I find I’m often mistaken for someone else, and I don’t really know why. I don’t think I look overly distinctive or overly bland. Maybe that’s just it - I’m in the middle somewhere. But the middle is a dangerous place to be.
Like the time I was in a bookstore, just perusing magazines. This particular bookstore has their periodicals on racks that cover one long wall, with benches semi-conveniently located behind each rack. “Semi” because it’s nice to grab a magazine and then sit right down to read it, but while you’re looking, the benches can make things a little crowded.
That’s what I was thinking about when, still browsing the racks, I felt a light touch in the center of my back. “Oh,” I thought, “someone must be walking behind me and they accidentally brushed against me.” I kept browsing.
Then I felt it again. It was more persistent this time, and - I had to admit to myself - it was a nose. The tip of a nose, gently burrowing into my back. I stepped forward as much as I could, but the nose moved with me. This seemed wrong.
I took another furtive glance at the couple. The woman was pointing at me and her bulky male companion was looking my way. She looked worried, and he looked angry and increasingly menacing by the second.
My next thought was, “This must be one of my friends messing with me.” But this was disproven when I glanced over my shoulder and saw a small woman, her head down, basically using my torso as her headrest. I stepped off to the side and lost her. If she was hitting on me, it seemed very forward - especially since the bookstore had a café. Couldn’t she just ask me if I wanted to get a cup of coffee?
I grabbed a magazine and took a few steps back behind the benches. I saw the woman again, but now she was standing next to a guy who looked like me - except he had many more muscles, and they were bulging. Then I realized - this guy (obviously the woman’s boyfriend or husband) was wearing a grey baseball cap, black t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers - and I was wearing the same outfit. We both also had black hair and were about the same height. Uh oh.
I took another furtive glance at the couple. The woman was pointing at me and her bulky male companion was looking my way. Her lips were moving quickly. She looked worried, and he looked angry and increasingly more menacing by the second. And he seemed to be balling up his fists. “That's what people do before they punch you,” I thought wisely.
I don’t need a robot screaming “danger” followed by my full name to know when trouble is afoot. I vamoosed. Hightailed it. Took off. Skeedaddled. The last thing I need on my permanent record is a bookstore beating - especially if it comes from my musclebound double.
