Doppelganger

Doppelganger

I have always heard that everyone has a doppelganger, that is someone who looks just like them, someone who would be mistaken for you if seen by someone who knew you well. However I had never thought of it as a flipped idea, that is, that I was the doppelganger of someone else. I guess that is normal, since people in general think in terms of the things around them, not in terms of the things they are around.

I realized that I was a doppelganger as I emerged from the White Oak Library with the James Patterson and Gregg Hurwitz books that I had put on hold and the Harlan Coben, James Grippando, and Jeffery Deaver books that I had opportunistically found on the New Books shelves. Two women with a little girl in tow stared at me as I got into my car, and continued to stare at me as I fastened my seat belt. Then they approached my car, coming up to my passenger side window, so I lowered the window to see what they wanted.

“I’m sorry, I guess you are wondering why we were staring at you,” the older one said as she stood in the sweltering 90 degree summer heat.

“Yes. I was trying to figure out where I knew you from,” I replied.

“Well, you look just like my father. It was like seeing a ghost, “she said. “My daughter agrees.”

The daughter drew closer to the car window and peered in. “Oh, my! I think I’m going to cry. You look just like Grandpa,” she said, covering her mouth with her hand, her mouth agape in amazement.

Laughing, I said “Well, I am sure he was a handsome, all around good fellow, and a pleasure to be around.”

“Yes, he was,” she responded, the two of them now laughing and feeling comfortable.

A couple of minutes of conversation later, I knew his name, their names and that his and their homes were in Burtonsville, just a few miles up Rt 29 from the library.

They went into the library, and I pulled out of the library parking lot, stopping at the red light and waiting for a green light before turning right onto New Hampshire Avenue.

Later that day, after a cold Yuengling beer, I was thinking about the odds of having a doppelganger so close to where I lived. “Pretty astronomical,” I thought.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I got in my car and drove to Burtonsville to look around the habitat of my doppelganger, like one does when walking the streets of their ancestors. It gives one pause to consider the “I wonders” and “What ifs” of life.

Burtonsville is not very large and took very little time to look around, but they had a restaurant that I knew had been around for over 50 years, so I went inside. I ordered a beer and fries that would justify my occupying a booth, and settled in, nursing my beer and allowing my mind to wander freely.

An older man with longish but not ponytail length gray hair came out from the kitchen area and stared at me. He went back into the kitchen area, and returned moments later carrying a brown paper box tied with string.

He sat down across from me. “Where the hell have you been? It’s been so long since I seen you, I thought you might be dead or something. Anyway, I kept your box for you like you asked. Here it is,” he said, sliding the box across the table to me. “ I’m glad to get it off my hands.”

“I think…” starting to say that he had made a mistake. But he interrupted me, “Can’t talk now, got food on the grill. Don’t be such a stranger,” he said as he disappeared back into the kitchen.

I examined the box. No writing, no postage marks, nothing to suggest what was inside. I shook it. Something definitely was inside, but it didn’t tinkle, or clang, or make any defining noise.

Since the cook clearly thought he was returning the box to my doppelganger, who was deceased, I rationalized taking the box home with me.

At home, demonstrating the maturity of delaying gratification, I poured myself a Laphroaig scotch with a touch of water before settling in to open the box.

Using my letter opener to pop the corners of the brown paper wrapping where Scotch tape secured it, I slowly opened the box.

Inside the box secured by rubber bands, were dozens of packets of used twenty dollar bills. I’m no expert, but there were no recurring serial numbers, so they appeared genuine and not counterfeit. I counted the bills twice, and determined that there was $37,360 of $20s in the box.

Not mine, I knew, never considering that I had any claim to the money.

I rewrapped the package, but this time I put “Marjorie”, my doppelganger’s daughter’s name, on it with a note saying, “I believe this belongs to you.” I googled her address, entered it into WAZE for driving directions, and delivered it to her home. Taking my guidance from Amazon Prime deliveries, I put the package in front of her door, rang the doorbell and retreated.

Marjorie got to the door in time to see me departing. She swore to her family that her deceased father had known they were having financial difficulties and had brought them the money. She proved it by showing them the video of the delivery on her doorbell camera.