Within a week, there was another young man knocking at our door—this time, in a military uniform.  He said he was also collecting a user fee.

"It’s for services rendered, Sir," he began in a down-home manner.  "You wouldn’t want a big ole Russian SS-20 missile knockin’ down your little fella’s swing set over there, now would you?"

I paused.  I considered my chances of changing his line of reasoning.  I began fishing in my pockets for change.

He unfolded a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, in that crisp, efficient way that soldiers do in the movies when they produce official documents.  "Counting Star Wars, the triple-pronged deterrent scheme, ground troops in Europe and Asia, tanker escorts in the Middle East, and tax-free watches for the troops at the PX, your share comes to $15,235.87."

"But...I...uh..." was the gist of my response.

"Will that be cash, check, or three years’ life-threatening servitude from your son?"

I’m sure he was only gesturing in the direction of my little tyke, and the fact that his hand held an M-16 was purely coincidental.  Still, I felt an overprotective urge to intervene.

"I’ll get my checkbook," I blubbered.

I found the unused checkbook from our NOW account.  (You know, the one we paid the fee on?)  I wrote out a check in an amount several orders of magnitude than had ever been in the account.    Seeing my wife’s worried expression, I said, "Look, Honey, it’s okay.  The government does this all the time."

I handed the check to the young man in uniform, got him out the door, closed and locked it.

"Besides," I said as I watched him join a truckload of his M-16-toting companions running similar errands up and down the street, "we can always move.  Change our identities.  That sort of thing."