Dumb in Pre-School

September 18, 2005

We were talking about how the summer is lingering when Deborah suggested we stop at Uncle Luigi's for an ice cream. We stood in line and watched as the could n't-be-bothered cashiers rolled their eyes and sighed with each order. "Everyone who works here has such a bad attitude," said Deborah. "No matter when I come, or who's working, it's always the same. They act like, when you order ice cream, you're asking them to do you the biggest favor in the world."

"It's fucking ice cream,” I said. “How bad can it be to be surrounded by ice cream all day?"

When I was handed my cone, I was disappointed to find it served inside a second cone made of plastic. The plastic had a shelf around the top, designed to keep the ice cream from dripping onto your hands. "What the fuck is with this stupid plastic thing?" I said. "The beauty of an ice cream cone is that it's self-contained, served in an edible container. You eat the ice cream and the cone. When you're done, there's nothing left to throw away. Everything else should aspire to the ice cream cone; Coke should make edible bottles, for instance, not the other way around. Ice cream cones in plastic--who the hell came up with such nonsense?"

I'd been cranky all day.

We grabbed a couple of seats on the crowded benches and proceeded to lick and slurp and bite. Deborah opted for a bowl of ice cream instead of a cone. The bowl is like a cone and meant to be edible. Deborah’s wasn't. "This waffle-bowl thing is stale," she said, tearing a piece of it off and holding it out for me to try. She was right: it was like waffle cone flavored beef jerky. She went back to the sigh-masters and traded it in for an only slightly less stale waffle cone.

"Better?" I asked.

She shrugged.

We sat and watched moms, baby strollers, and toddlers parade in front of us on their way to and from the ice cream line. A mother and her son bought lemon ices and sat next to us on the bench. A few minutes later, another kid--four or five years old--eating an ice cream cone, came outside and stood in front of the first kid. He started talking, out of the blue it seemed, about how dumb he'd been while in pre-school. The first kid was busy scraping his lemon ice with a plastic spoon and didn't appear to be listening, although it would've been impossible for him not to hear.

"I was so dumb when I was in pre-school," said the second kid, and then he let out a loud "Whoo-wee" and a sigh. He shook his head and waited for a reaction. When he didn't get one, he continued anyway. "I was so dumb. I was so dumb in pre-school—I was—I was as dumb as a pre-schooler. I was so dumb I couldn't even spell A. Whoo wee. I was—I was—I was so dumb in pre-school I couldn't even count to fifty— "

"Look at the kid's father," I said, noticing a guy who looked exactly like his son, engrossed in a newspaper. "He's tuning the kid out, pretending like he doesn't even know him."

"He's probably heard it a million times already. He's thinking, 'Here we go again with the I was so dumb in pre-school routine.'"

"One of these days he's going to have to sit the poor kid down and level with him," I said. "He'll have to tell him, 'Look, son, yes, you were dumb in pre-school, but the truth is, you're dumb now, too. Sorry to say you'll always be dumb. No way around it, I'm afraid."

"You're so mean," said Deborah, punching my shoulder.

"It's okay,” I said. “Not everyone can be smart; there's nothing wrong with that. Some people are gifted in other ways. That kid's gift happens to be stand-up comedy."