Winter break had just ended and I had moved back into my dorm room. Seeing as classes would not begin until a few days’ time, the vast majority of on-campus eateries remained closed to the public. This did not suit my current state which was plagued by a dull, gnawing hunger. After a few minutes of internal bickering, I had decided to wander High Street, in hopes that a familiar or eye-catching restaurant sign would whet my appetite to the point I lost the will to continue my search. Though I had been grumbling under my breath about having to spend Buck-ID cash as opposed to blocks, my insignificant whining died quickly in my throat as a corporate logo of pure beauty redirected my attention.
Every inch of my huddled, frigid body was simultaneously warmed and drawn towards the entrance of this godsend. Cold Stone Creamery. Even the name was enough to illicit imagery of delicious enjoyment. Memories of myself as a child enjoying their ice cream rose to the front of my mind’s eye. I felt a haunting shiver from the core of my spine as yet another part of my brain told me what I was thinking was somehow false. That these memories were perverted and tampered with to act as means to some unscrupulous end. In the midst of this fruitless mental effort, my body, acting on its accordance alone, walked inside.
Although I was greeted by the cashier’s smile, I had never felt less welcomed. Despite the abundance of customer activity, I had never felt more alone. I felt a brush against my shoulder and was wrenched forcibly into awareness. I moved my head to identify the disturbance and found it was simply a young lady, no older than 12, who had accidentally grazed her head against my arm as she was leaving.
“Oh, excuse me, miss,” I stated, remembering to be polite as my mother raised me.
She said nothing put looked up, locking her eyes with mine. No words were exchanged, but I became filled with a perpetual sense of fear, like a caged animal. As my breathing grew heavier and more strained due to a waterfall of adrenaline, I only now noticed that her breathing had been as such this entire encounter.
“Miss, a-are you safe? Do you need my help?”
She looked down at her feet as though she had done something wrong.
“You can tell me, I’m an adult. I want to help you.”
A man, the customer sitting closest to the door, turned his head slightly in our direction. It was a subtle movement, but enough to make my skin crawl. I reminded myself to lower my volume and register to avoid further unwanted attention. My focus was averted by a tugging at my jacket. I looked down to see the girl, who was motioning for me to move lower. I complied, bending at the knees to match her height. She cupped her hand to my ear and whispered.
“What you’re seeing is lies. Do. Not. Tip.”
What she told me escaped her lips like the hiss of a snake: low, quick, and warning of future danger. No sooner did she finish then when she began to bolt out into the cold.
“Mary!” rang out a yell that startled me out of my dumbfounded state like a thunderclap, and caused a jolt to run through me like lightning. This man who had just let out a vocal storm rushed out of Cold Stone in a contagious fervor of rage. His arm shot out like a piston and grabbed the girl’s arm with impressive speed and calculated movement. The girl was suddenly met with a halt, and I was worried that the force of deceleration would dislocate her shoulder. She yelped, though it sounded more like a noise of fear than pain. The man walked her back to the entrance and I recognized him as the man who was sitting closest to the door. I wondered why this man would let a girl he implied to be his daughter get so close to the exit and talk to me at all.
“Sorry, mister,” muttered the girl as soon as she was led back within conversational distance to me by her supposed father. “My…daddy told me not to talk to strangers, but I didn’t listen.” The manner in which she spoke the word “daddy” struck me as odd. It sounded foreign, unnatural, like a teen swearing harshly for the first time.
“I also apologize for my daughter’s actions. Kids can be quite a handful, haha,” spoke the man. I nervously chuckled along and watched as they both walked away until I could no longer make out their silhouettes against the swirling snow. The weather seemed to have only gotten worse since I left the comfort of home. Attempting to forget about that odd, chance confrontation, I walked into Cold Stone and let the door shut violently behind me.
I walked to the serving area and was pleased to see there were only two people in front of me in line. They were both women, possibly mothers, chatting loudly about nothing in particular. When they saw me, they immediately grew silent, then gave each other a faint, yet noticeable nod. Wordlessly, they left the line and went to the bathroom. I ignored them, but supposed they must have had a decent enough reason to put off their acquisition of ice cream. As I walked up to the menu, the sizes struck me as irregular. “Like it?” “Love it?” I began to feel naked and out of place. Had I truly l enjoyed this creamery as a kid like I seemed to remember?
I opened my mouth to speak but was beat to the punch.
“Welcome to Cold Stone, may I take your order?” The cashier spoke cleanly and fluently. I was surprised at his apparent excitement and wondered just how recent of a hire he must be.
“Uh, yeah. I’d like a chocolate.”
“What size?”
“Medium.”
“You mean ‘Love it?’”
“…Sure.”
“Would you like a waffle cone?”
“Yeah, ok.”
“Chocolate dipped?”
“No thanks.”
“Chocolate dipped?” he repeated. He must not have heard me, but I was still slightly annoyed.
“No.”
“Chocolate dipped?”
Was this guy messing with me? I made up my mind to complain, but then was hit with a chilly realization. All three times he asked were in exactly the same manner. Same length, same tone, same chipper feel. I began to sweat and was filled to the tipping point with dread. Fearing for the future, I decided to play along.
“Y-yes please.” I slowly reached down to my wallet, my hand shaking more than my voice. I was prepared to throw it and run if the need arose.
“Great! Your total comes to $6.49!”
I opened my wallet and froze in shock. All of my money was gone. In its place was gift cards for Cold Stone. Dozens of gift cards. I took out a handful and slowly lowered them onto the counter. I noticed that a single dollar bill was left in my wallet, nestled tightly between some cards. The cashier gladly took my cards and placed them in the register without swiping. I waited for him to make my ice cream, but he stayed firmly in his place. Looking closer, I realized he was actually flickering his eyes. He looked at me, then at the tip jar, then at me, ad infinitum. I reached back into my wallet, pulled out the dollar, then placed it in the suspiciously empty jar.
The worker’s eyes lit up and he grinned ear to ear. I looked around to see if anyone else knew what was about to happen, but noticed for the first time that I was by myself in this. Everyone had left under my nose. Come what may, I had to bear the brunt unsupported. The cashier drew a sharp intake of air than made an awful noise. I clutched my ear in pain. After a few seconds, I was able to make out that his crime against decency was in truth, an attempt at song. I, for a moment, left my ears unprotected to make out more. It seemed this wretch of a human was singing some pop song, but had changed the lyrics to transform the meaning of the song into one of the joys of eating ice cream.
I found myself having to cough, and did so into my open hands. It was a deep, painful, lungy cough. After a solid two minutes of near suffocation, I grew worried and forced myself to stop. I looked down at my hands to find them soaked with blood. My blood. I wiped my hands on my pants and found a disturbing solace in that the singing had halted. I sighed, but my breath came out surprisingly muffled. I now realized my neck was slick and wet. I reached up to my neck with my fingertips and discovered a thick, continuous stream of blood flowing from my ears. I screamed and heard nothing.
A quick glance up at my gleeful tormentor assured me of his continued torture. His jaw moved in a way that seemed inhuman. It was unhinged and flapped wildly about. The skin of his cheeks stretched and shrunk at uneven intervals. His nostrils flared one after the other in a hypnotic pattern. The longer I stared, the more I realized a pressure in my head was growing. It was unlike a normal headache, which hurts from near the temples or back of the head, instead this pain began from the very middle of my brain and seemed to grow outwards in a perfect sphere. Despite this unbearable agony, I found myself unable to look away from the scene.
As he continued to sing, he slowly began adding movement of his arms, then hips, then legs. He was now dancing around the counter like a madman. He put his hands into the pistachio ice cream tub and began stuffing his mouth completely full before swallowing in one disturbing gulp like a pelican. All the while my pain grew continuously. As the pressure reached the limits of my skull, the paralyzation spread to my entire body. Though unable to hear I blurted out what I hoped would be construed as a “Why?” I lost my vision and was plunged into unforgiving depths of blackness. Inside of my head, telepathically, I heard another reimagined pop song, though it was overshadowed by an ominous laughing. The laughter grew louder and louder. Laughter was all I knew. Laughter was the day I was born. Laughter was the name of my childhood dog. Laughter is what I had felt at my grandmother’s funeral. My life was now little more than this offensive noise.
Laughter is beautiful.
-William Best, Contributor