Theresa Lewis

I have often heard it said that everyone has a person out there who looks exactly like them, although not related.

One morning I decided to take the bus to work instead of my car. I walked up to the corner to wait for the bus. When I got to the corner, I saw my younger brother waiting also. He sat perched on the back of the park bench with his feet on the seat. I thought it was horribly disrespectful of him. Those benches were placed there for the elderly to wait for their buses in comfort. They were certainly not meant for some young whippersnapper to put his feet on so the elderly end up sitting in street dirt and ruining their clothes.

I greeted my brother with a smile and asked him where he was going. I pointed out his disrespectful behaviour and told him to either stand up, or to sit properly on the bench. All I got in response was a mischievous smile from him. He didn’t budge. I was annoyed and told him to stop being such a pain in the butt and get his dirty boots off the seat. He just continued to smile at me.

As soon as our bus arrived, he got off the back of the bench in order to get on the bus. When he stood up, he was at least six feet tall. My brother is only five feet three inches tall. I was shocked. The man had the same birthmark in the same place on his cheek as my brother did. He parted his hair in the middle just like my brother did. He had the same mischievous smile that my brother had.

You guessed it; I waited for the next bus. I later found out that this young man was French and couldn’t speak any English at all. To make matters worse, he worked at the garage across the street from where I worked and he dined at the same restaurant as I did. It was eerie seeing him so often after that. When he would see me, all he would do was smile and it reminded me of how stupid I felt.

Another incident happened one day when I was taking the train home after work. In the same car as I was, there was a middle aged man reading the evening newspaper. He looked exactly like my dad. My dad had his own style of dressing. He always wore a suit, a white shirt with a tie and a fedora. When the weather was rainy and cool, he donned a beige raincoat. He wore his fedora with style, a little tilted to the left and the front of the brim was always turned down. He always looked classy in the midst of other males who dressed more casually.

Even though he had been in my car on the train from where I got on, I hadn’t noticed him until it was almost time to get off. I stood up and when we were getting close to my stop, so did he. I caught his eye so I waved to him. I had assumed that he was coming to pay me an unexpected visit. The closer he got, the more I realized that he was a good foot taller than my dad. A wave of horror swept over me. I wondered what that man must have thought of me. I did my best to get off first so I could get as far away from the station as possible. I made my way into a store close by and waited until I could see the man get into his car and drive away.

He looked exactly like my dad. How could I ever have been able to explain that to a total stranger? I thought you were my father. Yeah, right. The only other explanation that would have made more sense was that I was trying to pick up some old fellow. Either way, I sure was glad I wasn’t trapped into having to say, or do anything at all.

My worst experience of mistaken identity happened one fine summer day. It was an ideal summer day. The air was warm and dry and everything seemed right in the universe. It was a work day and I had just finished lunch at a restaurant and was walking the three blocks back to work.

A car was slowing down as the driver tried to keep pace with my walking. He tooted his horn to get my attention. I looked over and there was my friend Jim in his two tone beige Chevy. I waved and he called me over. I opened his passenger door and noticed a pile of Union Carbide papers on the passenger seat. I said hello and reached in and gathered up all his papers and tossed them willy-nilly into the back seat and plunked myself down beside Jim. Just as I sat down, the street light changed to red. I was only two short blocks from work. I asked him why he had Union Carbide papers in his car when I knew that Jim had worked for Pioneer for many years. The man smiled and said he had never worked for Pioneer. I laughed and asked him when he changed jobs. He swore he had been working as a sales rep for Union Carbide for over twenty years. I stared at him and suddenly realized that I didn’t know this man from a hole in the ground. I started to shake. I tried to explain, but the more I said, the more pathetic it sounded. I told him I had made a terrible mistake. He laughed and took the green light. He asked me where I wanted to go and I told him to stop where he was and let me out. He did, thank God.

On two rubber legs, I made my way across the street to the safety of my office. I told no one of my experience because I felt like such a fool, a lucky fool, but a fool nonetheless.

Now, I never acknowledge a driver in a car who may look like a friend. If they can address me by name, I may look back for a moment, give a little wave then go on my way.

There was one exception to my self-imposed rule. I had to go to the bank one night at a busy shopping center. My husband, a dark skinned man, owned a dark green Intrepid. He had driven me to the bank and let me out at the main door to the mall. I told him I would only be in there a couple of minutes. Common sense would say that he should stay put until I came out because if he went to park somewhere else, I wouldn’t know where to look for him in that massive parking lot.

Yeah, well common sense and my husband were mortal enemies most of the time. Still, I had no doubt that he would still be there when I came out.

It was winter. It was darn cold and dark that night with a biting wind, making eyes tear. I was lucky because there was no one ahead of me in the bank and I was able to do my transaction within a few seconds. As soon as I was done, I went outside and ran up to our car that was parked in exactly the same spot as when my husband let me out.

I yanked on the door handle to open my door, but the fool had locked it while I was in the bank. I ripped my fingernails off on my right hand. Man, was I ever pissed off. I waited a moment for him to unlock the door, but when he didn’t, I pounded relentlessly on the window and shouted for him to open the damn door. Still, he didn’t unlock it. I also had to pee and the cold wind was making my situation more urgent. I didn’t have time for this nonsense, especially in my predicament and on a nasty night such as that was.

I didn’t care who heard me at that time. I was in agony and bellowed out that I had to pee like a race horse and he better open the damned door immediately.

I looked in and saw my husband pressed against the driver’s door and crunched down with his hands up like he was trying to protect his face from something. I screamed a few mortal obscenities at him and even threatened to beat the snot out of him if he finally decided to open the door.

The whole time during this scenario, my blood pressure was mounting to a point of violence and some idiot kept honking his horn. Finally, exasperated with the annoying honking, I bellowed at that driver too. The horn honking driver further over in the parking lot got out of his car. I realized that the honker was my husband. I looked back at the man I had been threatening, then back at my husband. Oh, crap! Not again. I ran away and jumped into our car and laughed until I cried.

The dark skinned man in the other dark car must have thought I was a wild woman who wanted to get in his car and to relieve myself. He was genuinely scared. I wonder what he went home and told his wife that night.

The End