XI

I wonder sometimes if there's a me that everybody knows but me. Occasionally, for example, I look into the mirror and think to myself, "Who the hell is that?" realizing only after a moment that it is me. Then everything returns to normal. But I'm forced to consider that perhaps that person that I see, and don't recognize, is the me that everybody else sees. Is that me, or the me that mistakes the me? Let's consider the facts (this is the kind of empiricism that inspired the pragmatists, but then again, one assumes Dewey's inquiries involved greater benefit to mankind--William James, however, had his own bouts of self doubt and so I suppose it's to him that I nod).

We dress the same, this other me and me. So one cannot critique his style. There are undoubtedly similarities in the facial features--I've been told I look like Ryan Seacrest. I cannot decide whether this is complimentary or disturbing. I see no quick resemblance between that me and the host of American Idol, but people see what they see and these things do not always make sense, so we'll let that one go. This me and me also share similar schedules for the requisite shearing of our heads (to forgo the clear waste of money involved in regular haircuts). In short, the physical manifestations of that me and me seem to match closely enough. So it must be that other side, the inner, self-reflective side, where the me's part. What does that other me, the me that everybody else sees but me, think about before he sleeps, what does he do with the moment in the Slapchop commercial when the salesman says "You'll love my nuts." Does he become both humored and a little disturbed? Does he dream of people long missing, and those for whom he's searching, perhaps in vain? Does he fear large dogs and crowds? I wonder sometimes about that me. I wonder what he sees, looking in from the other side of the mirror.

And I wonder, who's paying the checks? If it's me, I sense a freeloader.