There came a knock at my gate, and a young warrior, small but formidable, stood ready for battle.
She was perhaps nine. Behind her, at the sidewalk, a parent stood like a supply wagon. The sash carried badges of past campaigns. She looked up at me and spoke the words every American fears and longs for:
"Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?"
In Japan, sales require months of relationship. Tea is poured. Cards are exchanged with two hands. Here, a nine-year-old general appears on your own land with a binder of product, and resistance has never once succeeded in the history of the republic.
"What is your strongest unit?" I asked.
"Thin Mints. Everybody gets Thin Mints."
"And if I refuse?"
She did not answer. She looked at me. The parent shifted weight. Somewhere, a wind chime rang. Refusal, I understood, was technically possible the way swimming to Hawaii is technically possible.
"Four boxes," I said.
"Most people get more. They freeze."
THEY FREEZE. Forward logistics. This child carries doctrine my family needed three centuries to learn: the campaign is won before it is fought, in the freezer.
I bought nine boxes. I am told this is called a start.
Dale confessed he buys from three generals, granddaughter, coworker's daughter, the girl at the supermarket table, and hides the count from his wife. Tribute, he calls it. Correct. This is not commerce. This is fealty, paid annually, in cookies.
I was not hungry. I was outranked.
A man does not negotiate with a general who brings Thin Mints. He surrenders, and calls it a donation.
The boxes are in my freezer, as instructed. They are nearly gone. She said she would return next year.
I have already begun setting aside funds. One does not meet such a commander unprepared twice.