Mirror Monologue

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”

That is something Gonga never says.

I tried it myself once, and the mirror cracked. That may have been because I decided to say it while testing the nail my roommate had inserted into the wall in my bedroom. The problem was that he had pushed the nail into the wall with his brass knuckles and neglected to locate a stud. Nails stay in drywall just fine on their own. But they don’t seem to handle the weight of a mirror very well.

“Who am I?”

I do look at the mirror and ask myself that. But I usually just get blank looks.

It’s easier for Gonga. He looks in the mirror and says, “I am Gonga, Gonga I am.” And the gorilla in the mirror grins back in a rare feat of triumph over his facial paralysis.

Gonga loves the way he looks. The idea of poor body image has never crossed his eyes. He especially loves the bright red of his T-shirt. If you ever see him walking through a glass door on campus, you’ll notice him pause and look at his reflection. The red always makes him happy.

This is good, because Gonga must stay happy. His bouncing good humor is an integral part of the cover I have so carefully constructed. The mirror gives me blank looks because I have carefully effaced my personality. Without Gonga I must be bland, flat, and unmemorable. Like a good spy, people should not recall what I look like.

I smile, but on the inside, where the mirror cannot see.

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who sells the cheapest books of all?”

If you give me a blank look, I will come after you, and you will not know I am there.