July 8, 1989 – Jackson, Tennessee, USA
“You’ve got enough for an ice cream sandwich, but not a Bomb Pop,” said Colby Monroe to the kid standing outside the window of the ice cream truck.
“How much more for a Bomb Pop?” asked the kid, holding up a dirty hand full of coins.
“Twenty cents. How about taking the ice cream sandwich so I can help the people behind you?” said Colby.
The kid agreed and handed over his money. Colby opened up the cooler next to the window and retrieved an ice cream sandwich. The puff of cold air from the cooler felt good on Colby’s hot face.
“Okay, what would you like?” Colby asked his next customer. She was an eight-year-old girl he did not recognize and she was obviously unfamiliar with the truck.
“What do you have?” asked the girl while she played with one of her long braids.
Instead of trying to explain the selection and prices, Colby pointed to the list painted on the side of the truck. Since the truck only got repainted once per year, the prices and choices stayed the same all summer. Colby stared at the girl impatiently as she read over the list. New customers were always the most indecisive. The regulars were bad enough, but a new customer might stand there for two minutes deciding between a Push-Up and an ice cream cup.
“I’ll take a Creamsicle,” the girl finally said.
The Creamsicles were in the larger cooler near the back of the truck. Colby had to squeeze past the generator and avoid the power cords on the floor in order to reach the cooler. The ice cream truck was more like a van. Add in the stool, short counter, and money box, and there was not a lot of room to move around. It was also sweltering inside because of all the heat dumped out by the generator and cooler motors. Colby always lingered an extra few seconds in front of the open cooler doors.
Colby handed the Creamsicle out the window as casually as possible. The next customer in line was a teenage girl wearing denim shorts and a tank top. Colby said to her, “Your name is Gina, right?”
“You remembered,” she said with a sugary smile and laugh.
Of course Colby had remembered. She was one of five girls he watched for. She had to be about his age, and like the other four girls, showed up outside the truck with younger brothers or sisters.
“What can I get you today?” asked Colby.
“Just a grape popsicle,” replied Gina.
Colby reached into the cooler and pulled out two. “Here, the second one is on me.”
“Oh thanks!” Gina exclaimed.
“Hey, what grade are you in? Do you have your driver’s license already?” asked Colby.
Colby did not mind Gina holding up the line as she told him about the car she was hoping to drive to school in the fall. He giggled and said she could have a ride in his ice cream truck sometime if she wanted.
The truth was, it was not his ice cream truck. It belonged to his uncle, Amos Monroe, who was retired. Uncle Amos usually drove it around during summers as kind of a hobby, but this year Amos’ wife had decided she wanted to see Alaska while she was still young enough to appreciate it.
Since Colby was old enough to drive, and seemed like the most responsible of his nephews, Amos made him a deal. Colby would take over his ice cream route and they would split the profits 60/40, with 60% going to Colby since he was doing all the work. Colby’s mother said he should get all the money, but Amos told her that was not how the business world worked.
Before he left for Alaska, Amos had spent three training days with Colby. The back of the truck was even tighter with Amos balancing on a second stool next to Colby’s. Taking money and handing out ice cream was the easy part. The hard part was driving the truck around. It hardly had any acceleration and a turning radius the size of a football field.
“It doesn’t need to be fast,” Amos told his nephew. “You’re only going down residential streets. Just follow the map.”
Amos had traced his usual route on a folding map of the city. The streets took Colby to parts of town he had never seen before, but Amos assured him they were the best spots for selling ice cream.
More important than following the map, according to Amos, was playing the music. He had recorded nursery rhyme songs and they were broadcast over loudspeakers by flipping a switch next to the steering wheel.
“The songs do all the work,” explained Amos. “You play the songs and the kids come running. All you have to do is stop and collect the money.”
“But these songs are kinda old fashioned,” argued Colby. “Can’t we play something new?”
“No sir. You stick with those songs and the kids will know what to do.”
After driving the truck around for a few weeks, the songs were permanently stuck in Colby’s head. He went to sleep humming Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and The Farmer in the Dell. But other than his complaints about the songs and the heat, Colby enjoyed himself. It was fun to be so popular that packs of kids ran to greet you holding up dollar bills. And he was making serious progress flirting with the older girls.
Colby had reached the point where he no longer needed his uncle’s route map. He knew every turn and street. After finishing up with his latest cluster of customers, he got behind the wheel of the truck and drove slowly to the intersection at the edge of a housing development. He had to cross the busy street in front of him and needed a large gap in the traffic because of the truck’s turtle-paced acceleration. While he waited, two police cars roared past with lights flashing and sirens wailing.
“Must be on their way to an accident,” Colby thought to himself.
He crossed the road into another neighborhood and was soon surrounded by a dozen eager kids. He parked the truck and moved to the back so he could sell ice cream. As he was taking money and opening coolers, he heard more police sirens above the sound of his nursery rhyme music.
“Y’all know where those cops are going?” Colby asked a group of his customers.
The kids shrugged their shoulders and guessed the police were chasing a bunch of drug dealers driving fast cars. One of the kids said he saw a Lamborghini in town. “Probably someone up from Memphis,” the kid concluded.
Colby did not give much more thought to the sirens or the kids’ explanations as he finished up with the group and returned to the truck’s driver’s seat. He continued down the street, which had single-story houses on each side and cars parked randomly next to the sidewalks. On his right, Colby knew a creek ran behind the houses and separated them from a more run-down neighborhood. Both banks of the creek were thick with trees and kudzu vines that carpeted the ground.
The street Colby was following made a slow turn toward the left. The turn marked the end of the houses on his right, exposing a tract of land covered in wild, un-mowed grass. Out of the corner of his eye, Colby saw a man running along the creek bank and then into the wild grass. The man headed straight for the ice cream truck before Colby had time to react. While the truck was still moving, the man pulled open the passenger side door, jumped into the seat next to Colby, and slammed the door shut.
Colby pressed on the truck’s brakes. “What are you doing?” he cried, now getting a good look at his new passenger.
The man next to him was sweating and breathing hard after a long run. He wore loose fitting jeans and a black concert T-shirt for a heavy metal band. “Don’t stop! Keep drivin’!” the man demanded. When he shouted, Colby noticed he was missing some teeth.
“No! I’m not driving you anywhere!” Colby shouted back.
The man reached behind his back and pulled a pistol from his waistband. He set the gun on his lap, pointed in no particular direction. “I need you to drive. Now. I’m not gonna ask you again.”
Colby looked at the gun and then took his foot off the brake. He turned his wide eyes toward the street.
“Good. I just need a little ride,” said the hijacker.
“Uh, where am I supposed to go?” asked Colby with a quiver in his voice.
“Anywhere away from here. You can drop me off when it’s safe.”
“Safe from what?”
“The cops.”
“They’re looking for you?”
“Yeah, but they’ll never think to look in an ice cream truck. You just keep driving.”
Colby made the slow turn that led to a long straight section of road with houses on both sides. He tried not to look at the man next to him when he asked, “What did you do?”
“Nothin’. It was all a misunderstanding. You just keep drivin’ and everything will be okay.”
Colby kept both hands on the steering wheel and nervously stared straight ahead. He kept the truck moving at barely a crawl.
“Can’t this thing go any faster? Come on, step on the gas,” urged the hijacker.
Rather than speed up so he could drop off the man sooner, for some reason, Colby felt safer moving as slowly as possible. “The truck’s really slow,” Colby said. “It’s my uncle’s. He says it doesn’t need to go fast.”
The hijacker looked Colby over suspiciously, but then said, “Well, just keep going. Stay nice and cool.”
The nursery rhyme music was still blaring from the truck’s loudspeakers, so naturally kids from the nearby houses noticed. A few who had been playing in their front yards began jogging behind the truck and calling for it to stop.
“Don’t stop for nothin’!” the hijacker reminded Colby.
At the other end of the street, a car appeared. Colby and his passenger did not think much of it until it got closer and it was obvious there was a light bar on top of the roof.
“That’s a cop car!” shouted the hijacker. He slid down the passenger seat and crouched so he was not visible through the windshield. “Keep driving! Don’t look suspicious!” he yelled at Colby.
Colby did not take his hands off the wheel as the police car approached. He could feel the hijacker’s eyes watching him. Colby stiffened. Hickory Dickory Dock played on the loudspeakers. Seven kids were now chasing the truck, but it kept rolling slowly forward. When the police car went past him, Colby could see the officer inside turn his head, his eyes locked on Colby.
“Is he gone?” whispered the man with the gun.
“I think so,” Colby whispered back.
Officer Cedric Johnson, who was driving the police car had recognized the ice cream truck. He had seen it on the same street and he even recognized the driver. Officer Johnson, and a half dozen others, had been called to the neighborhood in search of an armed robbery suspect. The officers who had originally pursued the suspect had lost visual contact. Now multiple patrol cars were all on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary. And what Office Johnson saw was definitely out of the ordinary. After passing the ice cream truck, he radioed for backup, flipped his car around, and turned on his flashing lights.
Inside the cab of the ice cream truck, the hijacker had stopped hiding and was again sitting in the passenger seat. He and Colby were both looking in the truck’s side mirrors when they saw the police car start to trail them.
“Should I stop?” asked Colby.
“No! Keep going! Keep going!” the carjacker yelled frantically.
The kids chasing the ice cream truck stopped jogging as soon as they saw the flashing police lights. They shuffled over to the sidewalk and followed at a safer distance, staring with excited anticipation.
“Pull over!” called Officer Johnson’s voice from the loudspeaker on the police car. The volume was loud enough to be heard over the nursery rhyme music, which was still playing.
“He wants me to pull over,” said Colby.
“I don’t care what he wants,” yelled the hijacker. “Keep going!”
At the head of the street, another police care appeared with lights already flashing. The second car zoomed closer and then spun around and parked so it was blocking the ice cream truck’s path.
“Now I have to stop!” cried Colby.
“No! Keep going! Ram him!” shouted the hijacker.
“That won’t do anything but wreck my uncle’s truck!” cried Colby.
The hijacker looked desperately around the cab and rear of the truck for a place to hide. He was getting squeezed by the police in front and in the rear. He thought about pushing Colby aside and taking the wheel himself, but the truck would likely not get him very far. With a final growl of frustration, he tucked his pistol into his waistband, flung open the passenger side door, and hit the ground running. He was all the way across a lawn and into a backyard before Colby pushed the brakes and brought the ice cream truck to a stop.
The police officers in front and behind Colby popped out of their cars and gave chase. They disappeared behind the house where the hijacker had run. Colby turned off the nursery rhyme music and waited. The kids who had followed the truck huddled on the sidewalk and waited too. Another police car came screaming down the street. Then two more arrived with lights flashing. Colby did not dare exit the truck or take his hands off the steering wheel.
Three nervous minutes after the fifth police car arrived, the hijacker emerged from between two houses. His hands were secured behind his back and he was followed by Officer Johnson and his backup. The hijacker was marched to one of the police cars and roughly shoved into the backseat.
Officer Johnson walked over to the ice cream truck’s driver’s side window. Colby still had his hands on the steering wheel. “You okay?” asked Officer Johnson.
“Yeah, I think so,” said Colby.
“What did he say? Was he threatening you?”
“Not really. He kept telling me to drive and not to stop. I just kept going as slowly as I could. Did you see him next to me?”
“No, but I figured something must be wrong. Ice cream trucks always stop for kids, especially when the music is playing. The guy we arrested isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. He picked the dumbest ride possible for a getaway.”
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