Grownups often ask children stupid questions. You'd think they were all in on it, as if they'd all learned the same questions to ask. I'm so used to this by now that I can tell you what'll happen if I'm introduced to a grownup. It'll go like this.

The bell will ring. Mommy will open the door. There'll be a lot of mumble-jumble and then some grownup I've never seen before will come in. He'll rub his hands, his ears, his glasses. When he finally puts them back on he'll see me, and even though he knows all about me and what my name is he'll grip my shoulder hard, shake me and say,

"Well, Dennis, what's your name?"

If I were rude I'd say, "Why're you asking me such a stupid question if you know the answer anyway? You just said my name."

But I'm polite. That's why I'll pretend I didn't notice and smile sourly, and look away and say: "Dennis."

Then he pops the next question: "And how old are you?"

As if he can't tell I'm not thirty or forty years old. He can see how big I am and should know I'm seven, or maybe eight at the most, so why ask? But he has his own grown-up ideas, so he'll go on annoying me. "Hm? How old are you? Hm?"

And I'll say, "Seven-and-a-half."

His eyes'll get big and he'll throw up his hands as if I'd just told him I was a hundred and sixty-one yesterday. He'll moan like all his teeth ache and cry,

"Oh, my! Seven-and-a-half! Oh, my!" But he'll finally stop moaning so's I won't burst out crying, what with feeling so sorry for him, and so's I'll see it's all a big joke. Then he'll poke two fingers into my stomach real hard and say in a man-to-man voice,

"Be ready for the army soon, won't you?"

Then he'll start again from the beginning. He'll shake his head and say to Mommy and Daddy, "Imagine! Just imagine! Why, he's already seven-and-a-half! It's unbelievable!" Then he'll turn to me and add, "Why, I remember you when you were still in diapers!" And he'll hold his hands about twenty centimeters apart to show me how big I was then. I'd like to say that I know for certain I was fifty-one centimeters long when I was born. Mommy has a piece of paper that says so. It's called a birth certificate.

But I don't get mad at him. They're all like that. Next he's supposed to look like he's thinking. And he does. You bet your life he does. He'll drop his head on his chest like he's fallen asleep. That's when I try to wriggle out of his grip. Nothing doing. He was just trying to remember what other questions there were lying around in his pocket. When he finally does he'll give you a big smile and say,

"Oh, yes! What do you want to be? Hm? What do you want to be when you grow up?"

I want to be a spelunker, but I know this'll bore him silly. He won't understand me, and it's not what he's expecting. So, not to get him all confused, I say, "I want to be an ice cream man. Then I can eat ice cream every day."

The man'll look real happy. Everything's coming along fine. He'll slap me on the back (real hard) and say in a fatherly tone, "That's right! That's fine! Good for you!"

Poor me. I think the game's finally over and try backing away from him, because I'm in a hurry, I have homework to do and a lot of other things besides, but he'll notice me trying to break loose and will clutch me harder than ever. That's called using brute force. When I finally get tired of struggling he'll ask me the main question:

"Now you tell me this, my little friend," he'll say and something sneaky'll creep into his voice. "Tell me whom you love best, Mommy or Daddy?"

That's not tactful at all. Especially since both Mommy and Daddy are in the room. I'll have to wriggle out of it.

"Mikhail Tahl," I'll say.

He'll begin to laugh. He really enjoys stupid answers like that. And he'll repeat it about a hundred times. "Mikhail Tahl! The famous chess player! Ha-ha-ha! How's that for an answer? What d'you say to that, you lucky parents?"

And he'll go on whooping for half an hour more, and Mommy and Daddy'll laugh, too. And I'll be ashamed of them and of myself. And I'll promise myself that later on, when the nightmare's finally over, I'll sneak Mommy a kiss when Daddy isn't looking and Daddy a kiss when Mommy isn't looking. Because I love both of them. That's the honest truth. It's as simple as that, but for some reason grownups don't like this kind of an answer. I tried to answer honestly a couple of times and always saw how disappointed they were. It was as if they were saying to themselves: "Ah... What a strange reply. So he likes them both equally well. What a strange boy he is."

That's why I lie and say I like the famous chess player Mikhail Tahl best. It gives them a laugh. Meanwhile, I can try to break free of my new friend's steel claws again. No go. He's even stronger than an ox. Besides, he has another little question up his sleeve, but I can tell by his voice that we're coming to the end now. It'll be the best question of all. Sort of like a question for desert. He'll suddenly look real scared and say,

"Why didn't you wash your face this morning?"

I washed my face like I always do, but I know what's coming. What I don't know is why they never get tired of such a tattered old game. Anyway, to bring things to a quicker end I'll clutch my face and say, "Where? Where's the dirt?"

Bull's eye! Quick as a flash he'll hand me that old garbage:

"What about your eyes?" he'll say in a sneaky voice. "Why're your eyes so black? You forgot to wash them! You go do that right away."

And he'll finally let me go. Which means I'm free to get back to all the things I have to do.

These new acquaintances sure are hard on me. But what can I do? It's a stage all children have to go through.

There's nothing you can do about it.