Summer job May 20 2004

Ice cream vendors drive for customers and greener pastures

I played hooky from work last Friday, opting to ditch my square co-workers for colleagues with smoother edges. My quest steered clear of museums and galleries, restaurants and bars, bringing me instead to a grimy warehouse district in northwest Atlanta and a Lithuanian man named Andrius.

My ambition was simple: Spend an entire day chronicling the activities of an ice cream truck driver. I would go on his route, talk to his customers and maybe even taste his products — in the name of research, clearly. I would learn the tricks of the trade. I would discover the neighborhood hot spots. I would leave a boy and return a man.

I meet Andrius at noon at the Frosty Treats headquarters. He is frantically loading $1,000 worth of ice cream from a giant freezer into his truck and making sure his counterparts are doing the same. I notice a giant map of Atlanta sectioned into quadrants on a wall inside the warehouse. Like wait stations at a restaurant, Atlanta is divided into territories that are divvied up among the 40 Frosty Treats drivers. Andrius’ territory extends to Douglas and Paulding counties where there is less competition.

Shortly thereafter and perfectly on cue, 40 trucks emerge from the Frosty Treats warehouse to troll metro Atlanta. Andrius remains behind to take inventory. We eventually leave the warehouse at 1 p.m. and crawl up I-75. I sit in the passenger seat of the truck, which is actually a ‘95 GMC van with a hefty freezer bolted to the floor.

Andrius Janulionis is a fair-skinned thick man whose stature borders on portly. He has an approachable smile and is well versed in English despite a heavy accent. His sandals are full of Velcro, and his “Bomb Pop” hat, I learn, is not a reference to a foreign techno act but an ice cream brand.

Last year, at age 22, Andrius interrupted his schooling in Lithuania, where he is currently working toward a master’s degree in marketing, to work a two-year internship at Frosty Treats. Andrius has since been promoted from driver to district manager and as a result, he is often one of the first to report to work at 8:30 a.m. and one of the last to leave.

“This year is much better,” says Andrius. “I’m satisfied with what I’m doing 100 percent. I used to live in Duluth, but with traffic it was an hour-and-a-half to work. It was too much.”

Andrius and all Frosty Treats drivers operate as self-employed independent contractors. The truck and the ice cream are provided to the drivers free of charge, but the driver pays for the gas. Each driver is paid by commission — 30 percent of sales. The operation is more or less a vast mobile lemonade stand servicing the entire city. Profits often range from $200 to $450 dollars a day for experienced drivers. Andrius gets “a little something” extra as a manger, but the rest is pure hustle.

Traffic is light as we make our way up Fulton Industrial Boulevard. It’s 2 p.m. on an unusually sticky April day. When asked why there’s no air conditioning in the van, Andrius says it would use too much gas — money from his pocket. Sweat seeps from under his hat.

We stop at some warehouses first.

“This place breaks at 2:30 p.m.,” Andrius says. “There is a man and a woman who come out. He gets the Push-Up Pop.”

A minute later, the droning of a bell sounds and the Kawasaki Motors employees file outside. A man and a woman emerge. He orders the Push-Up Pop.

Later, we hit some residential streets.

“This man always has a bag,” Andrius says upon approaching a man in Douglas County. “You should talk to him, he gets a lot.”

I obey and discover that the customer is a severe diabetic. He reveals a paper bag, which Andrius packs with sugary treats at the man’s request.

Andrius’ predictions prove true throughout the day, and therein lies the irony in his work. Although it requires little more than a driver’s license and one day of training, mobile ice cream vending is a sophisticated endeavor. Successful drivers are students of habits, routines and people. Through experience, Andrius can tell who will buy and how much, judging by lingering eye contact or the way someone is dressed.

By 3:30 p.m., I’m famished. I haven’t eaten all day, but I turn down Andrius’ offer of ice cream. Frozen sugar seems like an unwise addition to a palette of intense heat and an empty stomach. I suggest a lunch break, but Andrius declines, explaining that he gets sleepy when he eats on the job and that it would be a “safety hazard” to stop. He stops at a gas station so I can grab a snack, and I return with a gallon of juice, enough for both of us. I suspect the real reason Andrius doesn’t want to stop for lunch is because time is money.

By 4 p.m., I have been designated the official bell-ringer. After a thorough explanation from Andrius, I grab the rope dangling from the ceiling and tug. Andrius instructs me to loosen my wrist. “Much better!” he says with a warm grin.

Nearing the residential neighborhoods of Paulding County, Andrius tells me about his dream to open his own business when he returns to Lithuania. His internship concludes in September, and it’s proven to be a valuable learning experience. Besides, “Lithuania is picking up economically,” Andrius says.

I ask Andrius what kind of business he wants to start.

“Well,” Andrius laughs, “we don’t have an ice cream man in Lithuania.”

By now, I can ring the bell loud enough to attract anyone with the slightest interest in buying, though only the young and shirtless appear. Andrius knows the faces of all his young customers but never their names. To personalize the relationships would be a useless waste of time. At the truck, it’s straight commerce.

By 7 p.m., Andrius is visibly tired. “I’d like to go home early but I can’t risk it,” he says. “The last two hours will pick things up, you’ll see.”

The truck has hit the home stretch, sprinting now at uncomfortable speeds to beat the setting sun and to find any remaining dollars. We venture to a variety of trailer parks, including one named “Halle Berry.” As soon as I ring the bell, adults and children storm the truck, each person buying upward of $7 worth of ice cream.

The last few hours have proven lucrative, but the stress and pace have left Andrius weary. We drive back in silence.

At 9:30 p.m., Andrius parks the truck back at the Frosty Treats lot. Exhausted and hungry, he goes inside to count his earnings. On the wall I notice a tribute to Frosty Treats’ most successful drivers. Signs read “200 Club,” “300 Club,” etc., up to “600 Club.” The signs are accompanied by photographs of drivers who sold up to $600 worth of ice cream in one day. Some do their best bling-bling impression, holding wads of cash to project success. Others are expressionless.

Andrius’ total for the day is $341, good by most standards. After commission, and the $15 he spent on gas, he walks away with $87.30. He graciously thanks me for coming with him and bids me adieu, but not before giving me an honorary T-shirt. It reads, “Frosty Treats: We Create Fun!”