Can This Be Gamemanship?

It was Saturday, just before noon, when I encountered Mr. Pant again. He was sitting alone in the snack alcove at the fitness center, reading a magazine and biting his fingernails, as if he was waiting for someone. I almost missed noticing him as I was so preoccupied and wired for scanning for a raccoon fur coat and whatever it was concealing. This time he was wearing the proper male costume -- long baggy shorts and a tee shirt without affiliation affixed. As I approached him, I realized he was not biting his nails but sucking his thumb (his left thumb, if you must know) .

"Hi", I said, "I wasn't sure it was you . . . " Mr. Pant looked up and cocked his head to one side, and then to the other, like a hawk. "Wuzzup?" he says. "Wuzzup?" I repeated (like a parrot). "You tell me," I added. "May I?" then promptly sat across from him at the round table.

Pant leaned back and again giving me the once over, pretending he didn't know who I was. "Look", about that report, I've decided to go ahead and do it -- I just need you to tell me what the topic is, what the subject is -- for the report". I was feeling on top of the situation, calm, ready, I thought, for his off-the-wall shots.


"Whatever," he says and then repeats it for emphasis, "Whatever." "That's okay with me, " says Self. "Now, what about compensation? We need to talk about that, you know." "Of course, of course", says Mr. Pant. That's when his cell phone rings (Call to Post ringtone). Now, I can get a sense of who he deals with -- maybe the poor woman who has to make do with the dog food plus condiments galore. It's all one sided, the caller is doing all the talking and Mr. Pant was either grunting or growling. I wait, I wait. And I wait. Finally, I realize I've been snookered and get up slowly to leave, when suddenly he snaps shut his cell phone, leaving it on the table.


"Norm, the maintenance guy, said he saw you doing some advanced yoga exercises the other day. What kind of yoga exercises were they?" "Ashtanga", says Pant. "What?" I ask. We repeat. "How do you spell it?", I ask. "Why?", he asks. "Because . . .", and then I lose it.


"I was told you know everything," Pant said without bothering to spell ashtanga. "You were?", I said. "Yeah, that's why they said to ask you to do a report", Pant says. "Who they?", says I. "People in the know," Pant replies. "What?" I say incredulously. "They said you were a know-it-all", says Pant. '


Of course, it hurt to hear someone say that to my face. Know-it-all? Well, yeah, there was a time, in my youth, but not now -- as I grow older I know less and less and there will come the day when I will join the great voting bloc of "Know-Nothings".


Well, at least I was getting some information and was loading up for another question when he suddenly he stood up and said, almost in a whisper, "Gotta go, bye", and he went.


I was left with a bruised ego, nothing new really learned and I trudged slowly up the stairs for the waiting treadmill. For the next 45 or so minutes I'd be going nowhere fast, but I'd have some time to reflect on my latest encounter with Mr. Pant.


What was I to make of him sucking his thumb? Well, at least he's human, I supposed. He was clearly indifferent to me and my assignment. Whatever? If James Bond or Batman were dealing with some strange bird, they wouldn't have been blocked by a smart-ass nonchalant retort, "Whatever"'.


It slowly dawned on me that in addition to dealing with someone obviously from some other galaxy or period in history, I was being confronted with a master of gamesmanship. I realized with a thud that I'm way over my head (and there's nobody I can go to and whine).