Author: Colin Jeffrey

I was looking for a tin of tomato soup when I bumped into myself.

He was wearing my old leather jacket – the one I’d donated to charity because it reminded me of my ex-girlfriend. He looked as surprised as I felt. For a few seconds, we mirrored bemused facial contortions.

“Excuse me,” he said.

“No, excuse me,” I replied, politeness the only thing my flummoxed mind could muster when confronted with my doppelganger.

We sidestepped in the same direction. Then both the other way. Then back. Finally, we froze.

He leaned forward. “I think we might be the same person.”

“Oh, let’s not jump to conclusions,” I whispered, sounding suspiciously like the protagonist in a science fiction story where everything goes strangely awry.

I escaped to the counter with my soup and a slipping sense of self. The cashier looked up.

It was me. Again. This time with glasses – my old prescription pair, thick as cola-bottle bottoms.

“Do you want a bag?” he asked in a monotone suggesting he’d witnessed the collapse of endless universes and found them all equally banal.

“Are you… me?” I asked.

He sighed. “Aren’t we all?”

I hurried from the supermarket and stepped into the street. A woman pushing a pram passed and nodded politely. It was me. The baby in the pram goo-goo’d. Also me. Older-man-with-a-poodle me waved. Jogger me, in a velour tracksuit, waved. Dozens of mes waved from various distances, making me feel like I’d wandered onto a parade float in my own honour.

I headed home. I always made it a priority to head for familiar terrain during an existential crisis. But the bus driver was me. So was every passenger. When I tried to sit beside myself, I asked, “Is this seat free?”

“I don’t know,” sitting-me replied. “Are you?”

The bus erupted in laughter – my laughter, layered into a round, cosmic, echoing guffaw that made my organs jitter.

I got off at the next stop.

As I walked, I tried to comfort myself with philosophy. Possibly this was a dream. A hallucination. Maybe I was collapsing into a singularity of self. Perhaps I had achieved Nirvana – though I doubted enlightenment involved buying a tin of soup.

At my building, my landlord – me – stood outside arguing with a plumber. Also me. They turned in unison.

“Oh great,” landlord-me said. “Another one.”

“Don’t start,” plumber-me warned.

I slipped past and climbed the stairs to my apartment. I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and felt the relief of home – until I saw myself on the couch, eating my chips and watching my streaming service.

“Oh,” couch-me said. “You’re back.”

“What the hell is going on?!” I demanded.

Couch-me set down the bowl and leaned forward with the gravity I usually reserved for breakups.

“You ever think,” he said, “that maybe you’re not as remarkable as you thought?”

“I don’t…what? Of course I’m not remarkable.”

He nodded. “Exactly. And now the universe has decided to prove it.”

More of me entered through the front door. Some carried food. One had a guitar. Another lugged beer.

“Are you all here to replace me?” I asked.

They laughed – that layered, unsettling chortle again.

“No,” guitar-me said, attempting to strike a dramatic chord and failing. “We’re here because you already replaced yourself.”

“What does that even mean?”

Couch-me patted the seat beside him. “Relax. The universe has finally caught up with your self-image.”

Defeated, I sat.

We all watched TV together.

And, for the first time, I wasn’t sure which version of me was pretending.