My name is Charles Staniunas, and I enjoy reading the Washington Post that is delivered to my home every day. The constant tide of newsprint apprises me of information from all sectors, and indeed, makes me feel more at home. I grew up with similar. I am grateful to have the gift of reading, and the Post does everything to roundly reinforce that gratitude.
I answered my phone several weeks ago from an unknown number. The caller claimed her name was V. and that she was calling on behalf of the Post to ask about Capital Business, the additional insert of which I had received two copies already, and would I like to subscribe to it weekly for a fee? I declined, with thanks for calling.
The next day I received a similar phone call from another woman who did not state her name, and asked the same questions and sounded like she was calling from the same boiler room. I answered honestly again that I would like to decline the offer, and further stated how it was odd that I would have to decline twice in two days; I had already spoken with V. about the matter.
At any rate I felt the affair settled. I didn't want the thing and expected to not see it again at my doorstep.
In the intervening weeks, I have ever met that stranger at my doorstep anyway. I stare at it with fitful ire, perplexed at its presence. Yet, I cannot simply leave it in the outside world to be stained by the Sun or torn asunder by the army of wild animals who wait just beyond the treeline. No. My taking that stranger in is entirely an act of human kindness, not to be confused with the intent to purchase. Having twice averred to representatives of the Post the counter of that intent, I fully expect to not see Capital Business darken my doorstep again.
The magazine itself is unruly, ungainly, and ugly. It is too tall to fit neatly in my paper pile once read. It requires an additional bag to be delivered; two extra on rainy days. The title box is garish.
Having already told you twice, I tell you a third time: cut it out! I do not want this thing and certainly do not want to pay for it. The appearance of Capital Business on my doorstep reminds me of a scam I read about in a detective fiction about a mastermind who extorted money from people by publishing an overpriced, innocuous circular and blackmailing them into subscribing to it for a fixed period of time. The trick worked because the mastermind would send anonymous letters to them claiming to know their secrets, and enough people had secrets they didn't want let out, and the fee was low enough (still curiously large for a circular) that they would pay it and be done with it.
You have chanced upon a vain creature in me; one who will not simply let this stranger keep knocking or pay a fee to abide.
Let the end of this be next Monday, when I go to pick up my paper from the doorstep and find the old friend there, alone, waiting patiently to be welcomed in.