Confrontation with my Doppelganger, Finally

Finally, I was back in the restaurant, sitting across from my doppelgänger, ready for our confrontation. As I was about to speak to him though, I heard:

Last week…

A voice above us started to tell the audience everything that had happened before. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take. Matty was at another table with two women in black dresses and black pleather boots. I called over to him.

“You know the deal, man,” he said. “A TV show can kill at least 10 minutes with this recap, and then with another commercial, they maybe only need thirty minutes of material for this hour-long show.”

I looked across at Me Jr.

“I don’t mean any disrespect, but you must understand that this situation is untenable.”

“Why is it whenever someone says ‘I don’t mean any disrespect,’ they’re about to say something disrespectful?”

“Fine, I mean plenty of disrespect, this situation is untenable. Does that make you happy?”

“You’re upset about the Cornish pasty thing, aren’t you?”

“It was uncouth, don’t you agree?”

“You know what, you’re a fucking piece of shit!”

The other patrons in the dining room stopped their meals and looked at us.

“That was a non sequitur I think. Why would you say that?”

“You’re garbage. And you know what? Everyone knows you’re designer shit is fake!”

“What?”

I turned to Matty, and he pointed down to his shirt, indicating that I should look at mine. My tailored white dress shirt that I’d gotten at Roland Sadler’s on Savile Row had been replaced by this white, form-fitting T-shirt with “Givenchy” splashed across it. I was ready for him this time though.

“Garçon!”

A waiter off near the bar flirting with the bartender heard my call, and nodded back to me.

“Matty, I suddenly wish to leave your island.”

“I knew you couldn’t manage this.”

The waiter returned with a bespoke suit I had had Mads stash in the coat check the day before. What neither Matty nor the producers knew, was that I could communicate with Mads from the McMansion via carrier pigeon: he is a Nobel prize winning ornithologist after all.

And just like the Nobel Prize winning ornithologist that he is, Mads stormed in on his ostrich Gucci, causing people to flee in excitement. Undaunted though, my doppelgänger ate his monk fish osso bucco as I changed into my suit and Mads set Gucci at a canter over to our table and ate a piece of our bread.

“I’m going to join Matty with his women. I trust you can take it from here?”

“Godspeed my good friend, and many thanks.”

He saluted me with his first two fingers, and steered Gucci in the direction of Matty’s table.

I unbuttoned the coat I had just buttoned, and sat back down across from Me Jr. When I went to speak though, I was stopped. I heard Matty clear his throat.

“What now?”

“You can’t pull something like that and not expect a commercial break after.”

* * *

“Before you make any hasty decisions,” my doppelgänger said, “why don’t I tell you about myself?”

“By all means.”

“I’m from a small town called Brockfield in the western portion of this state. My father was a police officer, my mother a school teacher, both now retired. I have a brother. I joined the army in 1988. In the Gulf War, a scud missile landed near my platoon, and the blast gave me a head injury that caused me to have amnesia for twenty years, at which time I woke up in a mosque in Qom, Iran.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“This.”

He took a VHS cassette out of his satchel and pushed it across the table from me. It was The Golden Horse, by Baraz Golabi-derakht.

“As a foremost expert on Iranian cinema here in the US, I imagine you know what that is?”

“Winner of the Oscar for best foreign language film. One of the greatest pieces of Iranian cinema ever made. What does it have to do with you?”

“I am Baraz Golabi-derakht.”

“But I met Baraz in 2003, while Mama’s Toshi Kalam was screening at Coolidge Corner.”

“Exactly. I don’t remember it, but I have the picture.”

He passed it across. There I was, shaking his hand. How did I not see it before? He was me with dark sunglasses, a thick mustache, and hair that he’d grown out and left messy on his head; but his resemblance to me was striking.

“So you see? I need your help to piece together the last twenty years of my life.”

“But this doesn’t explain coming to my apartment, drinking my latte, and splitting; or the Cornish pasty incident.”

“Oh that, that was mere tomfoolery, I apologize.”

“You also just called me a piece of shit.”

“Yes, I don’t know what came over me. I guess the Reality Show thing. So you think you can help me?”

Before I had a chance to respond, two large men in white, short-sleeved jump suits came to our table.

“Um, sir, we’ve come to collect you.”

“Ah yes.” He stood, buttoned his coat, and slipped on his leather gloves. “We’ll be in touch.”

He then put on his top hat, and the two men stood on either side of him as the three of them walked out of the restaurant, and into the coach of a waiting horse-drawn carriage outside.

“Damn, I guess I’m on the hook for another one of his meals.”

“It’s okay,” Matty said, “the producers will handle it. Besides, did you really think you were going Dutch to your confrontation with your doppelgänger?”

“You’re right, this whole Reality TV thing has removed any sense of decency and decorum I may have had. Garçon, can you bring me the bill?”