Detour

Day in and day out. Relentless. Traffic just gets worse and worse and seemingly without end. Sometimes, I wish I could work from home like we did in lockdown. Sit at home with a nice cup of tea and get some real work done, instead of these pointless commutes. I’ve been stuck in this queue, this pile-up of cars, for almost an hour now. Nothing worth listening to on the radio. A woman in front of me, in an ugly old faux wood Caprice, attempts a u-turn but lacks the clearance to succeed. Realizing the defeat, she folds back on herself in her seat and resigns to this her designated place in the queue. Her car now askew in front of me, after the failed manoeuvre, I notice a narrow street not far ahead on my right. Shit! It’s Harbour Street! It crosses Wellington where I used to live as a kid! From Wellington I can get to the turnpike and skip this congestion…! Mmh, weird, though, that no one seems to go that way. I never use the GPS navigator myself, but surely someone in this queue would. I pick up my phone and open the map there. It takes a long time for the GPS to acquire a signal. Then, finally, it scrolls the map into position to show where I am. It’s not there. Harbour Street is missing from the map. That explains the empty street. I flick the map a few times to get Wellington into view. It appears unchanged. I fumble a bit as I map a route from Wellington to the turnpike. Why do they have to be so finicky, these apps? At last, now it shows an almost straight red line across the city. Could that really be it? A few blocks down a street forgotten by Silicon Valley, and I am straight on to work? Well, there is no harm trying and it sure beats sitting here. 

In her attempt to escape, the woman in front of me has left a large gap between her and the curb. I back up as much as I can to the car behind me and jiggle my car a few times back and forth. Thank God, I have a small car and not one of those huge SUVs. It fits snugly between the stationcar in front of me and a signpost, and the next thing I know, I am in Harbour Street. In my rearview mirror I can see the old Caprice, now having the needed leeway, backing up and turning into Harbour Street after me. No one else appears to dare this adventure.

A few minutes down Harbour Street, I reach the crossroads at Wellington Road. The intersection is exactly how I remembered it. The traffic signals hang from strutted horizontal posts like they did then. I am sure they have been like that since the seventies. I signal left and turn into Weelington, towards the turnpike ahead. Behind me the Caprice follows, the woman smiling triumphantly as the car wobbles like a fresh lump of jello. I feel like we are now almost strung together in our liberation.

Not much has survived the forty years. I get a glimpse of Andersson’s barbershop as I rush past it. A bit worse for wear but looking pretty much the same. Not much else does. Except, there… is that the ice cream shop? It is! I ease on the pedal and take it in as I pass. It looks brand new. Odd. Someone put a lot of heart into renovating it. The wooden siding immaculately kept and the signs all but factory-fresh. I stop and pull over. As I step out of the car, I swear I can smell freshly baked cones. The shop looks brand new. As it did forty years ago when I lived here. Pristine.

The bells jingle as I open the door. You know the kind of bells you use on an elf’s hat? A handful of them, attached to a brass hoop on the door frame. The illusion is complete. A retro make-believe like no other. The smell of waffles and vanilla. It is almost overwhelming. As if in a trance, I ring the bell on the counter and peruse the shelves behind the desk as I wait for someone to respond. An old woman comes out of the back store and smiles brightly at me. She looks vaguely familiar, but I dismiss it. Surely she just happens to meet my subconscious expectations. The archetypical candy store madame.

“How may I help you, young man?”

Her voice is sweet and mellow. Ageless.

“Eh…”

“Oh, we don’t have that here, you know. We have ice cream and lollipops.”

Her laughter rings just like the bells over the door. 

“Eh… I mean, I think I need to have a vanilla ice cream in a cone… thank you.”

“Yes, we all need something, don’t we?”

She winks at me, amused, and opens a lid in the counter. From the shelf, she picks a golden cone and scoops a ball of ice gingerly into the cone.

“One or two scoops? You look like you can do with two…”

She winks again and before I can say anything, she drops another ball into the waffle cone. 

“Here you go, love. That’ll be ¢40.”

“¢40? For an ice cream!?”

She looks at me with a hurt expression and retracts the cone.

“Don’t tell me you don’t have the money.”

“No, of course not. It’s just that… surely you mean $4.”

“No, honey, don’t be silly. It's ¢40.”

I give her $1 in exchange for the cone and look at it, not even noticing her waving a couple of coins of change back in front of me. The waffle is slightly warm to the touch giving way for the chill of the frozen ice cream near the top. Slowly I raise the costly treasure and nipple at the ice cream. In an instant, my world explodes! It is as if I am thrown back to my childhood. The fresh cream and the abundant vanilla overflow my senses. In the split of a second, I am 8 years old. I can almost hear the traffic outside slow down. Engines change their music. The air takes on a different quality. Dusty but fresh. As I eat my ice cream, memories of long lost friends and faithful pets roll over me, soothing me. Are they at school, now? Is mum at home making lunch?

“Can I get you something else, love?”

I startle. Awaken. I appear to have long eaten my ice cream. I must have drifted, mesmerized by this forgotten sensation.

“No! No, thank you. It was very nice. Thank you.”

I nod goodbye and turn to leave the shop. Frantic. I almost turn back to ask if she had the shop back then, but I reconsider and open the door. How extraordinary! 

The next morning, I turn on the navigation in my car and get onto Wellington long before the road queue starts. The GPS complains that the route is much longer but finally concedes and guides me where I want. After a few unfamiliar turns, I am back on my childhood road. Once more, I pass Andersson’s barbershop and like yesterday, I stop outside the ice cream parlour. The Caprice that followed me is parked by the sidewalk. That is strange; perhaps she had a hunger for ice cream too. I chuckle as I get out and approach the shop. She must have seen the shop yesterday and decided to check it out today.

The bells jingle with the familiar light clinks, as I open the door. The shop is empty. Okay, so she didn’t go for ice cream. Her loss, I suppose. I tap the service bell twice and wait for the old lady. It occurs to me, that I stand here just like I did when I was a little boy - eager with anticipation.

“Ah, you again. What may I serve today?”

“I would like two scoops of strawberry ice cream, please. In a cone.”

“Good choice, young man. Good choice.”

She opens the lid in the counter. The exact same lid, I think. Well, there is probably more than one bowl under there. Nothing strange about that. I look at the counter. There are three isolated lids. All made from polished aluminium domes, each with a sturdy lock and handle. If there are two flavours under each, that would mean six different flavours to try. Oh, boy!

“Here you are, friend.”

She hands me the cone and takes my proffered $1 bill.

“Keep the change, it is well worth a full dollar.”

“Thank you, young man. That is awfully sweet of you.”

She winks at me and smiles as she opens the register. Just as I lift the cone to take a nip, the bells jingle their mirthful melody behind me. It is the woman from the Caprice. She is standing in the doorway, looking awkwardly at first the old lady and then at me. 

“Good morning sweetness! Would you like an ice cream?”

“Oh, yes please. I’ll have …chocolate and mint. Do you have that?”

“Certainly, dear. That certainly is a fine choice. One second.”

She opens the lid - the same lid - and scoops two balls of ice cream. The woman looks at me with an awkward smile. Almost as if this is a guilty pleasure to be ashamed of. She then turns to the counter and accepts the ice cream; a wonderfully deep brown and light green treat. I look back down on mine and raise it to my mouth to let it slip onto my tongue... Everything disappears! My world turns upside down and I am back in my childhood self. All senses shimmer and swirl. Even my clothes are what I used to wear. And, there; next to me is a young girl with long, plaited hair. I think she is the same age as me, perhaps a bit older. She looks at me in complete surprise and then back at her ice cream. Simultaneously, glaring at each other, we lift our ice cream cones and take an apprehensive bite.

“I’m Anna. What’s your name?”