vendor

The ice cream vendor outside the Met sold me a $3 strawberry popsicle that was so hard and so cold that my tongue stuck to it when I tried to eat it. It was like licking a light pole on a winter night in Milwaukee, or so I have read.

It was humid and in the mid-80s in New York, and I wanted to know how my popsicle stayed so cold in the vendor's cart when there didn't seem to be any electric-generated cold air circulating through it.

He opened up his cart and showed me the blocks of ice within. He said, You can touch it. When I reached out to touch it, he said, Oh no, you shouldn't touch it, because it will hurt. It was dry ice sublimating in plumes of white steam against the city heat. It cost $26/pound, and he had to buy almost four pounds each day for his cart.

You have to sell thirty-three popsicles before you even start making a profit? I said. He shrugged. I left and he sold four popsicles to a crowd of panting tourists who had just exited the museum.