A Spoiled Child

Once upon a time, in a land not too far away, there was a spoiled, little boy named Donny. The child appeared to lack for nothing. He owned every toy and gadget imaginable, changed into shiny, new clothes four times a day at least, and stuffed his mouth with pastries and delicacies he demanded from his maid. Yes, at ten years old, he had a maid, who he managed to keep on the verge of tears with a barrage of demands and tantrums that were endless.

            “I want that donut,” he said, “and I want it now! That one, the one covered in chocolate, the big one, the best one.”

            “Now, Donny,” Miss Witless began. She suspected Donny already had sneaked no less than two from the stack of sweets that had been placed in the corner of the playroom earlier that day, but she wasn’t about to confront little Donny.

            “Shut up, you ugly good-for-nothing hag,” Donny retorted. “Get out of this room. Get out! Get out!”

            Miss Witless scrunched up her shoulders, lowered her head, and skedaddled. Behind her, Donny smirked, his fat lips pursed as though he’d been sucking lemons, and his little hands flailing in the air uncontrollably. In no time at all, however, he wanted something else. He was still hungry.

            “Hey, maid,” he called. “Come here. Now. I need you to fix my lunch.”

He softened when she stepped to the playroom door. “You’re a pretty nice maid, Miss Witless, an excellent maid. I know you will do what I ask because you like me. I’m likeable, very likeable. You like me, don’t you? Of course, you do.”

 Donny smiled a crooked grin and patted his chubby belly as if he were starving. I can get that creepy, ugly, old bitch to do whatever I want. She’s a lowlife. She worships this job. Without it she’d be out on the street with the rest of the riffraff out there.

Miss Witless looked warily, her feet shuffling a bit from side to side, but she waited silently until Donny commanded. “Tacos. I want tacos, big, fat tacos. Go make them for me. Now.”

“Donny, it’s not lunchtime yet.”

“I’m hungry, very, hungry, exceptionally hungry!” He yelled so loudly his voice cracked.

Then, as a chameleon might alter its color, he changed his tone. “I can’t believe you’re being so mean to me, Miss Witless.  You hurt my feelings. You really did. I have feelings, lots of feelings, many bunches of feelings. I do, even if I’m only a kid.”

“Donny, I’m not being mean.”

“You are! You are being mean. Very mean! Really, really mean! I don’t understand why you are being so mean to me.”

Donny buried his head in his arms pretending to sob but, in fact, he was secretly grinning. When he looked up finally, he squinted at Miss Witless and simply said, “Now.”

Miss Witless stared at the boy as if he was demented, but said nothing. She turned instead and marched to the kitchen to fulfill Donny’s latest demand.

In the dining room, Donny sat alone, gazing at his surroundings. The walls of the room were a deep burgundy that would have made the place very dark, but a bank of windows, from floor to ceiling, let in merciful light. Large framed works of precious art were hung on three walls, and above the long, mahogany, dining table hung a massive, ornate chandelier. Donny both loved and hated being here, but he had absolutely no idea why. He waited impatiently for his tacos for several minutes more, twisting in his seat, kicking the underside of the table with his feet, pounding his fists on the arms of the chair, and tilting his head in order to watch a thin stream of his own spit drop onto the thick, Asian carpet. When he could control himself no further, he exploded.

“I’m starving, here! Starving,” he screamed. “Get some food on this table. Now!”

On cue, Miss Witless placed Donny’s lunch, the tacos he had ordered, in front of him.

“These look gross. They stink. Who made them? You? Get them out of here. Get this rotten shit out of here. Give me something else. Pizza. I want pizza.”

“Donny,” Miss Witless sighed, “we don’t have pizza.”

 “Well get some and call my friends,” Donny said, his face blazing red and his eyes darting. “Have them here at two. I have many friends, lots of them, tons of them. It’s because they like me. I am the person they want to be around. I am likeable, very likeable. Everyone likes me.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Miss Witless muttered.

In reality, had Miss Witless known, virtually all of Donny’s friends were increasingly reluctant to visit him. Indeed, some had abandoned him completely, but those who had not, showed up to be fawned over first, and belittled second. It was a routine tango of love and hate and no one seemed to have a clue how to stop the music. And although his buddies should have learned from experience, they stayed on, perhaps to play with Donny’s bounty of toys, video games, and gadgets, to splash in his family’s Olympic size pool, or to gorge on the never-ending abundance of treats. Maybe, in the minds of the hangers-on, the decadence would rub off. Maybe, just maybe, it would. More likely, however, if they faced the truth, they would understand, for an absolute fact, it would not.

            In any case, Donny couldn’t have cared less.