"There are no impersonators anymore because none of the original acts are original. We might be gunning to bury our own heads in the sand but there are only so many layers of bullshit we’re willing to cultivate and swallow as entertainment." She forked sushi into her mouth, took a sip of the fiery alcohol in front of her.
He made a face, raised his eyebrows and made big eyes at her. She made a face that inquired back.
He swallowed. He said, “It’s weird to you hear you say that, is all. Of all people, Ms. Anti-copyright, Anti-ownership, there-is-only-one-story.” He smirked after he said it. Just a small friendly smirk.
"Nothing’s original. It’s all one story, right?" He said. "What is it again?"
"A creature journeys and returns transformed," she said this distractedly, mouth full and moving fast, a quick aside. Then she pushed on with her corrected point. "I misspoke, you are right, it’s not originality that’s at stake it’s genuineness. Authenticity. Even the good impersonators performed with more authenticity than today’s celebrities. They exuded genuine love for the figures, the personalities they impersonated. Now, these celebrities today, so many are just impersonations of… something," She waved her fork around, hum-chewed. Mawed her thought over. "Impersonations of something abstract, some ideal. If there were modern impersonators, they would be the knock-off brand shoes, imitating logos, fake hype about nothing but hype to begin with. Nike air, then Nike half-life. Until we’re all barefoot, walking on air. Who cares."
She said more. ”If there’s not substance to begin with why bother with the middle man”
They both knew this didn’t really exactly make sense but it also did, entirely. Somehow, unquestionably the said middle men where the impersonators and when your heroes have gone straight to faking it, who needs them.
They both drank, set down their glasses, lifted their forks together in time. Syncopated diners. Choreographed full mouths. They nodded in joint acknowledgement of their psychic agreement.
Sometimes Bernadette wondered if perhaps she was psychic. She never could establish a mental image of herself that fit in her mind according to any kind of recognizable physical description. A vampire caught off-guard by her own reflection in store windows and mirrors. She had no idea what she looked like to herself, in her own mind’s eye. She only knew it was never what this - this whatever she saw when she gazed with any conscious perspective on her own living image, was. Her shadow, by contrast was slightly more familiar, she thought, but still not entirely benign or friendly. And these facts, somehow seemed to confirm or at least add to the sluice pot of reasons she might be psychic. There were others.
If anyone was psychic, for real. It must really suck, she thought. Either that or it might be totally baffling to the person. Something they couldn’t really notice or ignore. But much less a matter of life perks than anyone imagined Like genius. She figured they were the same kind of thing.
He hadn’t said it at the sushi place that night. But sometimes, too often, he said her life read like a novel. She did not think this was a particularly good thing. She was pretty sure people’s real lives weren’t supposed to be like that. She was more or less convinced this is why the language included the word fiction. She also believed, for reasons that eluded her articulation, that this statement was connected to a web of facts and information that stood poised to drop evidence that she was psychic onto the comfortable beach of her life from some great cliff height above. To drop it like some mirror. To force her once again to acknowledge her mismatching reflection. About which she could do nothing. Nothing but keep moving, keep moving on.