About a month in, the ice cream jingle starts sounding like some sweaty Christmas song stuck on the wrong side of the year, which makes me feel, I guess, like summer Santa Claus.

Six weeks earlier, I call the number on the side of the neighborhood ice cream truck. I ask if they are hiring. As it happens, they are. They always are. And after watching a ten-minute training video I get the job.

The trucks sit in a barbed-wire lot in the industrial wasteland north of Denver called Commerce City, beneath a haze of trash stink from the dump across the highway. It’s the dark side of the joy.

Seeing the trucks there must be like stumbling upon the mall Santa smoking a cigarette on the loading dock after putting that “BACK IN 20 MINUTES” sign on the red velvet chair.

Mornings start like this: I go see the yard manager to get my assignment. He always wears the same black gym shorts, black tank top, black tennis shoes, and black pony tail with four black rubber bands. I don’t know his name, but I do know he’s from New Jersey and he hates his wife.

“There she is bustin my fuggin bawls for a vacation,” he says. “What the hellam I supposta do? It’s the heart of summer. I told ’er I’ll take her someplace for the holidays.” He shakes his head. “Maybe divo’ce court.”

He hands me the keys and says, “Take 18 today, kid.”

I check my freezer to ensure I’m flush on Choco Tacos, Rocket Pops, Giant Ice Cream Sandwiches. Then I wait in line to fill up gas because there aren’t fuel gauges. We refill every morning. Some drivers wash their trucks while they wait, but the grime never comes off, so I don’t.

I test the speaker to make sure the ice cream jingle rings out clear. The other drivers test theirs, too. We’re like a herd of dairy cattle calling out to each other in the field. It’s a regular goddamn chorus of happiness.

Finally, I sling the door open and putter off to my designated area. Guys that drive for twenty years get the good neighborhoods—I’m a rookie—so they give me the suburban sprawl where kids don’t play in the streets anymore because they’re down in the basement playing video games.

When it’s quiet I drive around looking at mansions, imagining housewives desperate for creamsicles. I also hope for sports games. Peewee baseball games. Shit, those are the money makers. I dream on them.

Eventually, I get business cards made up. I could do private parties. Someone calls at 2am asking if I have rocky road with cherries on top and/or cocaine . . . that’s the only business I get from the cards.

One day, I get robbed. I’m taking a nap in the park because there aren’t any sports games around. I hear a rustling in my truck. I sit up and see pair of chubby legs sticking out of my freezer. I yell some kind of profanity and a kid pops out with an ice cream sandwich in each hand. He falls over his sneakers trying to get to bike and drops one of the sandwiches. Little bastard gets away with the other. The episode costs me $3.25.

All drivers have to return to the lot by sunset to hand New Jersey his wholesale cut. On my best day I make $132. On my worst it’s $31. Which is good for about four whiskey sodas at the Commerce City Holiday Inn.

So, I’m sitting at the Commerce City Holiday Inn trying to forget about my crap payday. I can’t get the damn ice cream jingle out of my head.

Maybe it’s the whiskey, but I keep seeing Santa Clauses walking around the lobby. They loiter in red suspenders, pouring complimentary coffee, checking the news on their phones. It’s still hot and the plump old men are sweaty.

I ask the bartender about it and he says it’s some kind of convention. Preparation for the holidays six months away. These Santas are on the wrong side of the year, for sure. I give one a business card. I write on the back: FOR SANTA, ONE FREE CHOCO TACO.