An ice cream truck drives by our house on a daily basis.
First, it drives down other streets, and the tinny carousel music echoes off the houses so much you can’t tell which direction it’s coming from.
Then the truck drives up our street, the music sounding even more frail than it had when it was further away, and my daughter stands on the edge of our property line and waves her hands over her head for a minute straight, to make sure she isn’t missed.
The “truck” is a converted mail truck covered with stickers depicting all kinds of ice cream treats.
Including Sonic the Hedgehog, now with gumdrop eyes.
When did I move to Pleasantville?