice cream and bold indifference to copyright infringement. Their mascot is a cartoon mouse that bears so close a resemblance to its clear inspiration that it makes an observer wonder whether the minor differences are intentional or simply weaknesses on the part of the artist. Whatever the case, aged signs of rusted tin and rotting wood suggest that Mickee has been around for years and never suffered for it.
‘Mickee’s’ is a rarity in that it appears in publications outside of Autumn by the Wayside, all of which are local to the region, however, and all of which write that it is the best home-churned ice cream the state has to offer. They, in turn, tantalize the reader with the legend of Mickee’s Mystery, a flavor unique to the store that has been universally well-received but otherwise defies description. Shitholes has its own take and, well, read for yourself:
“Is it so hard to believe that we, humans, are drawn to mystery as it appears to all senses? ‘What is that smell?’ ‘Did you hear something?’ ‘Did you see that?’ ‘How do you feel?’ In this regard, reader, taste is relegated to the realm of mystery flavors and, thus, to children. For a few crumpled dollars the tight-lipped staff at ‘Mickee’s Freeze’ will feed the child you once were. You will remember with joy and no little fear what it is to place something in your mouth, something you do not fully understand. There are no spoilers here, nor on your precious phone. Mickee guards the mystery with care and it is our place to wallow in it or to pass by, unawares.”
The inside of ‘Mickee’s’ is all sticky plastic and laminate, a rainbow of soiled colors. Flies cling in clumps to the outside of the building, drawn by the sickly sweet air that seeps out. A thick, milky substance oozes out from under a service entrance in the back and congeals in the hot dirt. As I reconnoitered, an elderly woman in a paper hat slipped out to pour a bucket of the same goo into a canister near the trash and then stepped back inside before I could make out any detail of the kitchen.
This I remember as I order, staring carefully at the top-loading freezer, at the metal scoop, and at the gloved hands of the teenager who greets me from behind the counter in front.
“One scoop of Mickee’s Mystery,” I tell him, “In a bowl.”
“One scoop is a children’s size,” he says.
“Then, uh, two scoops.”
“It’s all right, man,” he says, drawing me my single scoop, “It’s chill.”
What about me gives off the impression that I’m not calm? Last week I spent the better part of an evening’s hour just filming myself in conversation, speaking into my phone and into the mirror. I’ve watched it on loop since then, sometimes just listening to the audio as I drive. Nothing in that voice sounds ill-meaning or confused. What is it about me, then?
I tip generously and consider apologizing. That would be strange, though, that would be admitting to my slip.
Wouldn’t it?
‘Mickee’s Mystery’ is off-white to the point of yellow and smooth, visually a rich vanilla or a light citrus. It smells like nothing at all and sits heavily on the spoon, reluctant to melt.
“Is there a problem with the scoop, bro?” the guy behind the counter asks, seeing me stare at the dish without eating, “Mickee leaves no customer unsatisfied.”
He wipes at the counter with a dry cloth and waits for my answer.
“Everything is fine,” I tell him, sure now that I have crossed into the conversational gray.
I wish I were filming this.
Everybody in the restaurant seems to be staring through their peripheries as I raise ‘Mickee’s Mystery’ to my lips. It is cold and thick and very sweet, but underlying everything is a flavor I almost recognize but can’t quite place.
“Good, brother?” the guy asks.
“Yeah…” I reply, still swirling the ice cream in my mouth, “It’s good.”
It is good. It’s well-made ice cream, there’s no question about that. I take another bite much to the satisfaction of the server and he tosses the rag in the air and catches it behind his back before turning to other business. A child giggles in the booth two seats ahead of me, fed ice cream by its father.
It? Is that the right word in this situation?
“Hazelnut,” I say.
The guy behind the counter seems to freeze for a moment before he goes back to wiping down a blending machine.
“It’s hazelnut, right?” I ask, “‘Mickee’s Mystery’ is just hazelnut.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, bro,” the guy mutters darkly, only turning halfway back to me, “I don’t even know what a hazlenut looks like. Are you thinking about a walnut?”
“No…” I say, confused, “You’re saying it wrong. Hazelnuts are… well, they’re really popular in some places. They grow them in Oregon I think.”
The child hasn’t made any noise since the exchange began; its father follows the conversation casually over his shoulder.
“I’ve never heard of a hazlenut.”
The couple across the restaurant stands and leaves.
“It can be kind of a subtle flavor but I’m sure you’ve had something with hazelnuts in it before. If you’ve eaten the ice cream here then you definitely have.”
“No, man,” he persists, wringing the dry towel in his hands, “No… that’s not it.”
“Really?” I ask, taking another bite, “Because this tastes like hazelnuts.”
“Maaan,” the teen says, tossing down his paper hat on the counter and shrugging a little, “Can I talk to you privately real quick because-”
“Are there nuts in this?” the dad breaks in suddenly. He points to the ice cream. “My son is fucking allergic to nuts.”
“Welllll,” the server begins.
“There’s definitely nuts in this,” I say through a mouthful of ice cream, “If it’s actually allergic to nuts you should get to a doctor, maybe.”
“He,” the father seethes, acknowledging me only briefly before rounding again on the counter. “You fucking tell me now if there’s nuts in this!” he demands.
“I can’t really…” he’s quickly looking over a laminated sheet in front of him, running his finger down some sort of list. “I’m, uh, not here when they make it. I just sell the stuff.”
I only have to stand to see he’s looking at a flowchart of some sort and reading off canned excuses. I sit again while he sweats and avoids my eyes, rummaging with his rag in a half-effort pantomime of work.
“It’s not really a mystery if you just refuse to say,” I think out loud.
“A mystery is more than a, uh, puzzle box,” he says, hardly turning to look at me, barely disguising the fact that he’s still peering at the chart, “Not all mysteries need to be solved, wink.”
“You were supposed to wink, not say ‘wink,’” I tell him, “That would suggest a friendly collusion-”
I’m interrupted mid-explanation by a tiny cough a couple booths down. The baby sneezes loudly and then looks around, bewildered, a trail of snot and spittle glistening on its, or, his, onesie.
When the father speaks his voice begins terrifyingly calm and monotone.
“Somebody needs to tell me whether there are nuts in this right now,” he says before his volume slowly starts to creep up, “My baby is fucking allergic to nuts and there are NO allergy warnings on ‘Mickee’s Mystery.’ So… IS THERE FUCKING NUTS IN THIS?”
“The prevalence of modern nut allergies is psychological in nature,” the teens says, holding the chart and casting off any pretense of original thought, “You slash your friend slash your child is fine. It’s fine.”
“He’s fine,” I correct and the father lobs a spoon my direction.
“IS THERE NUTS?”
“Your generation’s ease of living has caused you to invent problems that do not exist,” the teen reads on, “If you slash your friend slash your child spent less time in front of the television and more time outside then this would not be a concern. It is your lifestyle that is to blame for you slash your-”
“Vaccines did this to my children!” the father yells as the baby starts to cry, “And now your damned hazlenuts will kill him!”
“He’s trying to direct you away from the point of all this…” I complain, “And there’s never been any link between vaccines and nut allergies.”
The restaurant is quiet for a second, as if to briefly acknowledge the altered direction of this exchange.
“Also that’s not how you say ‘hazelnuts.’”
The teen walks stiffly around the counter and looms over my table, glaring down at me through tearful eyes. He carefully reaches down and pulls the ‘Mickee’s Club Loyalty Card’ from under my bowl and crushes it in his palm. I look over my unfinished ice cream with regret but take the cue to leave. The noisy exchange begins again as soon as the door shuts behind me.
Amidst the dust and buzzing flies I find a moment to consider that it may be the world that’s changing and not myself. There are places here that requires an amount of paranoia to get by and it may be that, by adopting a defensive nature, I’m simply adapting. This could be healthy.
I could be healthy.
I take out my phone and turn on the camera. I see my haggard face on the screen and I begin to record.
“Hello,” I say, “How are you? I’m fine too. Nice to meet you, my name is-”
-traveler
