Flipper Boy vs The Rich White Guys

So I'm delivering a fairly big order over to some guys over in Swankville.

I arrive at the giant house, ring the bell and an older gentleman, maybe 65,
answers the door. He has me come in and place the pies on his dining
room table. There's six or seven other men in the living room around
what appears to be a small craps table. All of the guys appear to be
between 55 and 70 years old. They are white, they are rich and
they know it. They look as if they just stepped out of the AARP
version of the J Crew catalog.
I tell them that they owe me $52.50 (please) and they start getting
their money in order. One guy writes a check, one guy asks another
if he can borrow some money, while everybody else starts digging
through their wallets.
A couple of them chat me up.
They're totally patronizing.
They look at me in my battered winter coat and stocking cap as if
I were the retarded kid in gymclass.
I feel uncomfortable and dirty.
I wait.

For a bunch of seemingly well-educated fellas, they are unable to get
their math right and the ringleader keeps telling them to pony up more cash.
This is a good sign, for the more money they throw in the pot,
I feel my tip growing.

Still, I wait.

The house is enormous with a living room twice as big as my
entire apartment. The place is incredibly clean and pristine
with tasteful artwork on the walls and freshly polished hardwood floors.
In short, the place feels like a museum.

Finally, the ringleader hands me a stack of bills and informs me that
"there's a little extra for you" with a slight laugh. The laugh seems
almost a little sarcastic, but I thank them profusely and leave.
I'm sure they gave a good tip.
I jog back to the Pizzacar with fistful of cash and dollar
signs dancing in my head.
Then I start to count out the money.

They had given me exactly fifty-five dollars.
A two dollar and fifty cent tip.
That's less than 5 percent.
I look up at the guy's million dollar home and see the silhouette
of one of the men in the window.
I start the car, but hesitate a moment.
I start thinking.
I bet all of those guys have health insurance.
I bet none have had to explain to their landlord why their
rent won't be on time.
I bet they never write a check and have to pray that they make
enough money and get it in the bank before the check clears.
I bet they never have to endure a toothache due to lack of a dental plan.
Fuck 'em.

I drive back to the shop listening to Mischke,
Undertaker Fred is singing "Down By The Old Mill Stream".

Upon arrival, I see one of the other drivers leaving with an order.
"Good news" he says "You get to visit Flipper Boy"
"Who's Flipper Boy?" I ask.
"You're about to find out" he says with a laugh "Don't worry,
he tips good".

I walk into the shop and look at the order.
It's the address of an assisted-living apartment complex.
Usually, assisted living apartments are the pits, inhabited
by people on a fixed income (a very low fixed income that is)
and not exactly happy that they're living there in the first place.
These people usually tip poorly if ever and I can't really
blame them. However, the one good thing about these places
is the fact that they usually have a chair or a bench in the elevators,
perfect for a weary Pizzaman to rest on his way to a delivery.

I grab the order, a large single pie, and head out.

I arrive at the complex and am promptly buzzed up by this
"Flipper Boy". I sit on the little bench in the elevator and
stare at the wall during my 4-floor vertical trip.
Finally the doors open, I grab the pizza and start down
the hallway. I spot the apartment. I can see that the door
is already open, a good sign for this means the customer
is ready for me. A quick transaction, I hope. When I get
to the door I'm greeted by a man, maybe in his mid-twenties,
wearing a tie-dyed shirt and jeans. He's about six-feet tall,
blind (no glasses) and his arms are seriously underdeveloped,
just little flipper-like appendages below where the elbow
should be. In his one-inch nubs that he has for fingers, he holds
a couple bills. I try not to stare for a second, but then
figure he's blind, so I relax.
I mean, shit, he can't see anything.

"Hi! The Pizzaman?" he says in a very cheery voice.
"Yup" I reply, "That'll be $19.25"
"Well, here's the money! Just put that pizza right here".
I take the money and place the pie in his little flipper arms.
"Oh, that smells good. This is going to be great!
Keep the change!" he says.
I look at the bills he handed to me. A twenty and a five, a $5.75 tip.
"Hey man, thanks a lot. I really appreciate it" I say.
"You're welcome"
"OK, thanks. Bye"
I start to leave.

"Hey! Hold on!" he says.
I stop and back up to his door.
"Could you do me a favor?" he asks.
"Sure"
"Could you tell me what my shirt says? I can't really read
it myself you know" he says with a smile and a slight chuckle
"My girlfriend sent it to me and I don't know what it says,
what it looks like".
"Actually, it doesn't say anything, it's tie-dye"
"Does it look good?"
"Yeah, it does. Whoever made it did a good job"
"Super! I'm glad I look good. Great! OK, that's all
I needed. Thank you"
"You're welcome" I say and start down the hall.

I get to the elevator and take my seat for the ride down.
As I stare at the elevator wall, I start thinking about
Flipper Boy. How he must lead this extremely dark and limited life.
How he must not have that much money to spare.
How he tipped me twice as much as the Rich White Guys, even
though any one of those dudes must make more money in
interest than Flipper Boy makes in a year.
How he was pretty damn happy and treated me with so
much kindness. How the Rich Whitey's looked down on me
and treated me poorly. I thought about the cards we're dealt
in this crapshoot we call life and how much more fortunate
some are and how unfortunate others are(or perhaps, vice versa).
I suddenly felt quite lucky. And lucky that I came across
the Flipper Boy. I felt like calling the Rich White Guys
and telling them about the Flipper Boy.

Then, as the elevator doors opened, those thoughts suddenly
vanished and I could only think of one thing:
Flipper Boy has a girlfriend and I don't?
Damn, I must be doing something wrong.

... or Flipper Boy must be doing something very, very right.
Indeed.