The doorbell rings, and there's a knock at the door. Both. Someone's very insistent. There's no peephole in the door, and the window next to it is not positioned to let me see who's out there. And like that classic nightmare about high school, I'm not wearing any pants. "Hold on!" I yell and run upstairs to find some. There's a pair on top of the "wash these as soon as you're motivated" pile. The zipper is stuck in the down position, but no time to fix it. There's another knock, and another bell. I hate that doorbell.

I had to look down to see the cause of all this commotion. The boy, who appeared to be 10 or 11, shoved a copy of today's local paper into my hands, saying: "we'd like you to have this complimentary newspaper and offer you a 3-month subscription at an unbelievably low price." Somebody's been coaching this kid. I was 10 or 11 once, and I sure didn't talk like that with my buddies in the secret clubhouse.

Cute kid, but I think I can head him off at the pass.

"I get the paper at work."

He was ready for this. "But we'll bring it to your doorstep every morning."

"I don't want home delivery. I get the paper at work."

This kid's gonna be an actor someday. He didn't actually cry, but that quivering chin was a nice touch. "But Mister, all I gotta do is sell one more subscription, then I can go to summer camp. (I think he said summer camp. Doesn't matter, the pitch is the same.)

Oh, somebody call Guinness. I mean what are the odds? Each and every bell-ringing munchkin I've encountered for the past five years has proclaimed his stepfather will stop beating him or he can get into drug rehab or his life will otherwise be just wonderful, If I and I alone buy the chocolate bar, or the raffle ticket, or whatever. (Don't include Girl Scout Cookies in this. Those Thin Mints are special.)

And calling me "Mister" makes me feel like a geriatric. (OK, so I remember the Beatles on Sullivan and Armstrong on the moon. Don't rub it in!)

He wasn't going to make this sale; my job now was to get him to go away. Please believe me when I tell you I'm usually more diplomatic than this.

"My young friend, I was born at night, but not last night. I'm not giving you money to subscribe to a newspaper I already get for free, and if you really only need to sell one more subscription, the next person who actually buys that sob story of yours will finish you up for the day and you can go home!"

That was apparently more sales-resistance than he was prepared to handle. Closing the door at the end of it may have helped, too. He left, which was nice. He didn't key my car, which was even nicer.

Still, I had to admire this boy's spunk. I was still admiring it as I looked through the Yellow Pages and picked up the phone.

"Hello? How much to disconnect a doorbell?"