Mark's Doppelganger

Whenever someone close to me dies, I ask for the same thing. I look up awkwardly at the sky or ceiling and say aloud "If you make it to the other side, give me a sign. And make it obvious because I'm dumb". And I swear it works every time.

My dear grandmother must know how dense I really am because her response to my request was just short of putting up a billboard. She died during a heatwave in late June, and I could feel my (formally her) old Toyota Corolla struggling as it putted along the highway towards the funeral home. About halfway through the drive, a van merged into my lane. The license plate read "Roses" and the entire body of the vehicle was wrapped in vinyl blue roses. Strangely enough, the van was void of any other markings; no advertisement for a florist or business phone number. I followed this van for 20 exits, smiling the entire ride. Thank you, Grandma Rose. I hear you loud and clear.

The next message delivered from the great beyond came from a former colleague of mine named Mark. I met Mark back in 2010 when I started working as a cookie decorator for a company called Cookies by Design. Yes, cookie decorator is a real job title. I sat directly across from Mark for three and a half years, separated only by a stainless steel table a pile of brightly colored icing bags. The man seated across from me couldn't be more different. Mark was a flamboyant 54-year-old man with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a potbelly. He had more fingers than he did teeth, chronically smoked Virginia Slims, and rocked the same grey sweatsuit for at least two weeks before alternating it with its red counterpart. It took me a full season and confirmation from our manager Joanna to notice that last bit. At this particular junction in my life I hadn't given up on my personal appearance yet and my naive 20-year-old self would show up to work glammed out and at least 30-40 minutes late. Every morning I would arrive, a tall iced macchiato from Starbucks in hand, to the smell of baking cookies, a stack of orders, and Mark sitting there with his arms crossed.

After learning the basics of cookie decorating, such as the perfect food coloring formula to achieve bubblegum pink or the proper temperature to apply icing to a sugar cookie, there wasn't much to do. And when Mark and I weren’t fighting over the radio station, we would talk. We talked a lot. I learned about his life as a gay man living in New York City in the 70s and 80s. He recounted gritty tales of Studio 54 and his brushes with Andy Warhol. No detail was too raunchy or taboo, I was told everything; Secondhandedly experiencing the elated highs and tragic lows of an era that abruptly ended with the AIDS epidemic. I heard those stories too, including the demise of Mark's late husband Carl, whom I never met but feel I know personally.

After spending so many days together, I found myself finishing Mark's sentences. We gave each other cute nicknames, I was lovingly deemed "Scrawny" and he was "Fat Albino Man". Aside from Mark's personal monologues, which he would indulge to anyone who would listen, he was a well of information. In his own bizarre way, he guided me like a parent. We sat through 12 hours of Suze Orman disks from the library so I could learn about personal finance. He taught me about art and theatre and we listened to his questionable taste in music (which included a lot of Dolly Parton). And every year we would buy a copy of the farmer's Almanac to go through the recipes together.

Eventually, I left my blossoming career as a Cookie Decorator to go to beauty school and become a hairdresser. Before developing carpal tunnel, I would return to the bakery and help out during the holiday rush season. Mark had developed cancer during that time. It progressed quickly, most likely due to his chain-smoking and lack of trust in medical professionals. I stopped by after he was recovering from one of his surgeries. He was exuberant as ever, telling me horror stories of bland hospital food. I would pop in every once and while after that, hoping to catch Mark. A few times I did. Sadly, shortly after our last encounter, I received a call from the new bakery manager Cindy, informing me of Mark's death.

So as ritual has it, I looked up to the sky and said "Hey Albino Man, send me a sign you got to the other side! And make sure it’s obvious, you know how dumb I am."

I was moping around the next morning, reminiscing about my old friend until I saw the clock. Unlike Cookies by Design, the salon did not tolerate my lateness as graciously. I jumped into the old Toyota Corolla and floored it. On the final stretch of my white-knuckle ride, I heard a loud thump followed by an earsplitting scraping sound. The wire hanger I had rigged up to hold my muffler in place finally gave out. I pulled over into the nearest parking lot, towing the metal part shamefully behind. I got out of the car to survey the damage and then called the salon. At least I had a valid excuse for my lateness this time.

I sat back in the car defeated and began to scroll through my contact list, contemplating who I should call to bail me out of this mess. Just as I was about to select the lucky winner, a sharp tap on the window broke my concentration. I looked up and froze. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up at full attention and my eyes widened. Standing there was a man. A man with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a noticeable shortage of teeth. Looking at him from the side, you could see his beer gut spilling over his jeans.

I rolled down the window.

"I saw what happened on the road." The stranger said. "Mind if I take a look?" The sound of his voice hit me like a brick, even his annunciation was uncannily Mark’s.

"Sure" I replied shakily.

I stood unresponsive as he walked to the back of my car and knelt down. He peered under the bumper. "Hold on, I can fix this. You're missing a bolt but I can secure the muffler so you can get the car to a mechanic."

He walked over to his truck and scrambled through the bed, pulling out a few tools. It had just stopped raining, so the ground beneath my car was damp as he crawled underneath it. He propped up the muffler with a thick metal wire and twisted it tightly.

"Okay, you're all set." he smiled

"Thank you so much." I whimpered, my voice slightly cracking.

He turned to walk away.

"Wait!" I called out faintly, as I rummaged through my purse and tried to offer the man money. He refused.

"I'm happy to help, it’s my good deed of the day" the Man replied.

Without even giving me his name, he turned away, got in his truck, and drove off.