Gray skies draped the mucky afternoon on Mothers Day as I found myself behind the frozen stone at Cold Stone Creamery, located in West Palmdale.
A ginger one to six PM shift; the plan was: get in, get out, get paid and buy some new bath mats for Mama from Bed Bath and Beyond; maybe a TLC album from Best Buy as well.
At around four in the afternoon, the store was deader than the corpse of Billy Mayes, a lustrous, black, and overly priced car whipped in a teen age-like frenzy, rumbling the Cold Stone parking lot.
Stepping out of his new Audi R8, he slammed the door, walked to the middle of the parking lot, pulled down his shades and winked at a [expletive deleted] mechanical mother of four, the other three infants were licking melted ice cream cones smothered about the sidewalk.
He strutted the rest of his way in, making his presence known with unsought nods directed toward the few common folk patronizing our store.
I turned to my colleague of cream, and in a star struck haze asked, “is that Baby Caesar, the son of Caesar?”
My partner confirmed my psychotic suspicions and I returned perturbed to my work.
By now, the line was growing with men and women without ankles, squeezing their way in, belly first, ass last.
After his patient waiting, I walked behind the Ghea (Ice Cream Display) and said sarcastically to the prepubescent Charlatan, “Hi welcome to Cold Stone, what can a create for you today?”
His acne-ridden face looked happily miserable, like the quivering face of man who just witnessed his high school girlfriend [expletive deleted] by the entire water-polo team.
His appearance was sloppy, wearing the street clothes of any desert rat hoodlum; this was an obvious attempt to blend in.
Fortunately for my readers I can pick out hacks and spineless silver spoon fed sports without character by scent; hacks possess the odor of ten [expletive deleted] bulls in a run-down McDonald’s and drive cars that are sure to kill them—always.
His lizard-like father, Caesar was not present, nor was his mother. So while he was still deciding, I worked up the courage to ask him where his family was.
He offered no comment or form of atonement, so like any failed seeker; I dropped my head and waited upon his request.
After all of the melodramatic anticipation, he squeaked out his order, “I’ll take a pint of your mint chip.”
I pulled the ice cream like a bronze champion, and slapped it on the stone.
First, I mixed in the tiny chocolate chips, then a brownie, and topped it off with some chocolate sauce for a sure diabetic relapse.
The ice cream I made, was fit for a Caesar, or in this case, the son of a Caesar.
After crowning his pint, standard protocol was to ask if he was interested in more cream.
I asked quickly, “Anything else for your party?” He shook his head in a disapproving manner; I smiled and guided the young stud to the register.
Over the register, I mischievously asked, “Anything for your Mother? I mean, she did squeeze you from her hot and sweaty womb.”
He whispered, “No,” like a rape victim in a library. I collected his cabbage, gave him his pint of decadence, and he swaggered his way out of our beloved store.
Walking to the back to cure my cottonmouth, a classic and daunting fact consumed me; we will never break the madness of social structures, nor will we ever chastise those with outright disregard for humanity and the once breathing earth that taught us how to behave.
What is truth if this is fact, and does Baby Caesar truly love his mother?
No, I bet he’s ashamed of her.
Him and Papa Caesar probably lock her in a padded room without windows, no light source to let in rays of optimism.
She’s either already decomposing or most likely hoveled on some cold Italian Marble floor being fed moldy Triscuit Crackers and Top-Ramen with the seasoning packet removed, while her only form of entertainment is a 20 inch HD TV playing CSPAN 2 on loop.
What moral fiber is left among the Caesar family, and am I the only half-drunken chief of turkeys concerned for the well-fare and overall social status of our desert community?
Please do not re-elect a family of undeserving, rancid and vile morality; observe a new ideal: Social Awareness.
- By Wes Horowitz
