Finding Happiness

I recognize the familiar stickiness of melting sugar as it begins to trickle down my fingers, leaving a trail of red dye looking so artificial that, frankly, I wasn’t sure it was safe for consumption. The mother across from me pays no attention to the worsening condition of this popsicle, still in my possession, and is rather caught up in trying to appease her child’s screaming fit that began after I informed the two that we were out of the grape flavor. Yeah, kid, my day isn’t going so great either. I let out a defeated sigh and glance over my shoulder at Frankie, who’s hunched over in the driver's seat of the cramped ice cream truck. His white button-up shirt and lopsided black bow tie look out of place matched with his acid wash jeans and scuffed Air Jordan’s. Frankie has a bored look on his face, casually tapping away on his phone while he waits for me to finish serving. 

        “Excuse me?” The mother interrupts, snapping my attention back towards the customers. “That one is melted,” she points to the dripping red mess in my hands.

        “It’s hot out today,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders innocently.

        “Well I’m not going to buy my daughter a melted popsicle,” the mother counters, narrowing her eyes as if preparing for a showdown. You want a battle? I’ll show you a battle. 

        “I’ve been holding it out to you the entire time you’ve been standing there, I’m sure it still tastes the same.”

         “Do you think I’m daft? I know it still tastes the same, lady, but I’m telling you that I want a new one.”

         “So you’re going to let this one just… go to waste?” I ask, feigning astonishment.

        “You know what? Let’s go get you a treat from somewhere else,” the mother says to her daughter, dragging her away by the hand after giving me a last glare. I roll my eyes and proceed to toss what’s left of the softened sweet in the trash bin behind me. I wipe my sugar-coated hands on my jeans, watching as the red residue transfers onto the faded denim. Marching back up to the front of the truck, I sit beside Frankie in the passenger seat, crossing my arms and leaning my head back.

        “You know, maybe we would earn more money if you were less rude,” Frankie says without looking up from his phone.

        “Maybe we would earn more money if we weren’t working in this cesspool of despair,” I counter, kicking the dashboard in front of me with my worn-out Converse. Frankie shoves his phone back in his pocket and pulls back onto the road without putting his seatbelt on. To be fair, I never wear mine either. I just figure that crashing and getting fatally injured can’t make my life worse than it already is. You only live once, right? 

        “I like you, Margot, but you’re really difficult sometimes,” Frankie sighs.

        “I have a right to be difficult, you do too. How do you not dread working here?”

        “Because it’s a job. Because I make money. Not everything in life is going to happen the way you want it to.” Yeah, don’t I know it.

        “I can’t wait to get out of here, Frankie. Once I make enough money, there will be nothing stopping me from moving to New York. I’ll start a new life, I’ll be a new person,” I reply, ignoring his previous comment. 

        “I’m glad you have goals, Margot, but I wouldn’t be expecting that to happen anytime soon.”

        “I’ll make it happen, you’ll see,” I mutter under my breath, a quiet promise to myself.

SIX YEARS LATER.

        I watch the city fly by from the window of the car, still starstruck by the skyscrapers after all this time. My driver, whose name I am unfamiliar with, swerves through traffic to make sure I’m not late for my signing at the bookstore. I was finally able to save up enough money after four more years of work, enough to move into a small and moldy New York apartment. I didn’t know what I even wanted to pursue in life, so I began doing the only thing I knew how to do: Write. I wrote everyday for months, eventually finishing my own novel. It took several months after that to pass on my work to publishing companies, most of which wanted nothing to do with me. I managed to hold down waitressing jobs in the meantime, making just enough money to buy groceries. But then I got a call, one that would change my life forever. Someone wanted to publish my book, and I finally felt happiness, something I hadn’t experienced in a very long time. I’m now a New York Times bestselling author, one that is now approximately two minutes late for her own book signing. My driver suddenly pulls up in front of the bookstore and I get out, careful not to crease my dress in the process. I enter the building and a hundred pairs of eyes lock in on me. I push my way through the crowd, with the help of security, to the table where I’m conducting my meet-and-greets. I smile and shake hands for two hours until only a few people are left in line. My hand has grown stiff from signing my name and the toxic smell of Sharpie has started to sting my nostrils. 

        “Hello, Margot,” a voice says, causing me to look up quickly. Standing there, in front of me, is Frankie. As in, ice-cream-truck-Frankie. He looks just the same, except this time he’s holding a copy of my book in his hands. 

        “Frankie!” I can’t help but laugh disbelievingly. We don’t say anything for a minute, just stare at each other and allow ourselves to reminisce on what life used to look like. I haven’t allowed myself to do that for years.

        “You did it, you really did it,” he finally says, grinning from ear to ear.