Not really. Well, maybe the one about the cat and the eagle does. But after the first sentence, that paragraph up there is pretty much all gobbledygook--the type of rambling garbage my friends and I would spend hours videotaping each other saying as we laughed hysterically late into the night. All this, mind you, occurred without pot or booze. "Braum's Ice Cream is the best" was the refrain we threw in to hold those low-quality Monty-Pythonesque rip-offs together.
Yet, in a sense, Marsh is right, the story of us as a group began at Braum's Ice Cream. He, sentimentalist that he is, took it a step further, and formed a family out of the deal, but without a doubt, there would be no us as a gang without Braum's.
What I remember most about working at Braum's is dried ice cream stuck to the arms. What I remember second most is the sound of Jim belching out Bruce Springsteen songs in the cooler. It would be a low, somewhat off key dinner music--where you think you recognize the tune but just can't quite hear it well enough over the clanking of dishes and conversation to name it--and then someone would open the glass door to grab a carton of milk, and out it would come, Jim singing Springsteen in all his working class passionate glory--
The screen door slams, Mary's dress waves
Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays
Roy Orbison singing for the lonely (Springsteen)
I don't remember Jim singing "Thunder Road" or any other particular song. I just remember Jim behind the glass doors of the cooler belching Springsteen at the top of his lungs. And for a kid whose days in school were pure hell, there was magic in the night, flipping burgers at an ice cream shop on Main Street of a bedroom community of that giant spiraling wheel of light and glory erupting out of the cicada-heavy, heat-rattled plains of central Texas called Dallas.
There was Jim. There was Andrea. There was Phil. Phil once asked Andrea who she'd invite over for Thanksgiving dinner if she could invite over anyone in the world. She looked up, light brown eyes beaming under dark brown bangs, under that regulation chocolate-brown Braum's cap, dimples denting both sides of her mouth: "Sid Vicious." Phil thought that was hilarious. I don't think I knew who Sid Vicious was at the time. I'd just learned who Springsteen was. I'd just learned who U2 were. Peter Gabriel was just a name. I had no clue who the Sex Pistols were. This was all new to me. But, when Phil told his story, I got it immediately. Even with her punked-out hair, which could be any color or style on any given day, Andrea had a small town, quiet sweetness about her. Sid Vicious--it was clear just by his name--didn't possess those same qualities. So, in my mind, I saw this demure proper girl gleefully answering the question affirmatively with "Sid Vicious."
There were more than just my good friends at Braum's. Hazel, the assistant manager, was an older woman, probably in her mid-sixties. Most of the employees didn't like her. She got after them when they didn't do their jobs. She could sometimes be grumpy, but I got that. Working fast food is hard work. Nobody in their sixties should have to do such a job. It made sense to me that by the time 11:00 p.m. rolled around, she'd start barking at people to hurry up. I was beginning to really internalize that there are two Americas. My parents worked very hard for the fortune they later lost, but that hard work paid very well in life-dividends--a beautiful home in a nice neighborhood, a nice car, and most importantly, the prestige that automatically comes with "arriving". But Hazel worked just as hard, perhaps harder, and all that she had to show for it at the end of the day were tired feet and a worn out ego. It just didn't seem fair.
Then there was Sheri, the manager. She must have been more patient, for everyone liked her. She was younger, perhaps in her late twenties, early thirties. She had a memorable smile because she had one blackened tooth. She probably hated it, but it gave her a distinctive look. I think she probably had a not-so-secret-crush on Jim, but was older than him. Whether she was married or dating, who knows? Work creates these little worlds where you spend hours and hours with people you hardly know anything about, and yet, in some ways, you know them very well because the many hours of proximity. You know their hand movements, their laughter, the tone of their voice, their smiles. You know what music they like, what food they eat, if they pick their teeth, or burp, or fart, and yet, often you don't know anything about where they go after the last light is shut off, the glass door is locked, and everyone either walks to their cars or out into the night.
Phil didn't work at the Main Street Braum's long, which is good, because if he had, Marsh probably would not have become part of the gang. It can't be ruled out completely. He lived just two houses away from Phil, but typical of the suburbs, Phil didn't know Marsh even though they were neighbors. Marsh also went to the same high school as Andrea, but typical of high schools with two or three thousands students, you don't know everyone at school. It was a different world than the small town in which I grew up. Phil transferred to a store closer to where he lived, and Marsh worked there too, and that's how we all met.
I wish I had something grand to say about Braum's, but like so many significant things in life, I don't, other than to say that outside my home, it is the first place I ever really felt accepted. Jim was clearly cool. That was very important to me then. All my previous friends had been social outcasts like myself. We turned to each other out of desperation. I'm not sure what Jim saw in us. He was in college. We were in high school. He had lots of friends and a steady girlfriend, and we did not. So, I'm not sure what was in it for him, but I'm grateful for his friendship. He made me realize a world did exist outside the ridicule I received at school.
Mostly, though, I remember Braum's the way you remember home or a favorite vacation spot. I remember the sensory details. The stainless steel counter gleaming under the fluorescent lights, six or eight hamburger patties on the grill sputtering little droplets of grease, the hissing sound of a wire basket of frozen fries dropping in the deep fryer, and the cloud of steam that would rise afterward. There were also the not-so-pleasant details: taking the grease trap out when it was overflowing, sliding around on a greasy floor, dumping a third of the grease down one paint leg; fronting the freezer in the summer, when you have no coat and are used to ninety degree temperatures outside; scrubbing grease between floor tiles. Mainly, however, I just remember feeling at home, especially cleaning after hours: the music , the friendly ribbing, the determination to be done by 11:00 and not finishing until after midnight. Everyone worn-out, saying goodbye as the last light was shut off and the doors were locked. I remember walking home dead tired, somehow strangely satisfied. I'm glad I still don't do that type of work, but I'm glad I experienced it.
Although I prefer Blue Bell, as an experience, Marsh has it right: Braum's Ice Cream is the best. And their commercials from the 80's, where Ernest got his start, weren't bad either.
References
Springsteen, Bruce. "Thunder Road." Born
to Run. 1975.
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