"You read the bible?" I ask myself.
"Naw," I say.
"I read it all the time. It's good," says me.

This is how I meet myself.

In an office supply store in midtown waiting for color copies.

- - -

I am easily thirty years older than myself. But I look the same. Basically. Essentially. Same wild mane. Beard. I seem to have lost interest in my appearance because I am wearing wrinkled and dirty, nondescript clothing, but perhaps that's only on account of the fact that I am working. I install and maintain antique flooring. It is the furthest thing from what I do or aspire to be. Why do I do this for a living?

"How did you come to become a floor expert?" I inquire.
"Family business," I respond.
To which I return: "You're lying."
"Oh?"
"You're parents are teachers, artists."
"No. I'm afraid not. You're mistaken," I inform.
I do not understand.
This is me. Indisputably. Undoubtedly.
I know this.
This goes beyond looks. The mane. Glasses.
I know this is true. It does not matter that I am an atheist while I read the bible. Just because I read the bible doesn't for certain mean that I believe it. Nor does my proclaiming that "It's good." This brings a smile to my face which brings a smile to my face.
"Family business?" I press.
"Maybe not."
I relent.

- - -

I am attached to my cell phone. I yell to someone about the difference between a proposal and a contract. I want to get paid. I don't seem to like my secretary. I wonder if she's hot...
I too am addicted to my phone. It's funny because I remember that I hate cell phones. I hate everyone that has one. Maybe not hate. Disapprove of. Does this mean I disapprove of myself? And myself?

I don't even know what a cell phone is. I know what a phone is. My parents use it, talk into it. My telephone is a toy. It's a rotary type, except the rotary doesn't move. It's just part of a happy phone face.

My cell phone does not have a happy phone face, but it does resemble E.T. the extra-terrestrial. It is slim and fits nicely in my pocket.

My cell phone, on the other hand, is clunky. Heavy. Not very fashionable. I am not very fashionable. But then again I fix floors and read the "good" book. No need for fashion. Not really.

- - -

I want to follow myself, but that might not be a good idea. What if I am dangerous?

I am prone to throw tantrums, yet I am mild-mannered. What if I am more like me than myself?

- - -

I am yelling to my partner about Ethyl who does not know the difference between a contract and a proposal. I am standing next to myself. I am trying to receive a fax while I am waiting for color copies. I remember this. I remember what I am supposed to say and how I am going to respond. Just for kicks:

"You read the bible?"

Naw.