Several years ago, my eldest and I were picking up the house and having a conversation about video games. He wanted us to buy him a new Nintendo Switch game and I told him that he would need to save up some of his money.
With genuine confusion he retorted, “You don’t need money, you just hand that plastic card to the checkout person and they give you what you want.” This led to an impromptu discussion of capitalism and our nation's banking infrastructure.
I explained that the card was tied to an account with a finite amount of money in it. When the balance of that account drops below the cost of what you are buying, the clerk will no longer hand you what you want and the entire transaction becomes a misdemeanor at best.
As comprehension dawned on his face, he exclaimed “Once you are out of money, you can’t buy anymore stuff!” I briefly contemplated entering into a more in depth discussion concerning revolving lines of credit and title loans but realized that, despite my best intentions, the conversation would somehow devolve into me explaining why people walk funny if they are unable to make good on their financial obligations to the mob .
He inquired as to how one goes about refilling the account tied to the card and I told him that he would need to get a job and earn a paycheck. That paycheck could then be electronically deposited in his bank account (or cashed at any reputable liquor store). He was immediately onboard with the concept and asked if we could find him a job that very afternoon.
While his passion for immediate gainful employment was commendable, I told him that there were Federal child labor laws that precluded individuals in his demographic from officially entering the workforce. Dejected, he conceded that he would just have to save his allowance / birthday money to get the game.
While this conversation was taking place, my wife was upstairs arranging for a couple of pizzas to be delivered for dinner. So, with this exchange fresh in his mind, my son responded to our doorbell by looking through the sidelites to identify our visitor.
On this particular occasion, our delivery driver was a woman in a baseball cap who also happened to be a “little person.” It is important to note that while we had already completed many of the talks about unique physical traits (most notably when my son was 5 and loudly inquired about whether or not the man with a prosthetic leg had “not been paying attention” when his factory equipment fell off) we had not yet covered dwarfism.
Devoid of this information, the logical conclusion my son came to was as follows:
1. Pizza delivery was a job and jobs generated revenue and revenue assisted in the procurement of video games.
2. The individual standing at our door with our pizza was shorter than he was which must mean that they were younger than he was.
3. My father is filthy liar because clearly there is a veritable army of 3rd graders with W2s and folding money. This lucky kid probably had an investment portfolio.
With the level of volume one can only reach while in the throes of righteous indignation, he turned from the door and pointed accusingly at me before announcing, “You told me that kids can’t work but there is a little boy at our front door right now working for the pizza place! I bet he has all the video games he wants because his dad didn’t lie to him to keep him from being happy!!”
Looking up from my wallet where I was searching for cash to tip the driver, I realized that the individual my son had repeatedly referred to as a “little boy” was, in fact, a grown woman with a rare genetic condition. Furthermore, due to both his volume and proximity to the door, I knew she had heard every word.
My priority at that moment was to stop the bleeding. I furiously pantomimed for my son to lower his volume and move away from the door which only caused him to loudly exclaim, “Why do you keep telling me to be quiet!? I am pretty sure he knows he is a little boy! It’s not a secret!”
I could only assume that by now the pizza lady had opened the lid of our entree and was just seconds away from forcefully depositing the entirety of her post nasal drip onto it.
The more furiously I gesticulated for his silence the louder and more frequently the term “little boy” escaped his lips. Finally, I managed to divert him into the den by making some vague promise of asking the “young man” about a lateral-transfer initiative or apprenticeship.
Finally alone, I realized that all of my options were bad. I could breezily open the door and feign ignorance that my son’s rant had taken place. While initially tempting, I ultimately decided that this course of action would only serve to insult this woman’s intelligence after my son had already insulted her appearance.
I also weighed the idea of apologizing profusely and attempting to salvage the situation by reassuring her that she did not look like a little boy at all and that it was very clear she was a grown woman with a strong work ethic. I ultimately decided that this would either be construed as disingenuous flirtation or I would awkwardly utter a mildly-prosecutable phrase like, "I’ve always liked young boys holding food”
I reopened my wallet and added several large bills to the $5 I had originally selected before answering the door. The look on her face was indicative of a woman whose vision-board never consisted of weekend pizza delivery, much less being repeatedly identified as a pre-pubescent boy whilst doing so.
I apologized profusely before handing her all of the cash in our house and taking the boxes from her. I glanced down to reassure myself that the Covid-era tamper-seal was intact before wishing her a wonderful evening.
My wife descended the stairs bragging that she had cashed in all of her reward points on the app the get the pizzas for “practically nothing.” I had to tell her that not only had I handed the delivery driver the last of our liquid assets, but that we would probably need to make a sizable donation to skeletal dysplasia research if we ever wished to utilize their delivery service again. To this day, I will not have pizza delivered to our house from that establishment.