Please Note That I Am Not Burt Reynolds*

*Although I might be introduced to you as such a person. There was probably a point when I should have mentioned that I wasn’t actually Burt Reynolds. Of course, I’m not sure why she thought that I was Burt Reynolds to begin with. I don’t resemble Burt. Burt was never a portly woman in a pug t-shirt and skinny jeans. And I rarely saw him sporting a large banjo tattoo on his forearm. Maybe it was the gold aviators.

I probably should have mentioned it before she took me out to the movies and bought me all that popcorn and soda. But she said that she knew how much I would appreciate a date at the movies. And I do sort of like Leonardo DiCaprio. The fact that she sat behind me and gave me a shoulder massage just put me in a mood to keep up this little game. I kept telling myself: she must realize the truth. She must know that Mr. Reynolds was unlikely to be hanging out at the Grand Rapids mall looking at discount Marilyn Monroe DVDs. Surely, this woman -- Alice -- must know that that wouldn’t make sense.

I guess that I really ought to have said something when she offered to wash my Taurus, wearing only a pink polka dot bikini. But I saw the bikini and thought about the dirt on my car, and everything seemed to be falling apart. The past few days at the laundromat had really been unpleasant. College kids showed up and tried to pack all of their clothes into a single machine, then bitched when it didn’t work. Old people complained that our vending machine detergents were too small and too fragrant. Some guy pooped in a dryer, and that was a whole thing. Anyway -- it was just so nice of Alice to offer to wash the car that I wouldn’t have wanted to offend her. It was like a present for all the shit that I had been putting up with at work. Like a big ol' present.

Of course, it seems wrong that I didn’t tell her before she introduced me to all of her friends. I could tell that the friends were uncertain whether I was Burt, although not uncertain enough to say anything. Somehow, they seemed willing to believe that I might be him. And after I said, “Hi, I’m Burt. How’s it going?” all of them were totally convinced. Her friends were really attractive -- especially the redhead named June who kept accidentally having a nip slip out of her lacy black tank top.

The point when I really, really ought to have said something was when I slept with her. I knew she was going to put out on that third date, and it would have just been good manners to have mentioned it. But, alas, Alice was looking particularly fine in her cherry red dress. And she was obviously so eager. I hated to see how disappointed she was when she saw that I had no penis. I told her that it gotten blown off in Iraq during the Gulf War. Since she was unswervingly convinced that I was Burt, I was still able to woo her. Then I said that they found it on the fields of battle and were able to save the husk of it and fashion a vagina. I told her to feel my inverted penis husk.

I think that today will be the day that I tell her. The plane ride to Puerto Vallarta is quite long, and the magazines in the pouches of the seats in front of us will likely become boring before the ride is out. I think Alice might be bringing Bleak House. That could slow up a discussion, which is fine. After all, we are there for a week. Best not to spoil it. Now that we are honeymooning, I’d like to keep the peace.

1 thought on “Please Note That I Am Not Burt Reynolds*”

  1. victor fitzsimons

    The spirit of Burt compels her to adopt the mantle of the mustache man, Mr Magnum PI without his dangly bits… did the spirit enter the character or was it forced there by others? And when we aren’t who we think we are, can we really be ourselves? The expectations of the social environment pushes us into strange roles and we might be powerless to resist. Being an avatar of Burt would indeed be difficult to dismiss once assumed…

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