I’m sitting on a bench in the park, watching the pigeons, when this guy in a yellow jersey rides up on a bike. He stops with the sun behind him. I can’t see his face, but he sure has big ears.

“Well,” he says, “There you are, finally.”

I give him a look - you know, like you give strange guys in funny shirts who accost you in the park. “So who are you, and whaddaya want,” I inquire, in a less than welcoming tone.

“What I want is to talk to you,” he said. “As far as who I am - with George Burns’ head and Lance Armstrong’s body, who do you think I might be?” He moved a bit and, sure enough ... it was a strange sight, let me tell you.

“I’m feeling gullible today,” I said, “so with the mask and all, I figure you must be...”

“Shhh, no names,” he says. “Let’s keep it informal. By the way, if you don’t cash that rebate check from Canon that you’ve got in your wallet, it’s gonna expire. Be a shame to lose a hundred bucks.”

I give him the look again. “Whaddaya mean? What check? What is this?”

“Oh man,” says the guy, “you are forgetful, aren’t you? Remember that camera you bought back just before the winter holidays?”

“Holy shit!” I remember the check.

“Why do they always say that,” he remarks. “And there’s that hole in your right pocket. It gets much bigger, you’re going to start losing the knife, Space pen, flashlight and little tin of medication.”

“Listen, sport,” I say, “You know that much about me, you know I’m about to knock you off that bike and kick your ass!” (Like this guy couldn’t kick mine all the way to the curb if he wanted to - but, hey, you’ve gotta keep up the front. These people can sense weakness.)

“Oh, stop,” he says. “There’s no reason to get hostile. I’m here to ask a favor, not mug you - and I know what else you’re thinking, and you’re not that cute. OK, look. I don’t usually do this, but you know that habit you’ve got of writing on the palm of your hand?”

Instinctively I glance at my hand, and there are the three letters - all in caps. Now you’ve gotta believe, I’m not senile and I didn’t write them there. Why would I write that on my hand anyway? In Old English script, especially. The guy, He, whoever, gets off the bike and sits down beside me on the bench. He starts throwing popcorn to the pigeons.

“I know it’s not supposed to be good for them,” he says, “but grain’s grain, after all, and I’ve gotta say popcorn was one of My better ideas.”

The pigeons have formed a line, and are taking turns picking up popcorn, bowing to the guy, and walking off with it in their beaks. I glance at my hand again. Nothing there.

I’m wondering what the - well, anyway, I’m wondering what’s next, when He - I guess He is pretty appropriate - says, “You like to blog, don’t you?”

I must look pretty odd, because He says, “What? Like I’ve been doing nothing for the past few billion years? You think you’re the only ones who blog? With millions of inhabited planets in just this galaxy? Trust Me...”

By now, I trust Him. I’m not believing any of this, really, but I don’t have much choice about the trust. It’s either that or run screaming from the park, and I’m not all that sure I could if I tried. About then I notice that the bike has become a shopping cart full of junk, and there’s a homeless guy sitting next to me. The pigeons are gone, and the homeless guy is hand-rolling a smoke.

“I’d rather keep it low-key,” He says, “now that I’ve made my point. Too much fancy stuff upsets the space-time continuum, or something like that.”

“Something like that,” I say.

“Yeah, I didn’t give it a lot of thought in the beginning. Then Einstein comes along with that General Theory, and all of a sudden it had to start making sense. I decided to just go with the flow, and I never did get it all straight. There are still a few details down at the quantum level...”

His voice trails off and He gets a dreamy look. I start wondering if the bench is going to dissolve, or something.

“But never mind about all that.” He’s back with me now. “There are a few things I’d like you to tell folks. They won’t believe it’s from Me, of course, but according to the rules I need to put the word out again before I do any smiting - and I’m definitely in the mood for some smiting.”

This is not making me feel secure. I sort of squeak, “Smiting?”

“Yeah, well, don’t worry about that. You’ll be OK, probably. Can’t say for sure. Free will, y’know. Heisenberg, too, come to that. But I’m more selective than I used to be, smiting. Sodom and Gomorrah was a mistake. I thought I needed to make a point. All those Others, y’know - make My mark, kinda let ‘em know about the new Sheriff, if you get My drift. No strange gods, and all that.

“Then all of a sudden over the next couple of thousand years they all abscond. ‘Ha,’ Vishnu says, ‘You want ‘em, You got ‘em Big Boy! I hear there’s an opening in the Betelgeuse system,’ and POOF, It’s outta here.

“I think it was the industrial revolution that turned the last of Them off - either that or the Einstein thing. Left Me holding the entire bag. Who knew? I figured, hey, they were in the trees a couple million years ago, how much trouble can they cause? Let me tell you, Bud, all-knowing is one thing, but that free will is ... Well, never mind. You have questions.”

“Good Lord,” I say, “I can’t imagine where to start!”

“Why not In The Beginning,” he says.

“Ah. OK. Did You ... I mean all of you ... I mean ... why?”

“Oh no, not Us,” He says. “We came along with the Universe, and We have no more idea than you about what came before that. There are theories. Never know, probably. Some good people working on it, but We can’t seem to get past the Beginning in one direction, and when We go in the other We eventually end up back at the Beginning. Some things are just out of Our Realm. Tell you what, though, there’s gotta be some heavy hitters on the other side. We think it may be some sort of aquarium - you know, get it all set up and see how things work out. No One’s sure. And it all happened so quickly! Let me tell you, for a couple of picoseconds there, it was all catch up!