Die Doppelgänger
By
Elizabeth Kirwin
Five to One
Baby
One and five
No one here
Gets out alive
- Jim Morrison, The Doors
Dear Mitty:
Sam Snatch stopped by the house the other day and left these for you. He said you were gonna need these clean, new undies in prison, ‘cause you’re an old school alcoholic and you sometimes shit yourself.
Sam was embarrassed saying this, but since you haven’t given his mom a dime since March, they just call you “Shitty” over there.
Anyways, Sam Snatch asked me to throw these clean underwear over the back fence because his mom won’t let him visit you at your new home. Sam’s mom says there’s nothing but whores and illegal drugs all over the place.
This kid really loves you. He can’t be a day over 15. He’s got the cutest curls in his dark hair.
Sam Snatch said he’s had just about enough of the whores, hard drugs and liquor. He did mention he would come visit you in prison.
P.S. Sam Snatch said he knows you use his Facebook profile to pick up women. Not funny.
I didn’t sign the letter because I thought that might be unwise. For all I knew, I could be dealing with far more than an old school alcoholic. This interaction smacked of the amateur criminal element that has always lurked in this little town.
After lobbing the underwear bomb over the fence with this hastily hand-written note, I felt better. Sam left. He was pretty shook up. I did what I could to help the kid, but I have to admit, I sure am glad I didn’t have any kids of my own. What a pain in the ass to have to relive adolescence through your children.
I don’t need it.
I let a few hours go by, then out of curiosity, I decided to go to the White Horse Pugs for happy hour and find out more about this Mitty. Surely someone in town would know what’s up. Everyone at the bar just loved to throw shade on people here in town after a few shots and beers.
I parked in the spot right in front of the door. The White Horse Pugs certainly was an odd name for a Public House. Some drunk idiot crossed out Public House and Shortened it to Pugs. The name just stuck like wet shit to cement.
The beer and shots were cheap, the parking was ample, and there was a thru road that skirted the main highway, making for an easy escape.
When I rolled up into the parking lot, I saw a slight, dark haired woman with an eye patch on who was arguing with a probation officer. The probation officer had a cup in her hand, and the dark-haired woman was screaming at the top of her lungs: “No! No! No! No! No Way!
To emphasize her point with the probation officer she laid right on the asphalt parking lot and screamed “No! No! No!” some more.
I was horrified and fascinated all at once. Why couldn’t I get away with this sort of behavior? Suddenly, the woman sprang from the ground and slapped the urine sample cup out of the probation officer’s hand and went back in the bar.
I opened the door to my car slowly and got out. I looked around the parking lot. It was silent. The probation officer took off to write this one up.
I headed into the bar. It was happening in there because it was football Sunday. It was a madhouse. I sandwiched myself in between two parties and ordered a beer at the bar.
In walks my friend Killer, and she spots me immediately and joins me at the bar. We’ve been friends since childhood.
I ordered Killer a beer. As soon as it was delivered and she had her first sip she asked me, “Did you throw an underwear bomb over the back fence earlier today?”
“Yes, I did,” I admitted. “I did it for the kid, Sam Snatch.” I ordered another beer. Oh boy, oh boy I thought.
“Well,” said Killer, “you started a shit storm over there you wouldn’t believe!”
“Look, I was just trying to do the kid a favor,” I said, “I have a weak spot in my heart for troubled teens,” I added.
“Oh yeah?” Killer queried, “Oh, yeah?” she repeated.
I said, “Yes!” and I slammed the pint of beer down on the bar so hard - a lot spilled out. No worry. This was the kind of place where your shoes stuck to the floor.
Killer asked me, “Do you even know who Mitty is?”
“No, but I bet you can tell me,” I answered.
“Oh yeah I can,” said Killer, “see that woman with a patch over her eye? At the end of the bar?”
“Yeah,” I remarked, “she’s adorable.” Now Killer got fierce. “She’s only got one big toe ‘cause they had to chop off the other one. She’s a diabetic who refuses to quit drinking. So she walks with a gimp.”
I gazed down the bar at Mitty and she stared back at me – not so kindly.
I felt like I was eight years old again, and Killer was passing me a note in class. In the note, Killer says, that’s your new boyfriend over there. He wears the same clothes everyday and there’s snot dripping out of his nose. He’s a nervous wreck but super smart. Go for it!
I just stared straight ahead while I guzzled my beer. Killer got bored and decided to leave the bar. As she was putting her coat on, she shook her head as if I didn’t understand.
At about seven o’clock I climbed into the back seat of my car to get jiggy with a younger woman. Things were just about to get exciting when I felt an explosion in the parking lot that sent my car sideways. The driver’s side of the car was rocked because it was struck by something large, maybe a truck.
I heard the clank of the driver’s side mirror drop on the asphalt.
I gave it a few minutes and stumbled out of the car. My lady was right behind me. Someone had struck the driver’s side of the car, leaving a huge gash in the driver’s door. Whoever did it just kept going on the thru road and disappeared into the night.
We went in the bar. I stepped up to the female bartender, and told her what happened. She said, “You’re flagged. Get out.”
Shocked and shook, I turned on my heel and left. The woman with me disappeared into the back of the bar. I went outside and collected pieces of my driver’s rear view mirror from the parking lot. Then I got in my car, cranked the engine, threw it in reverse, then forward, and fled the bar parking lot.
The next morning, I was quietly sitting in my backyard when there was a ruckus on the other side of the fence. The dogs were barking. One of the English Bull Dogs squeezed its oversized body through the ancient rusted fence and came running right at me, bowling me over with kisses. The dog was named after the 90-year old woman who lived and died there, Sweetie Pie.
A large cloud cast a shadow over the sun, and I heard a whistle. Sweetie Pie leapt over the fence.
From out of the periphery of my vision, I saw a dark, slight figure limping as fast as she could to cut diagonally across her yard - headed right for me. The look on her face was one of a disturbed mental patient on a 3-day pass from the hospital. It was not fun to look at that one eye.
She was madder than a wet cat. Mitty just blurted it out. “Did you send that underwear bomb over the fence the other day?”
“Yes, I did,” I said in challenging way.
“Why did you do it?” she asked.
“The kid wanted me to do it.” I answered
She lunged at me from across the fence. Being in decent shape with all of my toes, I dodged her easily. She got stuck in the age old metal fence and the brambles and honeysuckle vines I let grow wild.
I left her to untangle herself. I went in the house and made myself some more coffee. Then I migrated upstairs to my desk, where I spent my mornings.
At my desk, I lapsed into deep thought. I saw the writing on my own wall and it said: doppelgänger. The only solution here was to induce an accidental death on this half-wit drunkard - this legendary one-eyed, walk with a gimp, clumsy but tangible imitation of me. I was out for blood now. Secretly.
At five o’clock I left my desk to go to the liquor store. I was coming out with a six pack in my hand, getting in my car, when I saw her. There she was, riding a kid’s bike - way down the street. She obviously stole the bike because she didn’t want to walk home with that gimp of hers. There was a bottle of liquor clutched under her armpit.
I started my car, then I backed out and went forward – straight at her. I revved the engine with a load roar. She looked behind her, saw me, and quickly ditched the bike to cut through a neighbor’s backyard. I just put my blinker on at the end of the block and headed the short distance home.
Die Doppelgänger! I thought, while I waited at the light.
Later that night, after drinking the six pack, I went out on the cement patio. It all started with me throwing a few rotten eggs at her window. She opened the window and yelled a bit. She shut it again. That was not effective, I thought.
Then I got out this whole load of fireworks I had leftover from a trip to Arkansas. I started out with some bottle rockets and a few firecrackers. I quickly worked my way into the Roman candles. I lit the fuse and the damn candle went sideways across the fence, directly into a large oak tree that was losing its leaves. The Roman Candle exploded in the tree setting fire to the leaves that were left. the Roman candle exploding into colors and all of the leaves being lit on fire at once.
The fire department was called. I was held accountable for the burnt oak tree and I was fined $500 for the neighborhood fireworks display. I couldn’t believe the Roman candle missed its mark. I had some crazy bad luck.
The next morning the neighbors were looking at me strangely. So I just looked back and smiled. I reveled in the attention. Here I was, the town lunatic, a role I’d always dreamed about playing.
My therapist let me go that very same day. She said she didn’t give a damn about a doppelganger and that I was acting like a budding arsonist. She didn’t have the tools for this.
That was good. Therapy was starting to be a real bore.
Nobody in town wanted to speak to me, not even on Facebook.
I felt a little dejected for a moment, then I remembered who I was. Plus, I also thought how shallow people’s memories were in this town. They would soon forget.
Once again, I sat at my desk buried in thoughts. The solution here was easy. I just needed a stint of sobriety. Where did I meet up with the doppelgänger? It was obvious: the bar and the liquor store had to be cut out. I moved my sitting chair to the front yard, and I enjoyed some herbal tea with a dash of cinnamon. All I needed to do was place my attention elsewhere.
I was happy for a few days.
At night, I would get ready for sleep. That’s when the dark malevolent shadow would creep across my mind. I would wake up, in the middle of the night, hearing loud noises outside of the house.
It was time to decommission this doppelganger. The trouble was, I couldn’t have my dirty fingerprints on this anywhere. This thought crime had to be so invisible even a psychic couldn’t solve it. By now I was pulling my hair out at my desk, trying to think of ways to do this, when I looked out my back window. There was that stupid overgrown puppy, jumping high enough so she could see over the vine laden fence.
I must say the former resident of that place, Sweetie Pie, was one magical, fierce woman. I know the ghost of Sweetie Pie had just about enough of these neighborhood demons defacing her ancestral property. The tenants pulled her furniture from the basement and left it out in the pouring rain for weeks on end. They mowed down her black rose bush and obliterated her walnut and pear trees.
Sweetie Pie lived well into her 90s and you better believe she was rolling in her grave right now. I often saw or heard her ghost wandering around the gardens at night. To see her was a blessing, compared to the devils among us.
While I was drinking my coffee and looking out the window, something in me just cracked. The people in this town may think I’m crazier than a shithouse rat, but I do have my moments of brilliance.
Sweetie Pie was back! She hopped in the body of that overgrown bear cub sized puppy. I put my coffee cup down and bent over laughing hysterically. Boy was I ever glad I had a natural talent for clairaudience and talking to the dead.
I was so excited Sweetie Pie was back I began acting without thinking at all. I rushed to the refrigerator and grabbed the ham. I sliced two thick pieces. I ran out back in my pajamas with a slice of smoked ham in each hand waving them around like a lunatic. I shouted, “Poor Sweetie Pie. I know those demons don’t feed you right!”
The puppy dog got a running start and quickly leapt over the age old, rusted, metal fence that was flailing and curved. Sweetie Pie first took one, then the other slice of ham from me. She turned and leapt back over the fence while still eating them.
Slowly the back door creaked open. Mitty came out, cupping a cigarette in one hand and coddling a fresh beer in the other. “Who the hell do you think you are feeding my dog?” She asked aggressively.
I just stood my ground and smiled. Sweetie Pie froze right there in the middle of the yard. The doppelgänger ran down the porch steps and started running towards me at the fence with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in another. But she didn’t see the dog. So she tripped over that huge loving beast and landed directly on the rusty fence post, head first. The post went right through her skull, causing an instant accidental death. Blood squirted everywhere.
The puppy dog stayed in the yard and watched. I went inside and made myself another pot of coffee. The police, the fire engines and the pizza delivery service all came to the house. Everyone on both blocks with a pulse was over there wondering, “What Happened?” Nobody could say.
From my open window, I could here one clever neighbor suggesting it was a fatal, drunken fall. Everyone nodded their heads in agreement.
Sam Snatch came by the house after the funeral. He said he was awfully sorry about what happened to my car and my life because of the underwear bomb. I said, “Don’t worry about it Sam. Sometimes life throws you a curve ball. At least you have one mom left.”
Sam said, “Yeah, I do, and I am glad for that.”
I offered Sam a beer and he declined. He said he was only 15 and he already got me in enough trouble. I cracked a beer and gave him a Coke. We went out back to enjoy the sunny day. The fence was permanently bent and someone had removed the fence post.
I said, “Sam, you know, sometimes drunks bring about their own destruction.”
Sam nodded. I could see a tear form in his right eye. I felt a pang of love for the kid. Deep down, I knew my adult thoughts were no comfort to him at all.
I asked him, “Hey Sam, have you ever been to a viewing with an open casket?”
He looked worried. Sam mumbled, “no.”
“Well,” I began, “other than a thunder and lightening storm stalled directly above your house, attending a viewing could be the worst thing for a sensitive kid like you.”
Sam nodded his head like he was listening, but he seemed faraway.
“In a storm you can always hide under the bed,” I said, as I slugged down the rest of my beer. “But at a viewing you’re stuck with the corpse for at least an hour.”
I went in the house to get another beer. When I came back out, I concluded my thoughts with, “Sam, if anyone ever invites you to a viewing, I advise you to skip out.”
Sam nodded and got up to leave. It was time for him to dash. He didn’t give a damn about corpses or doppelgängers – he was just a kid.
Elizabeth Kirwin is poet, fiction writer and performance artist. She has been published in The Oyster Boy Review. Kirwin is owner and editor of FairiesInAmerica.com, a website that is based in the neo-pagan tradition of the Americas. She has written for magazines on art and culture, travel and education. Kirwin is a web entrepreneur and was a pioneer in content development strategies for the web in the early aughts. She has published and performed the lyrical poems, the Fairy Gothic Ballads, a collaboration with electronic music composer Liam Sckhot. She lives and works in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
By
Elizabeth Kirwin
Five to One
Baby
One and five
No one here
Gets out alive
- Jim Morrison, The Doors
Dear Mitty:
Sam Snatch stopped by the house the other day and left these for you. He said you were gonna need these clean, new undies in prison, ‘cause you’re an old school alcoholic and you sometimes shit yourself.
Sam was embarrassed saying this, but since you haven’t given his mom a dime since March, they just call you “Shitty” over there.
Anyways, Sam Snatch asked me to throw these clean underwear over the back fence because his mom won’t let him visit you at your new home. Sam’s mom says there’s nothing but whores and illegal drugs all over the place.
This kid really loves you. He can’t be a day over 15. He’s got the cutest curls in his dark hair.
Sam Snatch said he’s had just about enough of the whores, hard drugs and liquor. He did mention he would come visit you in prison.
P.S. Sam Snatch said he knows you use his Facebook profile to pick up women. Not funny.
I didn’t sign the letter because I thought that might be unwise. For all I knew, I could be dealing with far more than an old school alcoholic. This interaction smacked of the amateur criminal element that has always lurked in this little town.
After lobbing the underwear bomb over the fence with this hastily hand-written note, I felt better. Sam left. He was pretty shook up. I did what I could to help the kid, but I have to admit, I sure am glad I didn’t have any kids of my own. What a pain in the ass to have to relive adolescence through your children.
I don’t need it.
I let a few hours go by, then out of curiosity, I decided to go to the White Horse Pugs for happy hour and find out more about this Mitty. Surely someone in town would know what’s up. Everyone at the bar just loved to throw shade on people here in town after a few shots and beers.
I parked in the spot right in front of the door. The White Horse Pugs certainly was an odd name for a Public House. Some drunk idiot crossed out Public House and Shortened it to Pugs. The name just stuck like wet shit to cement.
The beer and shots were cheap, the parking was ample, and there was a thru road that skirted the main highway, making for an easy escape.
When I rolled up into the parking lot, I saw a slight, dark haired woman with an eye patch on who was arguing with a probation officer. The probation officer had a cup in her hand, and the dark-haired woman was screaming at the top of her lungs: “No! No! No! No! No Way!
To emphasize her point with the probation officer she laid right on the asphalt parking lot and screamed “No! No! No!” some more.
I was horrified and fascinated all at once. Why couldn’t I get away with this sort of behavior? Suddenly, the woman sprang from the ground and slapped the urine sample cup out of the probation officer’s hand and went back in the bar.
I opened the door to my car slowly and got out. I looked around the parking lot. It was silent. The probation officer took off to write this one up.
I headed into the bar. It was happening in there because it was football Sunday. It was a madhouse. I sandwiched myself in between two parties and ordered a beer at the bar.
In walks my friend Killer, and she spots me immediately and joins me at the bar. We’ve been friends since childhood.
I ordered Killer a beer. As soon as it was delivered and she had her first sip she asked me, “Did you throw an underwear bomb over the back fence earlier today?”
“Yes, I did,” I admitted. “I did it for the kid, Sam Snatch.” I ordered another beer. Oh boy, oh boy I thought.
“Well,” said Killer, “you started a shit storm over there you wouldn’t believe!”
“Look, I was just trying to do the kid a favor,” I said, “I have a weak spot in my heart for troubled teens,” I added.
“Oh yeah?” Killer queried, “Oh, yeah?” she repeated.
I said, “Yes!” and I slammed the pint of beer down on the bar so hard - a lot spilled out. No worry. This was the kind of place where your shoes stuck to the floor.
Killer asked me, “Do you even know who Mitty is?”
“No, but I bet you can tell me,” I answered.
“Oh yeah I can,” said Killer, “see that woman with a patch over her eye? At the end of the bar?”
“Yeah,” I remarked, “she’s adorable.” Now Killer got fierce. “She’s only got one big toe ‘cause they had to chop off the other one. She’s a diabetic who refuses to quit drinking. So she walks with a gimp.”
I gazed down the bar at Mitty and she stared back at me – not so kindly.
I felt like I was eight years old again, and Killer was passing me a note in class. In the note, Killer says, that’s your new boyfriend over there. He wears the same clothes everyday and there’s snot dripping out of his nose. He’s a nervous wreck but super smart. Go for it!
I just stared straight ahead while I guzzled my beer. Killer got bored and decided to leave the bar. As she was putting her coat on, she shook her head as if I didn’t understand.
At about seven o’clock I climbed into the back seat of my car to get jiggy with a younger woman. Things were just about to get exciting when I felt an explosion in the parking lot that sent my car sideways. The driver’s side of the car was rocked because it was struck by something large, maybe a truck.
I heard the clank of the driver’s side mirror drop on the asphalt.
I gave it a few minutes and stumbled out of the car. My lady was right behind me. Someone had struck the driver’s side of the car, leaving a huge gash in the driver’s door. Whoever did it just kept going on the thru road and disappeared into the night.
We went in the bar. I stepped up to the female bartender, and told her what happened. She said, “You’re flagged. Get out.”
Shocked and shook, I turned on my heel and left. The woman with me disappeared into the back of the bar. I went outside and collected pieces of my driver’s rear view mirror from the parking lot. Then I got in my car, cranked the engine, threw it in reverse, then forward, and fled the bar parking lot.
The next morning, I was quietly sitting in my backyard when there was a ruckus on the other side of the fence. The dogs were barking. One of the English Bull Dogs squeezed its oversized body through the ancient rusted fence and came running right at me, bowling me over with kisses. The dog was named after the 90-year old woman who lived and died there, Sweetie Pie.
A large cloud cast a shadow over the sun, and I heard a whistle. Sweetie Pie leapt over the fence.
From out of the periphery of my vision, I saw a dark, slight figure limping as fast as she could to cut diagonally across her yard - headed right for me. The look on her face was one of a disturbed mental patient on a 3-day pass from the hospital. It was not fun to look at that one eye.
She was madder than a wet cat. Mitty just blurted it out. “Did you send that underwear bomb over the fence the other day?”
“Yes, I did,” I said in challenging way.
“Why did you do it?” she asked.
“The kid wanted me to do it.” I answered
She lunged at me from across the fence. Being in decent shape with all of my toes, I dodged her easily. She got stuck in the age old metal fence and the brambles and honeysuckle vines I let grow wild.
I left her to untangle herself. I went in the house and made myself some more coffee. Then I migrated upstairs to my desk, where I spent my mornings.
At my desk, I lapsed into deep thought. I saw the writing on my own wall and it said: doppelgänger. The only solution here was to induce an accidental death on this half-wit drunkard - this legendary one-eyed, walk with a gimp, clumsy but tangible imitation of me. I was out for blood now. Secretly.
At five o’clock I left my desk to go to the liquor store. I was coming out with a six pack in my hand, getting in my car, when I saw her. There she was, riding a kid’s bike - way down the street. She obviously stole the bike because she didn’t want to walk home with that gimp of hers. There was a bottle of liquor clutched under her armpit.
I started my car, then I backed out and went forward – straight at her. I revved the engine with a load roar. She looked behind her, saw me, and quickly ditched the bike to cut through a neighbor’s backyard. I just put my blinker on at the end of the block and headed the short distance home.
Die Doppelgänger! I thought, while I waited at the light.
Later that night, after drinking the six pack, I went out on the cement patio. It all started with me throwing a few rotten eggs at her window. She opened the window and yelled a bit. She shut it again. That was not effective, I thought.
Then I got out this whole load of fireworks I had leftover from a trip to Arkansas. I started out with some bottle rockets and a few firecrackers. I quickly worked my way into the Roman candles. I lit the fuse and the damn candle went sideways across the fence, directly into a large oak tree that was losing its leaves. The Roman Candle exploded in the tree setting fire to the leaves that were left. the Roman candle exploding into colors and all of the leaves being lit on fire at once.
The fire department was called. I was held accountable for the burnt oak tree and I was fined $500 for the neighborhood fireworks display. I couldn’t believe the Roman candle missed its mark. I had some crazy bad luck.
The next morning the neighbors were looking at me strangely. So I just looked back and smiled. I reveled in the attention. Here I was, the town lunatic, a role I’d always dreamed about playing.
My therapist let me go that very same day. She said she didn’t give a damn about a doppelganger and that I was acting like a budding arsonist. She didn’t have the tools for this.
That was good. Therapy was starting to be a real bore.
Nobody in town wanted to speak to me, not even on Facebook.
I felt a little dejected for a moment, then I remembered who I was. Plus, I also thought how shallow people’s memories were in this town. They would soon forget.
Once again, I sat at my desk buried in thoughts. The solution here was easy. I just needed a stint of sobriety. Where did I meet up with the doppelgänger? It was obvious: the bar and the liquor store had to be cut out. I moved my sitting chair to the front yard, and I enjoyed some herbal tea with a dash of cinnamon. All I needed to do was place my attention elsewhere.
I was happy for a few days.
At night, I would get ready for sleep. That’s when the dark malevolent shadow would creep across my mind. I would wake up, in the middle of the night, hearing loud noises outside of the house.
It was time to decommission this doppelganger. The trouble was, I couldn’t have my dirty fingerprints on this anywhere. This thought crime had to be so invisible even a psychic couldn’t solve it. By now I was pulling my hair out at my desk, trying to think of ways to do this, when I looked out my back window. There was that stupid overgrown puppy, jumping high enough so she could see over the vine laden fence.
I must say the former resident of that place, Sweetie Pie, was one magical, fierce woman. I know the ghost of Sweetie Pie had just about enough of these neighborhood demons defacing her ancestral property. The tenants pulled her furniture from the basement and left it out in the pouring rain for weeks on end. They mowed down her black rose bush and obliterated her walnut and pear trees.
Sweetie Pie lived well into her 90s and you better believe she was rolling in her grave right now. I often saw or heard her ghost wandering around the gardens at night. To see her was a blessing, compared to the devils among us.
While I was drinking my coffee and looking out the window, something in me just cracked. The people in this town may think I’m crazier than a shithouse rat, but I do have my moments of brilliance.
Sweetie Pie was back! She hopped in the body of that overgrown bear cub sized puppy. I put my coffee cup down and bent over laughing hysterically. Boy was I ever glad I had a natural talent for clairaudience and talking to the dead.
I was so excited Sweetie Pie was back I began acting without thinking at all. I rushed to the refrigerator and grabbed the ham. I sliced two thick pieces. I ran out back in my pajamas with a slice of smoked ham in each hand waving them around like a lunatic. I shouted, “Poor Sweetie Pie. I know those demons don’t feed you right!”
The puppy dog got a running start and quickly leapt over the age old, rusted, metal fence that was flailing and curved. Sweetie Pie first took one, then the other slice of ham from me. She turned and leapt back over the fence while still eating them.
Slowly the back door creaked open. Mitty came out, cupping a cigarette in one hand and coddling a fresh beer in the other. “Who the hell do you think you are feeding my dog?” She asked aggressively.
I just stood my ground and smiled. Sweetie Pie froze right there in the middle of the yard. The doppelgänger ran down the porch steps and started running towards me at the fence with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in another. But she didn’t see the dog. So she tripped over that huge loving beast and landed directly on the rusty fence post, head first. The post went right through her skull, causing an instant accidental death. Blood squirted everywhere.
The puppy dog stayed in the yard and watched. I went inside and made myself another pot of coffee. The police, the fire engines and the pizza delivery service all came to the house. Everyone on both blocks with a pulse was over there wondering, “What Happened?” Nobody could say.
From my open window, I could here one clever neighbor suggesting it was a fatal, drunken fall. Everyone nodded their heads in agreement.
Sam Snatch came by the house after the funeral. He said he was awfully sorry about what happened to my car and my life because of the underwear bomb. I said, “Don’t worry about it Sam. Sometimes life throws you a curve ball. At least you have one mom left.”
Sam said, “Yeah, I do, and I am glad for that.”
I offered Sam a beer and he declined. He said he was only 15 and he already got me in enough trouble. I cracked a beer and gave him a Coke. We went out back to enjoy the sunny day. The fence was permanently bent and someone had removed the fence post.
I said, “Sam, you know, sometimes drunks bring about their own destruction.”
Sam nodded. I could see a tear form in his right eye. I felt a pang of love for the kid. Deep down, I knew my adult thoughts were no comfort to him at all.
I asked him, “Hey Sam, have you ever been to a viewing with an open casket?”
He looked worried. Sam mumbled, “no.”
“Well,” I began, “other than a thunder and lightening storm stalled directly above your house, attending a viewing could be the worst thing for a sensitive kid like you.”
Sam nodded his head like he was listening, but he seemed faraway.
“In a storm you can always hide under the bed,” I said, as I slugged down the rest of my beer. “But at a viewing you’re stuck with the corpse for at least an hour.”
I went in the house to get another beer. When I came back out, I concluded my thoughts with, “Sam, if anyone ever invites you to a viewing, I advise you to skip out.”
Sam nodded and got up to leave. It was time for him to dash. He didn’t give a damn about corpses or doppelgängers – he was just a kid.
Elizabeth Kirwin is poet, fiction writer and performance artist. She has been published in The Oyster Boy Review. Kirwin is owner and editor of FairiesInAmerica.com, a website that is based in the neo-pagan tradition of the Americas. She has written for magazines on art and culture, travel and education. Kirwin is a web entrepreneur and was a pioneer in content development strategies for the web in the early aughts. She has published and performed the lyrical poems, the Fairy Gothic Ballads, a collaboration with electronic music composer Liam Sckhot. She lives and works in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
