1
For a moment, I felt like I was in a spy movie.
I was standing in the San Diego Airport with Daphne and Charlotte. It was the first day of our summer vacation back in 2015. Daphne was analyzing an airport map when a young woman wearing a business suit and dark sunglasses approached us.
She raised her glasses to her forehead and looked me over from head to toe. "Yes. I think you could work." She was talking to herself more than to me. She then gave us all a cold smile, handed me a small rectangle of paper, and walked away. She looked back at me over her shoulder, nodded in agreement to herself, and melted into the congestion of humanity.
Daphne asked, "What was that all about?"
"I don't know," I replied, and that was true. Strange women never hand me anything unless I'm in a drive-thru.
"Do you know her from somewhere?" Daphne continued.
"She's not an old student of mine... I bet she's recruiting male models," I tilted my head and batted my eyelashes. Daphne didn't laugh. I turned my gaze from her questioning expression to the business card in my hand. The front of the red card was embossed with white letters.
Panther Incorporated
Tog Assistance
Tog Assistance
Established in 1873
Someone had written an internet address and a password on the back of the card.
www.pantherinc.com
PW: MD3430
PW: MD3430
Weird. No logo, no slogan, and no hint at what "Tog Assistance" was. I slapped the card against my open palm twice before handing it to Daphne. "Maybe she's like those people in the streets of Vegas who hand you dirty ads?" Again, Daphne didn't laugh.
Daphne's nose wrinkled as if the card smelled offensive. She handed it back to me. "I don't like it. I think you should throw it away."
"I will," I agreed as I tucked it into my wallet. "But not before I look up that web address. It might be something funny that I can put on the blog."
The rest of the afternoon was spent getting our bags, renting the car, and finding the condo we rented. One of my favorite moments on a vacation is seeing the relief wash over Daphne as she opens the door of the rental. "We made it!" Daphne appears to float a little above the ground as the stress of travel falls by the wayside.
I also get a kick when Char complains, "How come I always get the fold-out bed? How come you guys always get the nice one?"
Daphne then gets to use the classic parental comeback, "When you start paying for the trips we take, then you can have the nicer bed." I love that line because my folks used it on me. It's a family tradition.
It's time to get dinner once the room is in order. I don't want to make decisions when I'm tired and hungry. I want to eat, not think. That's when we go to a local Mexican restaurant (no chains). It's a no-brainer. Mexican food is delicious, fast, and they usually have chips and fresh salsa on hand. The Cabo Grill in Oceanside fit the bill nicely.
This was three years ago, so small Char looks a little different here. She is groovin' to the DJ's music on the Cabo rooftop.
After complaining for three minutes that she would, "Never, ever, never fall asleep in this bed!" Char was softly snoring. I tip-toed into our bedroom and fired up the Mac. While searching for a YouTube video to watch, I remembered that woman and the business card she handed me.
I fished the card out of my wallet, and I plopped on the bed. I never use the chairs in a hotel bedroom. They look comfortable but aren't. I typed in the web address that was hand-written on the back of the card. The cursor turned into the "spinning wheel of death" while the page loaded. I got bored after a minute, and I snuck out to get something to drink from the fridge.
The wheel was still spinning when I returned. I would later learn that this web page takes exactly five minutes and one second to load. I was about to go to back to the fridge when I heard the Ting! of wine glasses being clinked together.
Micheal Jackson's "Billie Jean" began to play softly while a small, red rectangle appeared in the middle of the screen. The rectangle grew until all you could see was red. Then an animated sewing machine began stitching a path across the screen leaving parts of white letters. The words Panther International eventually appeared. There was an empty password box below the company's name. I typed MD3430 into the box. I was rewarded with another Ting!
The company logo and the password box disappeared. The sewing machine animation returned to sew the word, Welcome. The solid patch of red began to recede, slowly revealing the front of a cartoon house in the background. The red rectangle shrank, turned horizontally, and floated down to become the welcome mat for the front door. A cardboard box then appeared on the mat with a sparkling sound I recognized from My Little Pony.
The music stopped, the front door of the house opened, and a cartoon character walked out onto the front porch. He looked like a young version of the actor Ryan O'Neal.
"Hi, Brent. My name is Ryan, and I work for Panther Incorporated." He sounded like Ryan O'Neal, too.
I was trying to remember if I had typed my name into this web page, but the cartoon interrupted that thought.
"This might hard to believe, Brent, but we will be delivering a package like this to you in Iowa. It will be waiting for you when you get home." He bent over, picked up the box, and held it out as if I was there to take it from him.
How do they know where I live?
"Now do not worry, Brent. This package could be inspected and registered with the United States Postal Service. There is nothing illegal or harmful inside. We will send you a text message when it will arrive. You will see how harmless your tryout is when you open our package." He paused to give me a broad grin.
What kind of ad is this?
"You will notice that there are actually two packages, Brent. One inside the other. The inner package has our name on it. This package contains your instructions and materials."
The box Cartoon Ryan was holding disappeared with an animated Poof! sound effect, and then he was holding a smaller box marked PI.
"When your tryout is complete, seal the smaller package and leave it on your front step. We will take care of the rest. No trips to the post office for you, big guy!"
He promptly dropped the box onto the front step. Wavy lines appeared on it, and the box was gone with a Pfft. Ryan dramatically wiped his hands together as if they had been dirty, "And that is it!"
He gave me an exaggerated wink that was punctuated by a Bing!. Cartoon Ryan turned towards the illustrated doorway, but he paused before going through.
"Oh! I almost forgot. There will be compensation." A check appeared in his hand with a Pop! "Do not think that Panther Incorporated does not value your time and effort."
He tucked the check into his front pocket and patted the pocket. He entered the cartoon house, and the door closed behind him. The screen flickered and went blank.
I showed the text to Daphne, but before she could comment, the airport's PA made an announcement.
"Attention. Would American Airlines passenger Brent Monson please return to the baggage claim? Passenger Brent Monson please return to the baggage claim."
Daphne quickly counted our luggage - two suitcases on wheels, two backpacks, and her bag. It was all there. I gave her a shrug. We turned and walked back to the baggage claim. Charlotte asked what was going on, and I had to admit I didn't know.
The baggage claim area was empty except for an airport employee talking on a walkie-talkie. A blue duffel bag, about a yard long, laid near his feet. He clicked off the walkie-talkie conversation when my eyes met his, "Are you Brent Monson?"
I nodded, and he asked me for my ID. When he handed my license back, he said, "Looks like you forgot something."
"I'm not sure what this is all about. This isn't my bag."
He picked up the duffel and examined the American Airlines tag attached to one of the red straps. "Could I see one of those?" He was pointing to a similar tag hanging from my suitcase. I nodded. He held both tags next to each other and compared the two. He then showed me the tag on the duffel's strap.
"This your handwriting?" I don't know how, but that was my sloppy scribble. I nodded.
"Is this your address?" I nodded again.
"Well," he held the bag out for me to take, "then this is yours, too."
Daphne reached her arm out to stop me from taking the bag, "Wait. This all very strange. How do we know that this bag isn't dangerous?"
"What's dangerous?" asked Charlotte?
"Nothing, honey. Mommy and Daddy need to talk to this man for a bit. Could you go sit on that bench over there?" Daphne has a bag Starburst candy in her purse for occasions like this, and she held it out to Charlotte who grabbed it and ran before Mom could change her mind.
The airport employee placed the duffel at my feet. "Ma'ma," he addressed Daphne with his arms spread and his palms out, "I don't mean to be disrespectful. But this is an airport. Everything here, including yourselves, has been checked, scanned, and inspected. The TSA screens about 1.3 million items for explosives and other dangerous items every day. But if it makes you feel any better, take a look at that." He pointed to a corner of white paper was sticking out of the duffel bag's side pocket.
Daphne pulled out the paper. It was a notice from the Transportation Security Administration alerting us to the fact that this bag had been selected for physical inspection. "During the inspection, your bag and its contents may have been searched for prohibited items. At the completion of the inspection, the contents were returned to your bag."
"You see? There's nothing dangerous in there. If you don't believe me, you can believe the TSA. I'm sorry, but I'm out of here. My shift is over. Thank you for flying American Airlines." He gave me an exaggerated wink, turned, and walked away.
The two of us looked down at the duffel bag.
I asked after a moment, "What do you want to do?" In times like these, I always defer to Daphne.
She pressed her lips together, thinking. "We can't leave the bag here. The tag has your name and our address on it. They'll call us tomorrow to come and get the bag, or they'll charge us to mail it to our house."
I looked up at the ceiling where I supposed hidden cameras were recording. "We can't take off the tag and walk away, either. I think it's a crime to leave a bag unattended, and we'll be blamed if there is anything wrong with this thing."
Daphne began to chew on her thumbnail.
"You know what?" I said wearily, "I'm just going to look inside."
"Don't. Not yet."
"Screw it. The bag's already been opened. Look, the zipper isn't even completely closed. As far as the TSA is concerned, this thing's safe." Before Daphne could say anything else, I grabbed the duffel by the red straps and headed to the other side of the terminal.
I placed the bag on a dead baggage carousel and pulled the rest of the zipper open. I'll be honest. I was a little surprised at what was inside.
Here's what I found:
1. An instructions sheet.
2. A plastic bag holding three safety pins and three pieces of red cloth.
3. Three identical pairs of new jeans.
4. A large, padded envelope.
The envelope had "Panther Incorporated Thanks You for Your Tog Assistance" written on it.
Cartoon Ryan wasn't a liar after all.
We didn't talk about the bag or what was in it on the way home. Charlotte suspected something was up, but we stopped by Petsmart's kennel to pick up Maggie. After a week of "day camps", our dog smelled gamey, wanted to sniff Char, and was the perfect distraction.
Routine kicked in as soon we got home. Daphne got Char ready for bed while I fed the cats and cleaned their litter boxes. Maggie busied herself by running around the backyard alerting the neighborhood with sharp barks that she was back in action.
Daphne and I carried our luggage, including the duffel bag, to our bedroom to unpack. After Charlotte and Maggie had quieted down, I spread the contents of the duffel bag across our bed.
I read the instructions to Daphne.
Mr. Monson,
Please wear each pair of jeans no longer than five minutes. Use the safety pins to attach the red labels to the back, right pocket of the jeans you feel best matches the description.
Place the jeans in the padded envelope when you have finished the tryout and leave the envelope on your front porch. You will be compensated once our package has been retrieved.
If you no longer wish to continue with the tryout, then you may keep the clothes free of charge.
Thank you, and good luck,
The Panther Incorporated Team
Daphne had emptied the plastic bag containing the labels while I was reading. Each red piece of fabric was the size of a Post-it note and had a different saying sewn across it. They read, Too Big, Too Small, and Just Right.
Goldilocks and the Three Jeans.
"Okay, " I said while running a hand through my hair, "I'm supposed to try on these pants and see which one fits the best? What for? Who would care?"
Daphne didn't answer me; she was examining the jeans, "These are all Levi's 501s, and they're all size 34x30. That's your size isn't it?"
"Yea, but that also doesn't make any sense. How can one of these pants be better than the others? They're all the same!'
Daph lightly shook her head, "I doubt that. Jean sizes can vary widely. I wouldn't buy a pair without trying them on first, no matter what the tag said."
"Do you think I should do it? Try on the jeans, I mean."
Daphne shrugged. "It's up to you. If you're going to keep them, then you'll have to put them on eventually. You might as well try them out."
That sounded reasonable.
The first pair of jeans were a bit snug. I tried squatting down, and they were uncomfortable. Too Small.
The second pair of jeans fit very well. I did a few squats, walked around the room, and even jogged in place. The jeans moved easily and didn't bind. Just Right.
As expected, the third pair of jeans would have needed a belt. Too Big.
Now what? I checked Amazon, and pairs of 501s were selling for about $50. I had two pairs of jeans that were wearable, so that was some money in savings, but now I was hooked. I wanted to see where this was going. "I going to tag 'em and bag 'em. This is all so weird, but I want to see what happens."
Daphne nodded in agreement, "I want to know, too."
I pinned the tags to the appropriate jeans, stuffed them into the mailer, and walked them down to the front porch. The writing on the envelope caught my eye as I placed the package on the cement, "Panther Incorporated Thanks You for Your Tog Assistance."
"You're welcome," I said to the darkness.
Our dog Maggie is a Great Pyrenees. The breed is known to be gentle and patient with family, but the deep, booming barks are quick to come when strangers get near. She doesn't mess around when it comes to protecting the house. That trait can be comforting, but it can also get annoying. Joggers, doorbells, mothers pushing strollers, and armed bandits all receive the same treatment.
We don't want to be known as "that family" - the one who lets their dog bark all day and night. We are pretty quick to get Maggie inside when she starts puncturing the night with her protective woofs.
Maggie was in the backyard when I placed the package for Panther Incorporated outside our door. Less than ten minutes later, she started going off. Maggs was putting on quite a show - barking, growling, pacing, and scratching at the sliding glass door. She really wanted to get into the house to protect us from whatever had tripped her trigger.
Both Daphne and I rushed to the patio doors to get Maggie to quiet down. Daphne got to the door first and slid it open. Maggs made a bee-line to the front door and tried to bark it down like the wolf in the "Three Little Pigs".
Daphne held our panting dog by the collar. I opened the door to see who was on the other side. Nothing out of the ordinary, including the Panther Incorporated package, was there.
The next morning I received an email from PayPal informing me that Panther Incorporated had sent me a payment for $500. I had been compensated.
I showed the payment message to Daphne, and she asked the obvious questions, "Why would anyone pay someone to try on jeans? This doesn't make any sense. And don't take this personally, but why did they pick you?"
I laughed, "Are you jealous?"
"No. I'm not asking, 'Why not me?', I'm asking, 'Why you?' How did they pick you out of all the people in that airport?"
This time Daphne watched the computer with me. The spinning wheel spun for five minutes and one second again, but the sewing machine animation played "Forever in Blue Jeans" by Neil Diamond. The first two words of the song, "Money talks," seemed appropriate.
"Forever in Blue Jeans" faded out and Cartoon Ryan appeared not on a doorstep, but in a department store dressing room. He was standing in front of five closed dressing room stalls.
"Hello, again Brent. Congratulations on passing your tryout. I was told that you nailed it. Great job!" The sound of a crowd cheering madly came and went. Cartoon Ryan continued, "Brent, I want you to meet someone. I think you might recognize him."
The stall door on the right of the screen opened and a cartoon figure that looked a lot like Matt Damon stood in the stall.
I also get a kick when Char complains, "How come I always get the fold-out bed? How come you guys always get the nice one?"
Daphne then gets to use the classic parental comeback, "When you start paying for the trips we take, then you can have the nicer bed." I love that line because my folks used it on me. It's a family tradition.
It's time to get dinner once the room is in order. I don't want to make decisions when I'm tired and hungry. I want to eat, not think. That's when we go to a local Mexican restaurant (no chains). It's a no-brainer. Mexican food is delicious, fast, and they usually have chips and fresh salsa on hand. The Cabo Grill in Oceanside fit the bill nicely.
This was three years ago, so small Char looks a little different here. She is groovin' to the DJ's music on the Cabo rooftop.
After dinner, we walked along the beach and watched the sunset. Soon it was time for Char to go to bed. It looks like she wasn't the only one who was tired.
I didn't have an Android phone back then, and I didn't like traveling with the Mac Book my school had assigned to me. I was afraid it would get lost, stolen, or broken. I bought an old Mac Book on eBay for our trips. Char can play games online, and these old models have a DVD drive for playing Disney movies.
After complaining for three minutes that she would, "Never, ever, never fall asleep in this bed!" Char was softly snoring. I tip-toed into our bedroom and fired up the Mac. While searching for a YouTube video to watch, I remembered that woman and the business card she handed me.
2
I fished the card out of my wallet, and I plopped on the bed. I never use the chairs in a hotel bedroom. They look comfortable but aren't. I typed in the web address that was hand-written on the back of the card. The cursor turned into the "spinning wheel of death" while the page loaded. I got bored after a minute, and I snuck out to get something to drink from the fridge.
The wheel was still spinning when I returned. I would later learn that this web page takes exactly five minutes and one second to load. I was about to go to back to the fridge when I heard the Ting! of wine glasses being clinked together.
Micheal Jackson's "Billie Jean" began to play softly while a small, red rectangle appeared in the middle of the screen. The rectangle grew until all you could see was red. Then an animated sewing machine began stitching a path across the screen leaving parts of white letters. The words Panther International eventually appeared. There was an empty password box below the company's name. I typed MD3430 into the box. I was rewarded with another Ting!
The company logo and the password box disappeared. The sewing machine animation returned to sew the word, Welcome. The solid patch of red began to recede, slowly revealing the front of a cartoon house in the background. The red rectangle shrank, turned horizontally, and floated down to become the welcome mat for the front door. A cardboard box then appeared on the mat with a sparkling sound I recognized from My Little Pony.
The music stopped, the front door of the house opened, and a cartoon character walked out onto the front porch. He looked like a young version of the actor Ryan O'Neal.
"Hi, Brent. My name is Ryan, and I work for Panther Incorporated." He sounded like Ryan O'Neal, too.
I was trying to remember if I had typed my name into this web page, but the cartoon interrupted that thought.
"This might hard to believe, Brent, but we will be delivering a package like this to you in Iowa. It will be waiting for you when you get home." He bent over, picked up the box, and held it out as if I was there to take it from him.
How do they know where I live?
"Now do not worry, Brent. This package could be inspected and registered with the United States Postal Service. There is nothing illegal or harmful inside. We will send you a text message when it will arrive. You will see how harmless your tryout is when you open our package." He paused to give me a broad grin.
What kind of ad is this?
"You will notice that there are actually two packages, Brent. One inside the other. The inner package has our name on it. This package contains your instructions and materials."
The box Cartoon Ryan was holding disappeared with an animated Poof! sound effect, and then he was holding a smaller box marked PI.
"When your tryout is complete, seal the smaller package and leave it on your front step. We will take care of the rest. No trips to the post office for you, big guy!"
He promptly dropped the box onto the front step. Wavy lines appeared on it, and the box was gone with a Pfft. Ryan dramatically wiped his hands together as if they had been dirty, "And that is it!"
He gave me an exaggerated wink that was punctuated by a Bing!. Cartoon Ryan turned towards the illustrated doorway, but he paused before going through.
"Oh! I almost forgot. There will be compensation." A check appeared in his hand with a Pop! "Do not think that Panther Incorporated does not value your time and effort."
He tucked the check into his front pocket and patted the pocket. He entered the cartoon house, and the door closed behind him. The screen flickered and went blank.
"What in the heck was that?" I asked the empty room. Daphne was in the bathroom getting ready for bed.
I put the cursor in the address bar and hit the return key. The spinning wheel spun. After five minutes and one second, the sewing machine appeared to do its thing. This time, however, the password box didn't re-appear. I entered the web address again, the sequence repeated, but the password box did not return.
I like to say that the two best parts of any vacation are leaving Des Moines and coming back to Des Moines. When the plane landed on Iowa soil around 7 pm, I was happy to be to be back home. We had been gone for about a week, and that was enough for me. I had forgotten all about Panther Incorporated.
Daphne's sister was feeding our cats and taking in our mail, and she had no suspicious packages on our porch to report. I had been checking my phone for text messages, but I stopped that after a couple of days. Daphne had to suppress a laugh whenever she saw me look at my phone. She knows I'm not a phone guy. About three people on this planet have my number; I don't get texts from anyone.
So imagine our surprise when the phone in my backpack buzzed just as we were about to exit the Des Moines airport. I found the phone after digging through several of the pack's pockets. There was a small number 1 next to my text icon. I tapped the icon, and a text from Panther Incorporated popped on the screen.
"Wait. You forgot something."
3
I put the cursor in the address bar and hit the return key. The spinning wheel spun. After five minutes and one second, the sewing machine appeared to do its thing. This time, however, the password box didn't re-appear. I entered the web address again, the sequence repeated, but the password box did not return.
When Daphne came out of the bathroom in her PJ's, I tried to explain to her what had happened. She looked unimpressed, "All that cloak and dagger stuff so you could watch a cartoon?"
"Yea, but it was a cartoon that knew my name!"
"You mean like that birthday e-card Maureen sent for Charlotte last year? The one with the rabbit that said, 'Hoppy Bith-day Chocolate!'"
That made me laugh. "Ha! I bet she played that card 20 times that day. I still say it to Char when I buy her candy at the convenience store. Man, she hates that. She hits me every time I say it." I paused to giggle. "But no, this cartoon guy was weirder than that. He knew we were from Iowa. That's crazy!"
"Brent, even your old laptop knows you were in Iowa this morning, and that you are in California tonight. It's not crazy. It's called Google Maps."
"Brent, even your old laptop knows you were in Iowa this morning, and that you are in California tonight. It's not crazy. It's called Google Maps."
I refreshed Panther Incorporated's web page for Daphne. Instead of a spinning wheel, there was a generic web page stating that the domain pantherinc.com is now for sale. The sewing machine animation was gone. I scrambled for my phone when I remembered that Cartoon Ryan had said he would send me a text, but there wasn't one.
Daphne asked if she could now throw away the business card, and I agreed. She tore it into neat strips, tossed the strips into the wastebasket, and tucked herself into bed with the book she had been reading on the plane.
I tried searching for Panther Incorporated on Google, Yahoo, and Bing, but all I found was the same link to the same page selling the pantherinc.com domain. I eventually gave up and watched a couple episodes of Roadkill on YouTube before going to bed.
** The rest of our vacation in Oceanside, California is described in the 2015 section of this blog. I'll jump to the end of our trip to avoid more repetition.**
I like to say that the two best parts of any vacation are leaving Des Moines and coming back to Des Moines. When the plane landed on Iowa soil around 7 pm, I was happy to be to be back home. We had been gone for about a week, and that was enough for me. I had forgotten all about Panther Incorporated.
Daphne's sister was feeding our cats and taking in our mail, and she had no suspicious packages on our porch to report. I had been checking my phone for text messages, but I stopped that after a couple of days. Daphne had to suppress a laugh whenever she saw me look at my phone. She knows I'm not a phone guy. About three people on this planet have my number; I don't get texts from anyone.
So imagine our surprise when the phone in my backpack buzzed just as we were about to exit the Des Moines airport. I found the phone after digging through several of the pack's pockets. There was a small number 1 next to my text icon. I tapped the icon, and a text from Panther Incorporated popped on the screen.
"Wait. You forgot something."
4
I showed the text to Daphne, but before she could comment, the airport's PA made an announcement.
"Attention. Would American Airlines passenger Brent Monson please return to the baggage claim? Passenger Brent Monson please return to the baggage claim."
Daphne quickly counted our luggage - two suitcases on wheels, two backpacks, and her bag. It was all there. I gave her a shrug. We turned and walked back to the baggage claim. Charlotte asked what was going on, and I had to admit I didn't know.
The baggage claim area was empty except for an airport employee talking on a walkie-talkie. A blue duffel bag, about a yard long, laid near his feet. He clicked off the walkie-talkie conversation when my eyes met his, "Are you Brent Monson?"
I nodded, and he asked me for my ID. When he handed my license back, he said, "Looks like you forgot something."
"I'm not sure what this is all about. This isn't my bag."
He picked up the duffel and examined the American Airlines tag attached to one of the red straps. "Could I see one of those?" He was pointing to a similar tag hanging from my suitcase. I nodded. He held both tags next to each other and compared the two. He then showed me the tag on the duffel's strap.
"This your handwriting?" I don't know how, but that was my sloppy scribble. I nodded.
"Is this your address?" I nodded again.
"Well," he held the bag out for me to take, "then this is yours, too."
Daphne reached her arm out to stop me from taking the bag, "Wait. This all very strange. How do we know that this bag isn't dangerous?"
"What's dangerous?" asked Charlotte?
"Nothing, honey. Mommy and Daddy need to talk to this man for a bit. Could you go sit on that bench over there?" Daphne has a bag Starburst candy in her purse for occasions like this, and she held it out to Charlotte who grabbed it and ran before Mom could change her mind.
The airport employee placed the duffel at my feet. "Ma'ma," he addressed Daphne with his arms spread and his palms out, "I don't mean to be disrespectful. But this is an airport. Everything here, including yourselves, has been checked, scanned, and inspected. The TSA screens about 1.3 million items for explosives and other dangerous items every day. But if it makes you feel any better, take a look at that." He pointed to a corner of white paper was sticking out of the duffel bag's side pocket.
Daphne pulled out the paper. It was a notice from the Transportation Security Administration alerting us to the fact that this bag had been selected for physical inspection. "During the inspection, your bag and its contents may have been searched for prohibited items. At the completion of the inspection, the contents were returned to your bag."
"You see? There's nothing dangerous in there. If you don't believe me, you can believe the TSA. I'm sorry, but I'm out of here. My shift is over. Thank you for flying American Airlines." He gave me an exaggerated wink, turned, and walked away.
The two of us looked down at the duffel bag.
I asked after a moment, "What do you want to do?" In times like these, I always defer to Daphne.
She pressed her lips together, thinking. "We can't leave the bag here. The tag has your name and our address on it. They'll call us tomorrow to come and get the bag, or they'll charge us to mail it to our house."
I looked up at the ceiling where I supposed hidden cameras were recording. "We can't take off the tag and walk away, either. I think it's a crime to leave a bag unattended, and we'll be blamed if there is anything wrong with this thing."
Daphne began to chew on her thumbnail.
"You know what?" I said wearily, "I'm just going to look inside."
"Don't. Not yet."
"Screw it. The bag's already been opened. Look, the zipper isn't even completely closed. As far as the TSA is concerned, this thing's safe." Before Daphne could say anything else, I grabbed the duffel by the red straps and headed to the other side of the terminal.
I placed the bag on a dead baggage carousel and pulled the rest of the zipper open. I'll be honest. I was a little surprised at what was inside.
Here's what I found:
1. An instructions sheet.
2. A plastic bag holding three safety pins and three pieces of red cloth.
3. Three identical pairs of new jeans.
4. A large, padded envelope.
The envelope had "Panther Incorporated Thanks You for Your Tog Assistance" written on it.
Cartoon Ryan wasn't a liar after all.
5
We didn't talk about the bag or what was in it on the way home. Charlotte suspected something was up, but we stopped by Petsmart's kennel to pick up Maggie. After a week of "day camps", our dog smelled gamey, wanted to sniff Char, and was the perfect distraction.
Routine kicked in as soon we got home. Daphne got Char ready for bed while I fed the cats and cleaned their litter boxes. Maggie busied herself by running around the backyard alerting the neighborhood with sharp barks that she was back in action.
Daphne and I carried our luggage, including the duffel bag, to our bedroom to unpack. After Charlotte and Maggie had quieted down, I spread the contents of the duffel bag across our bed.
I read the instructions to Daphne.
Mr. Monson,
Please wear each pair of jeans no longer than five minutes. Use the safety pins to attach the red labels to the back, right pocket of the jeans you feel best matches the description.
Place the jeans in the padded envelope when you have finished the tryout and leave the envelope on your front porch. You will be compensated once our package has been retrieved.
If you no longer wish to continue with the tryout, then you may keep the clothes free of charge.
Thank you, and good luck,
The Panther Incorporated Team
Daphne had emptied the plastic bag containing the labels while I was reading. Each red piece of fabric was the size of a Post-it note and had a different saying sewn across it. They read, Too Big, Too Small, and Just Right.
Goldilocks and the Three Jeans.
"Okay, " I said while running a hand through my hair, "I'm supposed to try on these pants and see which one fits the best? What for? Who would care?"
Daphne didn't answer me; she was examining the jeans, "These are all Levi's 501s, and they're all size 34x30. That's your size isn't it?"
"Yea, but that also doesn't make any sense. How can one of these pants be better than the others? They're all the same!'
Daph lightly shook her head, "I doubt that. Jean sizes can vary widely. I wouldn't buy a pair without trying them on first, no matter what the tag said."
"Do you think I should do it? Try on the jeans, I mean."
Daphne shrugged. "It's up to you. If you're going to keep them, then you'll have to put them on eventually. You might as well try them out."
That sounded reasonable.
The first pair of jeans were a bit snug. I tried squatting down, and they were uncomfortable. Too Small.
The second pair of jeans fit very well. I did a few squats, walked around the room, and even jogged in place. The jeans moved easily and didn't bind. Just Right.
As expected, the third pair of jeans would have needed a belt. Too Big.
Now what? I checked Amazon, and pairs of 501s were selling for about $50. I had two pairs of jeans that were wearable, so that was some money in savings, but now I was hooked. I wanted to see where this was going. "I going to tag 'em and bag 'em. This is all so weird, but I want to see what happens."
Daphne nodded in agreement, "I want to know, too."
I pinned the tags to the appropriate jeans, stuffed them into the mailer, and walked them down to the front porch. The writing on the envelope caught my eye as I placed the package on the cement, "Panther Incorporated Thanks You for Your Tog Assistance."
"You're welcome," I said to the darkness.
6
Our dog Maggie is a Great Pyrenees. The breed is known to be gentle and patient with family, but the deep, booming barks are quick to come when strangers get near. She doesn't mess around when it comes to protecting the house. That trait can be comforting, but it can also get annoying. Joggers, doorbells, mothers pushing strollers, and armed bandits all receive the same treatment.
We don't want to be known as "that family" - the one who lets their dog bark all day and night. We are pretty quick to get Maggie inside when she starts puncturing the night with her protective woofs.
Maggie was in the backyard when I placed the package for Panther Incorporated outside our door. Less than ten minutes later, she started going off. Maggs was putting on quite a show - barking, growling, pacing, and scratching at the sliding glass door. She really wanted to get into the house to protect us from whatever had tripped her trigger.
Both Daphne and I rushed to the patio doors to get Maggie to quiet down. Daphne got to the door first and slid it open. Maggs made a bee-line to the front door and tried to bark it down like the wolf in the "Three Little Pigs".
Daphne held our panting dog by the collar. I opened the door to see who was on the other side. Nothing out of the ordinary, including the Panther Incorporated package, was there.
7
The next morning I received an email from PayPal informing me that Panther Incorporated had sent me a payment for $500. I had been compensated.
I showed the payment message to Daphne, and she asked the obvious questions, "Why would anyone pay someone to try on jeans? This doesn't make any sense. And don't take this personally, but why did they pick you?"
I laughed, "Are you jealous?"
"No. I'm not asking, 'Why not me?', I'm asking, 'Why you?' How did they pick you out of all the people in that airport?"
"They must have thought that I have good lookin' gams," I stuck out my leg and twisted it on the tip of my toe.
Daphne smiled and looked back at the computer. "Did you read what's in the comments box in the email?"
I hadn't. I had stopped reading after I got to the dollar amount. There was the web address pantaloonint.com and password MD3430 in the comment box. That was the same password as before, but the address was different. Since I had been paid, I felt obliged to proceed.
This time Daphne watched the computer with me. The spinning wheel spun for five minutes and one second again, but the sewing machine animation played "Forever in Blue Jeans" by Neil Diamond. The first two words of the song, "Money talks," seemed appropriate.
The screen went red, but instead of Panther Incorporated, the sewing machine stitched the words, Pantaloon International. I filled the password box that appeared below the new logo. A ting! followed.
"Forever in Blue Jeans" faded out and Cartoon Ryan appeared not on a doorstep, but in a department store dressing room. He was standing in front of five closed dressing room stalls.
"Hello, again Brent. Congratulations on passing your tryout. I was told that you nailed it. Great job!" The sound of a crowd cheering madly came and went. Cartoon Ryan continued, "Brent, I want you to meet someone. I think you might recognize him."
The stall door on the right of the screen opened and a cartoon figure that looked a lot like Matt Damon stood in the stall.
Cartoon Matt Damon raised his hand and said, "Hi Brent. Thanks for helping out." If they had hired a voice actor to do Matt Damon's voice, it was quite a performance. I would have sworn that was him talking. The stall door then closed. The door swung opened again, but Cartoon Matt Damon was gone. A tall stack of folded jeans sat in his place.
Cartoon Ryan began talking again, "You see that, Brent? He is already gone. Matt is a busy guy, and that is why we are here. There are busy people like Matt Damon all over this world. They are actors, professional athletes, celebrities, politicians... these people are not like us, Brent."
"Us? You're a cartoon!" Daphne retorted.
"Our clients are too famous to shop for themselves. For people of great wealth, power, and fame, this isn't a public dressing room. It is a death sentence. They would not get out of here alive." He paused for dramatic effect.
A hat like those worn by barber-shop quartets popped! into his hand. He began to sing, "Oh, we got trouble. Right here in River City! With a capital T. And that rhymes with P. And that stands for Pants." That's not exactly how the song goes, but he sang it well.
Cartoon Ryan walked over and placed the hat on the stack of jeans. "What we do is make sure that our clients get what they need without getting them that kind of trouble. We have been offering this kind of tog assistance since the first pair of jeans was invented. For 145 years we have been serving a special section of the population with fashion experts, professional shoppers, and people like you, our fitment experts."
Cartoon Ryan walked to the bench in the middle of the room and sat. "Let me tell you how this process works. We have field agents like the woman you met in California. They scout large population venues like football stadiums, rock concerts, and busy airports looking for people who may be a match for one of our clients."
"True, you look nothing like Matt Damon, but you are both 5'10" and you are about the same age. Medical records indicate your bodies have suffered a similar amount of damage. When you walk, you both have a similar gait." Cartoon Ryan smiled with the corner of his mouth.
"They have access to your medical records? Did you authorize that?" Daphne asked. I shook my head and leaned closer to make sure I wouldn't miss anything.
"It is also true that you do not have a Hollywood actor physique. That doesn't matter. We have another fitment expert for that. We need someone who will conduct fitment tests when Mr. Damon is "off-season". You know, after the holidays or a long vacation."
"Is he saying that I'm a match for a bloated Matt Damon?" I asked. Daphne laughed out loud.
"Please understand that you are not to know the person you are fitting for. Matt Damon is just an example for this presentation. Over the years we have had unscrupulous employees back channel their way to access their client and the results have ranged from uncomfortable to disastrous." A stern expression crossed his face. I felt like I had been warned.
"This is why this website will only be used for this purpose once. Panther Incorporated no longer exists, and soon Pantaloon International will not either. Those are just words, and they mean nothing. It is our Tog Assistance that will carry on. For that to be, our discretion has to be as perfect as our services. So, it should go without saying, you are not to speak to anyone about our organization. Obviously, your significant other is excluded, but any mention of tog assistance to others verbally or on social media is strictly prohibited."
The first rule of Pants Club is: you do not talk about Pants Club. The second rule of Pants Club is: you DO NOT talk about Pants Club!
Cartoon Ryan picked up a sheet of paper from off the bench. As he read it aloud, each rule appeared the air beside him. "With that in mind, here are the other rules. I believe you will find them reasonable and easy to remember."
1. You and your environment must be clean during the fitment process.
2. You must wear clean undergarments during the fitment process.
3. Do not place anything in the garment's pockets, except for your hands.
4. The fitment of each garment may not exceed five minutes.
5. You must complete the provided fitment form for each garment.
6. All garments must be returned in the packaging provided.
7. You must reply to the weight request text with a photo attached.
Cartoon Ryan stopped reading and stood up. He snapped his fingers and the list of rules floating in the air disappeared. Only rule number seven remained.
"I want to talk a little more about this last rule. In order to ensure that your fitment assessments are accurate, we have to be sure that your weight remains relatively unchanged. Each month we will send you a text message from one of our companies. You must reply within 24 hours with a picture of your bare feet on a bathroom scale. Please use the same scale for each photo, and make sure the numbers can be easily read."
Cartoon Ryan explained that the company understood that my weight could fluctuate, and a difference in a few pounds wasn't a concern. But if my weight dropped or rose significantly, I would stop receiving packages and my relationship with the company would be terminated.
If I was traveling, they asked that I bring the scale with me. If that wasn't possible, they would find a suitable substitute scale. It wouldn't matter what state or country that I was in. They had representatives all over the globe.
"We would like to thank you for attention, Brent. You will not be able to replay this presentation, but we feel you can handle this information without too much trouble. I did my best to be clear." Cartoon Ryan gave me another exaggerated wink. As he walked out of the frame, I noticed that the back pockets on his jeans were made of clear plastic.
"I get it!" I exclaimed to Daphne.
"You get the rules?"
"Us? You're a cartoon!" Daphne retorted.
"Our clients are too famous to shop for themselves. For people of great wealth, power, and fame, this isn't a public dressing room. It is a death sentence. They would not get out of here alive." He paused for dramatic effect.
A hat like those worn by barber-shop quartets popped! into his hand. He began to sing, "Oh, we got trouble. Right here in River City! With a capital T. And that rhymes with P. And that stands for Pants." That's not exactly how the song goes, but he sang it well.
Cartoon Ryan walked over and placed the hat on the stack of jeans. "What we do is make sure that our clients get what they need without getting them that kind of trouble. We have been offering this kind of tog assistance since the first pair of jeans was invented. For 145 years we have been serving a special section of the population with fashion experts, professional shoppers, and people like you, our fitment experts."
Cartoon Ryan walked to the bench in the middle of the room and sat. "Let me tell you how this process works. We have field agents like the woman you met in California. They scout large population venues like football stadiums, rock concerts, and busy airports looking for people who may be a match for one of our clients."
"True, you look nothing like Matt Damon, but you are both 5'10" and you are about the same age. Medical records indicate your bodies have suffered a similar amount of damage. When you walk, you both have a similar gait." Cartoon Ryan smiled with the corner of his mouth.
"They have access to your medical records? Did you authorize that?" Daphne asked. I shook my head and leaned closer to make sure I wouldn't miss anything.
"It is also true that you do not have a Hollywood actor physique. That doesn't matter. We have another fitment expert for that. We need someone who will conduct fitment tests when Mr. Damon is "off-season". You know, after the holidays or a long vacation."
"Is he saying that I'm a match for a bloated Matt Damon?" I asked. Daphne laughed out loud.
"Please understand that you are not to know the person you are fitting for. Matt Damon is just an example for this presentation. Over the years we have had unscrupulous employees back channel their way to access their client and the results have ranged from uncomfortable to disastrous." A stern expression crossed his face. I felt like I had been warned.
"This is why this website will only be used for this purpose once. Panther Incorporated no longer exists, and soon Pantaloon International will not either. Those are just words, and they mean nothing. It is our Tog Assistance that will carry on. For that to be, our discretion has to be as perfect as our services. So, it should go without saying, you are not to speak to anyone about our organization. Obviously, your significant other is excluded, but any mention of tog assistance to others verbally or on social media is strictly prohibited."
The first rule of Pants Club is: you do not talk about Pants Club. The second rule of Pants Club is: you DO NOT talk about Pants Club!
1. You and your environment must be clean during the fitment process.
2. You must wear clean undergarments during the fitment process.
3. Do not place anything in the garment's pockets, except for your hands.
4. The fitment of each garment may not exceed five minutes.
5. You must complete the provided fitment form for each garment.
6. All garments must be returned in the packaging provided.
7. You must reply to the weight request text with a photo attached.
Cartoon Ryan stopped reading and stood up. He snapped his fingers and the list of rules floating in the air disappeared. Only rule number seven remained.
"I want to talk a little more about this last rule. In order to ensure that your fitment assessments are accurate, we have to be sure that your weight remains relatively unchanged. Each month we will send you a text message from one of our companies. You must reply within 24 hours with a picture of your bare feet on a bathroom scale. Please use the same scale for each photo, and make sure the numbers can be easily read."
Cartoon Ryan explained that the company understood that my weight could fluctuate, and a difference in a few pounds wasn't a concern. But if my weight dropped or rose significantly, I would stop receiving packages and my relationship with the company would be terminated.
If I was traveling, they asked that I bring the scale with me. If that wasn't possible, they would find a suitable substitute scale. It wouldn't matter what state or country that I was in. They had representatives all over the globe.
"We would like to thank you for attention, Brent. You will not be able to replay this presentation, but we feel you can handle this information without too much trouble. I did my best to be clear." Cartoon Ryan gave me another exaggerated wink. As he walked out of the frame, I noticed that the back pockets on his jeans were made of clear plastic.
"I get it!" I exclaimed to Daphne.
"You get the rules?"
"Well yeah, those, too. But that's not what I mean. I get the reference!"
"What reference?" she asked.
"Cartoon Ryan! He's the Ryan O'Neil who started the 80's film, So Fine."
"So what?" Daphne mimicked.
"It was a movie about pants."
8
So, that's how I got the gig trying on pants for Matt Damon. Or, I should say, someone who is built like a bloaty Matt Damon.
The irony is I hate to try on pants. Daphne can attest that I have loathed dressing rooms for as long as she has known me.
I think I was scarred as a kid by having to try on Toughskin jeans at Sears. Man, the advertising wasn't lying about those. The scratchy fabric was like cardboard, and you couldn't even bend over to tie your shoes when the jeans were new. They were also really tight, and they had an extra patch sewn in at the knees. That was where you would sweat. When I think of Toughskin jeans, I think of sweaty leg pits.
Over the course of two years, I've provided tog assistance for about 100 pairs of pants. Unlike the tryout package, the pants usually arrive in sets of ten. The brands of jeans are alien to me, but I'm pretty sure you can't find 3X1, Tom Ford, Soul of Nomad, Chimala, or Saint Laurent jeans at Sears.
One time I received a package with just two pairs of Gucci pants. They were so similar I flipped a coin to decide which were the best.
I thought it might be a pain to take a picture of my feet and my scale each month. When I discovered I would be compensated $25 dollars for each picture, I didn't mind as much.
I also wondered how hard it would be to maintain my weight. I wasn't running or dieting at the time when I was recruited, so really, it has been a great excuse to not workout.
One time I received a package with just two pairs of Gucci pants. They were so similar I flipped a coin to decide which were the best.
I thought it might be a pain to take a picture of my feet and my scale each month. When I discovered I would be compensated $25 dollars for each picture, I didn't mind as much.
I also wondered how hard it would be to maintain my weight. I wasn't running or dieting at the time when I was recruited, so really, it has been a great excuse to not workout.
I only broke the rules once. On October 2, 2016, I received three pairs of 3Sixteen jeans to assess. I still don't know if the client was really Matt Damon, but I knew his birthday was October 8. I guessed that these jeans might be for some birthday shindig.
I put a note in a front pocket of the winning pair that read, "I test drove these in a dirty Burger King bathroom. Happy birthday!" It wasn't true, but I thought it was funny. I was later informed that the client and the company were not amused. My compensation dipped a little that time.
The note isn't why I lost the job, though. Addiction caused that.
No, I didn't get addicted to something illegal like drugs. I became addicted to my watch.
I put a note in a front pocket of the winning pair that read, "I test drove these in a dirty Burger King bathroom. Happy birthday!" It wasn't true, but I thought it was funny. I was later informed that the client and the company were not amused. My compensation dipped a little that time.
The note isn't why I lost the job, though. Addiction caused that.
No, I didn't get addicted to something illegal like drugs. I became addicted to my watch.
Last summer my buddy Rob gave me his Samsung Galaxy Note 5 cell phone and his Gear S2 watch. He had upgraded his tech, and he wanted to see me live in this century - technology-wise. I was intrigued by the idea that the watch would count my steps each day.
The watch was set with a goal of 7,500 steps at first. The watch buzzed and sent me messages of congratulations when I reached that number of steps.
I have raised my daily goal to 15, 000 steps since then. Many days I walk more than that. Last Monday I walked nine miles.
Walking that many steps in a day is not hard to do. I walk the halls before school begins, I walk a bit between classes, and I walk 15 minutes during my lunch break. After the typical moving around the house, I usually hit my step goal sometime in the early evening.
It really is addictive. I put the watch on as soon as I'm dressed. I don't want to "waste" any steps by not having them counted. Since Daphne uses her FitBit for the same purpose, we walk together much more than we use to. That means we talk more, too.
I've walked approximately 50 miles in the past seven days. I now cover more miles in a week than I did when I was running. As you can imagine, I've lost some weight. The weight loss isn't drastic, but I'm not at "bloaty status" anymore. I can tell I feel better, and I have more energy than before. The company could tell, too.
I had thought about cheating the scale. I could wear a backpack loaded with books. That would get me to the right number, but I wouldn't have the same waistline. I wouldn't be able to pick the right pants anymore. Even if a job is as strange as tog assistance, I have pride in my work.
I sent honest pictures of my scale. After two of these honest pictures, I received a text with the web address for Panty Intelligence (that made me laugh) and the password MD3430.
Cartoon Ryan thanked me for my integrity and politely informed me that my fitment services were no longer needed. I thought his expression looked a little sad.
Yes, I lost the job and the extra income. I did buy a few pinball machine projects with the extra money I made. We were also able to extend a couple of our vacations by a day or two. The job didn't make big money, but it was fun money.
The only thing that bothers me is that I have become a bit of a pants snob. Not for myself; I don't ever want to spend that kind of money on clothes. But when I see a celebrity on TV or in the movies, I judge the fitment of their pants. For instance, I'm not so sure that Matt Damon's guy is doing such a great job.
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