Mr Frosty

I pulled back the covers and walked to the edge of the bedroom and looked out the window.  The street was blanketed in darkness.  A lone post light from the Poe’s house, six doors down, shed an edge of pissy-yellow to the blackness but not enough to light our area.  I could hear the sound of the truck as it grew closer making what must have been the turn from Edgemont onto our street.

I pushed my head against the screen to see if it really was the truck.  And sure enough, there it was.  Sitting in the darkness just down the street by the corner.  An old white box truck with dark blue trim that looked more grey and black from where I was standing.

The music playing loud like it was a Friday afternoon and school was out.  And yet, no house lights turned on.  No door opened with a robe wearing curious neighbor.

The truck stood still in the blackness but I could make out the glowing of the Mister Frosty sign.  His white heap of hair yellowed from age but still recognizable.  The truck did not move.  It just stood at the end of the street just inside of my vision and then ever so slowly it began to move.  It travelled at no more than two miles per hour, if even.

Just inching along down the street.

Like a dare.





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