QOD: What do you do if you meet your doppleganger at a social function?

First time I’d been stranded in a quarter of a century. Not that it was the pickup’s fault. No, I’d been the idiot who’d zipped into a too small track on the edge of a cliff. With one wheel hanging off into the wild blue, I figured I’d better stop the idiocy and hike back.

Started to rain before I got to the road. Hey, this is what happens when you let your baby down. I was glad I’d chained her to the nearest conifer. Unless the whole mountainside slipped—not unheard of in our green northwest—she’d still be there when I returned with some help.

I’m not much of a guy for hitchhiking. Nothing against it, but it once took me three days and 28 rides (plus sleeping on some lady’s porch and waking up with a herd of ducklings on my chest) to get from L.A. to home. My friend Mikey left a day later, got one slick ride up the coast, and had burned up half my stash before I joined the party. Kath says it has to do with attitude. There’s not much of an answer to that.

Stuck out the digit without a lot of hope, but once I was good and soaked, I saw headlights blinking through the precipitation. Damn if he didn’t slow. I smiled when he got close enough to see he favored the same ride I did: ’47 Chevy.

Jumped in quick due to the rain, and was still slapping it off when I realized we weren’t going anywhere. I looked up and returned the guy’s stare. Crap, I was gazing into some kind of Outer Limits mirror. He shook his head and stepped on the accelerator. “Tell me your name’s not Kevin,” he said.

“Shit! You kidding?”

“Fuck me. I think I need something to take the edge off this. I’ve got a pipe in the glove box, if you’d be so kind. Sorry, no papers.” He gave me a ghastly grin. “Scared to share?”

“No, but I’ve got my own pipe,” I said, fumbling with the catch.

“Well, of course you do,” he said.

I started cracking up when I found his pipe behind the baggie. He glanced at me and I produced mine from my back pocket. “And to think they told me this was an original.”

“How long you had that?”

“Longer than I’ve had my orange ’47 Chevy pickup with the ding in the left front fender.” He choked out a laugh and tapped a fervent shave and a haircut on the horn. I slouched in my seat, concentrating on getting the bud into the bowls.

Turns out we were born on the same fucking day, our moms had the same name, we’d both been loons enough to major in history, and we dug the same bands. Oh man, we were still discovering things when he got me where I needed to be.

Keep in touch? Hell, no. A bit too weird for both of us. But god fuck me and stash me in a manger, that was one ride I’ll never forget. Damn good bud, too. He let me off with a full pipe.