Ice cream truck driver brings relief from scorching Valley heat

An instrumental version of “She’ll Be Comin’ Round The Mountain,” blares through the van’s speakers as Alejo Martinez’s parks his 1983 Ford Econoline outside the doors of a large ropa usada facility on 22^nd Street and Austin Avenue.

“I have 32 different songs on this thing,” he says. “Sometimes I play ‘Happy Birthday’ when there’s a kids party.”

The outside walls of the building are covered in graffiti, the insides are filled with workers separating massive mountains of used clothes by hand. Women’s voices can be heard hollering from the inside of the warehouses. A lady in colorful hospital scrubs quickly rushes to greet him.

“Me das unos Cheetos con queso,” she says as Martinez opens the window. Cheetos topped with a scoop of melted nacho cheese is a popular order, but today, Martinez has none. Today, he’s only selling ice cream, sodas, water, candy and chips.

The 56-year-old father of four is an ice cream truck driver. He’s been one for 25 years now – 18 of which he’s spent rolling down the streets of McAllen’s oldest neighborhoods.

Most of the people who work in the ropa usada distribution centers haves 15-minute breaks, which Martinez takes advantage of, along with the Valley’s sweltering heat.

“Ahora no tengo, pero tengo paletas (popsicles),” Martinez suggests.

She buys two sodas instead. Everything in Martinez’s truck sells for under $2, but sometimes, even those prices can be a little steep for his customers. One woman who orders three grape-flavored popsicles says she doesn’t have enough money and promises to pay Martinez back his next time around.

“If they don’t have enough, I understand,” Martinez says. “It’s OK by me, as long as they pay me back. I’ve had people owe me up to $80 before.”

“You must have a good memory,” I tell him.

“Oh, I write those ones down.”

The South Texas sun bares down on Alejo Martinez’s caramel skin. It’s 3 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon and it’s only the beginning of his workday. He wipes the sweat from his cheek with his forearm as he takes the driver’s seat again.

The van has no air conditioning, but the warm breezes that float through its open windows are just enough to keep the inside at a comfortable temperature. In a thin, cotton T-shirt and a pair of denim shorts, Martinez steps on the gas pedal.

He says he’s a furniture carpenter by trade, but has always been a businessman at heart. As an adolescent, he spent his days shining shoes, delivering papers and selling gum on the streets of his hometown Tampico, Tamaulipas. But it was his late brother’s influence that got Martinez behind the wheel of an ice cream truck on the streets of San Antonio, his first home in Texas.

“My brother was a driver, too, for many years,” Martinez said. “He died seven years ago in his own ice cream truck. We found him on the floor of his van.”

Martinez said he had died of a stroke.

We continue down Beaumont and Chicago Avenue, stopping at a series of car shops. A boisterous group of mechanics flag us down for a couple of sodas and a pair of popsicles.

Their order is punctuated with several Spanish swear words as they complain about the scorching temperature. He suggests they try a mangonada, a brightly colored mango-flavored slush with a red chamoy (Mexican candy) swirl.

As he cruises down the McAllen neighborhood’s gritty streets, he pauses and singles out three houses along the way, and tells tales about the gang members who didn’t survive “El Barrio De Los Chicos,” a name he’s given this particular stretch of city. The community is located just north of La Paloma, another rough McAllen neighborhood Martinez knows well.

“When I first started in McAllen, none of the ice cream trucks would go into La Paloma,” Martinez said. “I was the first one to go in there, and I earned their trust.”

He said he owes his success to his experience in the low-income neighborhoods of San Antonio, which are largely populated by blacks and Hispanics.

“They once broke my window, but that’s the worst thing that’s happened in the 25 years I’ve driven a truck,” Martinez said.

We make our way toward 23^rd Street, and are signaled over by a father, who has been working under the hood of a pickup truck, and his son, a toddler with a hankering for a SpongeBob popsicle.

“The most popular ice cream I’ve ever sold was the Ninja Turtles,” Martinez recalls. “I used to sell boxes and boxes of them.”

I ask him what his favorite ice cream treat is and he says he guesses it’s ice cream sandwiches. Much to my surprise, he isn’t a big fan of cold desserts.

“I don’t really like eating ice cream in hot weather. I like to eat it when it’s cold.”

We travel down 23^rd Street to my final drop-off point. Along the way, he motions to a van with a “for sale” sign. He talks about purchasing another vehicle but he can’t stand all of the bells and whistles in the modern van models.

“It’s too much stuff I don’t need; I don’t like all those buttons and digital things.”

Martinez comes to a halt as he says goodbye. It’s not the end of his route just yet. It’s only 4 p.m., and he has a long day ahead of him. It’s a weekday, and he’s scheduled to continue on his route until 8 p.m., or half an hour before sunset.

“No quiere una botella de agua, una paleta, unos Cheetos?” he asks, as he reaches for a bottle of water.

I realize I have no change to pay him, but he insists.

“You owe me nothing,” he says. “It was my pleasure.”

Crystal Olvera covers features and entertainment for The Monitor and Festiva. You can reach her at (956) 683-4427 or at colvera@themonitor.com.