It was a cart like this one.

I was telling this story recently at a family gathering, and my brother, who had not heard it, said I should do a post about it. It took a long time to tell, complete with hand gestures. Here’s the short version, you’ll have to imagine my gesticulation while you read.

In 2006, on a family visit to Calgary, my son and I planned to take in the Vans Warped Tour, the annual travelling extravaganza of punk and metal music. We were driving in from out of town and were supposed to meet some of his friends at the festival site.

There was a huge traffic jam, and we eventually decided to walk the last couple of kilometres. Vivian and Janice, who have no affinity for such music, dropped us at the side if the road. Paul asked if he could run on ahead. He already had a ticket and wanted to meet up with his friends. I said sure. I was planning on paying at the gate and was in no particular rush.

As I headed towards the main gate I passed a VIP/Media entrance. I thought for a second and turned in. Turns out I wasn’t eligible to enter, not VIP enough. (If I had contacted organizers beforehand I could have managed a media pass, but I was on vacation so I hadn’t bothered.) Undeterred I headed for the main gate and the ticket booth.

Just as I was leaving, a young man at that VIP entrance asked me if I had a ticket. “No.” “Do you want to get in for free?” “What is the catch?” (I’m an adult; I know that nothing other than salvation is free; there is always a catch.)

The catch had four wheels and a handle – an ice cream cart. You’ve seen them. Ice cream sandwiches and various frozen treats on a stick, all at high prices. Some of his workforce hadn’t shown up. If I sold ice cream I would get into the festival for free, could go watch whatever band I wanted and sell ice cream while I listened. As well as free admission there was a commission.

I’m a professional. Sell ice cream from a cart? Beneath me of course. I thanked him and said I wasn’t interested. I headed for the ticket booth. Fifty yards down the road I retraced my steps. As I have mentioned before, I am somewhat frugal Admission to the festival site was going to be about $40 as I recall, and our cross-country trip was expensive. I was a little leery about surrendering my driver’s licence as collateral for a cart full of ice cream, but realized it made sense for him to have something to ensure I returned with money from the sales, if I made any.

I enjoyed the experience, for the most part. It was a hot sunny day and I was making people very happy. I resisted the temptation to partake of my offerings, and in about two hours I was sold out. Not much selection at the end, and my wares were getting a little soft. I was too busy to really appreciate the music I was listening to, but I did get to hear the bands I wanted.

I returned my cart when I sold out, and the proprietor wanted to load me up with more, but I declined. I wasn’t there to work; I was on vacation and ready to enjoy the rest of the festival.

It was a good deal though. I got in for free, and my commission was $160. Not bad for two hours work. My son and his friends laughed when they saw me. The laughter died when they discovered how much I was paid.