As I walked out of the C/E stop at Twenty-second Street, I glanced at my watch. It was 12:15—late, but I didn’t care. If I really was meeting myself, then wouldn’t both of us be late? It was kind of a prerequisite for Gouldian authenticity. The day was sunny but humid, and I felt an unpleasant dampness creeping down my back. The forecast had called for rain and so I—awed supplicant of the Doppler 10,000—was wearing a black rain jacket despite the ample sunshine. Better to be safe than not-sweaty. The people on the wide sidewalks were an odd mix of leggy models and lushy businessmen. None of them carried umbrellas. Secure in my meteorological superiority, I raced from the subway and cut westward along Twenty-second Street, doing my best imitation of a car in a video racing game: tailgating dawdlers, applying an imaginary hand-brake for sudden turns. I was halfway across Ninth Avenue when my cell phone buzzed in my pocket.
1 New Text Message From: Cath
12:16 p.m.
Which David is this?
Great. Existentialism before lunch.
I cleared a pathway for myself under the shade of an apartment-building awning and typed while I walked.
The real one. Thanks for remembering.
I was waiting for the light at Tenth Avenue two minutes later when my pocket buzzed again.
1 New Text Message From: Cath
12:18 p.m.
Oh. never mind.
Not an auspicious start to the day, I thought as I neared the diner. One never wants to finish second when one is playing with oneself.
The Dolphin—acclaimed and frequented for its painfully hip retro design—is actually the oldest business on its block. To the left of it is the “discount” outlet of an Austrian furniture firm that doesn’t believe in couches priced under three thousand dollars—or pillows. To the right of it is a store specializing in nanny-busting video cameras that come encased in stuffed bears. I’ve often thought that the only reason the Dolphin stays afloat is because half of its customers have been going there for years and the other half think that it might be ironic but are too nervous to ask.
I felt a hiccup of panic in my chest as I pulled open the glass door. Nearly all of the diner’s pink vinyl booths were full, which relieved me slightly—I’d learned from spy movies that the hero is never shot when he meets his adversary in a public place—but it also increased the sense that I was being watched. I scanned the tops of the diners’ heads, looking for my own. Maybe this diner was a gateway to Bizarro World. Maybe I had been accidentally (and secretly) cast in a citywide remake of The Prince and the Pauper. Or maybe—please, God, maybe, I thought—this was all just a massive mistake.
“One for lunch?” I was at the counter now, and the largest, hairiest man I had ever seen was looking at me from behind a cash register that, underneath his meaty paws, looked like it was made by Fisher-Price. He had a name tag that read STAN, but I didn’t believe it. If I had an impersonator, then clearly so did Bluto, Popeye’s archnemesis.
“No…,” I stammered. “Not exactly. I’m meeting someone.”
“Ah,” said Stan/Bluto. “Your brother!”
Oh, Christ.
I started to say, “I don’t have a brother,” but instead I followed Bluto’s swollen, carpeted forearm to where it was pointing: the last booth against the far wall, where I was sitting, smiling, waving at me.
I stumbled a little, but caught myself.
“You OK?” Bluto looked genuinely concerned.
“Ah,” I said, but my mouth was dry. “Yeah.” My voice cracked. “It’s just that he’s…”
The me at the booth was shrugging now, laughing behind his eyes. My eyes.
“I know how it is!” Bluto laughed and clapped me on the shoulder so hard I thought I felt my collarbone buckle.
“You do?”
“Brothers!” He laughed again. “Sometimes they don’t get along so good!”
I swallowed hard and made my way down the aisle toward the booth.
Sitting across the table from yourself isn’t anything like looking in the mirror. It should be, but it isn’t. Have you ever tried to surprise yourself in a mirror? You can’t. It’s like trying to tickle yourself—no matter what you do, you always know what to expect. So looking in the mirror becomes, for better or worse, a con job. The best you can do is primp and preen, show off the most flattering views possible of yourself, showcase your finest expressions. We don’t look in the mirror to be surprised. We look in the mirror to be reassured.
Which is the exact opposite of sitting across the table from yourself in a crowded diner on a sticky Tuesday, the third day of July. A mirror mimics you. A doppelgänger, however, mocks you.
The person who was sitting across from me was me in every appreciable way except reality. We were the same height, the same weight. Had the same shade of brown hair, the same dark brown eyes. We had the same knotty fingers and the same hard chin. We even had the same beard bald spot—a thin line along the left jawbone. We had the same voice, the same vocabulary, the same wave. We even had the same handshake.
“Hello, you,” said my doppelgänger.
“Hello, me,” I said. And felt like passing out.
The doppelgänger reached across the table and pinched my arm, hard.
“Ow!” I yelled. “Why the fuck did you do that?”
“Because you were wondering just then if you were dreaming, and I thought I’d disabuse you of that notion in the quickest way possible.”
I rubbed my arm. It seemed that I was a bit of an asshole.
“So,” I said as calmly as possible. “What the fuck is this?”
“This?” he said theatrically. “This is lunch.”
I stared at the doppelgänger more closely then and started to make out the differences. For one, there was no way my ears were that big. There was also a hardness in his look that seemed unfamiliar to me. A cruel focus to his eyes, which were ringed by dark, purple circles of exhaustion. His stubble was quickly advancing to the far side of being a beard, and his hair was artfully collapsed and dribbled down the sides of his face in thick sideburns. His shirt was a flimsy white button-down with light blue stripes that looked cheap but was clearly obnoxiously expensive. Worst of all, I had a sneaking suspicion that underneath the table his pants were leather.
“Like what you see?” he asked. “Because I certainly don’t.”
“Nice,” I said. “You need a shave. And some sleep.”
“Thanks, Dad,” he said.
“And a breath mint wouldn’t hurt either. You smell like cigarettes. And rum.”
“Kahlúa, actually,” he said. “Disgusting, I know, but that’s who sponsored that party last night. An open bar is an open bar.”
“Who are you?”
“Isn’t it obvious that I’m you?” The doppelgänger picked his teeth with a fork.
“No, that’s ridiculous. I’m me. Where did you come from?”
“Jesus, you haven’t gotten laid in a long time, have you?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
The doppelgänger snorted and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.
“Hello?” I said, trying to mask the quaver in my voice. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Man, if you don’t know…”
A beehived waitress arrived tableside bearing an enormous plate.
“Hey hon, here you go,” she said, placing a platter of burger and fries in front of the doppelgänger. She turned to me. “Did you want to order anything? He said you wouldn’t mind if he ate first.” She paused. “Jesus, you two sure look alike!”
“Um,” I said.
The doppelgänger speared a french fry with a knife. “You should get something,” he said. “You look skinny.”
“So do you,” I said.
The doppelgänger winked. I turned to the waitress, who was slowly shifting her eyes from one version of me to the other.
“I’ll just have a Coke, please.”
When the waitress was gone, the doppelg
änger upturned a bottle of ketchup and splashed red all over his plate.
“If you wanted coke, David, you should have just asked me.”
I watched him lift the burger to his lips and take a sickeningly large bite. Bloody beef juices ran down his chin.
“Jesus,” I said. “Is that a hamburger?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, wiping undaintily at his mouth.
“B-but,” I stammered.
“What?”
“I’m a vegetarian!”
I realized I had yelled this when all of the tables around us fell silent, knives and forks clattering. Directly behind me, a baby started to wail. I couldn’t believe any of this was happening.
The doppelgänger looked around with amusement at the staring faces.
“It’s OK, everyone,” he said in an affected basso-profundo voice. “We’re just working out some differences between us.” He winked at me again. I wanted to punch him, but I bruise easily.
Slowly the diner began to hum again as people looked away from our table and back to their own. In the mirror behind the doppelgänger, I caught a glimpse of Bluto at the counter shaking his head sadly, mouthing the word “brothers” to himself.
“Look,” I said as calmly as I could manage. “Where did you come from?”
“From you,” he said, sounding bored. He hefted the dripping burger again and waved it at me. “You sure you don’t want a bite? It’s really good.”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
The doppelgänger shrugged. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
The waitress returned, dropped a glass of Coke and a straw in front of me, and stomped off in the direction of hungrier tables.
“What do you mean, from me?”
“Look, I don’t know how to explain it, buddy.” He paused as he chewed and swallowed. “All I know is that if you start creating a better life in your free time, someone’s got to hurry up and start living it.”
“You mean the diary? My diary?”
“Actually,” said the doppelgänger as he reached for my straw, “I think it’s more my diary.” He ripped the straw open with his teeth and positioned it over my Coke. “Do you mind?”
“Go ahead.”
“Thanks, chum.” He dive-bombed the straw into the glass and drank half of its contents in one long pull. “Ahhh,” he said. And belched.
“This can’t be happening,” I said.
“Oh, but it is.” He sat back and smiled smugly. “How’s Amy, by the way?”
I felt my blood boil. “Shut up about Amy.”
“Why? You certainly have.”
“Look, what do you want?”
The doppelgänger crossed his arms behind his head. “Oh, lots of things. Money, power, respect. Clubs to stay open past four a.m. Stalls with more privacy at the Dark Room. A paying DJ gig. Nothing that you can really offer me, though.” He gestured at the windows facing the street. “Looks like it’s gonna get nasty out there.”
He was right. The street—so sunny when I had arrived—had grown dark and ominous. It was not yet one p.m., but it looked like the tail end of a winter evening.
“Good thing you brought a jacket, David.” He grinned. “That’s the thing about you that I really envy, you know? You’re so responsible.”
“I wish you’d just leave me alone,” I said quietly.
The doppelgänger ignored me and kept talking. “You know? Like you’re so proud of the fact that you always ‘just say no’—like they give an award out for being boring! Or how you’ve had the same girlfriend since college and never once thought about cheating on her or even trying something new! That’s ridiculous! How can you know you’re happy with the prize package if you’ve never even tried for door number two?”
“And what you do is better?” I tried to reign in my temper. “You go out all night, every night? You do whatever drugs exist? You have no purpose, no job, no friends?”
He laughed. “I’m not perfect either, David. But at least the mistakes I make are intentional. Plus, you have to admit I’m having a lot more fun than you are.”
I had nothing to say to that.
“Besides, I’m not doing anything that you wouldn’t do. Believe me.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because I’m you!”
“You’re not,” I said, but I didn’t even believe myself.
“I’m you, David. Except I’m the you who does all the things you’re too scared to be doing. Like going out. And taking chances. And fucking Cath Kennedy.”
“Jesus!” I yelled again. “You’re disgusting.”
“Am I?”
“Leave her out of this,” I said. “She’s just a kid.”
“Oh yeah,” he said, his voice harsh and ugly. “Like you know her all that well.”
“And you do?”
“Who do you think she called last night after you bailed on her, David? Who do you think she spent the night with?”
I felt nauseous and sank backward in my seat.
“She likes you fine, David. She told me so. But she wants me.”
I rubbed my face. Steadied myself on the table. Outside, the street was lit up by a strobe of lightning. People oohed, and the baby behind me resumed shrieking.
“Maybe you should stick to girls on the Internet—or in Europe.”
“Fuck you,” I said, and slowly stood up.
“You leaving?”
“I’m going to the bathroom. Eat your fucking burger. When I get back, we’re going to settle this. Enough is enough.”
The doppelgänger laughed and resumed eating. I walked as quickly as I could to the bathroom and locked the door behind me.
When I was a kid growing up in Providence, the upstairs bathroom had been my sanctuary: the one place in my liberal household that had a lock on the door. When I was sad or upset or just seeking some privacy, I would rush into the bathroom with a comic book or a magazine, twist the lock, and spend an hour or so sitting on the floor, leaning against the bathtub, reading. Recharging. This bathroom, however, offered no such relief. It was dank, unair-conditioned, and smelled like Pine-Sol. Half of the ceiling was missing, and pipes and bright pink insulation dangled low above my head. There were fruit flies buzzing lazily around the trash can, which was piled high with discarded towels. I leaned forward against the white sink, ran some cold water, and splashed my face. I looked in the streaky mirror and was half surprised to recognize myself in it. The old me. The real me.
I let the water drip off of my face as my heart throbbed a Rush-style drum solo in my chest. I hated confrontation. I hated fights of any kind—hell, polite disagreements in movies made me uncomfortable. And now I had this in my life? A Freudian breakdown over burgers? What were the possible outcomes of an episode like this? Would I have to arm-wrestle myself for my sanity? Had I lost some sort of galactic bet?
I just wanted to go home.
But the home I had wasn’t the one I was imagining. I had three sets of locks on the door of my apartment, but they weren’t doing a very good job of keeping me in or the world out. Up until six weeks ago, I had had stability. A life. A partner. But I had frittered it all away. And now I was left with…what? A vibrant answering machine, an uncommunicative pigeon in a planter, and a psychotic id rampaging around the city seducing twenty-two-year-olds with my face?
Hell, no.
I reached for a paper towel and rubbed my forehead dry. I needed to put a stop to this. I needed to be the strong one. I glanced in the mirror and almost surprised myself with how tough I looked. Almost.
I took a deep breath, unlatched the door, and crossed the room to the table in long, determined strides.
“Listen,” I said as I slid into the seat. “You can’t…” I stopped.
The other side of the booth was empty. I exhaled and sat back. Where could he have gone? I looked around the diner and didn’t spot him. I glanced outside but the rain was pouring down in great diagonal sheets of gray, obscuring everything.
It was then I spied the note on the table. In my own handwriting it said: “Thanks for lunch, pal. Don’t get in my way. Oh, and try to stay dry!”
I reached frantically around the bench and then under the table.
The bastard had stolen my rain jacket.
And then my heart leapt up to my throat.
My wallet had been in that jacket.
Fuuuuuck.
Chapter Eight: The Real One
[from http://users.livejournal.com
/˜thewronggirl87]
Time: 2:19 p.m.
Mood: Miserable :’(
Music: Death Cab for Cutie, “Coney Island”
I think this is the saddest song I have which is just awesome because this is the saddest I’ve ever been. ::cries::
If I ever have a child I’m never going to yell. Or scream. Or hurt. Because what’s the point?
All I did was words and all they said to me was words–so I guess we’re even. But I wrote something that tried to be beautiful. ::still crying:: And all they did was try to hurt me.
When my mom yells her voice gets all scratchy and high like a chipmunk record and she throws her hands up over and over like ‘how could you have done this to me’ like she’s so great and perfect and flawless (ha!). And when dad got home from work he started too. He’s so big that when he yells he’s scary–this vein in his forehead bulges out like he’s gonna have a heart attack and he turns purple like the Hulk (no wait the Hulk was green, his pants were purple !!–::laughs a little then keeps crying:: )
Tonight I was supposed to be seeing Senses Fail and My Chemical Romance in SLC but now I’m not. Apparently now I’m not doing anything except sitting here for a long long time. I HATE THEM SO MUCH!!!
Miss Misery Page 9
