-- Tintown here... external links to similar pictures of the vehicle(s) involved, and links for a location if needbe. And here's my list of other stories if you like what you read.

(about 3700 words)

95% AI: Toolbaz.com and Gemini 2.5 Flash! plus perchance.org then ChatGPT.com for the pics!

 ':.:':. fROZEN fRECKLES: a sUNDAE dRIVER .:':.:'   

    Hello, my name is Jordan Esther MacGeoghagan, but please call me Jo. Everyone does. I despise “Jordan.” Not a fan of "Esther" either, to be honest. Yes, really.

    I’m eighteen, fresh out of Bakersfield High, with not enough time to shed the label of ‘new girl.’ Especially when your idea of having a fun time involves the library rather than Union Street or the drive-in. Yeah, I’m a bookworm. My pale, freckled complexion certainly doesn’t jive with the 100-degree-plus temperatures. I stand out.

    And then there's my car. I’m fairly sure I’m the only girl in Kern County who drives a yellow 1977 Renault Le Car, bestowed upon me by my deceased aunt. 

    At first, I was mortified. A bright yellow French import in a town of pickup trucks and lowriders? But I’ve grown to like my little Le Car. She’s got character, which is more than for most things around here. Only a couple of stations come in on the AM radio in my Le Car. She still beats driving around a tractor though. And some of the vehicles I see around Bakersfield look like they just rolled off a farm. I call her my Yellow Submarine. Yellow Submarine.

     (Yes, I know I borrowed that, I was born in ‘63, after all)

    I’ve been seeing Mrs. Mendoza’s ice cream “truck” – or rather, her poorly decorated orange Volkswagen bus, proudly emblazoned with “Tricia’s Treats” – on my street for months now... hawking her frozen wares to the sweltering neighborhood kids. My much younger brothers are practically magnetic to the melodies emanating from it. They’re the reason I first got to talking to Mrs. Patricia Mendoza, the Tricia behind “Tricia’s Treats..” One day, she mentioned her upcoming surgery, and how she’d like someone to take over the treats for a while. One thing led to another, and here I am, possibly about to become the wooden stick to that giant frozen orange ice bar.

  .:':.2 .:':. 

    This Saturday morning, the air was already thick, I rose with a sense of nervous anticipation. My usual routine involves slipping into shorts and a T-shirt but today is a business day. After a quick, lukewarm shower – hot water is basically a permanent fixture in Bakersfield – I pull on a summery blouse and a blue skirt atop a deluxe not-from-a-box brassiere and my lucky pale pink pair of undies.

    It feels somewhat formal, but I figure it makes me look more… professional. Less like a redhead who just stumbled out of a library with a sunburn.

    I grab my Le Car key – the slightly bent lone car key amongst my yellow plastic daisy keychain – gets put in the Le Ignition and turn. TWIRRAH, WhinA-WINAH, WhinA-WINNA, WhinA-WINNA.. (pause) TWIRRAH, WhinA-WINAH, WhinA-WINNA, WhinA-WINNA. RROOMM! 

    The Yellow Submarine hums to life with a familiar little VROOM that always makes me smile. RunkRunkRunkRunk, RunkRunkRunkRunk. I back her out of the driveway, the tires crunching softly on the gravel. RRRRIIIIIINN....IIINNNK... and shift over to first gear to disembark on the short drive to Mrs. Mendoza’s house. CLUNK RunkRunkRunkRunk. RRRRIIIIIIN.. CLUNK INNNuuhh! RRRRIIIII....CLUNK INNNuuhh! RRRRIIIII.... CLUNK INNNuuhh!

    I pull up to the curb, parking the Renault beneath a tree for the shade. I can already see the orange Volkswagen bus peeking out from behind her house, a cheerful beacon of promise in the otherwise mundane street.

    I walk up the path to the door. Before I even knock, it swings open, revealing Mrs. Mendoza is not in her bus. Her warm eyes and her smile that crinkles the corners of her face greets me. “¡Hola, Jo!” She greets me, her voice a soft, melodic lilt. “Ay, you are here. Muy bien, mija.” (Very good, my daughter.)

    “Good morning, Mrs. Mendoza.” I reply. I have my modest, poop-colored purse over my shoulder and I am nervous as all heck inside too.

    “Come in, come in. Let me show you around. And please, call me Trish.” Trish it is.

  .:':.3 .:':. 

    I step inside, the cool air a welcome relief. “Trish,” I repeat, trying it out. It feels more familiar, less formal. We walk out the back door. Besides the iconic orange VW bus, I notice she has a garage and another car parked out back: a green Ford Pinto station wagon, looking surprisingly well-maintained for its age.

    “That’s a nice Pinto you have parked out here,” I comment, mostly just to fill the silence.

    Trish waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, that thing. It’s for running errands. And, I have to park it out here. My garage is just full of chest freezers, Jo.... I like my Pinto, yes, but the bus, ah, the bus is special. You know how I got it? A place in L.A., they turn V-dubs into ice cream trucks. Freezers, the whole bit. Mine’s a ’77. A classic, no?”

    We step outside into the Bakersfield sun. The orange VW bus gleams with its somewhat amateurish “Tricia’s Treats” lettering. I’ve only ever seen the selling side of the bus, the one with the liftable window. Now, as we approach, I get my first full view of the driver’s side. It’s... different. Below and slightly center, I notice a distinct beneath, with an outline that looks like it could open.

    “What’s that, Mrs., um, Trish?” I ask, pointing.

    Trish follows my gaze. “Ah, that’s the heart of the operation, mija. That holds the separate engine for the freezers. Without it, the ice cream, it becomes… sopa.” (Soup.) She shudders. “It shares the same gas as the bus, so you only need to fill one.” She reaches into her purse, pulls out a tiny, tarnished brass key, and unlocks a padlock holding the latch. With a soft click, she unlatches and swings the panel upward. Squeak! My curiosity piques: I’ve never seen an engine on the underside of a Volkswagen bus.

    “Come, let me show you inside. Ven.” (Come.) Trish gestures to the front of the bus.

    I follow her, a little intimidated by the sheer size of the bus compared to my dainty Le Car. Trish opens the driver’s front door. “Have a look around,” she says, stepping back to let me get a feel for it.

  .:':.4 .:':. 

    The door’s handle feels heavy, solid. I grab and climb in, making my skirt an immediate impediment. I have to gather it strategically to avoid snagging it on the seat or the doorframe. The interior smells faintly of exhaust, old black vinyl upholstery, and something sweet, probably leftover ice cream. From this vantage point, I can see the interior I’ve only ever looked into before. My eyes immediately fall on the gear shift. It’s a long, slender pole, topped with a round knob, reaching up from the floor. A stick-shift the size of a broom handle.

    I slide over, skirt rustling, and head to the rear of the bus, ducking slightly. There they are: two large, gleaming freezer compartments, appearing to be built right into the bus. 

    They look robust and industrial. “So, how does this all work?” I call out to Trish, who is still outside, leaning against her bus.

    “The freezers need to be cold, claro?” (Clearly?) she replies. “You need to start the freezer’s engine first. Look for the knob on the back panel.”

    There it is a TV-channel-changer like knob. “This one, Trish?” I ask, my voice a little muffled by the metal interior. “Marked Off, uh, Run... uh, Start??”

    “¡Exacto!” (Exactly!) Trish hollers back, her voice bright. “Now, Jo, turn the knob over to ‘Start’ for me.”

    My heart gives a little thump. What’s going to happen? Is it going to roar to life? Explode? I grit my teeth, take a deep breath, and firmly, with a conscious effort, grasp the knob, and firmly twist it clockwise like submerging the “Yellow Submarine,” holding the knob at the “Start” position.

    Silence. More silence.

    Nothing. Not a whir, not a click, not even a hum. Just the oppressive Bakersfield quiet, broken only by a distant barking dog.

    “Something wrong, Trish?” I ask, my voice echoing slightly in the empty bus.

    “Come back out, I’ll show you, Jo,” Trish calls.

  .:':. 5 .:':. 

    I clamber out of the bus. Trish stands by the engine nestled neatly into its compartment. “This one, mija, it doesn’t start with a key like your little car. This one, you start with a kick!” She points to a metal pedal sticking out from the side of the engine block. “A good ol’ kick! Good for old ladies like me, instead of yanking a rope. My back, ay, mi espalda,” (oh, my back) she groans playfully.

    She demonstrates, without actually kicking it, how the pedal works. She leans down, miming a firm, swift downward press with her foot. “You kick it down, quick, and hard. Like this! Uno, dos, tres!” (One, two, three!)

    “Okay,” I say, a mix of apprehension and excitement bubbling up. This is certainly not in any of the books I’ve read. I’d appreciate not having the rope like a lawn mower either... I lean in, positioning my foot over the pedal. My skirt is clearly the wrong clothing to be wearing today... The pedal feels resistant, spring-loaded...

    I take a tentative kick. SSSHICKKuhh... Nothing.

    Trish chuckles. “Más fuerte, Jo.” (Stronger, Jo.) ”You got this!”

    I try again, putting more weight into it. SSSHICKKuhh... . tunk,tunk, then silence. “Almost!” Trish encourages.

    I kick again. SSSHICKKuhh... . tunk,tunk,tunk,tunk. A little more life this time. I’m getting the hang of it, leaning into it, feeling the resistance and the slight give of the pedal. 

    SSSHICKKuhh.. tunk, Tunk, This time, the engine catches with a sudden, violent cough, then settles into a fast, noisy idle. TUNKaTUNKaTUNKaTUNKa! It’s loud, much louder than I expected, a frantic TUNKaTUNKaTUNKaTUNKa! that vibrates through the ground beneath my feet. The exhaust smells sharp and metallic.

    Trish grins, satisfied. She has to raise her voice. “¡Bueno! (Good!) Now, climb back inside, Jo. Turn the knob back down to ‘Run’.”TUNKaTUNKaTUNKaTUNKa!

    I nod, scrambling back into the bus. Again, my skirt is definitely not ideal for this maneuver. I grab the freezer’s control panel knob and, with a firm twist, move it from “Start” to “Run.” The engine noise outside immediately changes, softening slightly, settling into a still loud but more manageable TunkTunkTunkTunk, TunkTunkTunkTunk, . It’s a steady, purposeful thrum.

    I hope back outside, and the engine is louder again. TUNKTUNKTUNKTUNK, TUNKTUNKTUNKTUNK. Trish closes the engine panel with a clunk and locks it with the padlock, muffling the engine. TunkTunkTunkTunk, TunkTunkTunkTunk. “There you go. In a little while, those freezers will be down to temperature. Ready for a fiesta of ice cream!”

    I nod my head.

  .:':.6 .:':. 

    She turns to me, her eyes twinkling. “That’s your little yellow car parked on the street? I’ve seen it in your neighborhood. Very… distinctive.”

    “Yeah, Trish, that’s my Le Car,” I say, a touch of pride in my voice. “It was a gift. It’s a stick-shift, but I’ve never had to drive a stick-shifted Volkswagen bus ever before.” I peer at the long gear shift inside the bus with a newfound respect.

    “Ah! Confirmed! A stick-shift girl! Fantástico!” (Fantastic!) Trish claps her hands lightly. “Well, you want to get some practice in? While the freezer is running too, we can go get some gas for the bus. It’s almost empty, and you don’t want to run out of gas in the middle of a hot street, no?” TunkTunkTunkTunk, TunkTunkTunkTunk.

    “Sounds good,” I firmly agree, a fresh wave of nerves washing over me. Driving my Le Car is one thing; wrestling a giant orange bus is another entirely. With another engine? Undefinable.

    Trish unlocks the passenger’s door to the bus. PaTHUNK! She hoists herself onto the passenger seat with surprising agility, given her upcoming surgery, and reaches over to turn on the fan on the climate controls. The freezer’s engine continues its industrious TunkTunkTunkTunk, TunkTunkTunkTunk behind us, a constant presence.

    I take the driver’s seat again, sliding in more gracefully this time. “You can reach the pedals, right, Jo?” Trish asks. “You can slide the seat forward, lever’s on the side.”

    Right now, I can touch the pedals, but I think I should be touching them more than that, so I push down the lever, and the entire seat slides too forwards, and I finesse it backwards. Then I assess my reach now. Much better.

  .:':. 7 .:':. 

    PaTHUNK! I close the door, and that other engine is less loud than it’s been to me so far. Tunktunktunktunk, tunktunktunktunk. As I come to grips with how Trish can tune that sound out, my eyes land the equipment mounted on the dashboard. It’s a box with a couple of knobs and a series of buttons. “What’s this for?” I ask, pointing. “CB radio?”

    Trish grins. “Ah, that! That’s for playing the ice cream music outside. You know, the happy songs, the jingles.” She hums a quick, tinny tune. “Dah-dah, dah-dah, dah-DAH-dah-dah-dah... You know, ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’... like that.”

    “Oh,” I say, a little dismayed. My internal monologue begs me not to have to play those tunes. “I… I don’t really want to turn the music on.”

    Trish laughs, a warm, rich sound. “Ay, don’t worry, mi amor.” (My love.) She winks. “You don’t have to. Well, not yet.” She smiles. “Only when you’re driving real, real slowly..”

    She then points to the ignition then hands over her keys. “Here’s the key for the bus. On the ring, the V-dub one on there. Not the little one, that’s for the padlock outside. Here, you go, Jo.”

    I fumble with the keys, finally finding the right one, the one with the Volkswagen logo. I slide it into the ignition. It’s a heavy, clunky set of keys. I look at the long stick shift, then the three pedals on the floor. Clutch, brake, gas. Just like my Le Car, but everything feels bigger, heavier. Further. I rock the gear shift a couple of times, just to get a feel for it. It has a surprising amount of play. Tunktunktunktunk, tunktunktunktunk.

    “Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.” I push in the clutch and turn the ignition key over. 

    BRUNKa-Runka-Runka-Runka, RUNKa-Runka-Runka-Runka... The engine coughs over but doesn’t catch.

    I try again, turning the ignition key gently over. BRUNKa-Runka-Runka-Runka, Runka-Runka-Runka-Runka...

    “Give it a little gas, chica,” (girl) Trish advises gently.

    BRUNKa-Runka-Runka-Runka.. As the engine tries to start up. I give the gas pedal a tentative tap. Runka-Runka-Runka..-VROOOOOOOOOOM! The bus engine catches with a thunderous roar, a huge, echoing rev that makes me jump. My foot clearly tapped the gas a little too hard.

    “Whoops! Sorry, Trish!” I exclaim, my redhead face flushed. More.

    Trish just smiles. “No problem, Jo. You’ll get the feel for it. It has… carácter.” (Character.) Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta.

  .:':.8 .:':. 

    My foot is still firmly on the brake pedal. “Where’s the parking brake on this thing?” I ask, looking around the dashboard, then around my seat bottom.

    Trish points to a sturdy black handle sticking out from beneath the dash. “This one, mija. You take this handle, turn it downward, and push it in.” Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta.

    I follow her instructions, my fingers wrapping around the cold metal of the handle. CLUNK. I push it in. CCRRIICCKK! I’ve released the parking brake. Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta.

    After stepping on the regular brake pedal. Now, for the tricky part. Getting this behemoth into gear and moving. I press the clutch all the way down, then, with a hesitant hand, push the gear shift forward and left, into what I hope is first gear. THUNK. It feels… connected.

    I slowly release the clutch, giving it a little gas. The bus shudders. tttTTTSSSKK! tttTTTSSSKK! The gears protest loudly, a horrible, metallic shriek that makes me wince and jam the clutch back in.

    “Too fast, cariño,” (dear) Trish says calmly. “Gentle. Like you’re dancing.” Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta.

    I try again, more carefully this time. Clutch in, first gear. THUNK. Slowly, oh so slowly, I release the clutch, adding just a whisper of gas. The bus rumbles, a deep, throaty vrrrrrrOOOMMMM... vrrrrrrOOOMMMM...With another slight TSSSK-clunk of gears, the bus lurches forward, slowly, unevenly. VRRRRRR... I’m doing it! I'm driving the monster. RRRRRR... I steer it cautiously out from Trish’s backyard, along the cinder block fence, and onto the street, the freezer engine being a constant reminder behind us.

  .:':.9 .:':. 

    The bus feels enormous, ponderous, compared to the yellow L’eggs pantyhose container parked on the street in view out the front windshield of Trish’s bus . It rolls, rather than glides. And even with the other engine for the freezer running, I can still hear and feel when it is time to upshift. RRRRRR... I send down the clutch pedal...RRRRRR... And I move the gear shift lever down for second gear tttTTTSSSKK.. make that down and slightly over for second gear , THUNK. RRRUUUMM! RRRRRR...And I have Trish’s ice cream bus rolling down the street, and soon it’s time for third gear. VRRRRRRRRRUUUMM! THUNK. VRRRRRR...

    I focus intently on the pedals, my left foot twitching nervously over the clutch, my right foot alternating between brake and gas. Shifting gears with the long, wobbly stick shift is an exercise in precision and patience. RRRRRRRRrrrrrrrr… THUNK!,With the stop sign ahead, I send down the clutch and move the gear shift back inro second, RRRRRRRRrrrrrrrr.... THUNK!, Back upwards for first gear. Each shift is a small victory, sometimes accompanied by a slight lurch or a faint TSSSK of protest from the transmission. I send the clutch pedal down and fully apply the brakes while shifting back into neutral. THUNK! Rrrrrrrrr.Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta.

    As I drive with my knuckles white on the black steering wheel, instead of listening to the AM radio of the bus, Trish and I chat. “So, how long have you been selling ice cream?” I ask, trying to sound casual, as if I’m not battling a giant, orange metal beast. RRRRRrrrrr, RRRRRRRRRUUUMM! THUNK! RRRRRrrrrr... “Your grown-up kids, do they ever help?” RRRRRUUUMM! THUNK. RRRRRrrrr...

    Trish laughs. “Oh, no, Jo. No. My kids, they are all grown, ya son grandes.” (They are already grown.) RRRRRRRRRUUUMM! THUNK! RRRRRrrrrr... “They have their own lives now, their own families. They helped me a little, of course. For the free ice cream, claro!” She chuckles. “But this, this is my little business. My freedom.” RRRRRRRRRUUUMM! THUNK! RRRRRrrrrr...

    She asks me about my Renault. “That little yellow car, it’s quite something. Did you love it right away?”RRRRRrrrrr...

    “Not exactly,” I admit, as a red light appears ahead. I send down the clutch pedal RRRRRRrrrrrrr… THUNK! I’m downshifting awkwardly amidst conversation. RRRRRRrrrrrrr… THUNK!. “It grew on me. It’s got a personality. And it reminds me of my aunt.”RRRRRRrrrrrrr… THUNK!.RRRRRRrrrrrrr… THUNK! Rrrrrrrrr.Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta.

    “Ah, a gift from family. Very special.” Trish nods understandingly. “And do you have plans for school, Jo? College?”

    “Yeah, I guess so,” I say, trying to picture myself at a big university, far from Bakersfield. “I want to study literature. Maybe be a writer.” Rrrrrrrrr.Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta.

    “Maravilloso!” (Marvelous!) Trish exclaims. “Books are good. Stories are good. Stories don’t melt. Stories stay.”

  .:':.10 .:':. 

    I nod, concentrating on the road. The red light turns green. I push the clutch pedal down, and shift to first, THUNK, release the clutch pedal slowly, and hit the gas.RRRRRRRRrrrrrrrr… The bus lurches forward, gathering speed. I’m getting better. The grinding is less frequent, the shifts smoother. RRRRRRRRrrrrrrrr… THUNK! We drive through a few more intersections, me slowing and downshifting for stop signs and red traffic lights, then upshifting for green ones, as I’m finding a rhythm.

    I spot a gas station. “Here we are,” I announce, pulling the bus slowly into an empty spot next to a pump.

    I nudge the gear shift into neutral, then turn the key to shut the bus’s main engine off. Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, Rutta-rutta-rutta-rutta, rutt, rutt-rutt, ruttt.... The sudden quiet is startling, but the freezer’s engine behind us continues its steady unktunktunktunk, tunktunktunktunk, a consistent mechanical companion.

    Trish unbuckles her seatbelt. “Okay, I’ll get the knob for the freezers. Can’t run while we fill up.” She heads to the rear of the bus. A moment later, the tunktunktunktunk, tunktunktunktunk of the freezer engine sputters, then dies. Tunk, tunk, tunk.. tunk... “Can I have the keys back? Unlock the gas, padlock, you know?”

    I remove the ignition key to the bus and hand them over to Trish. A deep, profound quiet descends. The only sounds are the distant hum of traffic, the soft whoosh of a breeze, and the muffled chatter from the gas station office. Trish returns to her seat of the bus, a satisfied look on her face. “Ah,” she sighs, leaning against the doorframe. “Peace and quiet. Que bueno.” (How good.) She looks at me, her gaze warm and assessing. “I’ll be right back. I’m buying the self-serve.” And Trish creaks open her side door and I see her jump out.

    I wasn’t looking that way when I heard a tap on the side window. I turn to look, and I crank down the side window as quickly as I kicked the freezer’s pedal.

    “Hello, there,” he said, “I see that Tricia has a new recruit,” he said with a smile.

    “Yes, yes, I’m, um, Jo, I’ll be filling in for a bit,” I nervously reply with a glare.

    “Jo, nice to meet you,” as he extended his hand past the rolled-down window. “Tom Maddox. CSUB. Second-year Roadrunner.”

    "I just graduated from Bako High...”

    “Well, come on over and see us. We’ll treat you as well as Tricia will, Jo.”

    I’m at at a loss for words. “I will. And how...”

    "Student Union. Call them up. Ask for a tour. Then ask for Tom. Simple, right?”

    “Yes, it is...”

    “And take care of Tricia for me, Jo. She’s taking care of us.”

    “I will, um, Tom...”

    And with that, the gas station attendant takes over his attention as I hear the SSSHICKKuhh... of Trish kicking over the engine for the freezers. SSSHICKKuhh.. tunk, Tunk, TUNKaTUNKaTUNKaTUNKa!

    Trish now appears out the side window, and hands the keys back over to me. “So, Jo. Are you ready for this? Wanna go back and pick-up some treats from my house?”

    I take a deep breath, the lingering smell of gasoline and exhaust in my nostrils. I’m still a little shaky from the driving practice, but a spark of confidence flickers within me. My right hand puts the ignition key to the bus back in and turns it. BRUNKa-Runka-Runka-Runka., Runka-Runka-Runka..-VROOOOOM!

“    Yes,” I say, perhaps a little more firmly than I expected. “I think so. I’m ready.” VROOOOOM! VROOOOOM!

-- Miss Jordan Esther MacGeoghagan

95% AI: Toolbaz.com and Gemini 2.5 Flash, but I fed it the 900 word "plot". Some parts, especially the engine sounds and tidbits were added by me. Characters photos were designed in perchance.org (and not based on any photographs of real people) and brought into ChatGPT.com