He stopped in his tracks, bending his head towards a familiar sound. Faint in the distance but growing louder with an occasional stop in time as it grew closer. He tried to run towards his house, but his legs wouldn't respond to his brain's call as he joined the others screaming that he was coming, and the noise grew louder. With his legs now in a full-out sprint, he barged through the kitchen door, causing his mom to jump and scold him not to run up on her like that. He tried to form the words as his mom removed a quarter from her apron pocket, which he snatched up, giving her a quick kiss on her cheek. DON'T SLAM THE DOOR, she yelled after him, but he was already joining the other kids, ears tuned to that sound every kid wants to hear on a hot summer evening. THERE HE IS, one kid yelled. I see its head. The music grew louder as it inched closer: the painted-red mouth and the massive blue-and-yellow head, a young kid's worst nightmare. And just like that, the ice cream truck stopped and a man dressed as a clown opened the window, taking orders from kids of all ages. It's the simple things that give us pleasure, like waiting for an ice cream truck, that have all the ingredients of a PG-rated horror show.
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