About four on a Friday afternoon, as I was eating my evening Wheaties, there was a loud knock at the door, followed by repeated pressing of my doorbell. I slammed my bowl of cereal down on the coffee table, for in front of the television is where I eat, and grumbled all the way to the door. Whoever was out there didn’t stop holding down the doorbell until I opened the door.

I flung the door open and clapped eyes on a middle-aged man who looked suspiciously like [Author:Brian Evenson], one my favorite authors. Same face, same curly hair, same beard, exactly the same build. He was dressed in a gray-blue suit with a maroon tie.

I didn’t even have time to process this all before he said: “Hi, I’m running for public office. Could I have a moment of your time?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “What is this about?”

“As I said, I’m running for office.”

“Which office?”

“I’m running for the office of Brian Evenson.”

“How is that a public office?” I asked, unsure.

“My campaign staff have led me to understand that you are quite a big fan of Mr. Evenson’s work. You’d feel a great loss if he were to die or, heaven forbid, just decide to stop publishing new fiction.”

“Yes?”

“This has been declared a public service and the office is being officially created after the next election.”

“The office of… Brian Evenson? It’s just… Aren’t you Brian Evenson?”

“No. No, no, no. Oh, heavens no. No, no, no,” he said, followed by a chuckle. “At least not yet. That’s why I need your vote.”

“Then who are you?”

“I’m Brian Hartly,” he said, handing me a business card. On the card were two tiny black and white headshots. On the right was Brian Hartly, on the left was Brian Evenson. Above the photos were the words “Brian Hartly is running for Brian Evenson” and below, “These are not the same person.” The man on the right did look slightly older than the man on the left. But they had the same impish glint in the eye.

“Are you, like, related to him or something?” I asked, still not fully convinced this wasn’t Brian Evenson. “You look so much like him.”

“I just dress for the job I want to have,” he replied. “So, if I could get you to sign this petition, I’m one step closer to serving the public in the capacity of Brian Evenson.”

“I’m not sure I can just sign off on you that quick, if you are in fact not already Brian Evenson. What are your positions on the issues?”

He paused and stiffened his lip. “Which issues are most important to you, as a reader?”

“I think what I want in Brian Evenson is threefold: economy of language, dispassionate reports of violence, and doppelgangers.”

“I’m for all that. I also promise to increase cognitive dissonance and identity confusion by at least ten percent in the next quarter.”

“Your pitch is tempting me, but I still don’t understand how we can elect a Brian Evenson. Like, we don’t even elect a Stephen King.”

“Of course not,” he said and giggled. “That’s a hereditary position. Plus, would we really miss Stephen King if he just gave up writing to start a farm? He’s already written over eighty books. Brian Evenson barely has twenty if you count the commercial B.K. stuff.”

“And who does?” I said without thought, still mulling over the confusing proposition that one of my favorite authors could be voted out of office. “Isn’t King a little old to be starting a farm?”

“Oh, you are out of the loop. We are already on our third King. You think one man wrote eighty books?” He guffawed like the hippo in a back and white cartoon. “Oh, goodness me. My, my, my. Heavens no. It’s scientifically impossible.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“You can’t write more than one chapter per month. That’s physics. You can’t physically move a pencil any more quickly or type more rapidly than the Speed of Words.”

“I hadn’t realized there were a fixed number of words in a chapter.”

“No, there aren’t, but they do balance out over the course of a book. One short chapter necessitates a long chapter. This is the Law of Word Balance.”

“This isn’t making me want to vote for you,” I said honestly.

“You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about the nitty-gritty details,” he said. “Leave that to the elected officials.”

“Okay, I’ll sign the petition, but I have a lot to think about before I give you my vote.”

“Terrific,” he said, handing me a clipboard, and rubbing his hands together. “Say, where is your vote right now?”

“Where is my vote? Right now?” I repeated.

“Yes, I’d really like to get a glimpse, if I may.”

I did not want this man knowing the whereabouts of my vote. For all I knew, he would steal it in the night while I slumbered, dreaming of future Brian Evenson publications.

“It’s resting,” I told him. “Hasn’t been feeling at all well.” I quickly scrawled a fake signature on the petition.

“That is a shame,” he said, eyeing the clipboard uneasily. “But thank you for your time, Glorb. I’ll be back with vote medicine tomorrow.” He trotted down the walkway toward the street.

“Be back with what?” I said faintly.

I’m sure he heard me, even though he simply said, “I’m from back East, cran, carmel, wooder,” without turning to face me, and kept walking right across the street to the house of that woman who looks just like Margaret Atwood.