Claude, 38, furrowed brow, had the misfortune of being the sole inheritor of his father’s small business, Alaska-located and barely profitable. Shine’s Shaved Ice.
Claude’s father told him since he was a boy: “This is Alaska. If ice can’t make it here, it can’t make it anywhere.”
The business was run out of a truck (equipped with snow tires). It was yellow-gold and read in big blue letters: “Shine’s Shaved Ice: Serving You Since World War II”. Claude’s father drove it for years around the rural roads of their isolated town, playing the dim, unrecognizable song on the loudspeakers to attempt lure kids out of warm homes and into the frozen street. Sometimes he would end up going up a long driveway which led to just one house. The residents would find him either charming or pitiful, and buy some shaved ice.
On his deathbed, Claude’s father told him:
“Shine’s Shaved Ice is yours now, son. It’s time I tell you the Shine Family Secret, the secret ingredient in our shaved ice.”
Claude looked into his father’s eyes. He wanted to leave Alaska, forget the ice, and pursue warmth warmth warmth. But he couldn’t let Shine's Shaved Ice just melt away.
“I’m ready, Dad. You can trust me. What’s the secret ingredient?”
Wheezing with weakened breath, he leaned in close and whispered in Claude’s ear: “snow.”
No comments:
Post a Comment