This was written in attempt to answer the question of what life might be like for a psychic pizza delivery boy.
Just
walking up to the front door with the pizza in hand, Jason knew it was going to
be difficult to get his tip. The
reclaimed cement lining the front walk, the rusted metal welded into artistic
shapes, the cds hanging from the tree branches all spoke of the homeowner as
someone who was a determined recycler and confirmed tightwad. He didn’t have to be psychic to see
that.
He
rung the doorbell and waited. The
sun had gone down about ten minutes ago and the glow on the western horizon
gave everything a golden outline.
The
door opened and a grizzled, bearded face poked out. Seeing the pizza box in Jason’s hand, the door was opened a
bit wider. The man had heavy grey
eyebrows and sunken cheeks, greasy fingertips and a hacking cough.
“Pizza
for Mister Hanover?” Jason glanced
at the receipt taped to the pizza box.
“That’s
Ha-nover,” said the man.
Jason’s
psychic senses saw the tip level calculation in Mr. Ha-nover’s head drop a few dollars. “You must enjoy correcting people who mispronounce your
name,” he said. “When did you
decide to pronounce it differently?”
He enjoyed watching the man’s eyes widen and mouth open in surprise.
“Freshman
year of college, huh? Yeah, I
suppose that’s the age to break away from your family, especially when you’re
trying to get out from under a dad who’s abusive,” Jason continued
sympathetically.
“Do
I know you?” the man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Not
from Adam,” answered Jason cheerfully.
“Twenty-three dollars even, please.”
“How
do you know so much about me then?” asked Mr. Ha-nover as he pulled out his wallet and opened it.
“Just
throwing out crazy wild guesses,” said Jason, adopting an
innocent-and-slightly-clueless attitude. He accepted the two twenties Mr. Ha-nover gave him and handed back a ten and
two ones. “My mom always said I
have a crazy imagination. It
starts when I begin making up stories in my head about why people do one
particular thing so differently.”
He tucked his own wallet back in his pocket.
“Really. You got all that from the pronunciation
of my name?” Mr. Ha-nover leaned against his doorjamb with
the pizza box between his hand and his hip.
“Sort
of.” Jason wasn’t about to explain
his abilities at length having pocketed a generous tip. “We hope you’ll call Pizza Bob’s again
soon! See ya!” He waved, turned, and jogged back to
his car.
Distraction
got them every time, he thought.
