I recently promised my favorite story about our on-road hijinx. While I haven’t been able to bring you any sandwich love, I can at least make good on my word.
Driving back to the garage after our smog test and weigh station adventure, I pulled up to a traffic light. The passenger window was open (because it doesn’t close without two pairs of hands and lots of muscle) and Suzanne, who was standing where the jump seat should be, heard someone calling to us. She had a brief conversation with this person in the next lane and then we drove off. I turned off the road when I realized we were going the wrong way (that happens a lot in Hayward) and pulled into an industrial parking lot. An lo and behold, the guy Suzanne had been talking to at the traffic light pulled up beside us. Normally, this would’ve freaked me out but I feel invulnerable in the truck. I could just run him over if he tries anything. Anyway, he hops out of his pick-up and immediately starts asking us questions about our business – what we sell, where we’re located, etc. Have I mentioned that the exterior of our truck looks like ass? The wood is falling off. The logos are peeling. Oh, wait, the surf board is still bitchin’. But we are clearly not.open.for.business. This guy did not care. He was psyched – turns out he’s in the mobile food business himself. “Cool,” I say (I am so articulate). “What do you sell?”
“Shaved Ice… And weed ice cream,” he replies and points to his truck. In the bed of the truck, amidst what appears to be trash bags, is what looks like one of those small refrigerators – like what I used to have in my dorm room. “Yeah, I just hook it up to a marine battery and I’m ready to go.” Something tells me that’s not quite to code.
He asked for our business card, which Suzanne provided and then she asked for his card. “Oh, I don’t have any cards yet because….” he trailed off. Because, indeed.
He was so pumped about our business (or our gender, or both) and had all kinds of cross-marketing ideas, including working raves. What I remember about raves is that I didn’t want to be anywhere near food, especially filling sandwiches. Shaved ice? Yes. Weed ice cream? Definitely!
We talked for a few more minutes, then he offered us some of his ice cream. “Oh, no thanks,” I said. “I’m driving.”
“You can have it later,” he reasoned.
“We have to pick up our kids,” Suzanne explained. I could just picture trying to explain to Etta why she couldn’t have a lick of mommy’s special ice cream.
While he considered this, I started the truck, we waved and drove off. On the way back to the garage, I told Suzanne that, despite my earlier enthusiasm about hanging out with the Twirl and Dip chicks, the weed ice cream guy had the potential to completely transform our business. He could park next to us so that our customers could have a sandwich and dessert. And then, when they got the munchies, they could have another sandwich! We’d be selling 200 sandwiches a day, no problemo. But he’d have to change the name of his product. Weed ice cream just doesn’t have the right ring to it.
Back in my car and stuck in traffic on the 880, I pondered a new name for his business. Good Humor is already taken, which is too bad because that’s actually the perfect name. Cannabis Cones, Kind Cream Sandwiches, Bud-ee Bar, Sativa Swirl, 420-Freeze – I had a bunch of them. Then Suzanne noticed she had a message from an unknown number. It was the ice cream man.
So much for pot being the great de-motivator.