After work the next day, the latest report on my story safely digitalized and under wraps for a debut on the evening news at ten, I crashed at home by seven that night. How does a weird-phenomenon TV reporter relax? By watching national network forensic crime shows, natch.
So there I am, sucking up microscopic forensic details on TV with the rest of the country, when wham-o!
It all happened so fast. The camera zoomed in closer than the world’s best lover. A maggot writhed like a stripper from the dark cave of a deadly pale . . . but delicately shaped . . . nostril. With a tiny blue topaz stud.
The camera dollied back. Hmm. Not a bad-looking nostril at all. In fact, it’s a dead ringer for mine. Tiny blue topaz stud and all. A very dead ringer. Literally.
I can feel my cold sweat. This is the same old nightmare: me flat on my back, unable to move, bad alien objects coming at me. Except I’m not dreaming, I’m watching network TV on a Thursday evening, like eighty million other people in America.
The object of the camera’s affection is a body on the hot TV franchise show, CSI Las Vegas V, Crime Scene Instincts, what I nickname Criminally Salacious Investigations. Media is my business. I have a right to mock it. I am not in a mocking mood at the moment.
Who has tapped my very personal nightmares for network exposure? While my stomach starts to churn, the camera retracts farther.
Holy homicide! The turned-up nose is mine! And the chin, the neck, the collarbones, the discreet but obvious cleavage, the muscle-defined calves visible past Grisham V’s burgeoning backside. . . .
Even the toenails are painted my color, Glitz Blitz Red.
I look down and wiggle my bare toes shimmering blood-bright in the living room lamplight. I’m alive but I’m alone, in all senses of the word.
Me with a body double? A doppelganger. A replica. A clone?
My heart was pounding as if I’d actually undergone a recent brush with scalpel and saw and had lived to tell about it. I’d never “felt” the presence of a missing birth twin, like you were supposed to. I’d never sensed an absent “half.” Yet the detail that really unnerved me was the tiny blue topaz nose stud on the televised body. Hardly a genetic similarity.
Separated twins were supposed to be so alike that they often held the same jobs, married men who shared a profession, even dressed alike. Long distance. Without one knowing about the other. That small blue glint on the corpse’s nose made me shiver. Facial resemblance might eerily echo some stranger’s features. But the exact same impudent touch of nose jewelry?
No. Can’t be. I’m an orphan so abandoned that I was named after the intersection where my infant self was found.
So who’s been trespassing on my mysteriously anonymous gene pool?
I haven’t taped the damn show, so I can’t rerun my media centerfold moment. Who knew? I’m used to being on TV, but I’ve never acted, never aimed at a career as a corpse, and I’ve never been to Las Vegas.
My white Lhasa apso, Achilles, sensing agitation, came bouncing over to comfort me, his lovely floor-length hair shimmering in the bluish light of the television. I absently stroked his long silky ears.
Lhasas are often taken for largish lapdogs, but they’ve got terrier souls. Achilles is twenty pounds of Tibetan staple gun. I used to wonder why centuries ago the Dalai Lamas bred Lhasas as temple guard dogs . . . until I got Achilles as a puppy. He was a growling relentless rusher, that short toothy jaw snapping with playful nips. I’d push him back and he’d joyously charge me again. If an intruder ever fell down in a pack of these, it would be Piranha City. Flesh stripped from bone.
In fact, Achilles was named for his playful puppy habit of nipping at my heels wherever I went. And because he’s my soft spot, my Achilles heel.
Yeah. I’m an orphan, I’m single. I love my dog.
And apparently I’m now anonymously famous. Or infamous.