Man cannot live on bread alone; sometimes, he needs a malt.

There is something nearly universal in our adoration of ice cream. Even people who can't eat dairy acknowledge how terrific it is and long for its enjoyment.

Even people who are at war with refined sugar know ice cream's appeal. How wonderful it makes you feel to scoop it out and watch that unique tearing texture the scoop leaves behind as it scrapes out that frozen treasure.

Ice cream is on my mind today, I have promised my muse I will taste the dream and speak of it in prose. And here I am cruising around on my death machine watching the sun set on a perfect day. The kind of day that demands a reward of the sweetest kind.

My partner and teammate in this thing called life squeezes me tightly in what is easily the best part of a motorcycle ride. Warm thighs wrapped around you, two lithe arms alternating between resting on my back, wrapping around my belly or squeezing my chest.

That last one is my favorite. It comes with the soft presence on my back of her breasts. A tender hug not for intimacy but because she doesn't want to be flung off. I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride. And tonight, I rodeo not for 8 seconds, but for 15 minutes with a cold delight.

We cruise slow and easy on back streets. This isn't a race. It's a savoring pleasure. The chug chug chug of the machine rolls through the neighborhood when I get a tap on the shoulder.

“You know, Braum's is close by. We should stop and get a drink.” She speaks loudly. Not a shout but with enough volume that I can hear through my space-helmet.

I smile to myself. Braum's is my mission tonight. Like Indiana in that cave, I plan to swap my bag of sand for the sweet golden nectar of a chocolate malt.

A lot fewer spiders though. And only one death trap: my rumbling steed.

The parking lot is hectic here as the sun drifts to the horizon in the west. Dodging traffic on a motorcycle is one of the first skills you learn. I'm pretty good at it. The author reserves the right to mask his incompetence with braggadocio... though 20y accident free on a motorcycle does deserve some praise.

Exiting vehicles whose operators are concerned with melting cones mean extra caution is required. We don't need a front-row parking spot, so I pick one out on the periphery. Drifting to a stop, I click the shifter into neutral with my left foot (always a satisfying 'clunk') and walk the silver and steel backing carefully, like a child learning to balance.

With that same foot, I push the kickstand down and rest the two-wheeler on its third leg. The angle is always disturbingly low. The lean puts the machine's center of gravity just were it needs to be. Tipping this over out of accident or malice while parked would take some pretty determined effort.

I step off to my right, but insist my wife get off on the low side (left). It's not only easier for short riders, it gets her bare legs away from the glowing exhaust. I know from experience that the last place you want your bare legs is leaned up against a motorcycle muffler after riding even a modest few minutes.

Helmets stowed we walk toward the newly remodeled southern institution. I am surprised there are places without Braums. For the uninitiated, they are a burger-place who specializes in ice cream but also have a pretty decent grocery store.

It's nice because they are usually in or near neighborhoods. This gives residents a place to grab an easy meal, enjoy sweet treats or pick up necessities. Maybe it is their intention to defy the food deserts most areas have become... maybe they just want to be first in line when you leave your house to get something food-related.

This location was closed for months while they remodeled. I note that it looks exactly the same, but everything is new. Gone are the scratches and dings from decades of wear. The floor is bright and polished and the backstage equipment is modern and clever-looking. I appreciate that the overhead menus are printed sheets, not the ubiquitous screens every place else in the world now uses. No surge pricing here, thank you.

Probably didn't have the ice cream kiosk thought.

Braum's tonight is a madhouse! It seems the good weather has driven everyone out for ice cream. The line at the ice cream counter is 30 deep. The burger counter is ghost-town. I count 20 employees back stage about half of whom are just loitering about chattering.

A logical brain (even a damaged one) knows where to order if it doesn't need to lust over that rainbow of cold colors.

I read our clerk's name badge, 'Faust'. I'm DYING to make some clever comment about the erudite scholar who makes a deal with the devil (were your parents fans of German literature? Or were YOU why they made the deal? Auspicious name, my friend). BUT Faust has the word 'trained' under his name. And Gladis is hawking him.

'It's his first day,' Gladis says, 'YOU are his first customers!'

They both beam. My clever commentary shifts away from that magnetic name and instead I say,

'Oh, that's great Faust! Welcome to the team. I'll be sure to keep it simple and straight forward. I'll have a double-double, easy on the spread, be sure you cook it exactly to temp, extra fruit, only ONE pickle, I'm aalergic but love them and have to have the savoriness, and be sure, uh Gladis, you still get those imported onions? Be sure you use ONLY those Faust, no white onions. NONE. And I would prefer if you can use the unsalted European butter to toast those buns.'

Said with a single monotone delivery with absolute seriousness and I can see the panic in his eyes. If this is simple, he thinks, Im dead. Gladis smiles behind him. She knows the score. I let it hang juuuust long enough for the relief to be comical and toss over my shoulder, 'dear, what will you have?' To which she responds in expected fashion with a question. Now Fausts brain is melting.

'Oh, that's a good question... Faust.' I insert this with urgency as thought I've remembered something. 'That makes me think, I changed my mind... I'll just have a small chocolate malt instead!'

Faust, a big guy in his late teens, visible relaxes. A small malt he can handle.

While we wait, my lady eviscerates the ice-cream team. She points out every flaw and mistake. Missing gloves, an uncovered cough, TONGS people, use the tongs. She should be a team manager here. They wouldn't like her directness, but they would love her easy-going side.

I smile. I don't like her negative side, but sometimes it's QUITE entertaining.

Our drinks arrive.

I am at war with sugar after a lifetime of addiction. Its power is still there though and I feel drawn to the little white cup. Unwrapping two straws, one for me and one for the muse, slip them into the viscous, rich substance. Not quite liquid, not quite solid... all shine.

The color mesmerizes me. My missus prefers strawberry, so I haven't had a chocolate malt in several years. But tonight, this is for me. She can enjoy her lime drink while I am enraptured in mine.

My first sip is a flood of flavor and emotion. It is smooth and cold. First is the sweetness smashes into my palette and my eyebrows go up to the top of my head, followed by my eyeballs. As the sweet subsides, a savory/nutty flavor settles in the back of my tongue. It tastes like wealth. This is ecstasy. No WONDER I loved these for 20 years!

As the flavor from the first sip starts to fade, the memory washes in. Unregistered in my conscious self, I hear the grind and whirring of the blenders and other shake-making paraphernalia. Ice cream Mission Control is at full bore. Somewhere in the ether, there is a scratchy radio voice counting down until the moment the treat is launched to the customer and the team of non-rocket scientists cheer enthusiastically.

More mundanely, the spinning blades bring in a vision of sheetrock and routers cutting and punching for construction. I am carried back decades to when I made my living in construction and spent countless hours volunteering to restore storm damage and build houses of worship. But these power tools are not for a new building but for frozen dairy.

The wet-sloppy sound of the whipped cream squirting from an inverted canister. It just keeps going and keeps going. How much whipped did that customer order?

I hear a 13 year old boy or girl, hard to define with this one, tell mom, 'Watch how many pull-ups I can do.' And the child proceeds to do inverted pull-ups from a waist high bar. 12-13-14. The young person is tired now. Energy burned and in need of that incoming sugar fix. She/he is probably who all that whipped cream was for.

The door bell dings, ring-a-ding-dingle. Followed by a tepid 'welcome to braum's'.

Gladis, the manager isn't having it though.

'WHERE YA'LL AT?!' She says forcefully. Not yell, but determined authority.

Then all twenty employees in unison say with force, 'WELCOME TO BRAUM'S!'

This makes Gladis smile. She knows her new crew needs training but they'll get there.

My chocolate malt continues to thrill. But toward the end, I've had my fill. My golden god has been snatched from the pedestal, my silver I exchanged was the perfect balance. No death-stones descent to chase me from this fluorescent-lit cave and I do not have to utilize my whip to swing across a chasm of doom.

The sun is setting and though neither werewolves nor vampires will hunt us after dusk, a motorcycle isn't exactly a great place to be as the diminishing light confuses already distracted drivers. We decide it's time to call it a day and cruise home.

My wife notes the 2nd straw. 'Why two?' She says absentmindedly.

I shrug and throw away the line, 'Eh, you never know when you'll need to share.'

But tonight, it was two straws, one drinker. Farewell, Braum’s, and your irresistible malts — golden gods in paper cups.

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#essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing #WYST #MEMR

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Happiness isn't happiness.

The first time I noticed La Mariée wasn’t in a gallery but in a movie — Notting Hill. Hugh Grant, Julia Roberts, a quiet dinner, and behind them, on the wall, Chagall’s bride. Richard Curtis put it there because he knew: the painting aches with yearning for what’s lost, for what’s just out of reach. Later in the film, Roberts’ character even gifts the painting itself, as if love could be secured by canvas and frame.

Painted in 1950, the title means The Bride. She blazes in her red dress, white veil trailing, bouquet in hand. Radiant against a wash of soft blues and greys that might be melancholy, might be air. She is luminous, standing apart, ready to step out of the painting into the life of whoever dares to claim her.

Ahhh-My muse. She wore white, but blazed with color no matter the shield in which she wrapped herself in. Always she has been that figure: the impossible and the inevitable at once. Brilliance set against the dim backdrop of everything else. She does not belong to gravity. She belongs to dream.

And then — the cast around her. The artist ensured the scene vibrated. There’s the man in the hat, holding the veil. The pragmatic landing father and husband— steady, present, the one by her side in the official story. OH!” to something like “Oh, what if it were different—my hand at her veil, but we must all know our place in this great tableau of life.

And then there’s the goat, violin in hand. The odd one off to the side, providing the tune without which happiness is less. Not the bridegroom, not the figure at her veil — but the necessary dissonance, the music that makes the whole thing live. If happiness isn’t happiness without a violin-playing goat. Let the goat know, his many skins may never find his own happiness, but he will bring it to others with constancy.

And above, the fish in the sky, candle and chair dangling absurdly. The cast of characters in a woman's life — floating, ridiculous, straining to carry light into the scene. But no. Musicians and clowns, all of us, at the feet of this goddess.

Chagall fills the rest with dreamstuff — the church in the distance, a flute, a girl with pigtails, a squirrel. The whole riot of imagination that makes a wedding scene into something stranger and truer.

This is why La Mariée lingers. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s personal. The Muse at flight, always just beyond the reach of the minstrel-poet. His longing pouring out in his work, bleeding and bleating for her attention, her desire, her want—forcing himself to be satisfied with the shape of her, the aroma—a meal of memory that simply must be enough.

His fast is lifelong, she is the sup, he can never have as long that the hat-man takes flight with her sunshine and warmth.

A bizarre love triangle caught between dream and reality—strange vibrating music that keeps us all alive.

Ahhh, goat—if you see a chance, take it. Start living you fool. You can live with consequence, but regret is a cruel bitch.

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#essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing #WYST

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