I sent my son out to do some undercover investigative reporting. It was like Veronica Mars, but without the beaches, beautiful people, or Backup.
Sam’s job was to dig into the smoothie story. Armed only with his point and shoot camera, he was to find out who is behind the Weston Smoothie Café and what their plans are. Global expansion? World domination? Grilled sandwiches?
I should have known better. Instead of a full report, I got a single usable photo and a bill. Worse, I had to do the interrogating—of my own boy.
His report was curt, as you might expect of a hard boiled 11-year old.
I leaned over, placing my hands on the table. He could feel my breath on his face. “How was it? Tell me, son, and this will go better for you.”
He slurped the bottom of the cup and the slurples turned my stomach. “Tastes like real mango” he said when he was done sucking.
I stood and looked at the mirror, straightening my neck. “Not good enough, pal. Tell me everything. You know how this goes. I need the details.”
“Very good. Would recommend. Worth the price.” He put the cup on the table, leaving his sticky prints all over it. I’d have to pick it up later.
“We’re getting there. But I know you didn’t make the smoothie alone. You’re not good enough. Tell me who was in on it.”
A smile brightened his chubby little face. “The service was very good.There were three people there, the dude who takes your order and two other people who make it. They were nice.”
I knew then what had happened. For the price of a mango smoothie, he’d been bought. He wasn’t working for me; he was working for them now.
My son had been mixed up and turned by the smoothie man.