We were stopped by a stranger near the beginning of the year, B. and I, only to be informed with enthusiasm that I was a dead-ringer for the “famous French horn player” he admired. Upon smartphone search-engine-ing this supposed doppelgänger and horn-master turned out to be an even less erotic object of comparison than you might suspect. I felt nauseated by association; I look like him?
That evening five sprits of physical comparisons past— Cary Grant, young Elvis, Morrissey, Benedict Cumberbatch, and Jarvis Cocker— appeared to me in a fever dream. They scribed a pentagram in goat’s blood and glitter on the kitchen floor and ushered me into the center where I was to be reborn anew. I’d grown chunkier than them, they said flatly, but I was no French horner. They shimmered away. I’ve lost a few pounds since then, during this plague year.
In front of the coffee shop this week, a fellow I’ve known for a decade congratulated me on the nice write-up about the new lithography I’d be teaching at the local arts center. What lithography class? The one that earned my picture on the cover page of the Arts section, or theirs, since this was clearly a new twin, or someone like us. I opened my phone and found the story. I like this new doppelgänger. He appears a few years younger than me, with a better facial hair and abdominal muscles. He seems admirably jaunty. I wonder, when I look at his gleaming teeth on the cover of the Arts section, whether my mother might like him better yet than me, but decide no, she would find his grin too mischievous.
Care to Share?
Consider posting a note of comment on this item:
8 A.M. »