When a child, the author dreamed of being an ice cream maker, or perhaps an ice cream seller. A life spent tasting cold treats seemed like a slice of paradise. The idea was simple: place yourself behind a booth, savor each scoop, and never ask anyone for money for a popsicle again. Heaven, as the kid imagined, was a booth full of endless sweetness. The dream suggested a future where happiness could be served on a cone, one generous scoop at a time.
As time carried on, the memory of that early longing lingered. There would eventually be an ode to ice cream, an affectionate tribute to those carefree moments when sweetness felt like pure magic. The pinnacle of joy was the imagined ice cream cake, a symbol of celebration and delight. That day, though, etched a difficult path into memory. A six year old stood across the street, eyes fixed on a colorful display, the cake and the dream both shimmering in the heat. The price tag read five rubles, a tiny fortune in a world where worth was often measured by coins and a child’s bravely beating heart.
Somehow the child managed to touch the soft core of a mother’s heart. The mother, distracted by a long phone call with a friend, slipped a twenty-five ruble note into a small hand and kept talking. The money, tiny and fragile, felt heavy as a stone. Crossing the street, the child clutched a purple piece of paper bearing Lenin’s profile, a relic of a time when money kept a sharp edge on every choice. The heat pressed in, the way forward blurred, and the lure of ice cream cake pulled stronger with each step.
Arriving at the tent, the child’s hand trembled. The paper wasn’t Lenin, and there was no money to buy the dream. It felt as if angels, mischievously distant and dressed in the 21st century, had whisked the coins away. Dinner-time wisdom seemed to flutter above the scene, a reminder that oily sweetness could be a trap. The family, from then until nightfall, retraced every leaf of grass, every grain of sand, every stretch of asphalt on the way home, sighing at the absence of the promised treat. A longing to turn back the summer from the start grew louder, the memory of the unfairness staining the day with a stubborn ache.
From that moment, a resolve formed to grow up and become the ice cream girl. The plan shifted away from the fleeting caprice of a single summer and toward a future where misfortune could be avoided. As understanding matured, the dream changed again. It became clear that the goal was not to serve ice cream but to become a winter guardian of sorts, a night porter who helps clear the streets of snow. The night shovels into the quiet drift, the snow gliding in pale lantern light as the shovel bites into whiteness and the snowflakes dance in the circle of a lone lamp. The sense of purpose grew with each winter night, the crisp air filling the lungs as the world slowed to a careful, patient pace.
And then, at last, the dream seemingly arrived. Yet the dream took a different shape. The aspiration to be a concierge of winter never quite fit, nor did the calendar of a part-time ice cream seller. Instead, the path led to a modest role as a courier. A straightforward dream realized without grand announcements, without lessons to impart, and with a calm dignity that felt oddly comforting. The quiet confidence that comes from simply getting the delivery right sparked a practical sense of meaning.
People around the courier life divided into two camps: those who asked why this was needed and those who admired the effort and style. The former felt uncomfortable, the latter encouraged a spark. Sometimes a call would ask about the plan and the daily routine, and the courier would answer with a steady, uncomplicated honesty. The road was simple enough: the route from home to destination, the order delivered, the work completed. Money arrived in small coins, a steady beat of pennies that kept life moving. Tea was rarely offered; news of brighter possibilities felt sparse. The reality was plain: there were no sweeping stories or cinematic moments, just the steady hum of everyday tasks and a resistant, tired crowd.
Overall, the courier path offered a kind of unglamorous wisdom. In a world growing more volatile and harder to read, a defined job — the app guiding from point A to point B — offered structure. It felt like being an ambassador for practicality, delivering what people needed most in small, precise ways. In moments of crisis and division, the simple act of connecting two points could feel meaningful, even if only for a short while. The world, after all, could be loud and disorienting, and a clear map could provide a sense of order during the churn.
As Marmeladov, the most famous drunkard in Russian literature, once noted, everyone should be able to go somewhere within reach. He had nowhere to go and found a tavern, but the modern tale relies on delivery rather than a tavern road. The courier story, while not a grand epic, carries its own therapeutic weight. After a run, the mind eases, and the performer of the route discovers a surprising sense of peace. The psychologist may not always understand, but the practice of moving through the day, delivering orders on time, remains a quiet form of healing.
Occasionally a rideshare break comes along when fatigue wears thin mid-delivery. In the new year, the idea of embracing the homeless life with a touch of glamour persists, because the magic of the season and the courier’s quiet resilience offer a strange kind of comfort. A witty line from a proud family member surfaces, a reminder of the mismatch between expectations and reality. Yet the core remains: perseverance, a steady hand, and keeping shoes intact on the road to the goal. The narrative here shares a stance that aligns with a personal viewpoint and offers a reflection rather than a universal decree, inviting readers to find their own path within the folds of ordinary days. In the end, the truth stands: the journey mattered more than the label, and the simple act of delivering one thing to another could carry a surprisingly hopeful light.