Decades from now, when you’ve moved off to some quieter, nicer, boringer place, you will wake up in the middle of the night with a jingle in your head — it will be the Mr. Softee ice cream truck jingle, and you will start to go mad. Beginning around St. Patrick’s Day (just in time to wake you from your hangover), New Yorkers are blessed with the grating sound of ice cream trucks beetling up and down city streets, delivering soft serve to the pudgy masses. BUT THAT’S NOT ALL THEY ARE DELIVERING.
That’s right, folks, the halcyon days of hard drugs with soft serve have returned. Of course this would happen in Long Island, as crime continues to radiate from city to suburb in a nifty reverse pattern of the 70s and 80s. But way back in the 1990s (which is almost a decade ago), the pastoral canyons of Williamsburg’s South Side echoed with the opiate lullabies of ice cream trucks making heroin drops; my block in particular was very popular for this kind of thing. (Honestly, though, I’m not sure that it ever stopped. It just stopped on my block, so I’m totally projecting, because I am a narcissist.)