“Go get your child,” insisted the enraged visitor on my front step.
I knew exactly who this guy was: the arrogant, diminutive prick who lived three blocks away. A banker… lawyer… something….
And I knew exactly what he wanted: his newspaper this morning wasn’t delivered to his front step but rather through his bay window. Yet another unsatisfied customer.
I leaned my oversized frame up against the jamb, flexed my tossin’ arm in full view.
Just wait ‘til he learns of my displeasure with his nonexistent tipping habits.
And just wait ‘til he learns that I don’t have any kids.
The Weekday One Hundred 