My neighbor's doorbell has an eye, and it speaks. I went to return his ladder. I rang. And the doorbell said, in his voice: "Hey, I see you — just lean it against the rail, man. I'm at work." I looked into the small eye. He was at work. AND at his door. The American doorman is a ghost that lives in a button. I leaned the ladder against the rail, as instructed. Then I faced the eye, bowed properly, and gave my report: the ladder had served well, no rungs were harmed, his household's generosity would be remembered. The doorbell said, "Ha. Anytime, man." Now. Here is where I must confess something. I am told these doorbells record. Which means somewhere in this country's clouds, there is an archive of me — bowing to doorbells, announcing my business to empty porches, holding up borrowed tools to the eye so their condition may be inspected and entered into the record. My neighbor showed me one such recording at a barbecue. The other guests watched it four times. A woman cried laughing. I stood there with my burger while my own bow was studied like game footage. But my neighbor raised his beer and said, "Most polite delivery this porch has ever had." THE PORCH KEEPS RANKINGS. I am first. I bow lower now, knowing this. Every porch, every eye. Somewhere a leaderboard exists, and I did not come to this country to place second at someone's door.