You’d hear about their arrival before you even saw them. A neighborhood kid would excitedly announce to the street that they were coming. Heads would pop up over fences; peek out of front doors; appear between net curtains. It was true, they were on our street: the Pop Man.
They’d have everything: cola, lemonade, limeade, and my favorite: dandelion and burdock. The sweetness of much refined sugar with the slightly medicinal, savory quality of the ingredients that flavor it. I’d run out into the street with a quid and come back with a 2-liter bottle.
The pop man brought joy to a summer’s day (or any other).
I loved pop. Pop felt like one of the biggest treats I could imagine. A bottle of pop to myself seemed audacious. Who was I—the Queen of England? I wasn’t even sure my body could hold 2 liters of pop. I’d never try to find out though. I’d sip it; savor it—like Charlie Bucket.
The Pop Man seems like such an odd idea today: a stranger (sort of) driving around in a modified transit van, stacked high with soda and candy. A van literally designed to encourage children to sprint towards it, loose change grasped in their clammy little hands.
In 1990’s England, though, it was one of the best parts of summer for me, followed closely by the ice cream truck. The Pop Man was different though. No jingle, rarely a nice little menu affixed—just word of mouth and the promise of your favorite bottle of pop.