The Legend of the Ditto Twins (12 page)

"Well,
of course not. God, that woman. Asked
me
not to say anything either. I swore I wouldn't. But I lied.
We're all chronic liars,
y'know
. Oh, yes, mendacity
runs in this fuckin family, too. You know what mendacity is?"

I nodded.

"I'll
bet you do."

I shifted
uneasily and scratched my sideburn. "Uh... If you don't mind... can I ask?
Why have you told me all these things... all at once so quick like this?"

"To
find out how much your mother's brainwashed you. To see if you're salvageable.
To see if you'll fuckin' stay or go."

"Oh."

With a
smile, maybe a smirk, I started unpacking.

He nodded.
"You don't know it yet, but I'm the best thing that's ever happened to
you.
"

Lily
arrived ten minutes later, all Spandex and eyeliner. I couldn't help but notice
she wasn't wearing a bra. As she effortlessly set about to make me feel at
home, I quickly warmed up to her. Two helpings of General
Tso's
Chicken later, I had a sister; she had a brother.

Later,
after everyone had read his fortune cookie but me, I walked my father to his
truck. He stopped, as if weighing his options. Finally, he decided to hug me.

"You
know you can come back with me if you want to."

"I
know. Thanks. But we promised Mom we'd give it a shot."

"Good
man. I'm proud of you. Fuckin' proud of you."

It was the
first time in my life I'd ever heard him use The F Word. But then it hit me: Of
course. Mom was miles away. I hugged him again,
walked back to the house, waved without turning around, and
tossed my fortune cookie under the porch.

In the
parlor, Uncle Clay was sprawled in the recliner, Lily on the floor, watching
"Jeopardy." When I walked into the room, he reached for the remote. I
smiled nervously.

"Sorry.
Uh...I need to call home. I promised Mom. I'll call collect... or get the
charges and you can take it out of my first week's pay."

"I
can afford a call to your mother," he replied with a cavalier wave
followed by a delayed reaction. "You don't have a cell phone?" His
shock quickly became a wicked smile. "No. Call her collect. That way, she
won't spend the whole fuckin' night pumping you for what's going on here."

I
grinned, went into the hall, and placed the call—collect. I could almost see
Mom's eyes on her wristwatch as she lobbed one question after another at me. Obviously,
she was already having regrets, especially since my answers were all so
positive. Then I asked to speak to Clark.

"Do
you know how much this is costing your father?"

"We
won't talk long, Mom. I promise."

I could
hear Clark take the phone from her. "Hi."

"Thank
God she's too cheap to have an extension."

"I
got us a surprise today," my brother said.

"Gonna
tell me? No, of course not. She's standing right there, right? Okay, I'll do all
the talking. I miss you, I love you, I want to touch you, I don't know how I'm
ever gonna fall asleep without you tonight, I'm gonna try not to jerk off till
I get home Friday night."

"Ditto.
All of the above."

"Clark,
this place is unreal. And get this, Mom told Uncle Clay all about the Vaseline,
and he couldn't have cared less. You're gonna love him. He says fuck as often
as you say shit. Oh, God, I've got so much to tell you..."

"Mom
says time's up." A pause. "God bless Mark."

"God
bless Clark. I'm kissing you."

"Ditto."

The call
was terminated within seconds.

Once my
erection had calmed down, I returned to the parlor. This time, Uncle Clay
reached for the remote and handed me a clipboard.

"Here,"
he said. "Lily, show him the drill. We've got that fuckin parts salesman
coming first thing tomorrow."

"Sure,
Clay." She stood and motioned me to follow. "There's nothing to it. A
moron could handle this."

We moved
into the kitchen and out the back door into the yard, which was ablaze with
security lights. She pointed to a concrete lean-to that housed the office and
unlocked the door. I followed her into the warehouse where rows of
floor-to-ceiling metal shelving held hundreds of different auto parts, most of
them in numbered bins. Quickly, she explained the inventory system to me and
how to cross-check on the clipboard any given part with its location. She was
right: A moron could do it.

After we
locked up, she asked if I wanted a beer. I thanked her but passed. So did she,
but we sat down on the back porch steps anyway. She produced a pack of
Marlboros and offered me one. I didn't even hesitate.

"Do
you have a driver's license?" she asked as we lit up. "I don't, but
I'm taking the test again next month."

"Is
it hard? Maybe we could study for it together."

"Perfect."
She seemed enthusiastic about my suggestion but raced on without discussing
details. It seemed she had dozens of questions to ask me, but she was so hyper
that I never had to answer a one before she answered it for me.

"Do
you like to go to discos? I know all these awesome clubs. I can g
et you a
fak
e I.D. No problem. You want to meet my friend Tanisha?
If I fix you up with her, you gotta go slow. She's still a virgin. Are you? I
am. Well, sort of. We used a rubber. But I give great head. Well, not really,
but I'm enthusiastic. Have you ever smoked grass? I love weed. I know this
dealer. Well, he's not really a dealer. He's my aerobics instructor at the
junior college I go to. You'll love him. Great guy. Smart. Funny.
Bisexual."

Although
Lily seemed to be speeding through life, there was a practical side to her,
too. Right in the middle of an anecdote about her part-time job at an abortion
clinic, she looked at her watch.

"Time
for bed. Don't be late your first day on the job. Now that we're brother and
sister, I'll let you in on a little secret: Be early and you'll impress the
shit out of Clay."

Ten
minutes later, in my new quarters, I began to go to pieces. Half a dozen times,
I started to say something to my brother before I remembered he wasn't there.
Noticing an ashtray on the bedside stand, I lit up, opened a window, and stared
at the bed. It was too big for me.

I
finished unpacking, undressed, and carried the ashtray into the bathroom to
flush its contents away. Rinsing it out in the sink, I stared at myself in the
mirror over it, but all I could see was Clark staring back at me, and I started
to cry so hard that I opened the mirrored door wide to banish the image. What I
then saw was the inside of the medicine cabinet. It was freshly stocked: bars and
bars of soap; bottles of shampoo, mouthwash, aspirin; tubes of toothpaste, lip
salve, body gel; cans of deodorant, shaving cream, hairspray; a brand new
chrome razor; and right in the center of the bottom shelf, a giant economy-size
jar of Vaseline.

I started
to laugh, closed the mirror, and tried to work on the memoirs. I felt as if I
were betraying Clark—but I knew I'd be able to fall asleep after all. Soon, I
embraced one of the oversized pillows, entwined my legs around it, and drifted
off, all wrapped up in The Rolling Stones.

I only
found out how Clark had fared during the first day of my absence during our
first private phone conversation later in the week. That's when he told me what
I'm now writing here.

He had
not come downstairs to see me off, nor even stood in the window to wave
goodbye. That much I knew. What I didn't know was what he did next: pulled on a
T-shirt and cargo shorts, then took them off, and put on my jockstrap before he
went down to dawdle over breakfast. That made perfect sense; I'd worn his every
day since I left.

About the
time Dad and I were halfway to Uncle Clay's, Clark took his bike and headed
into town, idly searching for some way to survive w
hat was
already turning out
to be the longest day of his life. Soon, he found himself outside Walgreens.
That's when he saw Go-To Guy leaning against a stop sign. This is what
occurred, as Clark later related it to me.

"Hey-hey.
What's
happenin
?" asked Go-To Guy.

"Nothing."

"Where's
your brother?"

"Out
of town. Got a summer job working for my uncle."

"Oh,
yeah? Why didn't you go, too?"

"Long
story."

"I
got time. You got a cigarette?"

"Don't
you? How come?"

"I
think Mr. Johnson's on to me. Every time I go in there, he follows me around
like I'm some kind of thief."

Not
having anything better to do, Clark padlocked his bike to the stop sign, and
the two of them started off to find a place to have a smoke. Before long they
found themselves in front of what remained of the old Rialto Theatre, which was
in the process of being torn down. Nothing was left of it but piles of rubble
waiting to be hauled away, and in no time they found a private nook between two
giant cornices resting catty corner to each other under a stack of rusty fire
escapes. Clark got out his cigarettes.

"I
can't pay," said Go-To Guy, taking one. "I'm
savin
’
every penny to get to Chicago."

"That's
okay. No problem."

"Thanks."
Go-To Guy found his lighter. "So. You gonna tell me about your
brother?"

Little by
little, Clark poured out our problems at home (but skipped entirely the tale of
the Vaseline). Spurred on by Go-To Guy's admission that he'd always wanted a
brother, Clark opened up more and more. It was a natural thing to do, I guess.

Go-To Guy
exhaled his free cigarette. "Parents are always so fucked up about
sex," he decided. "They probably think the two of you are
doin
' the dirty with each other."

Clark
shrugged uneasily.

"Are
you?"

"No!"

"You
don't have to shout. If I had a twin, I would be."

Clark was
saved from responding by a rumbling crash just outside, accompanied by a
blinding cloud of smoke. After it cleared, he peered cautiously out, only to
see me staring at him out of the dust—or what seemed to be me. Then he realized
that it was his own reflection in a large mirror that had slid off a pile of
debris and landed just outside their hideaway.