Dead Ringer of an Impersonation

In 2005, a newspaper ran a human interest story about the sports memorabilia in my home. From a splotch of newsprint, I attracted short-lived notoriety, fans, and business inquiries. Pollard Redksin is one such ardent Philadelphia sports fan. He finagled an ingenious way to get my home phone number, which is not listed under my name. Pollard telephoned to congratulate me on my memorabilia collection and super fan status. I took the call. We talked sports and I kept things impersonal. I could never really figure out what Pollard wanted other than him wanting to become my best friend. The call raised a red flag the size of Kansas. I made sure the surveillance cameras in and around our home passed diagnostics.

In a subsequent call, Pollard connived one of my kids into surrendering my cell phone number. That is when the real fun began. I felt like a hostage to his regular calls to talk sports but I always gave him respect and as much distance as humanely possible. I figured he would go away. After two weeks, the frequency of phone calls subsided then it all came to a screeching halt. Pollard must have found a better friend is all I wish to say.

Fourteen months later, I am alone in my car and for no reason Pollard Redskin comes to mind. Pollard Redskin’s nasal voice remained etched in my hard wiring. Pollard owned the affliction of an annoying voice that a hearing impaired person wouldn’t forget. How can I describe his unmistakable voice? Humm, if Gilbert Godfrey called me without introducing himself I would still know it was him. All things pertaining to Pollard resurrected: his uncommon name, his unusual voice, even his exalted story of mingling with greatness when he stole former Philadelphia Eagles Vaughn Hebron’s used napkin at a restaurant. Without rehearsal, I did a damned good impersonation of Pollard's voice. I did it aloud so that my ears could get feedback in the quiet car. I adlibbed the following contrived speech:

“Joe, your buddy Pollard Redskin here. You probably don’t remember me but a little over a year ago you and I almost were friends. You mentioned in passing that you were looking for a specific picture of Pelle Lindberg, God rest his soul. I happened to obtain that exact photo and I wouldn’t mind dropping it off. Maybe I can finally see your house…”

A spooky dead ringer of an impersonation, I stopped the conversation when my voice sounded more like Pollard Redskin’s than my memory of him. I got home and not five minutes into the house the phone rang. It was not Pollard Redskin but my youngest brother. I recently hooked my brother up with the South Jersey Paranormal Research group. As a fledgling member, my brother had just concluded his first investigation. My brother shared his exuberance and we began to talk about psychic phenomenon. I told my brother of my casual interest but trumping reluctance in becoming an investigator with the same paranormal group. We grew up in a house where irony, coincidence, the unusual, and the unexplained were normal occurrences. I told my brother that outside of relentless irony, I have been successful at somehow quieting the occurrences of my childhood. I told my brother to have a good time storming Frankenstein’s castle but to leave me out of the chase. I related that the last thing I wanted to have happen was to be followed home by a goblin or for some discarnate demon to take residence in a balding social worker turned hack ghostbuster. After our lively conversation concluded and before I even had time to let go of that receiver, the phone rang again. When I read the name of Pollard Redskin in the Caller ID box, I freaked out. Incredulous, I started to run probability odds as I answered the phone in a soft worried voice. Pollard Redskin proceeded to repeat almost verbatim what I thought I had invented in the car leaving me to wonder who was zooming who?

“Joe, your buddy Pollard Redskin here. You probably don’t remember me but a little over a year ago you and I almost were friends. You mentioned in passing that you were looking for a specific picture of Pelle Lindberg, God rest his soul. I happened to obtain that exact photo and I wouldn’t mind dropping it off. Maybe I can finally see your house…”

What started out as a human interest story led to a supernatural event. I made one lousy referral to a paranormal group and the eerie stuff returned. I hope the forces at work accept my brother as human sacrifice and leave me the hell alone.