The Indian at the Gate

I love a good practical joke, particularly at Wifey's expense, but yesterday D2 called me, out of breath from laughing, to report the results of a NON-prank that turned out hilarious.

Wifey is sometimes Mr. Magoo-like, and she forgets to do things like open the gate for food delivery men. Last year I arrived home to see and angry Chinaman from Canton, whose calls were being ignored. I paid him, and then called and left a scathing message, in my fake Chinese accent, about how I was losing money, and how rude and inconsiderate "you wich rite people are." There is zero political correctness in my house...

Last night, Wifey again ordered Canton, and 30 minutes or so later, there was a call at the gate. She answered and let the man in, but reported to D2 that it really WASN'T the Canton man, because he had a "fake Indian accent."

No, Wifey concluded, it must be me again, lampooning her tardiness in responding to delivery men.

A few moments later, there was a knock at the door, and D2 asked whether Wifey was going to answer. "No," Wifey replied in her sing-song way, that retains the inflections and tone of her Canarsie, Brooklyn youth, "It's NOT the Canton man --it's Dad!"

Well, the knocking became more insistent, and angry, and finally Wifey responded to the poor, subcontinent delivery man, who wondered why he was being ignored.

"I thought you were my husband, pretending to be the Canton man."

Indian Canton man: "You husband no work for Canton! If he did, why he need me to deliver. I no understand."

Well, D2 had a bout of laughter so hearty that it may have purged most of the angst of her difficult high school senior year, and when we reported this latest Mr. Magoo-ism to D1 in Gainesville, she savored it as well.

So --the fable is true. The one about the boy who cried Canton.