The ice was not sticking. It was a frustrating powder that clung to my arms, and melted in the hot afternoon sun, but did not hold the syrup. I watched as the delicate shaved ice collapsed in on itself. The dismayed look of the customer. The ever growing line. I darted to the side of the cart, where I filled a plastic cup with hot water.
"Sometimes, when the ice is really cold, it does does that" I said, dumping the water into the ice machine, listening to it trickle through, sloshing like a full belly.
The ice stuck better. Well enough to be sold. But not right yet. Still difficult. The man left the money on the counter and I snatched it up before it became soggy on the wet counter-top. I worked through customers, one by one, panicking a little, as the line got longer and longer, despite my frantic efforts. My sister came to help me, fetching the hot water and shaping sno-cones. I heard water dripping near my feet. Leaks. I'd forgotten. The line slowly, painfully diminished. I dismissed my sister, who went running through the park, wood chips splashing up where she stepped.
I ducked under the counter top, checking on the pipes underneath, examining the leaks and my makeshift plugs, which were made of paper towels and latex gloves. Small puddles were forming, but they could wait for the moment. They weren't
harming anything after all.
I straightened up and then fell on the chair, people-watching briefly. Two men, in short succession, holding out butcher-paper wrapped bouquets, each wearing laughably determined expressions. A woman with a three-week old baby, its face hidden under pink fabric. A child wailing as their balloon floated up towards the clouds.
A customer walked up, toting a flat of raspberries. I grabbed a cup and started shaving ice into it.
" Where did you get your berries?" I asked. The woman gestured towards the back of the park, naming a vendor that I vaguely remembered.
"I love raspberries. I'd forgotten they were in season"
"I do too" I asked what flavors the woman wanted and lifted them off the circular trolley, splattering them onto the blankness of the ice. As I looked up, to give her the total, she slid a napkin with nine raspberries on it, towards me. I thanked her, not quite knowing what to say. She didn't say anything, just smiled and went on her way, bent slightly to one hip as she balanced the box precariously.
I had a small rush of business after that. I watched a man, who looked rough, with his wifebeater shirt and tattoos, affix a flower in his tiny daughter's hair, and kiss the top of her head. I watched a magenta clad granddaughter convince her grandmother that a treat was in order. A boyfriend buy a blue and purple ice to share with his girlfriend. I watched as the market began to close and people walked more slowly. I listened as the clock chimed at quarter two. My ice was all gone, my plugs were rendered useless and I was sweaty and tired and sun burnt.
I picked up a raspberry and smiled.
