Impostor

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Even the cabbie commented on Jimmy’s shirt. It was just that kind of shirt. It was meant to be noticed. 

“That’s some shirt,” the cabbie nodded. “Where does something like that come from?”

“Heaven, I think,” Jimmy beamed. “So…if you were looking to get one, sorry, there isn’t another on this planet.”

The cabbie rolled his eyes. “I can see why they only made one.”

Jimmy laughed.

The shirt defied adequate description. Words rarely did it justice. It had a repeating pattern of a dog being chased by a cat; the cat, in turn, being chased by a mouse; and the mouse being chased by a piece of cheese wearing Converse All-Stars. It created the illusion of an infinite loop of irony, all on a light silky material. It was also neon pink.

This was Jimmy’s party shirt. And even then, it wasn’t suitable for every party. No, Jimmy was highly selective when it came to donning this wonder. A family Fourth of July barbeque? Nope. Some stupid couple’s shower or engagement to-do? Please. A fondue party? Do you know what cheese can do to fabric like that? These events were not worthy. A bachelor party? Perhaps. But only if Jimmy thought the groom would fully grasp the meaning behind him choosing to bless the party with its presence. There was a specialness to it. If it showed up, whoa boy, strap yourself in. It’s going to be one of those nights.

The impetus for the shirt’s appearance on this particular night was the 27^th birthday of his cousin, Ricky. Ordinarily, a non-significant year birthday party at some bump-and-grind, $18-a-drink, judgy dance club wouldn’t even remotely be cause to consider taking it off its hanger. But Ricky had, once upon a time, bailed Jimmy out of a situation involving a rather large, hairy woman, her rather large, hairy biker boyfriend and her rather larger, even hairier biker husband. Gratitude was in order, by all means.

Jimmy coughed up the ridiculous cover charge and greeted Ricky. Ricky was on the dance floor sandwiched between two women in short, sequined skirts, but he took pause from his merriment to embrace Jimmy.

“The shirt!!! Yes! The shirt! I am so honored!” Ricky understood the significance.

“For you, my cousin, always!”

“Get yourself a drink and enjoy! And stay away from large women!” Ricky re-entered his sandwich. Jimmy strutted off toward the bar and launched himself into the frivolity.

Jimmy drank. And Jimmy danced. And Jimmy drank while he danced and danced while he drank. Into the night, he imbibed, and he enjoyed. He chatted with women. He chatted with buddies. He told the story of the shirt to new acquaintances. He told the story of the shirt to people who have heard it more times than they cared to admit. And when Jimmy’s throat was dry from telling the story so often, he went to the bar to find more refreshment.

That’s when he saw it.

Somebody wearing the exact same shirt. Jimmy had to do a double take. But there it was. A guy across the bar wearing the same goddamn shirt. No, it couldn’t be. But after Jimmy sneaked a few more looks, doing his best to remain inconspicuous, he confirmed it. It was the same. Jimmy got his drink and walked away. The other guy did the same, walking in the opposite direction. 

Jimmy’s disposition changed instantly. Instead of continuing his hooting, drink-lifting and carefree hip swaying, Jimmy became quiet and troubled, introverted as he sipped his drink. He simply couldn’t stand seeing that guy wearing the same shirt. Sure, he thought, it’s been known to happen where two men show up wearing the same shirt, bond and become life-long friends over it. But this was different. This wasn’t just any old shirt. This was Jimmy’s special shirt. It was his identity, for God’s sake! A wearable calling card that announced fun was in store. And this fraud was trying to swipe Jimmy’s thunder. I mean, c’mon. He had that shirt for ages. Taken care of it…even dry-cleaned it! Can you imagine that? A man taking a shirt to be dry-cleaned? That was commitment.

He recalled the moment he got it…his friends found it on the rack at a second-hand store and had it tailored just for him. They thought it was a joke. But Jimmy decided that shirt was no joke. It was his signature shirt. A one-of-a-kind look. Not to mention, it was originally a woman’s shirt! 

Jimmy scanned across the dance floor and saw the other guy. Jimmy couldn’t help but notice his shirt looked as if it had been altered in a similar way. How could that be? Had he been copying Jimmy? What gives?

He spotted him again at the bar. This jackass was going to the bar at the same time just to piss him off. Who the hell was this guy? And what was he up to?

Jimmy went to the bathroom to splash some water on his face, an attempt to diffuse the inner bomb that was getting dangerously close to exploding. Jimmy turned on the faucet, cupped the cool running water with his hands and slapped it on his face, cheeks and the back of his neck. He reached for a paper towel and looked up. And that’s when he came face-to-face with this Jimmy impostor. Yeah, this guy had been messing with Jimmy all night. And now, he has the audacity to step into the bathroom at the same time? 

Jimmy could no longer hide his contempt. “Hey! Where did you get that shirt?” Jimmy barked.

There was no answer. But he definitely returned a growl, as if to say, “who the hell are you? Asking me that?”

Jimmy gave him the death stare and huffed. “I said, where did you get that shirt?”

The other fellow stared back, with equal intensity.

“You think you’re intimidating me by just staring at me? Think you’re some kind of tough silent type?” Jimmy’s patience was wearing thin. “Well, if you’re not gonna talk, then maybe my fist will have to keep up the conversation. And trust me, you ain’t gonna like what he’s got to say.”

The jackwagon shook a fist right back.

“Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be?” 

Yes, as a matter of fact. That was how it was going to be, Jimmy surmised. The other guy was not backing down. Even pushing his luck by imitating Jimmy’s every move like some sort of fucking ignorant mime. Oh, he was gonna let this guy have it.  

Jimmy took a deep breath. He focused. He psyched himself up for what he knew was going to be an ugly moment. Jimmy roared. His counterpart roared right back, echoing off the bathroom walls. And then, the posturing was done…they both reared back and simultaneously swung, fists aimed right at each other’s faces. 

There was a sickening sound – a shattering when he made contact with his nose. In a moment, there was blood everywhere. So much blood. On the floor. On the wall. Down his shirt…blasted…his beloved party shirt! And a flood of it dripping down his fist. Boy, Jimmy thought, I must have hit him good to have so much blood on my fist. He’d hit guys before, but this kind of mess was a first.

No matter. That style-stealing son-of-a-bitch was no longer staring back at Jimmy. He was seemingly in pieces on the floor. Jimmy thought, that’ll teach him…that asshole.

Despite the adrenaline rush from his one-punch victory, Jimmy became dizzy. Not from the return blow, because he didn’t feel one. That stupid jag must have missed. Or perhaps Jimmy’s punch arrived first, knocking that asshat off kilter. No, now he just kinda felt sluggish. Drained. Fading. He fell back, leaning against one of the stalls, before slumping down and passing out.

The paramedics arrived. They gave Jimmy an IV. He had lost a lot of blood. They also treated his right hand for severe lacerations, glass shards still poking out of the flesh surrounding his knuckles. As they took him to the ambulance, the gurney made a crunching sound, as it rolled over hundreds of pieces of a shattered mirror.  

IMPOSTOR

9 Circles Fiction

Special thanks to Sean Dobie for the inspiration

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