The Ice Cream Cone

The Ice Cream Cone

She pushed her thick wire-rimmed glasses farther up on her nose, squaring off with the parking meter so different from how she remembered them to be. Her squat, short build put her face close to the directions. The meter accepted her little-used plastic card after spitting out the quarters it didn’t want, which sprinkled the sidewalk with metallic tinks.

She glanced spitefully at them lying on the ground. They may have only been two feet away from her fingers, but bending over and trying to pick them up was not going to happen. Her mouth pinched in agitation. Why did everything have to be so hard!

She had grown livid from the traffic and the inability to find a place to park, driving around and around the block, no easy feat for someone who had just turned eighty. It was a miracle she found this parking place at all, and conveniently right across from what she was looking for, a restroom, and something special. A gas station might have had one item, but not the other thing she wanted.

Who would have thought it was so difficult in this vast city to find a place for a little old lady to relieve herself? The meter blinked back at her: ten minutes. Her anger mounted at the cost. She would have to walk across two streets, order something, and hope the restroom wasn’t occupied.

It wasn’t as though everyone at the senior center hadn’t warned her she shouldn’t go to the city by herself. But none of them had offered to go along. They’ve been warning her for some time that she shouldn’t even be driving, but here she was, and she had done it.

She had come to pick up his ashes because there was no one else who would. Really, she didn’t even owe him that kindness and had wrestled with the decision for days. There were some things in life you did because they were right, not because you wanted to, even if they were difficult.

Long ago, he had been a husband, a father, a good man, the king of their kingdom, before he forgot them, and in the end, forgot himself.

Sometimes people deserve to be remembered for their best moments. She wondered if the world had been kind to him. Now his ashes sat boxed in cardboard on the passenger seat of the car. If she lived to tell this tale, she wasn’t going to share with those old folks even half of it. It had taken everything to get this far, and she still had to drive home.

Ellie wouldn’t tell them how terribly fast everybody drove, or how slow she had to go just to read the freeway signs and find the correct off-ramp. She would not admit how many times people had angrily honked or how frightened she had been. Nor would she tell them how many times she had gone around and around on the various stacked freeways, splitting off in different directions, leaving her confused. It had taken several wrong turns to get here.

She would tell them about the cars that passed her, driven by themselves. Something she still found hard to believe. They had all read the articles in the shared newspaper and even seen a clip or two on the news, but she now had seen them with her own eyes. She would also tell them about the park she had found by accident, turning down the wrong street. It boasted plants from all over the world, according to the pamphlet. She had sat there on a bench in the sun, eating her breakfast sandwich and fruit she had brought from home.

Now, she glared back once more at the offensive meter, then walked to the first crosswalk, clutching her purse and coat tighter against her chest. There were so many people everywhere, nothing like what she was used to. Nearby, one or two people lingered with shopping carts full of belongings, their mismatched layers pulled tight against the cold. Others talked to themselves in vivid, colorful conversations. Bicyclists were weaving through traffic, and clever young people were riding those two-wheeled contraptions, backpacks on their backs, hands gripping the handlebars as they wove down the road.

She was still able to drive, which put her ahead of most of the old biddies at the Senior Center. It gave her an edge. She mattered because she could provide rides when needed. They asked her for help on one side of their mouth, while saying with the other, "Ellie, you probably shouldn’t be driving."

Easy for them to scold. Some had children who could chauffeur them. Some had money for rides, and some still had driving spouses, but not all. Sometimes life just felt impossible.

The crosswalk chirped and clicked as the Walk symbol appeared. Beeping noises continued as she crossed. It was no surprise that she was only halfway across before it switched to Stop Walking. Another thing city planners never thought of: some people take longer to cross the street. Not everything should be done in a hurry.

Stubbornly, she kept her pace. She stared straight ahead, avoiding the eyes of impatient drivers. Her special orthopedic shoes had probably been perfect 10 years ago, but she hadn’t wanted to replace them. She felt every pebble and scrap beneath her feet. They really ought to think about street cleaning here, she thought.

Someone else had pushed the button on the next crosswalk. So she waited with the others as patiently as she could.

I really— really need a restroom, she chanted in her mind.

Once across the street, she went into the fast-food burger shop, noticing the floors first, as she always did. It wasn’t just because she was bent over, though she was, but because she watched where she stepped. The floor was filthy. Black and brown marks from outdoor dirt and shoe scuffs covered the floor. Bits of food and packaging were littered around. Were people expected to eat here?

She didn’t even want to look around at the tables or the customers. She was eager to order something that would fulfill her old tradition and give her the privilege of using their restroom.

A security guard lingered near the counter and gave her a slight nod. The scent of food reminded her she hadn’t eaten for a while, and her stomach growled. She didn’t even look at the order board. She knew exactly how much money she had for this whole ordeal, and she would allow herself one thing: a soft-serve ice cream cone. It had been their special date in the good years. They had strolled hand in hand through the town center, each enjoying a cone. Did this world even care about traditions anymore, she wondered.

Ice cream was not ideal on a cold winter day, but it was meaningful. Ellie intended to sit in the car and eat next to him. She navigated the ordering, handing the clerk her wrinkled five-dollar bill. She breathed in a deep breath, glancing around now for the other thing she wanted, and let it out in a long whoosh when she saw the bathroom sign.

The door had a number panel, much like the old phones did back in the day. She stared at it. Another customer came behind her and said, “You need the code.” He waited a moment more, then recited it to her, stepping back behind her in line. His accent was heavy, and she couldn’t place it. Her physical discomfort pressed down on her. All she could do was stare harder at the panel.

Before she could react, he reached past her shoulder and quickly punched in the numbers that released the door.

She couldn’t even take a moment to thank him, rushing inside with relief. The bathroom was worse than anything she’d seen. Ellie shook her head at the nature of some people who didn’t understand the importance of cleanliness.

At the sink, she caught her reflection. She looked exhausted, older than she felt. The harsh light deepened the lines in her pale face, and her snow-white hair had blown into a wild, disheveled bob around her head. How had she ended up here in this dirty bathroom, miles and miles from her calm, uneventful life? Maybe she wasn’t just stubborn but a foolish old lady, too.

The guard smiled at her as she passed to the pickup counter, where her ice cream cone waited. At least the food area was clean, and for a moment, she wished she’d ordered a burger. But traditions were more important.

With her cone carefully held in one hand and her purse clutched tightly in the other, she shuffled to the exit— and met another woman’s gaze.

The woman was rubbing her palms together to warm them. She sat on a table bench near the exit. Holding Ellie's gaze, she lifted her finger to her lips in that universal sign for food. She looked as old and tired as Ellie felt. She wore no coat. Her charcoal-graying hair swirled up in a messy doo. Her cocoa-rich skin, every bit as wrinkled as Elly's, spoke of a harsh life. She sat alone in a thin dress with braided sandals on her misshapen feet.

Sandals, on a day like today.

The woman was smiling, hopeful, and when acknowledged, a beautiful curve of lips transformed her face.

In another life, Ellie thought she could have been on the cover of Time Magazine, a proud tribal queen. But today, she was just another old lady in a dirty food place in a vast city, hungry and worn, asking for food.

Somebody's mother, somebody's grandmother. In some world, a queen. Without thinking, Ellie handed her the cone and nodded—one queen to another—before turning back to her car and its quickly emptying meter.