My Doppelgangers

My Doppelgangers

You may love them; you may hate them but everyone has at least one doppelganger. If you don’t believe me, ask yourself, “How many times has a complete stranger said you look exactly like someone they know?”

I’ve never met Jim Kinzie, Donald Spenser, Gordon Schmidt, or Florence Cooper but I must look like them. I understand the resemblance to Jim, Don, and Gordon and I really don’t care to meet them face-to-face, but I’m dying to meet Flo. I have a full beard and mustache, and I’ve been told I look like Ernest Hemmingway. Poor lady; she must have a face full of fur and looks like Hemmingway’s doppelganger, too.

Okay, okay. If a doppelganger is someone who looks like you, what do you call a person who was born on the same day, at the same time, at the same hospital, with the exact same voice and sense of humor as you? A twin of course; but he is completely unrelated. I called him Mike. The similarities between Mike and I go beyond those traits. We even dated the same girls in high school and we were often mistaken for the other by people on the telephone.

However, there was one telltale difference between us. Mike was a nice guy, while I had a streak of mischief a mile wide. While Mike was too kind to talk about our resemblances, I embraced the similarities. I made prank phone calls where I spread malicious rumors under the guise of being Mike, or I called the algebra teacher in the middle of the night to ask Mr. Mitchell about his wife’s periodic table. Naturally, Mitchell assumed Mike was the caller - poor Mike. He spent more time in the Vice Principal’s office than any other member of our freshman class.

The following year Mike went to another school.

#

The first time I was mistaken as a doppelganger, I sat in an airport bar in Philadelphia. “What’s your name?” slurred the drunk.

I emitted an indignant sigh and did my best to ignore the lout’s aggressive tone.

“You’re Bob aren’t you?”

Still, I offered no response.

“You wanna get your ass kicked?” roiled the drunk.

“No. All I want is to have my beer, in peace.”

“Are you too good to talk to me?”

“Look, I don’t want any trouble.”

The drunk stood within slobbering distance of my left cheek. “Yeah, cause you know you’re gonna get your butt kicked if I hear one single peep from you.”

Without forethought I chirped, “Peep.”

The fight was on. The boozehound swung at me with crippling force, but he missed and fell face-down on the floor. The irony of the episode was the drunk was on his feet before the barkeep had a fresh beer in front of the assailants stool.

The server looked me dead in the eyes and grumbled, “Bob, you gotta get out of here . . . and don’t come back!”

I insisted, “But I’m not Bob.” It didn’t matter. I went out the back door as the Deputy Sheriff came in the front.

The second time I was accosted by one of my doppelganger’s enemies was after I heard the words, “You remind me of Steve. He’s my old boss and me fired we last week. Steve, you’re gonna regret that move.” My latest foe swung at me, missed, and hit the floor. Just like the first time, I was ejected from the roadhouse; this time insisting my name wasn’t Steve.

The third time I was mistaken for my doppelganger I sat quietly watching a ball game on the television and enjoying a beer when approached by a gargantuan of a drunk who wants to make an issue of someone I must look like. “Excuse me. Aren’t you Gary?”

I muttered, “No.”

He took a gulp of beer as he sized me up. “Are you sure you’re not Gary?”

“I think I’d know if I were Gary.”

“Gary is my brother-in-law. He’s an aloof airplane pilot. I don’t like Gary. He’s an asshole.”

“Nope, still not Gary.”

“You might say, ‘I hate Gary.’ I think you’re a coward and too afraid to admit you’re him.”

The drunk got testy as I approached my tenth-level of anger. “I’m sorry you’ve mistaken me for Gary.”

The well-oiled man tipped his mug a little too high and a torrent of beer flowed down his chin onto his shirt. “Well, I’m still gonna kick your ass.”

I ignored the drunk, which enraged him further.

“Outside! Let’s go!”

I growled at him, so all could hear. “Are you sure you’re going to kick my ass?”

“Damned square!”

I took a sip of my beer as I stared him up and down. “Are you really sure you want to fight?”

My latest enemy took off his jacket and placed it on the back of his barstool. Yeah, let’s go.”

“Okay, okay. You’re a pretty big guy.” In two mighty gulps I shot-gunned my beer. “It’s quite obvious I don’t stand a chance against you, but before you kick my ass; would you mind if I have another beer?”

The drunk placed a confused frown on his face. “Nah. Knock yourself out.”

“Tomorrow morning when I go to work, people will want to know what happened. When I explain I’d like to say I got beat-up when I was drunk. I mean let me save face; just a little bit. So, if you don’t mind I’d like another beer before we fight.

His face transformed from angry determination to abject confusion. In a soft voice he said, “I suppose you can do that.”

I lifted my hand to get the bartenders attention. “Another beer, please.” I looked at my potential assailant. “And give this man another one of whatever he’s drinking.”

“He’s not gonna buy me a drink,” shouted the Goliath. He lowered his head and thundered, “If I’m gonna kick his ass, I might as well buy him a drink, first.”

For the next three hours we rode barstools and talked about life. That night I didn’t have to pay for one drink.

The next morning my wife shook my shoulder to wake me. “Who’s the big guy asleep on our couch.”

“Oh, that’s Ed. He’s my newest best friend who I met last night.”