The Doppelganger

     Henry Geist was awakened by the sound of raindrops against the window
of his second-floor law office.  He lifted his head slowly from off of the blotter on his oaken desk, then sat up suddenly when he realized where he was.  He could barely make out the clock on the façade of the Bellinger Savings and Trust building across the street. 8:13.  A glance at his watch confirmed this.

    Henry put on his raincoat hurriedly, and pulled his hat down tightly.  Locking his door, he looked across the hallway to see if Don, the accountant who shared the floor with him, was working late and wanted to grab a bite to eat.  The absence of the telltale light under the door indicated that he wasn't.

     Henry's boots thumped loudly as he trudged down the stairs to the back exit on the first floor.  The main entrance was locked after 5:00 p.m.  As he turned the knob and began to push, the door flew open in the driving wind and slammed hard against the brick wall.  With considerable effort he managed to close it.

He jaywalked across deserted Lancaster Avenue, avoiding the streams running along either curb.  The diner was open all night, and since the next train didn’t arrive 'til nine, he decided to have a late dinner.  Pausing at the entrance, Henry spotted the phone booth next door, and thought he should probably call his wife and let her know where he was.  This wouldn’t save him from a reprimand when he finally got home, but at least she wouldn’t be worried sick.  He should have called from his office before he left, but he didn’t feel like walking back across the flooded street and back up the stairs.

Stepping into the phone booth, Henry tugged on the sliding glass door several times without result.  He looked up and down, checking to see that the rollers on top and bottom were still inside the track.  Unwilling to abide the wind and rain blowing on him while he made his call, Henry seized the knob with both hands and grunting, yanked as hard as he could.  The door slammed shut.

He watched mesmerized as the angry rain pelted the outside of the phone booth, forming inchoate sheets of liquid crystal as the drops splattered and slid to their demise.
He felt safe and at peace within the confines of this small, transparent room, although no more than a half inch of glass separated him from the deluge.  Yet he knew that at any moment a ferocious gust of wind might topple his tiny haven, a bolt of lightning might annihilate him, a car might swerve off the road. . .

Henry fumbled in his pocket for a nickel.  He waited.  And waited.  Then came his wife’s voice, distant and crackling with static.

“Carol?” he began.  “Listen, I’m running a little late.”

“Hello?” she replied.  “Who’s there?’

A short flash of static.
“Carol, it’s me.  Henry.  Can you hear me?”

“Hello?  Is anybody there?”

“Carol,” he nearly shouted.  “It’s Henry.  Henry.  Can you hear me now?”

A brief click followed by a dial tone was the response this time.  Cursing, Henry slammed the receiver down and pulled on the door.  Stuck again.

“Come on!” he snarled.  “I don’t have time for this!”

He yanked on the door fiercely, muttering expletives.  With a loud snap, the door came flying inwards, whacking the inside of the phone booth.  A loud crash which Henry mistook for thunder followed as the lower panel shattered.  Then he saw the glittering shards staring up at him from the wet concrete.

Grumbling disgustedly, he made his way inside the diner.  He was standing next to the counter in front of a sign which read “Hostess will seat you” when he saw him sitting in a booth in the far corner.  He was sipping a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper.  A half-finished meatloaf platter, covered in ketchup, sat in front of him.  Henry looked closer, straining to see.  His raincoat was exactly the same, as was his hat, which he had removed and placed on the seat next to him.  And the face.  At this distance, he could easily have been mistaken for Henry himself.

Then he looked up at Henry, and their eyes locked.  Henry jumped. Startled, the stranger nearly dropped his coffee.  His mouth opened wide. Then he blinked hard, shook his head, and looked in Henry’s direction again, this time with a calmer expression.  The stranger shook his head and muttered something that Henry could not hear.

 Not heeding the sign to wait for the hostess, Henry quickly slid into a booth next to the entrance, facing the cash register so he could get a clear look at the stranger when he paid his tab.  But the other man left two dollar bills -weighed down with a salt shaker- on the table and donning his hat, walked out the door too quickly for Henry to study his face.

“Oh, cut it out,” Henry said aloud to himself.  So the guy had the same type of hat and raincoat.  So he looked a little like Henry.  What did that mean?  Henry didn’t have a twin.  This was what came of working too many long hours.  You fell asleep at your desk.  Your became paranoid.  You saw strange things.  He had been meaning to hire a paralegal or a secretary, but they had this obstinate insistence on being paid.  As for taking on a partner, forget that.  He had learned a long time ago not to trust anyone.

The waitress walked past him with a pot of coffee.  Stopping a few booths down, she filled the cups of a young married couple who were mulling over their dessert.  Henry studied the menu.  Hot roast beef with mashed potatoes.  Pork chops and cabbage.  Texas Tommy.  Yes, that was good, a Texas Tommy and a cup of coffee.

With a very soft “Excuse  me,” he raised his hand as she walked by him again, but failed to catch her attention.  She strolled languidly past with the unmistakable apathy of a career waitress, and disappeared through the double doors behind the counter.

Henry glanced at his watch.  8:20.  Walking to the train station from here was a matter of five minutes.  He drummed his fingers restlessly on the table, then picked up the salt shaker and began turning it over idly in his hands, wondering if he should buy a diner himself.  If he owned a business, or two, or three, he could let somebody else work long hours while he sat back and made money.  But to give someone that much leeway was like giving him free reign to steal money.  His money.  Maybe he could be a silent partner.  I don’t care how much or how little money you make, just pay me $200 a month.  He liked dreaming and scheming, but realized that he would probably never go through with any of those plans.

The salt shaker slipped out of his fingers, the perforated aluminum top popping off as the rectangular glass vial hit the table.  A small white  pile lay in front of him, demanding to be wiped up.  Seizing a pinch with his thumb and index finger, Henry looked around to see if anyone was watching, then sheepishly tossed the grains over his shoulder.

The waitress made another appearance, this time with a check which she plopped down on the young couple’s table without a word.  Instead of coming back towards the kitchen as Henry expected, she continued past the two patrons and sat down in one of the booths and lit a cigarette.

“Excuse me, we’ve got a little mess here,” Henry called, a little louder than the last time, but to no avail.  She didn’t even look in his direction, lost in a world of smoke and boredom.

Instead of approaching her, Henry stood up, waved his hand in disgust and walked back outside into the waiting rain.  He sloshed through puddles and over drowned weeds sprouting from cracks in the concrete, oblivious to the pelting water which permeated his hat and raincoat.  After two blocks he was at the train station.  Seeking what shelter they could, a dozen other people were huddled under the glass and steel pavilion.  And there he was.

This time he was sitting on one of the cold metal benches, squinting to read
The Wall Street Journal from the light of a street lamp on the other side of the glass partition.  MCCARTHY VOWS TO NAME RED SYMPATHIZERS, the headlines proclaimed.

Henry cautiously shuffled closer to the stranger, not making a sound as he did so.  The man didn’t change positions, didn’t turn the page, didn’t move an inch.  Henry leaned closer to his face,  which was buried in the financial markets section.  He wanted to speak, wanted to shout “Who are you?” but nothing came out.  He raised a trembling hand to lower the newspaper, when suddenly the front page was jerked down abruptly and Henry stared into a skeletal face with two red pinpoints in the cavernous sockets.

Henry jumped, gasping loudly.  He was still standing where he had been when he first walked into the pavilion, and the stranger was still sitting about 12 feet away on his cold metal bench.  The man casually turned the page.  Embarrassed, Henry looked around to see if anyone had noticed his little fit of fright.  But they were all lost in their own sort of reverie, preoccupied with whatever troubled or comforted them.

There was a big difference between being preoccupied and being obsessed.

Then suddenly he set the newspaper on his lap, resting his eyes momentarily, and tilted his head back in a great, yawning stretch.

The face.  It was Henry's face.

Henry started trembling- slightly at first- the kind of mild shaking that accompanies a severe hangover.  The tremors gradually increased in intensity until his whole body felt like a jackhammer.  Henry clenched both fists tightly. . . tighter.
Using every last reserve of self-control, he stopped shaking.  He unclenched his fists.
The man had his back to Henry now as  he made a call from the telephone under the pavilion.  Henry watched him as he talked.  He was unable to make out the words, but the sound of his voice, his mannerisms, even the way he dialed. . .

He didn't have a twin brother.  There was only Henry and a younger sister, who had died of pneumonia when she was six months old.  Susan Geist was his mother, Harold Geist was his father.  There was no twin brother.

Maybe there was a twin brother.  Henry had been adopted, probably when he was no more than a few days old.  His biological mother had left him on the doorstep of Susan and Harold Geist, on a cold December day forty-five years ago.  Of course they had never told him.  What should they have said?  We never chose to have a son; you were dumped on our doorstep.  So they had lied to him all these years, a lie of omission.  Henry wondered where they had dumped his twin brother.

There was no twin brother.  Henry glanced at his watch quickly.  8:43.  Walking briskly, he ventured out into the deluge again, taking rapid strides as he hurried back the way he had come only minutes before.  He could still make it there and back.  There was still time.  There had to be time.

He broke into a run along Lancaster Avenue, ignoring the dormant puddles awakened by his stomping boots and the creeping fatigue which crawled up his chest.  Stopping directly across from the staunch, white-brick building that housed his office, Henry looked to either side briefly to see if any cars were approaching.  He saw none.

As he stepped off of the curb and into the road, he hear a soft sloshing as his foot was immersed in a rapid stream of rainwater flowing relentlessly towards the sewer grate thirty feet away.  Then the black and white Packard came swerving around the corner.  Henry saw the grill, the hood, the headlights, the oblivious idiot behind the wheel.  He froze- waiting to be obliterated.


Instead a seven-foot wave leapt up from beneath the car and crashed on top of him mockingly.  He was already so drenched this hardly mattered.  Stunned, Henry watched the vehicle proceed calmly down the road.

"Moron!" Henry shouted as the car disappeared into the night.  He felt his chest pounding furiously.  Not waiting for another brush with death,  he dashed across the road and stood exhausted in front of his building.

He peered into the lobby at the two leather chairs which flanked the reception desk.  An impressive Oriental rug covered most of the hard linoleum floor.  Without thinking, Henry pulled on the front door frantically, then started pounding.  He fumbled for his keys, and jammed them into the lock.  They didn't fit.

Naturally they didn't fit.  What was the matter with him?  The front doors were locked after five p.m., and the tenants only had keys to the back door.  Shoving the keys back in his pocket, Henry ran to the back of the building, unlocked the door, dashed up the stairs, and in thirty seconds, was inside his office.

His eyes quickly scanned the bookshelf on the opposite wall.  Second row, six books from the left, red cover.  Henry snatched the dictionary from its tightly-wedged spot, nearly dropping it on his foot as he did so.  Slamming the dictionary onto his desk, his fingers turned the pages maddeningly.  A . . . B . . .C . . . D. . . doll – domineer . . . dominion – donkey . . . doom – dormant . . .

doppelganger.  dóppel-ganger.  noun.  From the German "double-goer."
The ghostly double of a living person.  According to superstition, an
omen of impending death.

With both hands, Henry snapped the book shut, leaving it on the desk.  "No," he said quietly.  "No!"  He exited his office, locking the door after him.  "No," he repeated, as he descended the stairs and stepped out into the rain, which had been reduced to a drizzle.  He marched down Lancaster Avenue, striding calmly and confidently now.  He would confront that man, that thing, whatever it was.  He would look him right in the face and demand to know who he was, why he was following him.  He had sat face to face with men accused of butchering their entire families.  This would be no more frightening than looking into a mirror.

He arrived at the station just as the last couple passengers were boarding the train.  The conductor stood by stoically.  Henry climbed aboard, pulling himself up with the steel rail.

Henry walked the length of the first car, looking left and right at every seat.  He did the same with the second car, still not finding his quarry.  Finally he took a seat at the rear of the third one, exhausted and relieved.  He had imagined the entire episode.  There was no double, no elusive twin brother, no doppelganger.  He had been hallucinating.  He was tired, overworked.  First the imaginary twin in the diner and at the train station, then the Grim Reaper.  He laughed in nervous relief.  He'd call the doctor tomorrow morning, get something to calm his nerves.

Maybe the man was in the fourth car.  Or the fifth one.

"Stop it!" Henry told himself aloud, then realized that there were five other people in the same car.  Henry shrank back into his seat, but no one even bothered to look at him.  Probably thought he was just another one of the many nutcases that rode the rails.  

The conductor appeared at the front of the car, casually collecting fares from the riders.  He instinctively held out his palm as he shuffled down the aisle, not even looking at the passengers.  He walked right by Henry without even asking for his ticket.  His luck was turning already.

"Merion Station next!" he heard the conductor shout.  "Merion!"

With the announcing of his stop, Henry staggered to his feet.  He walked down the aisle towards the front of the car, gripping the vinyl seats as he went, to offset the wobbling of the train.   The train came to a stop with a soft hiss, and as the doors opened, Henry saw him again.

Henry rushed towards the exit, just as the man was descending the ramp.

"Hey, wait!"  Henry shouted.  Henry was a few feet behind him as he stepped off the train and began walking towards the street.  Quickening his pace, Henry called after him again.

"Hey, buddy!  Hold on a second!"

He didn't answer, either because he couldn't hear him or thought that Henry was some kind of a lunatic.  Maybe he was some kind of a lunatic, but he had to know.
He had to know.

The man began crossing the street hurriedly, perhaps to get away from Henry.
He stepped onto the black asphalt, which shimmered from the streetlights reflecting on the thin sheen of rainwater.
Henry saw the car before he did, if he even saw it at all.  The Packard turned the corner sharply, making a large splash as the front wheel plowed through a stagnant puddle.  Henry had seen the car before, only a short time earlier.  The driver showed no sign of slowing down as the hideous steel grill closed the gap between metal and flesh.

"Look out!" Henry shouted, but no sound came from his lips this time.
In an instant, he turned and looked straight at Henry.  The same wide-eyed, gaping-mouth stare he had shown earlier.

There was a brief, horrible thud, followed by a deafening screech of tires.  Henry watched in horror as the body was tossed into the air, spun around in slow motion, and seemed to linger in suspense for a brief eternity.  The Packard skidded on the wet road and smashed into a lamp post.  Car doors opened and slammed, followed by the frantic patter of running feet.  A man and a woman were on the scene, standing over a prostrate figure in a raincoat.  Their voices were high and animated.

"My God," Henry said.  He felt a light, tingling sensation rise from his stomach and continue all the way to the top of his head.  A sickening feeling flooded over him.  "My God," he repeated, staring in disbelief.  Sirens wailed in the background.  His vision faded in and out, like a light bulb flickering in its final radiance.

Henry gazed down at his hands to see if they were shaking this time.  But he couldn't see his hands.  Nor his feet.  In the few seconds before his mind plunged into utter oblivion, he knew that he had not been the one looking at a doppelganger.

Lucky Seven Spa

He felt the small, supple hands trace opposing circles on his shoulders, then glide down to his buttocks, where they repeated the same clockwise and counterclockwise pattern. The delicate fingers moved up several inches, hovered above his lower back for a moment and delivered a targeted mini-massage before ascending his spine and vigorously kneading his neck. Grunting contentedly, John Daniels reached forward with his right hand and groped a silk-covered breast. This earned him, literally, a slap on the wrist . . . and a scolding giggle.

"You no touch now," she admonished him. "You give me fifty dollar after regular massage over."
She was a thin Asian woman of about 35, with clear skin, pouting lips, and a small bust. A purple band held her long, sleek black hair, which trailed down to just below the hem of her skirt. Looking through the opening for the face at one end of the padded table, John caught occasional glances of her dainty black boots stepping around him.

Moving to his arms, she asked, "You like?"

John grinned. "Oh, yes."

Driving home from work for the past four months, John had tried to ignore the faded neon letters in the window of the Lucky Seven Spa. One night his willpower weakened, and he parked his old Toyota Tercel on a side street. Verifying that all of the doors were locked and The Club® was in place, he stole to the back of the old brick building and pushed the buzzer. He would just "check it out."

A short, skinny Chinese lady of about 60 opened the door, smiled, and led him by the hand down a dimly-lit hallway. Upon reaching their destination, some thirty feet from the entrance, the woman instructed John to disrobe, whereupon she exited the room, closing the door softly. Please, don't let it be her, John thought.

It wasn't. Three minutes later, John heard a knock, the door swished open, and a young woman stood in place of the diminutive madam. She looked about 19 or 20.

"You come here before?" she asked, smiling.

Since then, John had been to the Lucky Seven four or five times, afterward furnishing his wife with the plausible explanation that he had to work late.


He felt compelled to make small talk, even though he doubted that she understood most of what he said.

"I'm John," he said. "Who are you?"

"Amy."

He flinched at hearing the name, which coincidentally was that of his wife. Of course, that couldn't be the girl's real name.

Absorbing the flow of her fingers for a few more minutes, he said, "When I was a little kid, I had a dog named Bobo. Dachshund. Great pet."

"Mmmm," she purred, bolstering his hunch about her English comprehension.

New Age music wafted across the small, dark room, emanating from a CD player on a glass-top table against the wall. A delicate aroma of incense hung in the air. In the corner was a wooden chair with John's clothes draped over it. A sound that mimicked flatulence erupted as "Amy" squeezed a clear bottle of baby oil into her palm, then rubbed the liquid onto John's shoulders. This time she extended her range all the way down John's legs, rubbing his thighs and calves and culminating with his feet. She gently yanked each toe, eliciting an occasional pop, just as she had done with his fingers.

The door chime sounded its alternating octaves.

"Be right back," she said, departing silently.

Something about the arrival of strangers while he was prone and naked made John uneasy. The fact that he was married further compromised his situation. He lifted his head a couple of inches and listened, hearing nothing at first. Then everything hit the fan.

A man's voice, loud and quarrelsome, and growing more so. A woman's voice, shrill and agitated. A loud thumping, then glass shattering. A scream.

John swung his legs over the edge of the table, stood up and made for the chair. His hands shook as he stretched the elastic waistband of his jockey shorts, tearing the white cotton fabric as he clumsily shoved a foot inside. Hastily climbing into his slacks, he nearly toppled forward as the errant foot once again snagged on the material. He threw on his undershirt and pulled on his v-neck.

A second scream cut through the air, followed by a stream of expletives.

Sitting down, John stuffed his feet into his Hush Puppies®, tied his laces, and dashed toward the door. Then he spotted his wallet on the floor.

Damn it!

Scrambling, he reversed course and scooped up the wallet.

He had to get out fast. He felt bad about abandoning the women to their plight, but this was one of their occupational hazards. Wasn't it?

Turning the knob fiercely, he pushed open the door and burst into the hallway. John scanned the area like a gunslinger in a spaghetti western sizing up his foes. A small, wiry fellow with a bald spot and a ridiculous-looking braided ponytail about four inches long stood between him and the foyer. Black motorcycle boots, torn jeans, and a denim jacket with a patch reading Blue Boys MC sewn onto the front added to his vicious, formidable demeanor, despite his short stature. John could smell the alcohol on his breath from twenty feet away.

The shards of a broken vase lay scattered on the plush gray carpeting, and a single red rose lay atop a wet spot. Amy sat on the floor, her hand pressed against her cheek, blood streaming from her lower lip. The middle-aged madam that John had encountered on his first visit stood in front of a third woman, shielding her from the belligerent stranger. Her trembling hands brandished a broom.

He fixed John with a red-eyed glare.

"What the hell you lookin' at?" he snarled.

For a moment, John wavered. Then he noticed a large wooden sword hanging on the wall to his left. Dashing across the corridor, he ripped the weapon from the plaster, leaving several conspicuous holes.

The menacing intruder grinned, as if pleased at the challenge. He advanced slowly, but with more coordination than John would have expected. Locking his sights on John, the man taunted him.

"I'm gonna make you eat that sword . . . backwards."

With the speed of a striking cobra he lunged, covering the distance between himself and John in a couple of seconds. John barely stepped out of the way, and swinging like Babe Ruth, cracked his opponent on the jaw. Blue Boy went down, his face hitting the floor like an anvil dropped from two stories. Even with the thick carpeting, John figured, that had to hurt.

The guy lay motionless, his thin arms and legs splayed out. John still gripped the wooden sword, the top half of which had snapped off. Amy got to her feet.

"He dead?" she asked John.

John didn't answer at first, partly because he was shocked at his own bravado and partly because he didn't know. Examining his prostrate attacker, John saw that he was breathing.

"He's alive," John replied. Then he said, "I gotta go."

The three women stared at him, bewildered, as John walked swiftly towards the exit. Just as he was about to leave, he realized that he was still clutching the broken sword in his right hand.

"Sorry," he said, setting the splintered blade down on an armchair in the foyer. "You might want to call the police, or get this guy some medical attention." Then he added, "Or not."

He gripped the steering wheel tightly during the drive home, trying to staunch the wave of anxiety that washed over him. He couldn't let his wife sense that anything was amiss. If the guy died, so what? He was a thug. He had attacked John. Hell, he had attacked Amy.

What if he woke up before they had a chance to . . . fix things?

Spotting a convenience store on his right, John veered abruptly into the parking lot, pulling his vehicle up to a pay phone. An angry car horn blared behind him. He drew several deep breaths, killed the engine, and got out of the car. He picked up the receiver and punched 911.

Half an hour later, he pulled into his own driveway. As he entered the kitchen, his wife glanced up nonchalantly from her newspaper. John noticed just before she did. But it was too late to do anything now.

"Why is your shirt on backward?" Amy asked.

A mild panic began throbbing in his gut, but with sheer willpower, he quelled it. His earlier adventure had put things into perspective.

He took another deep breath, exhaling slowly.

"Well, it's like this . . ."