“A creamsicle?” Doc’s interest is piqued.
“It’s an ice cream soda,” I explain. “A scoop of vanilla over an orange soda. There was this drugstore over on Stillwell that made the best, and I’ve been craving one ever since we got to this steam box.”
“That does sound good.”
“The only thing is,” I continue, “Since I’ve been turned, my body can’t process them any more. So all I’ve got left is a fading memory of spooning up the foam from the bottom of a paper cup, as I walk down the boardwalk toward the Wonder Wheel.”
“I miss spaghetti and meatballs,” Doc confesses.
We continue on the trail reminiscing about the things that always brought us comfort before the war… rooftop barbecues, watching Notre Dame football, good jokes and better yet, awful ones… and Anna Gertsman under the pier on a Saturday night. We realize there just isn’t much different about the two of us.
“Get some rest, Doc. I’m relieving you,” Chappy stands there, one hand resting on his cedar stake.
Oy vey, I think.