Grand Theft Auto 3, East L.A., and a neighbor’s “ride” that didn’t need a key.
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Back in 2001–2002, I was an usher at Dodger Stadium.
One of my coworkers, Arturo—Art—became my boy. Looked like a cholo (shaved head, mustache, heavyset) but he wasn’t; chill, funny, good dude.
After late games I’d drive him home to East L.A. Sometimes we’d end up in his living room playing Grand Theft Auto 3 on the PS2. That game was fire back then. For whatever reason, nobody else was ever home—just us, the TV glow, quiet street outside.
Then one night, close to midnight, we hear it.
An ice cream truck.
At midnight.
We look at each other like, what the…?
The truck stops right in front of his house and honks.
We pause the game and step outside. Sure enough—real ice cream truck, music off, lights on. This short dude in his 30s hops out like, “What’s up, dog?”
Art starts laughing, “What’s up, doggy!”
They hug it out like old friends. Dude goes, “You like my new ride, eh?”
Art’s like, “This is your ride?”
Dude grins: “Nah, my neighbor’s. But this thing starts without a key.”
We walk up—he jumps in, twists the ignition with no key, and it roars to life.
We’re dying.
“Want ice cream?” he says.
“Yeah, sure,” we say, like this is normal.
Hands us our ice cream, then tells us his little hobby:
“Sometimes I take it and park it a few blocks over. I watch him come out all confused like, ‘Where’s my truck?’”
He laughs. “I’m gonna park it down the block right now. See what he does.”
He climbs back in, pulls off slow, the melody drifting down the street.
Me and Art just stood there eating ice cream under a midnight sky, shaking our heads like—
Only in East L.A.
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