a tiny tale

The Measure of a Man

On a worn but still comfortable couch, an old man sat holding a book, which was even older and more worn than the couch. Next to him sat a little boy. Everything about the boy hinted of fresh-scrubbed sharpness, from his glowing skin to the clever look in his eyes. He listened attentively to the story the man read aloud.

“...but this seemingly peaceful town had a serious problem,” the old man was saying. “They were plagued by a monster that destroyed their crops and crushed their houses. This giant was so big that he wore a grandfather clock on his wrist, and used a bathtub for a teacup.”

“That doesn't scale, Grandpa,” said the the little boy, with a frown. “Or else it would be a very small teacup.”

“It’s a story, sweetie.”

“Well, it doesn’t make sense.”

“Sense? You're the reason fairy tales aren't told no more, boy." Snapping the book shut, the grandfather went off in a huff.

Years later, the little boy grew up, bought a suit, and worked on Wall Street, the center of scale and sense. He, at least, lived happily ever after, never worrying about crops or houses at all.