By G. Gregory Tooker

As a very small lad, I remember well the sturdy ice man, forearms and biceps bulging as he wrestled a large block balanced on his shoulders, tongs deeply embedded in the blue mass which rode on a rubber mat. Into my grandmother’s wooden refrigerator went the massive cube, to be replenished before the week was out. He was a good man, a jolly man, who always had a smile and a kind word to share. Next to the Good Humor gent who brought chocolate covered ice cream bars, he ranked a close second.

Today’s version of the ice man creates a cold image indeed, despite the fact that that he carries not a chip of frozen precipitation at all, except perhaps in his heart. We cannot see the iceman’s face because it is covered up to his eyes. However, those eyes betray the fact that there is no smile beneath the ugly mask. He is anonymous and speaks only in gruff and muffled tones.

This ice man lurks in packs, among clones of similar image. The pack stalks and captures, not particular about the nature of its prey as long as it takes human form. Both innocent and the guilty are swept up in unison, a small price to pay in the eyes of some. The tears of the young flow in torrents and the indelible memories of this injustice will mold those tears into rock-hard icicle daggers as the years pass. As the Good Book teaches, we reap what we sow.

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