Music Truck

Watson stopped. “I hear the music truck,” he said, straddling his bike. He wore his lime green helmet. Nicky regarded it with envy. Lime green was such a cool color.

“What’s the music truck?” Nicky slowed. He pedaled in long, aimless circles. The streets in Watson’s development were good for driving in circles. They were wider and shadier than the streets in his own neighborhood.

“Shh!” Watson insisted. “Listen.”

Nicky listened. “Sounds like the ice cream man,” he said. “What’s the Music Truck?” He used Capital Letters, because Capital Letters were for Important things. The Music Truck sounded Important.

And, from the way Watson froze, like an animal scenting the air, Nicky deduced it was indeed Important.

“Nah, it’s the Music Truck, all right.” Watson was firm, his jaw set. “We’ll hang out here. I’ll prove it to you.”

“O.K.” It was a good idea to pull over. Watson always had good ideas. He was only six, but he sure knew a lot.

Nicky jiggled on the sidewalk. He was excited to see a Music Truck. And it if it was the ice cream man instead, well, he had a dollar in his pocket. Spending Money. Spending Money was good to have, especially in the Summer Time.

So they waited. Watson dug up some bugs from someone’s lawn, and thus they were entertained. The chirpy music grew louder.

“It’s coming closer,” Watson noted.

The familiar ice cream truck rounded the corner. Nicky, shrugging, felt only slightly disappointed.

But Watson was in rapture, suddenly standing, fiercely and with pride, as though something divine was passing by. “The Music Truck,” he announced, in a whisper. “I’ve never been so close to it.”

“It’s the ice cream man,” Nicky corrected, standing as well. He jumped up and down and waved. He’d get a blue raspberry Italian ice.

“What are you doing?” Watson’s eyes widened, horrified.

“I’m making him stop.”

“But that’s not what you do when the Music Truck comes! You Listen Nicely To The Music!” Watson hissed out his teeth, outraged by his friend’s blasphemy.

The truck slowed, and Nicky danced off the side walk, successful in his efforts. “Who told you this is the music truck?” he wondered in earnest.

“My Mom,” Watson pronounced, and Nicky wondered how such a cool kid like Watson could have such a stupid mom.