And Then...

You're not going to believe this, but just as I was about to get through a day without thinking about Mr. Pant, I bumped into him at the supermarket. Why did I say "bump into"? I didn't actually bump into him, like I'm addled and can't wind my way through the aisles of the supermarket. What happened was that I found myself shopping at Wal-Mart for groceries and noticed -- with my superior peripheral vision -- a form wearing a raccoon coat pushing a cart. Ah, ha, this is my chance to get Mr. Pant straightened out about The Report!

But, no sooner had I put the canned vegetable juice in my cart than he had slithered away. Abandoning my carefully crafted list, I took pursuit (measured, so's not to cause panic) and you can imagine that that involved avoiding shoppers being guided by someone at home (the cook?) as they listened with one ear on their cell phone while grabbing with their free hand big packages of saturated fat and/or hi-fructose products.

I found Mr. Pant in the pet-food aisle. He was placing a huge bag of dog food on the cart lower shelf. When I approached him -- and being careful to block his exit with my cart -- I said, as cheerfully as I could -- "Ah, what kind of dog do you have, Mr. Pant?" He gave me that quizzical gaze, as though I was the crazy one., Then he says, "Six twelve twenty seven". "What?" I ask in dismay, "are you talking about?" "Six twelve twenty seven, right?" I shook my head vigorously. "I don't get it."

That is when you arrived here, is it not?" Again, I wagged my head sideways and -- then it dawned on me -- yet I still had to show dismay. "Your so-called birthday, is it not? "But, but -- as I was trying to cough up more buts -- Mr. Pant began to leave, so I said, in my best steely voice, "about that report. . . Mr. Pant held up one hand, "I know, I know, you are working on it."

While I struggled to find just one of my wits, he had disappeared. But not before I had made some astute observations. I noted what articles he had in his cart. The huge bag of dried dog food mentioned, and, a number of large family-size jars of mustard, dill pickles, vinegar, and, get this, marshmallow creme. Then I noticed about several multi-Twinkie packages. And, oh, yes, he had several straw brooms sticking forward from his cart like prows or assault rams. I stopped long enough to write these down on my list and also to note the small mole Mr. Pant had just below his right eye; it was about the size of a pencil eraser. If I had to verify my observations to help build a case, these notes would be useful, if not vital, pieces of a puzzle.

By the time I had reached home with the groceries and explained to the Missus that I had a terrible headache and needed to lie down for a short while, as I realized I was becoming disoriented. Of course, I also had to explain to my beloved, in some detail, that I had not suffered a heart attack, that I just needed to lie down for a few minutes. Within fifteen minutes or so I had placated her worries about my health. Actually, I didn't have a headache but needed some time to sort out the details of my encounter with Mr. Pant. What are we to make of a bear buying dog food? Specie ID problem?

I was in no mood to appreciate my own wan humor. What was I to make of his shopping cart contents? What do you think? He's either strapped for money and is down to eating dog food, enhanced with mustard and marshmallow goo. I nearly retched thinking about it. Then, see, he has this huge family -- maybe as many as a dozen children and relatives living in a one-room apartment. I've seen places like that on TV documentaries and I bet you have too.

I was much too vexed and frustrated to relax, so, naturally, I turned to rehearsing my report to the police, or, better yet, the FBI. How could he look at me and see my birth date? And, how could he possibly have seen scribbled on my cortex that I would tell him "I'm working on it (The Report)"? You might think it's simply eerie, I'm beginning to believe I'm dealing with a new kind of spy, perhaps, a spy from Outer Space -- like, way, way out there, out there where even astronauts fear to go.

Then again, Reason tries to wrestle me to the ground. Ah, Reason opined, he's probably part of some university psychology department "scientific" experiment designed to measure the average bloke's tolerance for in-the-face intimidation. The world is a barnyard, you see, and a rude confrontational rooster intimidates the polite and the compliant other chickens with shockingly bad manners. "Shock birds" they're called.

Well, nevertheless, I have no choice. I'll have to prepare my notes for the F.B.I. But, on second thought, maybe I ought to first clue in the C.I.A. Then again, I just might best be advised to soak up some sun while I can and wait 'til Labor Day before I tell them that Mr. Pant is up to no good.

My poor little brain keeps whirling, and I wonder -- could the vinegar be used with the mustard and marshmellow creme to make some kind of explosive? What do you think?