A long, long time ago when I was a kid, we had a milkman. Johnny the Milkman. We’d spot him making a delivery and run down the street to meet his truck. Johnny the Milkman had a great boxy vehicle without passenger seats, and with both sliding doors left open to catch the summer breeze. Ironically, a huge block of ice melting in the middle of the truck’s floor was meant to keep the glass bottles of milk and cream cold.
Johnny the Milkman, in the days before OSHA and seatbelts and common sense, would let us jump on board and dangle our arms and legs out the passenger door for a few stops, dragging our Keds on the road as we drove from house to house. Then, to complete the nightmare for our mothers, he’d give us an ice pick and we’d chip off a handful of cold, crunchy microbes to chew on.
There's nothing like a seven-year-old with an ice pick, dangling his legs out of a moving truck, sucking on dirty ice.