Free Cones and New Friends at Dairy Queen

Ice cream and community

Photo by Ankush Minda on Unsplash

When I get to my favorite Dairy Queen store this afternoon for my usual large vanilla cone I wonder if the line inside might be as long as the line for the drive-thru window. It nearly encircles the entire building. It’s Free Cone Day.

But inside the line is only two deep. Amber the G.M. had told me earlier in the week that she would be having her whole Curl Crew at work to make sure everything went well. “All hands on deck!” I’d said. “Yes, ma’am!” she said, “you know it!”

“Do you want to round up again?” Laneisha asks me when I placed my order. “Sure,” I say. Starting about two weeks ago Amber’s store has been doing a fundraiser for the children’s program of a local hospital. Cards showing the names of customers who have contributed by rounding up purchases almost cover the wall behind the counter and nearly paper over the drive-thru window, giving that area a gauzy glow.

Along with corporate promotional events like Free Cone Day Amber likes to have events unique to her store like the fundraiser. She’s also had coloring contests and face painting. One afternoon a few weeks ago I heard Amber and her boss Jessie brainstorming ideas for more events. I suggested an Easter egg hunt. “Oh, yeah!” Amber said. “But you’d need to keep the kids away from the deep fryer,” I added. “For sure!” Amber said.

After I get my cone I find a spot in a booth near the counter. Other customers fill about every other table. Amber comes around handing out more free cone coupons to everyone. “Amber, it’s so busy it’s like a bar in here!” I say. “I know it!” she says, “I love it! It makes me so happy!”

---

“I’m Amber’s cousin,” I hear a woman say. I look up from the book I have been reading in the same booth where I was sitting on Free Cone Day to see the woman clustered at the counter with three young children.

She looks to be somewhere in her seventies, petite like Amber, long gray-blond hair, handsomely weathered face. The children are probably elementary-school age, two boys and a girl. The girl is the youngest, second grade maybe.

After they get their orders, they bunch up into the booth next to mine, each having a dipped cone. Everything is quiet as they get their cones under control, the warm chocolate melting some of the ice cream, the melted ice cream leaking from under the hardening chocolate shell down the sides of the cones and seeping through cracks in the shell, until the chocolate has completely cooled and everything stabilizes.

I go back to reading my book. I hear one of the children ask about visiting a nearby pet store. “Check the hours,” Amber’s cousin says. “Open until seven,” one of the children says, “can we go? We can make it!” “Let’s take care of our ice cream first,” Amber’s cousin says.

The children start to come and go from the booth, roaming the store, visiting the soda dispenser, looking into the freezer holding cakes and treats. Amber’s cousin stays in the booth, turning sideways for a view out of the front of the store. The girl comes back to the table with some crayons and an Easter coloring sheet from the counter. She presses the crayons hard onto the paper.

“Are you ready?” Amber’s cousin asks the girl. She has finished her cone. The girl nods. Once Amber’s cousin and the girl are up and out of the booth and moving toward mine I stop reading to introduce myself. “I overheard you say you’re Amber’s cousin,” I say. “Yes, I am,” she says.

I tell her my name and explain how I got to be a regular at the store—how after a health crisis a year and a half ago I had to gain back some weight, and I went to other stores but kept coming back to this store because it’s always clean and friendly.

The woman is smiling and nodding her head, yes, yes. “That’s Amber!” she says, “big fan here.” “The cones are huge, too,” I add. “I know!” says Amber’s cousin, “they are!”

“What’s your name?” I ask her. “Carolyn,” she says, “and tell me yours again?” “Polly,” I say, “like ‘“Polly want a cracker.’” “Or Pollypockets!” the girl says, holding on to the back of the booth and swinging from side to side. “Yes, exactly!” I say.

I hadn’t thought of those toys for about fifteen years when my daughter had a collection. All the tiny little pieces and bright colors flash back into my head.

“I’ll tell Amber I met you next time I see her,” I tell Carolyn. “And I will do the same,” she says. And we say good-bye.

---

Mr. Troy is the night-time grill man at my favorite Dairy Queen. He’s been there for over a dozen years, longer than Amber has been at the store. During the day Mr. Troy works as a patient transporter at a local hospital. When he finishes there, he goes to the store to work the grill until closing.

Mr. Troy is married to a woman named Paulette. Paulette works at a hospital across the street from the one where Mr. Troy works. If Paulette and Mr. Troy are on the same schedule, they will drive together to their hospital jobs in the morning and then in the late afternoon carpool to the store for Mr. Troy’s evening shift.

While Mr. Troy is working the grill, Paulette will pass the time catching up with family and friends and just generally noodling around on her phone. Mr. Troy also usually makes her some dinner, a burger or chicken tenders and a small order of onion rings looping out of their paper container.

One afternoon as I was finishing my cone and reading and Paulette was at a nearby booth tuning into some things her phone, a delivery driver began to hassle Amber and the afternoon grill man Joey about his orders. He needed some confirmation receipts, or codes, or discount codes. It wasn’t clear except that he was upset. He’d been in and out of the store several times, his car parked by the walkway outside, driver’s-side door open, orange flashers flashing, temper rising.

I noticed Paulette shift in her seat and look toward him at the counter. I’d finished my cone and had become too distracted to continue reading so I was thinking about leaving but then Paulette stood up, turned to the delivery man facing off with Amber at the counter, and said, “What do you want? What. Do. You. Want?”

The man whipped around to Paulette. “Why you talkin’ to me?” he asked her, “I didn’t say nothin’ to you!” He turned back around to Amber. “Why she talking to me?” Focused on entering something into the register, Amber didn’t answer.

Paulette remained standing and unmoving. I was thinking, Wow, I should leave—this is how people get shot. But then Amber ripped a ticket from the register printer and held it out for the man. He reached across the counter to grab it and then raced out the door to his car. Paulette watched him leave and then sat back down in her booth.

“Whew!” Amber said, “I’m tellin’ you!” She turned and began walking toward the kitchen, one hand on her hip and the other waving in the air. I stood up to leave, collected my book, nodded to Paulette, and headed out the door, making sure on my way that the man’s car was no longer out there by the walkway.

To learn more about my favorite Dairy Queen and the Curl Crew there, please see The Dairy Queen Dream Team and For the Dairy Queen Team.

You may also support my work at Buy Me a Coffee.