American Rust

by Philipp Meyer

“I would like to tell you about the best job I ever worked.” “Why do I suspect that it’s Magisterial District Eight?” “Not even close. It was the Sealtest Dairy making ice cream. Sixty-four to sixty-seven, before I became a cop. This big building, it could have been a mill or something, only you would punch in and change into fresh clothes, then walk under a blue light before you were allowed to touch anything. You were never allowed to get dirty. Big buckets of pistachios and fresh fruit, peaches, cherries, anything you could imagine, mixing it up in the machines. You’ve probably never seen ice cream before it gets frozen, but I promise you there isn’t anything like it.” Patacki sipped his drink. “It really was like heaven, just being in there. You’d finish each batch and then take the barrels into the hardener to stack and sometimes, because of the humidity from the door always opening and closing, it would be snowing in the hardening room, ice cream stacked to the ceiling and it would be snowing down on you in the middle of the summer. You’re making ice cream, it’s snowing on you, and you look outside and it’s ninety degrees and sunny. I’d take that job again right now if they offered it. It really was like heaven.”