My First Job

Cartoons by the author's father,

Robert Weaver

What sold me on the job was the nifty T-shirt with its red, white and blue shield and the lettering proclaiming my new status as an American Boy Ice Cream salesman. I had seen the advertisement for ice cream boy jobs in the Kokomo Tribune. Such phrases as "no experience necessary," "earn lots of money" and "be your own boss" appealed to me. After all, at 11 my opportunities were dwindling. My dreams of a job in the store my dad and uncle ran across from the projects had been crushed when they hired Freddy King to sweep out and deliver groceries. Never did like Freddy anyway.

And then there was my foray into journalism which had fallen flat. The neighbors weren't impressed by the two-page mimemographed publication I delivered and my dad was not too happy with the mess I had made of his mimeograph machine in the garage.

The American Boy office was a couple doors down from the Dr. Pepper plant, where everyone knew they had bottled a mouse once, and across the street from the ice plant. It seemed an eternity in line with all the other boys before I got to the man who was hiring.

He explained how the American Boy organization worked: Boys would come in each morning, wearing their white T-shirts, bought the ice cream bars and other frozen novelty items which would be loaded into the icebox on wheels. The frozen goodies were kept frozen by dry ice. Each boy was to wear a change machine on his belt, a device that would let you lever coins one at a time from the metal tubes for half dollars, quarters, dimes and nickels. (The bills, if you got any, were to be folded carefully and carried in your right front pocket so as not to be stolen by any passing pickpocket.)

In the evening, the boys would return to the office and check in, returning unsold bars and goodies and split their money with the American Boy cashier -- less a charge (discounted, of course) for whatever ice cream bars and novelty items the boys had eaten.

Each boy would be assigned a specific route, a couple miles long and half mile or so across. He was expected to cover the route at least two times.

I had not heard everything the man had said, as my attention was drawn to the stack of snowy white T-shirts emblazoned with the American shield. One of the parts I didn't pick up on was that the ice cream salesmen had to be 16 and have a Social Security card.

It wasn't until I had shaken hands with the man and been issued my T-shirt and shiny change maker that that the part about being 16 and needing the Social Security card sank in.

It gave me pause for a few seconds, but I figured I was big enough to pass for 16 and ought to be able to get a Social Security card, whatever that was.

"OK, all you need to do now is go to the courthouse and get your Social Security card and show up here tomorrow morning," the man said, turning to the next applicant.

I do not remember my experience at the Social Security office or telling what I considered to be a little white lie about my age, but the people there must have swallowed it for I showed up the next morning, bought my ice cream, loaded the cart and set off.

In my sparkling white American Boy ice cream T-shirt and dungarees (no Levi's in Indiana in the late 1940s) I was quite proud of my professional appearance. There was a trick to pushing the cart: You had to lift up on the handle so the thing was riding on two wheels, while occasionally shaking the whole thing from left to right so the bells would ring. At the same time, you were expected to shout out, "Ice cream, get your American Boy ice cream."

Within a few minutes I had the intricacies of cart operation mastered. And after a few sales, I had making change and using the coin changer worked out, too. After a couple hours, the summer heat was catching up with me. Time to sample the goods. A nice ice cream bar filled the bill.

Several times during the day, the siren call of the ice cream and other frozen delights could be heard, although a bit muffled by the insulated ice box on wheels. By early evening of that first day, I was finding myself hungry for something other than frozen delights.

To my surprise, my mother pulled up in the family car, a black 1940 Pontiac sedan -- the one with the silver spot on the front seat I had added when I opened the can of silver paint to see what was inside. She had brought along a tray of warm food for her favorite (and only) son.

That ritual would continue each evening of my career as an ice cream peddler.

American Boy ice cream salesmen would hawk their wares until near dark, providing the residents of Kokomo with a chance to sample the goodies after supper.

Then we would return to "the barn," as the older boys described it, unload our frozen goodies, hand over our money and most nights be amazed at how much of it we had sampled.

After a few weeks, the job was second nature; I was pretty good at it. Bits of knowledge gleaned on the route such as where the repeat customers lived and what areas had almost no business were tucked away under those white cardboard hats we wore.

Although Kokomo is as flat as most Indiana towns, my route, which was south of the main part of town and included a little of the more affluent section to the west, was graced with a couple of north-south streets with hills. The gentle slopes provided an ice cream vendor with chance to get off his aching feet and enjoy a short but exciting surfboard-like ride for a few blocks.

I like to look back on these rides as pioneering exploits that predated the later deeds of California's surfers. These rides required a great degree of balance as the ice cream cart surfer put his body forward across the box, putting weight on the front of the rig while hanging onto the handle. Ringing the bells was optional.

These downhill plunges may have set world land records for ice cream carts. And since there were no brakes on the cart, it was fortunate for me that these streeets would start uphill after a short dip.

Almost my whole ice cream selling experience was spent on the south central route. I got used to it, knew most of the people on it by name (and what they liked to order). Then, one day, the boss said I would have to work the northeastern route.

I had never been to that side of town. Coming from a household where my father and mother referred to black people as Negroes and would not abide even the use of "colored people" to describe them, I was without prejudice.

I knew there were black people somewhere in town, but was not sure just where. That day I learned. The northeastern part of town was apparently somewhat an undefined ghetto.

Since the only blacks I had ever seen included some waiting for buses downtown and the blind guy who played an accordian on the square.

So I found it interesting to discover all these people lived in my town. Things went along at about the same clip as on my usual route until I got to the lodge. One of the men came to the door and asked me to come take their orders. It was impressive.

I was counting up my increased profits in my head, when one of the men, asked if they could have the ice cream for free. Others joined in, saying they all deserved a treat. I was worried and tried to explain that I had to pay for the ice cream, so they had to pay.

Then, in an instant, one of the men cracked a smile and then the rest. They had been teasing me and added my first tip to what they paid for the ice cream.

I learned a lot of important lessons my 11th summer:

How to sell something, how to make change, how to surf

the hills of Kokomo on my ice cream cart and how everyone

is pretty much the same, regardless of their color.

Oh, yeah, and maybe the most important one: There is no free lunch

or ice cream -- even if you are the one selling it.