Anthony Says...

I pick up Anthony from school. He climbs into the car looking a bit perplexed.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
Anthony says "Girls are crazy, Dad."
I ask him why.
"Because you can never tell what they really mean."
I almost crash the car realizing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my 12 year old my son is a bona-fide genius. I'm thinking where I should take him for an I.Q. test when he belches and tells me that he also thinks math is stupid.
So much for genius.
We debate homework vs X-Box time for a bit. I tell him we've gotta swing by the bank.
"Why do we always have to go to the bank, Dad?"
"Because there's never enough money."
"So, if there's never enough money... why go to the bank?"
"Because that's where the money is at." I refrain from adding "smart ass". I'll save that for his teens.
But he's MY son, so he doesn't let it go. "So...what then?"
"So what then, what??? We need money, we're going to the bank to get some."
He nods. "Good. 'Cause I'm hungry."
"Who says we're going to get money to buy you food?"
"Well, I just thought, ya know...when we have money...well, why not?"
I do the unthinkable and go cliche on him, "Ya know, money doesn't grow on trees."
"What?" He says, looking at me like his sister does sometimes, like I'm stupid.
"I said money doesn't grow on trees."
He bottles up his face and looks at me quizzically, "Well, of course it doesn't."
We're getting nowhere in this conversation. So we begin to verbally fence.
"The point is, when you want money, you get a job. That's how you get money." (Strike)
"That's the only way to get money?" (Parry)
"Short of committing a crime, yes. So you better be ready to get a job soon." (Strike)
"I'm twelve."  (Parry)
"Exactly." (Strike)
"Exactly what?" (Parry)
"You're one year away from thirteen, when I got my first job." (Strike)
 Silence (Time Out)
We go to the bank and afterwards I decide pull one over on him. It's a Dad's right. I exercise it frequently, as both of my children know.
"You still want a burger or something, boy?"
Big smile. "Yeah, Dad."
I reply with a bigger smile."Good. We'll get your favorite kid's meal...and an application while we're there."
My son wears glasses, which only enhances his bug-eyed look of shock."No, Dad."
I can barely contain my laughter."Why not?"
The car is silent as we get to the McDonald's and go through the drive thru. He orders his cheeseburger mini-meal (alas the kid's meals days are over, sigh) but I can tell he's not so hungry anymore. When we get to the window I pay and...ask if they're hiring!
He resorts to the nuclear option immediately. "I'm telling Mom."
I smile and tell the drive-thru kid to never mind.
As we drive home I glance in the rear view mirror. My son has the look on his face of a man who has just escaped a drastic fate.
"I forgot," I say, just as he's finally relaxed.
"What?"
"We need to get your work permit first."
Bug eyes again.