Short-Changed
When I was growing up in Boyle Heights, there was an ice-cream lady who drove through our block every summer afternoon. You could hear her before you saw her. That little melody coming through the loudspeaker echoing down the street.
The moment it hit the block, kids came running from everywhere—houses, alleys, baseball games in the street.
Everybody in the neighborhood had a hustle. Drug dealers on the corner. The tamale lady pushing her cart. The churro man with his little bell. The donut man early in the morning. Everybody trying to make their day’s pay.
And we had our hustle too.
We dug through couch cushions for coins. Checked pockets. Asked older brothers and sisters. Most of us came from migrant parents working long hours—factories, gardens, wherever they could get work. Money didn’t float around the house. So we hunted for it.
By the time the truck arrived, we had our quarters ready.
And that melody had us trained. Like Pavlov’s dogs. Once that tune hit the block, we came running.
We didn’t think about it. We just moved.
Ice cream on a hot day felt like the world working the way it was supposed to.
After a while, though, some of us noticed something.
The change never seemed right. A few cents missing here. A few cents missing there.
At first we figured maybe we were tripping. Kids aren’t exactly accountants. But the pattern kept showing up.
So one afternoon we slowed things down. Started watching. Counting.
And sure enough, it was happening.
We were getting short-changed.
Not by much. Just enough most people might ignore. But to us those few cents were our whole afternoon hustle.
When we called her out, she didn’t admit it. She just looked at us and said maybe we didn’t know how to count.
That didn’t sit well with us.
So we did what kids in the neighborhood did when something felt wrong. We organized.
Next time we heard that melody coming down the block, we were ready. Eggs. Water balloons. Whatever we could find.
As soon as the truck pulled up, we came out from behind the parked cars and started launching everything we had.
“Ratera!” we yelled.
Thief.
The ice-cream lady slammed the gas and took off down the street while we chased the truck yelling.
At the time it felt like justice.
We thought we had solved the problem.
Years later, working with people, I started noticing something similar in the mind.
Everybody has a default. Something they fall back on when things get uncomfortable. Some blame. Some shut down. Some try to control the room. Some smooth everything over.
The reaction comes fast. Faster than thought.
A look.
A tone.
A word.
And the body moves.
When I think back to that ice-cream truck now, I see something I couldn’t see as a kid.
Yes, we were getting short-changed.
But something else was happening too.
We were learning how patterns move through people.
The melody plays.
We run.
Someone pushes to the front.
Someone waits quietly.
Someone takes advantage.
Someone pretends not to notice.
And the whole thing keeps moving.
The truck keeps driving.
Summer keeps coming.
Nothing looks different from the outside.
But once you see the pattern, something inside you slows down.
You start watching your own reactions.
The habits you fall into.
The roles you step into without thinking.
The same way we ran when that melody played.
Sometimes the monster isn’t hiding.
Sometimes it’s just walking around
wearing our feet.
Alextotle