Two Jobs. One Only Sounded Cool.

On my last day, we were serving stragglers, mostly tourists. It was muggy, and dead. Rain had come early in the morning, ceased and then wrapped a cape of humidity across the city. Noel and I had been playing the game we always played whenever it was slow, after we had wiped down counters and divvied toppings of sprinkles and pecans among the display tins. As customers neared the door, we would forecast their orders.

"See that red-haired guy," Noel whispered, "a definite Swiss almond."

"No way," I insisted. "Rum raisin on a sugar cone; his nose is red."

"You are so naive," Noel said. "Do not give up that day job being book-smart."

This time Noel was right, and he took the lead, 3-2.

Soon we were tied, 5-5. And then not so much an entourage as a trio entered. The reed-thin starlet in the center was flanked by two men, both almost Herculean. Her blue-black hair tumbled down the sides of her face. She was small, almost diminutive, and she was smiling at me. It was Cher.

She looked like she knew the deal. This was fat city, and she was getting her scoop of it. Her eyes wandered over the wall menu.

"Is it possible to split a large single scoop?" she asked. "Maybe chocolate chocolate chip and strawberry?"

His hat affixed, Noel froze. He stared at me. I plunged my metal scoop into the strawberry, digging for the reddest bits, sections where fat berries peeked through. Then I violated trainee Rule No. 3 of the owner's 50. Never dip a used scoop into another vat of ice cream without first rinsing. I swept the half-filled scoop of strawberry across the dark chocolate chip, and voila! A two-sided globe appeared -- pink-red on one side, deep brown on the other.

The big guys stared down at her, the starlet with her cone. She grinned and slipped out the door.

Back on campus I sat on the stairs of the student union listening to my dorm mate Sara wax on about water-skiing. Her hair was now the palest white yellow, a look she attributed to fresh-squeezed lemon juice.

When she finished she asked what I had done all summer.

Just some research on juvenile criminals, I said.

"Cool. Very cool."

I nodded in agreement.

By then, I was already writing the résumé in my head. As suggested by the career office, I would use action verbs like "assessed" and "documented." I would not divulge my paltry pay or the 8-by-12 room with its dingy walls and ledge of scavenger pigeons. I wouldn't confess that ice cream paid my ticket back to campus or that I missed Noel and the way he gripped my hand when correcting the angle of my sundae glass.

As I stared at Sara and her baby-doll hair, I thought I should brag on those arias of Noel. I should tell her about the perfect starlet cone.

But I never did.