Hearing myself snore, I woke. The ice cream truck’s muffled music penetrated the Tudor style walls of the living room. Outside, children spoke, shouted, and demanded over the looping circus theme. Other than ruining my life, why did the truck stop here? The ice cream truck driver knew better as did the neighborhood.

The whooshing of running water chased along the white plaster above me. He’d gotten in the “bath” by himself. From the angle of midsummer sunlight through the windows, he’d started at least an hour late.

Rising off the warm couch, I shivered in the air-conditioned home.

Footfalls pounded, moving away from the shower to the top of the stairs. He cornered banister. Andy, wet and naked, jogged down the stairs. His penis flopping against his thighs as his hairy gut jiggled.       

Yanking the front door open, Andy’s chunky flesh vibrated. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood legs spread –the pose of a superhero defending turf.

Moving up behind him, I replayed slices of what I’d learned in the mandatory Peaceful Restraint class. The truck was off center of the front yard. A hot summer’s day and the Pied Piper had the neighborhood lining up. Mixed in with the children, soccer moms clung to strollers. They’d burned off their post-pregnancy fat, still nursing, their breasts looked magnificent in workout gear. Push up bras sewn into black and pink spandex, glorifying their shape. Reincarnations of 1950s “Leave It to Beaver” fathers reached for their wallets. They paid for the ice cream. This came out of their rent on the wife and kids.

“Andy, get away from the door,” I said.

The crowd wanted frozen confections. All backs were to Andy. There was still time.

“You get away from here ice cream truck, get!” Andy dropped his arms to his sides and made fists shouting at the truck.

They turned.

“Get away from my house, you get!” his back and neck muscles tensed with enunciation.

No one laughed or snickered. Some parents put their fingers on their children’s temples and turned their heads. Others gave “look away” instructions.

“Andy, get inside.”

The performance they’d seen every day. I don’t know when Andy started doing this, but he’d been doing it for years. The behavior was in his file, but not when it started. While the performance was old, the costume choice the crowd had never seen before.

He kept shouting. The portion of the audience commanded by parents to look away continued doing so. The rest kept on meat gazing. A boy held up money to the side door of the ice cream truck. The driver took the money and exchanged it for something sweet and cold without breaking his focus on Andy.

My hand was inches from Andy’s shoulder.

They assigned me to Andy because I stood six feet and weighed in around two-sixty, and not all of it was fat. He was six four and had fifty pounds on me, maybe more. They wanted him to lose weight. He wasn’t supposed to have more than 1 scoop of ice cream a day.

Extending his arm, he pointed an index finger skyward. He’d gone from superhero to professional wrestler shit talking before a match.

“If you don’t get out of here ice cream truck I will ruin you forever. I will, now, you get, forever,” shouting, his body jerked. His performance let the world know The Naked Avenger was not the heel in this battle royal.

I pulled my hand back. I worried touching him could set him off. A year ago, he’d been institutionalized for punching his dad. From day one, the office was upfront about this. They said he’d never do it again because he feared going back.

“Andy get in the fucking house.”

The driver mumbled to the crowd. He closed the truck’s side door, started the engine, and pulled away. The crowd murmured and followed.

Andy shouted at the migration.

When the truck reached the stop sign at the end of the street Andy slammed the front door shut.

“What the hell Andy? You don’t open the door when you’re naked.”

“I have to keep everyone safe.”

His banishing the ice cream truck had to do with a killer ice cream truck driver in one of his brother’s comic books. The comic was a violent one, rated “R” type stuff. He’d shown it to Andy “a few decades ago.” Andy’s mother told me this much of the origin story when I started.

“Go upstairs and finish washing your hair.”

“I already washed my hair but I got more washing to do.”

“The water is still running, and Andy, don’t ever come out of the bathroom naked again.”

“Don’t say the F-word.”

I couldn’t remember when I’d said fuck.

***

Andy was eating Cherry Garcia.

It was always Ben & Jerry’s, always Cherry Garcia, always 1 scoop. Next, he’d wash the ice cream off his face and brush his teeth. While Ice cream before his “bath” would be more economical, it was my leverage to get him into the shower. Reading him a comic was my leverage to get him to brush his teeth. I’d point to the word bubbles while reading so he’d know who was talking.

I read the comic to him at the kitchen table. When he washed his face and brushed his teeth, I’d wipe down the table to get off the ice cream. His meds were stored in the kitchen. His routine ended with meds and glass of water. Then up to bed. I’d check Facebook on my phone waiting for his parents to come home. He’d be asleep in fifteen minutes give or take. The Thorazine put him out. He took it to reduce seizers.

I’d never seen one.

Still light out, they knocked on the door Andy had stood in shouting and naked.

Andy stayed in the kitchen.

I opened the door.

The guy in the uniform was skinny. Too skinny to be a cop, but they gave him a badge and a gun anyway. All the woman had was a leather shoulder bag and gray pantsuit.

The Officer said they’d received calls, “about public exposure.”

“Sorry about that. I work through a service, I give his parents a break three nights a week. He’s got no idea of what’s going on.”

“I know about Andy. I was here a year ago,” The Officer said.

“The thing with his dad?” I said.

The Officer nodded.

“You know then, he can’t be prosecuted, he’s not fit.”

She extended a hand, “That’s why I’m here, in regards to Andy’s safety. I’m with the county’s mental health services.”

***

“You know why you’re in the office today?”

“Cause of yesterday.”

“Yes. Do you think it’s fair for us to continue extending this employment opportunity to a person who isn’t doing their job?”

“You’re letting me go, I don’t get it.”

“You were sleeping on the job resulting in Andy running outside naked. I’ve written you up for sleeping on the job in the past, what do you think I should do?”

“I was sleeping on the job because I worked two doubles for you before showing up. If anything, this is really management’s fault. I blacked out on the couch. I didn’t fall asleep.”

“You don’t agree with me that you’re a liability?”

“You’re a piece of shit, I’ll agree to that. I say that, hoping no insult will befall any turds within earshot.”

“Are you done being childish?”

“I need this job and you’re fucking me.”

“You understand you are not to contact any of our clients? Also, if you could, please go ahead, and read this and sign it?”

“If you’re firing me, I’m not signing shit. If I’m going to do anything, it’ll be filing a complaint with the department of labor.”

***

In the safety of my apartment, I logged onto my computer. Searching the internet, I priced roof-mounting speakers for my car. I needed more gear than the speakers alone. None of it was cheap. I’d have to pull from savings what little there was. I kept adding up variations of microphones, speakers, and preamps. I still didn’t know if I could afford it. I might have to wait for my first unemployment check.

When I had it all, I’d drive past Andy’s house at shower time.

I’d be the villain.

– Josh Darling

Author’s Note: Sitting down to write this story, I decided on the methodology of using only what is necessary; from there, I tried to see how lean I could get the writing. When I finished my rough draft, I was looking at something atypical. Because of that, I want to thank The Bookends Review for taking a chance on a piece of writing like this. An editor’s got to have a lot of moxie to print a story that asks this much of the reader’s imagination, and I know requesting this much may ruffle a few feathers.