The Tip-off (fiction)

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.