On Monday, I finished reading The Double, by José Saramago (whose strangely mesmerizing allegorical novels I've been working my way through, even though I'm not sure I like like them). If you haven't read it, no spoilers here, but it's the story of a depressed schoolteacher who discovers, to his psychological and moral discomfiture, that he has a double—an exact "twin" who resembles him down to the minutest scars on his body.
So today when I went to pick up my car at the dealership (no, I'm not always at the dealership; it just seems that way on this blog), the receptionist looked up from her desk and said, "Oh no, your husband already picked up your car!"
I must have looked dumbfounded, because she said it again before I could conjure up a coherent rebuttal. "But I'm not married."
"But he was here just half an hour ago!"
"I don't think so."
"Yes, he was, I swear to god! . . . Wait a minute. Is your name [somebody else's name]?"
"No."
"I swear to god, she looks just like you."
Now, if this were a José Saramago novel, I'd be compelled (by my author) to hunt down my unsuspecting doppelgänger and do—whatever my author decided I should do when the time came for us to meet (see, I said no spoilers here). And for a moment I wondered what I'd have to do if the receptionist had, indeed, handed over my keys to some imposter, or rather, some imposter's husband. Would I still have to pay the bill?
Fortunately (or unfortunately, for my bank account), my car was right where the mechanics had left it, new oxygen sensor, brake pads, rotors, and all.
