This identity crises is of my own making

My little bar band was playing a Grand Rapids night club the other night when the couple approached the stage just as we were going on break. I could tell they were going to. Both of them — a fella and his wife, I surmised — had been glancing surreptitiously my way all night, and then whispering to each other behind their hands.

“Um, hi,” said the husband, a well dressed guy in his mid-50s, maybe. “We really like your band. I love the sax.”

Everybody loves the sax. When you play in a horn band, the brass get all the attention. I’ve learned to live with it.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You know,” the husband said, “you have a double around here someplace. A guy who looks just like you.”

“The poor schmuck,” I said. “Have you given him the number of the suicide hotline, just in case?”

“Ha-ha,” said the husband, politely pretending my joke was funny. “But seriously, this guy looks just like you. He writes a column for the local newspaper.”

“Oh,” I said. “I think I’ve heard of him. Somebody told me he stinks.”

My band buds, who have witnessed this routine before, walked away with rolling eyes and shaking heads. 

“No, he’s great,” the husband insisted, offended. “My wife and I read him every week.”

“Well, I heard he’s kind of a hack,” I repeated.

I was flattered by the fact the guy was starting to bristle as I continued to insult myself.

“You really shouldn’t criticize if you haven’t read his column,” the fella said. “You don’t know what the heck you’re talking about.” (He didn’t use the word “heck,” but a much more potent variant.)

At this point, I ‘fessed up and admitted my newspaper-writing “twin” and I were in fact the same guy. I thought I’d better, before he actually punched me in defense of my twin’s honor.

“Really?” he asked, the suspicion clear in his voice.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Yeah?” he said. “‘Cause now that I think about it, you don’t really look that much like him.”

“Well,” I said, “I am him.”

“What’s his name?” the husband asked.

“Mike Taylor,” I said.

“Is that it?” the guy asked his wife. She said she thought so.

“How many ex-wives does he have?” The guy continued to grill me. “Where is he from?”

“Four and Detroit,” I promptly responded. I couldn’t believe I was being asked to prove my own identity here. I pulled my wallet from my pocket and displayed my driver’s license. “See?” I said.

“Hmm … I guess it is you.”

“Yup.”

I could tell meeting me in person had done nothing to improve his fondness for my column. My mother, it turns out, was right; nobody likes a smart aleck. (Though she never used the word “aleck,” but a much more potent variant.)

A book written by Mike Taylor’s twin, “Looking at the Pint Half Full,” is again available at Robbin’s Book List in downtown Greenville.