“As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.”

—William Shakespeare

1.

We went out for beers after seeing Thelma and Louise, and they kept insisting that I looked like him. I thought that they were making fun of me. There was no way I would ever resemble this guy who oozed sex on screen like that. I never oozed anything—well, not anything good. One of the girls took out her brush and tried to give me his hair, but I just swatted her away. I ignored them that night. 

But not the next day.

I woke up the next morning with this question creeping through all of my thoughts: What if I do look like him? I mean, what if I was really, actually that good-looking? Wouldn’t that be something? But it couldn’t be possible. People who looked like that knew they were good-looking. Didn’t they? 

I wet my brush and styled my hair the way Brad’s character did in the movie. I had a cowboy hat in my closet from an old Halloween costume. I put it on and stared at myself. Maybe, I thought. Maybe I might look like him. 

This was where it all began. I let my hair grow out and grew my sideburns a little bit. I went to the mall and bought the clothes that he wore in Thelma and Louise. Yes, the exact clothes. Being the nerd I was, I cut out pictures of him from a magazine that had his outfits and took those pictures shopping with me. When I looked in the mirror, the reflection was a very different image than I was used to seeing. But what if it was lying? Could mirrors lie? 

I needed someone else to see this. 

For Halloween that year, I broke off from my tradition of hiding behind a costume to cover up my perceived flaws.

My friends were floating the idea of the Simpsons or Pee-wee’s Playhouse as group costumes. I declined. I had a surprise.

When I showed up to our annual Halloween party as J.D. from Thelma and Louise, complete with clothes and hair, there was silence. Long, excruciating silence. I had purposely come late to the party so that I could get everyone’s attention. This was difficult enough, as it was not in my DNA to seek attention. Even having my friends take that much notice of me was going to require what little confidence I had. I stood in the doorway as a small group gathered in front of me. I remember two distinct things about that moment: One woman, who was dressed as Lisa Simpson, was staring at my crotch. No one had ever looked at my crotch, and now Lisa Simpson was staring at it. After another few seconds Marge Simpson yelled out, “Smile like him.” I knew the “Brad grin” that Marge was looking for. It was in all the photos of him that I used to track down his outfit. It occurred to me that I was focusing on the clothes and not the attitude. I put my hands on my hips, leaned a little sideways and gave them the cocky Brad grin. That’s when the screaming and squealing started. 

I had a superpower. I was Clark Kent. I could run into a phone booth and become Brad Pitt at a moment’s notice! This was like going to sleep an orphan and waking up as the secret Getty heir. 

*********

2.  

But actual dating? I was afraid to admit it, but this was a skill I had never acquired. Talking to women about their lives was not necessary for me, since most women came on to me for his looks and cared little about what was underneath. The double-edged sword? I felt like there wasn’t that much underneath. 

All of that changed one fortunate weekend when I was bored enough to go on a blind date with some friends from work. I still remember that first encounter with Sophie Taylor. She was sitting at a table in the restaurant when I walked in and we were introduced by our mutual friend, who loudly proclaimed, “See! I told you he looks just like Brad Pitt!”

She calmly held out her hand and smiled. “Don’t worry, I won’t hold that against you.”

Bam! She had my attention. She was a little bit older than my usual conquest, much more confident, sophisticated. For the first time since becoming Brad, I was a little bit intimidated by a woman.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, I’m not going to assume that because you’re so pretty you aren’t intelligent or just relying on your looks to get by. So I think that’s kind of nice of me, don’t you?” Her smile spread across her entire face. Sophie was not classically pretty; she was not like my typical Jersey Shore type of woman. She was impressive. Her features were distinct, with big eyes that were always searching, a big nose that curved a little bit to the left.   

I smiled back at her. She didn’t say this maliciously; she said it with a wink, a dare. I was fascinated by her bravado and now totally intimidated. How could I tell her that she was right? She wanted honesty. Fuck, I’d give her honesty.

“I agree, it’s really nice of you, but I’m afraid you’re wrong. I’m totally empty inside. Not one original thought in my head. Nada. I was counting on looking like a movie star to win you over. Now I don’t know what to do. It’s all I got.”

She scrutinized me a bit more. Was I pulling her leg? Her smile came back.

“Okay, then let’s start with that. Not one original thought in your head, right? Let me hear about some of your unoriginal thoughts.”

This one was a keeper. 

*********

3. 

I walked through the lobby of the hotel with my aviators in place. I could almost feel the stares and double takes. I felt intoxicated, high from the attention. For a few seconds, everyone’s lives suddenly revolved around my presence. 

Could I step boldly out in front of paparazzi? This would be my next test. Work out the kinks here. The Brad Juice was flowing. Aviators on, hat turned frontward, and brim lowered a half an inch. Scarf wrapped a little closer to my chin. The doorman ran to the doors, and as soon as they opened, the cameras started going.

From what I could see there were about three photographers and a handful of onlookers with cell phones. The limo was just a few feet out by the curb. People yelled at me. 

“Hey, Brad, what you doin’ at the Ritz?”

“Where’s Angie?”

“Where you headed, Brad?”

“Can you look this way?”

I ignored everyone and calmly walked to the car, letting myself be photographed. As I ducked into the back seat, I threw a wave out to the crowd and we pulled away. Like a pro. The paparazzi accepted that I was him. Now I was paparazzi bait.

“Fuck, yeah!” I said in the back of the limo.