The Mirror

“Please come in,” I called from behind the folding table.

The door opened.

An old man entered the room and stood before me, shifting awkwardly. He wouldn’t make eye contact.

I frowned.

“You don’t look like me at all,” I complained.

(I didn’t want to tell him I was a half point better looking.)

The man was auditioning for a critical role. I needed someone to impersonate me.

In contradiction of my explicit instructions, my marketing specialist had committed me to a reading at a local bookstore.

I was told the public would like to bond with me.

I didn’t favor the idea.

But the optics of backing out would be terrible. My obligation had to be met.

I hit upon the idea of hiring an impersonator. My double only needed to make small talk, smile, and sign books, while behaving in a dignified manner, like me.

Easy.

I didn’t think I would need to pay more than community-theater rates for the role.

Then I saw the auditions. Or more accurately, the lone individual who responded to my advertisement.

“Why are you so uncomfortable?” I asked. “Your fidgeting is making me nervous.”

“You said you wanted an impersonator.”

“Yeah, but I don’t act like that!” I argued.

“You do,” he corrected me. “I filmed you at the grocery store last Tuesday to prepare for the role. I can show you the specific moments I’m drawing on for my performance.”

(He proceeded to hold out his phone. I watched myself. His impersonation had been impeccable.)

“You were spying on me?”

“I’m a method actor. If I get this role, I want to walk in your skin.”

I wondered if we were alone in the building.

“Haven’t I seen you before?” I asked. “Don’t you work at the hardware store? Are you really a trained actor?”

“Yes,” he sniffed. “I’m currently between projects.”

I examined his portfolio.

“What projects are you talking about? I don’t see that you have any experience at all.”

“You clearly aren’t familiar with regional high school musical history,” he deigned to reply.

“You acted in your high school musical?”

“I wrote and starred in it.”

I felt a stirring of hope.

“What school did you attend?”

“I was homeschooled.”

The stirring ceased.

“Since you’re here, I might as well see your audition.”

The man nodded. Then he slumped, almost melting, like all joy had been drained from him.

“Okay, I’m ready,” he announced.

It was an unpromising start.

I assumed the role of an attendee, feeding the man an opening line.

“Hi, Stanton!” I enthused. “I’m a huge fan of your work.”

“Thank you so much,” he said. “I’m a huge fan of yours, too.”

What?

“A fan? Why? I’m just a person in a bookstore, not a public figure. Are you sure that makes sense?”

“More sense than you being a fan of my work,” he laughed.

We were mid-scene, so I was forced to laugh along.

“You are being far too modest, Stanton,” I corrected him. “I find your work delightful.”

“I promise, you’re wrong,” he retorted.

My jaw dropped.

I couldn’t have this person out there in the world, saying God knows what under my name.

“Okay, stop,” I directed. “This isn’t going to work.”

He barely reacted.

“I have a sizable list of contractual demands,” he stated plainly.

“Those won’t be applicable, I’m afraid.”

He smiled.

“Ah, the first no,” he observed.

“I know exactly what you’re thinking,” I told him, “but it doesn’t work that way. This isn’t a test. There is only one no. I’m not hiring you.”

He frowned.

“You haven’t given me a chance. I’ve only seen you make one supermarket appearance. If my impersonation is inaccurate, as you say, it’s only because I have no firm model to work with.”

We proceeded to have a long, unwanted conversation about artistic craft. He raised numerous good points.

I agreed to meet him the following day at a local coffee shop “for further observation.”

This led to a series of weekly training sessions, where he gradually polished his impersonation and became another me.

By the week of the public reading, I had grown quite optimistic that my plan would work. 

I headed to the grocery store to buy some celebratory ice cream.

I spotted him on aisle one.

I froze in my tracks.

My impersonator was with the gorgeous teller from the bank. 

They were holding hands.

Another woman was chatting with them, apparently the teller’s friend.

“How did you meet?” the friend asked.

(I wondered too.)

“I watched Stan’s videos, and he looked so adorable,” the stunning teller cooed, giving my impersonator’s hand an affectionate squeeze.

He smiled at her.

Stan had videos?

I confronted him at our next weekly meeting. I accused him of impersonating me publicly, outside of our arrangement.

He denied nothing. Instead, he became boastful.

When he offered to train me to be more like him, I fired him on the spot.

Shortly thereafter, the fliers went up.

The Fenwick Follies — A one-man play by Stanton Fenwick, starring Stanton Fenwick, running that weekend only at the local community college theater.

When I contacted the school to protest the theft of my identity, I learned my impersonator had trademarked my name.

He sent me a cease-and-desist letter.

I reluctantly purchased a ticket. 

My seat in the theater was uncomfortable. The show drew a mercifully small crowd.

I began to surreptitiously film the performance to support my planned lawsuit for libel. But I soon quit.

My impersonator was simply reenacting our coffee shop training sessions, playing both “Stanton” roles.

I regretted how many of our conversations had centered on my childhood humiliations.

When the show ended, I slunk away.

I immediately began work on my theatrical rebuttal. I hired the best playwright I could afford and assembled a legendary cast of small-town talent.

My impersonator chose not to attend.

He did make me an offer, though.

At great expense, I was able to purchase the trademark to my name.

My impersonator no longer works at the hardware store.

Now I do.