Hokey Pokey by Jerry Spinelli

Author:Jerry Spinelli
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fantasy, Young Adult, Childrens
ISBN: 9780375831980
Publisher: Random House Digital, Inc.
Published: 2013-01-08T05:00:00+00:00

HOKEY POKEY MAN

IN THE SKY the sun has stopped directly over The Kid. In all of Hokey Pokey only The Kid’s arm casts a shadow.

The Hokey Pokey Man gives the red rubber bladder another squeeze: wooguh! wooguh! Kids are running from all directions, many already shouting:

“Cherry!”

“Root beer!”

“Black cherry!”

“Grape!”

The Hokey Pokey Man mops his brow with a large red handkerchief, stuffs it back in the bib pocket of his white overalls. A white stubble of whiskers covers his face. A bright green beret tops his head.

A great block of ice sits in the bed of the white hand-pushed cart. It is flanked on three sides by all the colors of the world: bottled syrup in every flavor a kid could desire. With a flourish he sweeps a striped towel from the ice, jerks the scraper from its well and gruffs, “First up.”

A boy Snotsipper steps up, barks “Orange.” Immediately the Hokey Pokey Man sets to work. Leaning forward, with a grunt that is more form than necessity, he pushes the scraper three times along the length of the ice block, which gleams in the sun like a diamond. The teeth that shave the ice feed slush into the square metal bowl. The left hand plucks a white cone-shaped paper cup from a tall stack. A tap to settle the slush, the bowl hatch swings open and deposited into the cup is a perfectly square snowball—a hokey pokey. The right hand returns the scraper to the well, reaches for the orange bottle of syrup. A multitude of eyes gawk as the upturned bottle delivers one … two … three … four … five squirts—and long squirts they are—into the slush, blushing it into such pure essence that it virtually cries out: Orange!

The Snotsipper is speechless, entranced. The hokey pokey floats before his eyes until someone jabs him. He comes to his senses, snatches it and walks off. A mob of tongues salivate at the sound of his teeth sinking into sweet ice.

“Grape,” says the next in line.

All is orderly. There is little noise, no fooling around. A sense that nonsense will not be tolerated pervades the crowd. Kids who a minute ago were squalling and brawling now stand quietly in line, awaiting their turn.

“Chocolate.”

“Watermelon.”

“Strawberry.”

Occasionally one of the youngest will say, “Do you have such-and-such?” The Hokey Pokey Man does not answer. He simply reaches for the bottle of such-and-such. There is no flavor he does not have.

“Licorice.”

“Bubble gum.”

“Jalapeño.”

Now and then a “Please” or “Thank you” is heard. Most say nothing. With older kids it simply is what it always is: high noon and the Hokey Pokey Man. Should they thank the sky for being blue? Younger ones are struck speechless by the dazzle of the Man’s hands, the rainbow of syrup bottles, the castaneting clack of the ice scraper. By the time they reach the head of the line, they are too famished for words, too grateful for manners.

The population is served quickly. As the last of the patrons walk off, the Hokey Pokey Man mops his brow and pulls the towel over the great block of ice.

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