Rubbing alcohol, body odor, and chocolate syrup hung heavily in the air. Eastwood wrinkled his nose. The breakroom was big. In the far left corner there were two rows of bunk beds and battered lockers. Half the beds were full of snoring drivers. On his near left two drivers were drinking beers and playing dominoes. To his right a large driver had her cut and bleeding arm on a lunch table while another driver stitched her up. They were both eating egg salad sandwiches.

Blinking hard Eastwood took a steadying breath.

“Don’t tell me you can stomach a little blood,” KitKat said with a chuckle.

Eastwood had ridden shotgun with his new supervisor KitKat all morning. He sat his trusty mare’s leg rifle down on the breakroom table and flexed his shoulders. Eastwood had bounced up and down the East Coast from Portland to Bethesda. He’d worked as security in clubs and on the docks, but now he wanted more cash and more freedom. He wanted to hit the roads as an ice cream man.

Along with frozen delights, ice cream trucks carried fresh produce, canned goods, medicine, and small electronics. These mobile bodegas were the lifelines of neighborhoods. Of course some drivers up their profit margins with street drugs and the drugs brought in gangs and violence. But there was still honest money to be made.

“Naw, it’s all red sauce to me. I just hate the smell of hard boiled eggs. It’s a juvie thing,” Eastwood answered.

“Hey man, did you pull time at the Little Fathers of Mercy in Chester? All they ever served was boiled eggs, oatmeal, and back hands,” said one of the domino players.

“That’s Chip and his boy Butterscotch. Guys this is Eastwood James. Fudge’s replacement,” said KitKat.

Eastwood gave a nod. “No not Little Fathers I was raised at the Methodist Home for Wayward Youth outside Lansdale. Different lyrics, same music.”

“Truer words, truer words,” said the driver being sewn up.

Eastwood shook hands with his fellow drivers and tried to match their funny nicknames to their scarred faces. Tired, he settled down with a street map and a cup of coffee. Knowing the streets, understanding the neighborhoods this was the only way to survive van life.

“Ready, the van’s loaded and charged up. Time to hit the Pike,” KitKat said, fully dressed in tactile gear and holding out a bulletproof vest.

Eastwood stroked the new name tag stitched over the old one. He shrugged into it as he followed his supervisor out of the breakroom.

“Hey Jimmies heads up.” The bandaged Strawberry Ripple tossed him a bagged sandwich for the road. “Don’t worry it’s ham and cheese.”

Eastwood “Jimmies” James said, “Thanks.” In the background a tinkling version of “Turkey in the Straw” began to play.