Little Biffy was sitting in the shopping cart one day while I selected groceries from the shelves. He was contentedly playing with his Taser when he looked up at me. I’m not sure if a demon entered him or if his nascent sense of humor was blossoming, but he suddenly screamed out:
“You’re not my Dad!”
I was shocked and dumbfounded. My mouth hung open and my eyes bulged, because I am his Dad.
Biff looked to the right and the left. “He’s not my Dad!” he screamed. “He’s an imposter!”
“What?” I hissed. “Biffy, what are you talking about? This is not a good joke! We’re in a supermarket!” I grabbed his little chin to emphasize his need to hush.
The woman by the breadcrumbs turned. Her brows furrowed and she squinted grimly at me. I looked at her, trying to appear innocent.
“He’s starving me!” Biff continued. “He won’t feed me any nourishment!”
The woman started searching her purse for her cell phone.
“Biff! Just because I told you that you can’t have another chocolate quarter-pounder doesn’t mean I’m starving you! You just ate two bags of caramel corn in the car!”
Biff started pounding his little fists and kicking his feet against the wire cart.
“Don’t crush the egg noodles!” I shouted.
By that time a crowd had gathered. Over the loudspeaker I heard, “Security to fruit juices for an incident…”
Biff had put me in an uncomfortable predicament from which I could not easily extricate myself. Next to Biff’s ear, I whispered through gritted teeth, “Tell these nice people I’m your Dad, or you’ll never get to watch Halloween 5 again!”
Biff laughed. “Just kidding,” he told the crowd. “He really is my dad. I just enjoy seeing him sweat!”
Yes, Biff’s sense of humor began to flourish that day in the supermarket aisle. When he turned thirteen, I made him join the circus.