Hollywood Lied

Chapter 4: Ice Cream Man

  Marjorie and I became a couple—not just any couple, but the kind that held each other upright when the world tried to knock us down. We learned to navigate each other’s storms, and in those early months, it felt like we were becoming something solid, something real.

  She’d finally been promoted to manager at iHop, a milestone she celebrated with that contagious laugh of hers and a hug so tight it felt like she could squeeze the darkness right out of me. Everything seemed to be lining up, piece by fragile piece, as if life had decided to give us a breather for once.

  Then the phone call came.

  Her father—a heart attack, sudden, brutal, final.

  It was as if someone flipped a switch inside her.

  Gone were her cheery mood and soft giggles, the ones that used to dance through our small, now fixed apartment like sunlight. In their place came long, trembling sighs and tears that soaked into my shirt night after night. She tried to hide them at first, embarrassed by her grief, but it broke through anyway, raw and unfiltered.

  I held her as best I could. But some wounds don’t close quickly. Some don’t close at all.

  “Let’s get some ice cream,” I suggested one afternoon, trying to offer her even the smallest escape.

  “I’m not hungry,” she muttered, the words tight and brittle, like she was holding herself together by sheer force.

  “You need to eat. You can’t just down Campbell’s chicken soup every day.”

  “Actually, I can,” she snapped back, arms folding defensively across her chest.

  “Come on,” I said softly, reaching for her hand. “You’ll feel better soon.”

  “I miss him so much… I shouldn’t, though.”

  Her voice cracked, and then the tears came—silent at first, then shaking her whole body. Watching her crumble like that made something in my chest twist painfully, as if her grief had a way of reaching inside me and pulling until I was seconds from breaking down with her.

  So I just held her again. Tighter this time.

  Sometimes that was all either of us could do.

  “I wish I had known him,” I found myself saying unexpectedly, the words slipping out before I could second-guess them.

  “He was a selfish prick,” she replied without hesitation. “Never paid child support, never took us anywhere fun. Our idea of a big night out was Monopoly and Uno on the living-room floor. And the only time we were allowed to watch TV was during football.” She let out a sharp, unexpected laugh. “Still wish you met him?”

  “No, not really. But… was he at least nice?” I asked, even though the answer hung in the air long before she said it.

  “f**k no. If you had money, he’d be nice to you. If you didn’t, he’d scream and shout like it was his full-time job.” She shook her head, bitterness and sadness twisting together in her voice. “What a f*****g family picture, huh?”

  “When is the funeral?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral even though, deep down, a darker impulse stirred. Part of me wanted to go just to spit on his grave. That was what he deserved. Everyone knew it.

  “June 2nd. Don’t tell me you’re coming too?” she said, eyes widening with disbelief.

  “Oh, I sure am!” I replied, a little too quickly, a little too eagerly.

  “Just don’t do anything stupid at the funeral,” she warned, pointing a trembling finger at me like she already sensed the storm brewing inside.

  “Oh, I won’t,” I said with a sly smile I couldn’t quite suppress.

  “Good. Now let’s get some ice cream!” she suddenly cheered, her mood lifting just enough to catch a glimmer of the girl she used to be. The prospect of getting it genuinely excited her—and, if I was honest, it excited me too.

  For a moment, the world felt lighter again.

  The world outside was foggy—San Francisco fog times ten. It was the kind of weather that swallowed everything whole, leaving only silhouettes and the faint glow of streetlamps. Terrible weather for going to the park, honestly. But that’s exactly where we went, because all the actual ice cream shops were closed on Saturdays. Go figure.

  So we wandered over to the lone ice cream vendor standing bravely in the haze and made our choices. I ordered crème brûlée. She ordered coconut. I couldn’t hold it in.

  “Coconut? Really?” I burst out laughing.

  “Hey, don’t judge,” she pouted, her lower lip jutting out just enough to be adorable.

  “Sorry. Do you feel better now?” I asked, noticing she hadn’t even tasted it yet.

  She finally bit into it, and her whole face shifted—softened, brightened, warmed. Pure ecstasy. I could tell I’d managed to cheer her up, even if just a little.

  “Yes, much better,” she said with a satisfied little hum.

  “Everyone loves ice cream, Marj,” I chuckled.

  “My grandpa liked the boring kind,” she muttered, wrinkling her nose.

  “Butter pecan?” I guessed.

  “Bingo,” she giggled.

  “Boo!” I shouted.

  “Indeed,” she returned, wearing that signature chuckle of hers—the one I’d missed. Her old self flickered back to life, and I was all for it.

  “I like seeing you like this,” I told her quietly.

  “It’s hard to feel anything right now. It’s like there’s a void that nothing can fill,” she said, her voice softening into something fragile.

  “I want to fill your void… if you’ll let me,” I murmured, pulling her closer and brushing my mouth against hers.

  “Get a room!” someone from the vendor’s stand shouted.

  “Better not yell,” I shot back. “You could lose your voice that way.”

  He responded by pulling out a pair of brass knuckles, flashing them like a threat he was more than willing to act on. I wasn’t in the mood for another fight—not today—so we exchanged a glance, and without a word, we both walked away into the fog.

  “Man, that was close!” she laughed, the sound thin and shaky—nervousness wearing a cheap mask of humor.

  “Tell me about it. I was half worried he’d beat the crap out of both of us,” I said, glancing over my shoulder with a paranoid twist in my gut, half-expecting the guy to come limping back for revenge.

  It wasn’t even an insult.   Just an observation.   But apparently he had paper-thin skin—fragile ego, fragile wrist, the whole package.

  We decided to watch the original Naked Gun film together that night. Neither of us said it outright, but we both knew why. We needed something—anything—to lessen the everyday agony of life. The heaviness that clung to us like a second skin.

  So we chose something hilarious to replace that feeling.   Something absurd, stupid, comforting in the way only truly ridiculous comedy can be.

  For a few hours, we wanted to laugh instead of drown.