Free ice cream for sale

I’ve never received something free in the City; not genuinely at least.

And yet, I was given something free the other day; legitimately and appearingly without ulterior motive, free.

It was on a nondescript corner in downtown Manhattan, catty-corner from my office. It was an unseasonably warm day in early April and I was on my way home from a quick errand stop at Duane Reade for likely dry shampoo and gummy multi vitamins. It’s a common misconception that life in New York City is any less mundane than this. Most of us ride the coat tails and reputation of legacied City swagger when in actuality, we’re picking up dry shampoo and gummy vitamins, and heading home.

***

I tend to treat ice cream like I do Coke. It’s a tremendous treat once in a rare while since it’s essentially sludge/battery acid in your guts. But good lordt, they’re beguiling guilty goodies.

***

Foregoing the plastic bags with an air of earth minded uprightness, I attempted to tuck my purchases into my briefcase styled purse. But since handbags are often as sexist as women’s pocketless pants, I had ends and edges of handbag guts budging out every which way.

I did my best to secure the contents with a guarding right hand and headed back toward the Fulton station and the A/C train home. It was a lovely temperate day for a walk and I found myself walking at an average pace; slothful for a New Yorker. But subconsciously I must’ve wanted or perhaps needed to soak up those brief moments of early spring.

I wasn’t the only one. The business of hustle is never more than a market of desire away in the City. With the air of fresh warmth came the irritating repeat of ice cream jingles. Not even soft serve trucks miss a moment of hotfooting.

His truck was at the corner of Broadway and Liberty. A white truck with cotton candy font, “The Real Deal.” I had already passed one truck, and at the cross walk was about to pass this one too. I stopped and hesitated. “Goddamn, a cone would be nice right now. Agh, I’ve had a good week so far. I’ll treat myself.” Knowing full well I had no reason to treat myself. But egged on by my boyfriend (who generally encourages my more basal instincts to pamper myself), I walked up to the window with a sheepish grin and asked if he took cards.

He didn’t.

I attempted a joke (unsurprisingly awkward) to hide my slight embarrassment at having no cash. “Geez, I’m fitting the SWF stereotype right now.” He smirked and reminded me that I was a person, not a stereotype, and asked me what I wanted.

A chocolate cone dipped in chocolate sauce. I held my breath. He looked at the machine then looked back at me. And for some reason, time stood still. In that moment of kindness and understanding, we both knew what a chocolate dippped chocolate cone could mean for me. Game changer. Blog worthy.

He said he could give me a small - on the house.

I think my jaw physically dropped. 

Now, I’ve come to expect not to expect. That is, no freebies. Altruistic cynicism. Buttressed self protectionism. A hard-ass New Yorker (when in actuality I’m one of the most feeling, sensitive, goofy, hopeless romantics out there). I fully expected (insert irony) for this muscled, seemingly uninterested, African American businessman to politely but in no uncertain terms, turn me away. “Sorry gal, no cash? Yeah, we’re cash only.” True, it was probably a whopping $5 worth of ice cream cone he gave me. But still, he was in no way obliged to give me anything. I wasn’t even a good PR angle.

I thanked him, still wide-eyed and shocked that I’d just been given something free on the streets of New York City. Shuffling briskly away, sure that he’d change his mind, I crossed the street and sat on a bench outside my building. There was a bronze statue of a businessman shuffling through a briefcase next to me. I made up a story about him. He was a stressed out lawyer, unsure he’d be able to hack it in the hustle of big city law. And it reminded me of the like-spirited souls I know in this ilk: hopeful, striving, stressed, unsure. Myself included.

But for that brief moment, I was none of those things. I was a gal happy as a clam, swinging her legs on a bench as if she were 7 again, contentedly licking a deliciously melting cone. There’s still something tangible about kindness, and that sometimes, it can come with no strings attached. 

And if anything, it’s a reminder to pay it forward when there’s an opportunity to give my own proverbial cone to a cashless someone, or an awkward SWF that reminds me of no one in particular.