DOPPELGANGER

By Jessica Zafra

Tommy’s problem wasn’t really a problem – that is, if you weren’t Tommy. Tommy was one of
those people who, having relatively happy lives, delight in imposing various forms of pain and anguish
on themselves. He was the kind of guy who, never having been stabbed, howled over pinpricks. The
slightest screwup in his game plan was enough to make him contemplate slicing his wrists or sticking
his face in a fan. He liked to wallow in despair and wretchedness. He would never admit this, of
course, nobody likes to confess that they’re masochists.

Tommy wanted to be a poet. He liked to think that he was named after T.S Eliot, although the
truth was, his parents didn’t know T.S. Eliot from B.B. King. Tommy wrote dark, brooding, not to
mention depressing poetry. His favorite poet was a woman who stuck her head in the oven; if she
hadn’t, she probably wouldn’t have been his favorite. He wrote about weariness and disillusionment,
and he was nineteen years old.

Going back to Tommy’s problem, or non-problem, if you want to be specific, another person in
his condition would have considered himself blessed. You see, Tommy’s “problem” was that he looked
a great deal like Richard Gomez. Richard Gomez, in case you never watch the movies or television,
was a very popular young movie star. He was, in fact, THE teen idol. Hordes of females salivated after
him, and housemaids ruined their chances at career mobility by blowing their wages on fan
magazines with his face on the cover. Richard Gomez became famous after appearing in a movie
called, “The Black Blouse.” In it he played a rich guy who fell in love with this girl wo was always
wearing a particular black blouse (and a tacky one at that). The blouse, see, had magical properties,
and anyone who wore it became a raving beauty. In ordinary clothes, the girl was really a troglodyte. It
was really quite moronic, and it made so much money, the producer could corner the market on black
blouses. And Richard Gomez became a star, and tommy got his problem.

“You ought to be in pictures!” his friends chorused.

“I don’t want to be in the movies,” said Tommy.

“What about television commercials?” they insisted.

“No.”

“Print ads?”

“No.”

“Don’t you want to make tons of money?”

“No.”

“Don’t you want to have thousands of women throwing themselves at you?”

“No.”

“Don’t you want a brand-new BMW? Have lunch at Manila Hotel every day? Go to Hong Kong
for Chinese food?”

“No, no, no.”

“But if you get into showbiz you could buy ten thousand peach blazers.”

“I don’t wear blazers.”

“But you could buy them.”

People started staring at him. At least he thought they were – he couldn’t be sure. He stopped
going out for fear of being cornered by teenyboppers and sex-starved matrons. He developed an
unnatural desire to wear a paper bag over his head.
 Tommy hated it. Richard Gomez! Richard Gomez was the symbol of everything Tommy
abhorred. Richard Gomez was vacuous. Richard Gomez was insipid. Richard Gomez was shallow.
Tommy was serious, dammit! He was an artist! Make that Artist!

But it got worse and worse. Richard Gomez made a movie about this crippled guy who had a
magic crutch, and with a minimum of hocus pocus, he could turn into a flying superhero. When the
movie came out, people started asking Tommy questions like, “Where’s your magic crutch? Where’s
your silver tights?” It drove him bananas.

One day, Tommy was sitting on the steps of the college building, eating fishballs and
contemplating his problem. He considered killing Richard Gomez, but reason intervened. It wasn’t
Richard Gomez’s fault that he looked like him. It had something to do with genetics – chromosomes
and stuff.

Someone was walking up the steps. Tommy looked down to see who it was, and nearly aged on
his barbecue stick. It was Ria, the Meaning of his Life. He wiped the sauce off his chin and tried to
look nonchalant.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he croaked.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said. “You going to class?”

“Yes.” She gave him a strange look. “You know, you remind me of someone.”

“Oh?” he croaked.

“Yes, you do.”

A terrible dread seized his innards. “Who?”

He turned on the tap, then he opened the medicine cabinet and took out his shaving things. He
smeared his face with lather and began to shave. When he was finished, he washed his face and wiped
himself with a towel. He began to put away his shaving things. He was putting them back in the
cabinet when he caught his eye in the mirror. He stopped what he was doing and stared at his
reflection for an inordinately long time.

When he was through looking, he picked up his razor, opened it, and removed the razor blade.
Carefully he held the blade between thumb and forefinger, then he swiped it across his face.

fin