This is it in a nutshell—going to the Dairy Queen in summer. My county is full of frustrated people struggling to make ends meet. They depend on cones, shakes, ice cream sandwiches, floats, ice pops, blizzards, syrup, sprinkles, smoothies, malts, banana splits, fudge cycles and various combinations of the above to get them through life.
As a diabetic, I usually buy a small cone, take two licks and discard it. People stare at me in horror, cover their children’s faces. Even the proprietor, spotting me out of the corner of his eye, makes it clear I am not welcome. I am accused of not respecting the product. Worse, I’m taking up a parking spot which should go to an entire sugar-crazed family.
Call me emotionally stunted, but I crave the tension inherent in these situations. Should you take too long ordering, fumble with your money, take a cell call instead of focusing on the issue at hand, you risk a severe pummeling. It’s not just the baggy pants crew; it’s wholesome family units who’ve just gotten a rent increase or slammed with a transmission repair bell, families who desperately need respite from a collapsed economic system. Yes, these, too, may beat you senseless for holding up the line.
I take no political sides, but imagine a scenario where you just cannot decide between rainbow sherbet and turquoise gelato and Governor Christie is behind you craving a strawberry banana split. How long do you expect to vacillate, before he wraps his meaty fingers around your neck?
Even after you’ve ordered, if you choose to stay and consume it right there in the lot, you risk cutting remarks in three different languages denigrating your entire family tree. How one employs a napkin can lead to actual fisticuffs. You do not ever gently wipe your mouth and fingers before tossing the napkin in the trash. A man must viciously apply one vigorous swipe across the face; ignore sticky fingers, which are a Dairy Queen badge of honor, and disdainfully fling the tissue to the ground, looking around for a female with ice cream running down her chin. The man, using only his eyes, indicates he would like to lick off that residue with one motion. This is Hudson County’s version of a bull fighter, minus the tights.
Such danger, sensuality, and tension on a summer night cannot be found in the suburbs, where clueless, timid amateurs politely wait for their Chipwiches, only to be told they are on back order. – Joe Del Priore