Candy

      I was putting gas in the tank when I saw a kid holding a cardboard box filled with candy. Chocolate bars I presumed. He was selling the candy for an "organization," it's common in Los Angeles.
      I did my best to make myself small, and for a time it was working. But the kid was making his rounds, and I was his next target. I tried to think of what to say to him when he finally did get to me. I was bored with my standard answer, no thank you. 
      I know! I'll tell him I'm a diabetic! Genius.
      The kid and I made eye contact, and he moved toward me. I was staring at the cardboard box under his arm as walked.
      Sir, would you like to buy some candy? The kid asked. 
      I'm sorry I'm a diabetic, I said with a sad face.
      The kid didn't blink an eye. Well, you can buy one for your mother, your aunt, your girlfriend, your kids. 
      I wasn't expecting such a quick-witted answer. I stood dumbfounded. It was obvious the kid had heard the diabetic line before. 
      You've heard that excuse before I said to the kid. Let me get back to you when I think of something else to say.