The Legend of the Ditto Twins (13 page)

Once his
initial shock had subsided, Clark began to study the mirror more intently.
Miraculously, there was only a small crack across one corner of the glass, and
though the gilt frame had been jarred loose from the pane, it was still intact.
With a bit of help from Go-To Guy, he leaned the mirror against one cornice. It
was taller than he was. Enthralled by what he saw, he watched his own hands
brush himself off. He moved nearer to observe his blond image light a
cigarette. Inching forward until he was pressing his body against the mirror,
he felt the warm glass against his lips as he watched himself blow smoke into
the mouth of his reflection.

"What
the fuck are you
doin
'?" asked Go-To Guy.

Clark
wheeled around. "I've got to have this"

"Are
you out of your fuckin' mind?"

"Help
me get it home. I'll give you a pack of Marlboros."

"A
whole pack? Where do you live?"

"Just
this side of the creek."

"Do
you know how far that is?"

"Two
packs."

"Do
you know how heavy it is?"

They
settled on four. Considering that it took them over an hour to carry it home,
Clark considered the deal a real bargain.

Our
mother was standing on the porch. "What in the world is that?" she
asked.

"Isn't
it awesome, Mom? Have you ever seen this big a mirror in your whole life? And
they were throwing it out. Oh! This is my buddy. Go-To
Guy. Say hello, you two."

"Afternoon,
ma'am. Nice to meet you."

"Nice
to meet you." Mom gave him a quick once-over. "Do they really call
you Go-To Guy?"

"Everyone
does. You can, too."

"Why,
thank you."

Clark was
both surprised and relieved by his new friend's politeness and deference to
Mom, and she was so impressed by the appearance of a buddy on the premises that
she even helped them lug the mirror upstairs into our bedroom. And then, out of
the blue, she invited Go-To Guy to stay for supper.

"Geez,
I'd like to, ma'am, but I really can't," he said. "I've got things to
do."

"Of
course. Another time, okay? You come back now."

The
moment she retreated back downstairs, Go-To Guy flopped on the bed and stared
at the magnificent monstrosity that now overwhelmed our tiny room.

"Y'know
what you should do?" he decided, studying himself in the mirror.
"Mount it on the ceiling. That's what they do in Paris whorehouses—so you
can watch yourself fuck."

"Where
did you read that?"

"Who
reads? Saw it in a movie once." He flipped over and started humping the mattress.
"I'd love to watch myself having sex sometime. Wouldn't you? That'd be
hot."

"Yeah,
cool," agreed Clark and quickly scurried into the closet to find the four
packs of cigarettes that were due.

On the
way back to town to retrieve Clark's bike, they talked mostly about sex. As
usual, Go-To Guy was a font of forbidden information, and as he shared the
graphic details of his carnal knowledge, Clark soon became comfortable enough
to pose a question he'd been wanting to ask
all
along.

"Do
you really jerk off for guys out at the rest stop?"

"Just
between us? Swear?"

Clark
nodded.

"Well,
yeah. Why not? Man, they love me out there." He groped himself proudly.
"I'll tell
ya
, my dicks gonna get me to
Chicago."

"How
much do they pay for... uh... that sort of thing?" Go-To Guy told him.
"Shit, man, that's not very much."

"Yeah,
but there's what they call a
slidin
' pay scale. You
know, for..." He glanced around. "...other things."

"Like?"

"Blowjobs."

"Blowjobs?"

"For
Chrissake
, you know what a blowjob is, don't you?"
Clark nodded indignantly, and Go-To Guy continued. "Well, you get more for
lettin
' someone give you head, a lot more if you do
it to them."

"No
shit! Isn't that kind of gay?"

"Nah,
not if you get paid."

"Oh.
Huh."

"Man,
you want to go out there tomorrow?"

"No,
no. I was just curious."

"You
wouldn't have to do anything. You could just watch. I don't mind." He
grinned. "It's like
seein
' a porn flick come to
life."

"I'll
think about it. Let me talk it over with Mark."

"Bet
he'd come, if he was here."

"Here's
my bike."

"That's
cool. I turn here, anyway."

"Where
do you live?

"Over
that way." He gestured vaguely. "You want to hang out tomorrow?"

"Can't.
I start work tomorrow. Four in the morning till noon every day. At the
dairy."

"That's
cool. I don't get up till noon. How about, say, one o'clock in front of
Walgreens?"

"I
dunno, man. If I can. Maybe."

"Well,
if you're not there, I'm not
waitin
'." He loped
off down the street without a backward glance.

All the
way home, Clark pedaled slowly. He later told me that he spent a lot of time
reviewing Go-To Guy's revelations, and most of all, pondering what a blowjob
might feel like. Such thoughts continued to go through his mind as he spent the
rest of the afternoon repairing the gilt frame and cleaning the mirror. The
images lingered through dinner. They were still there when the phone call came
from me, but Mom was standing right beside him, as I wrote earlier, and the
best he could manage was a "ditto." I got the message.

After
dinner, he finally took off my jockstrap and went downstairs to take a shower,
but that only triggered memories and turned out to be just a brief kind of
hygienic thing.

About the
same time that I was discovering the giant economy-size jar of Vaseline in the
medicine cabinet, Clark reached for a towel, turned off the lights, and stood
in the moonlight, slowly drying off his body. He moved toward the mirror and
studied the figure there. In the dim light, he told me, it could have been me.

He also
confessed that, even though he felt he was betraying me, this was the moment
when he realized he'd be able to fall asleep after all. Crawling into the empty
bed, he embraced one of the familiar pillows, entwined his legs around it, and
drifted off to sleep. He dreamt that he was in bed with The Rolling Stones.
When he told me that, I nodded. I understood perfectly.

The next
morning I was squatting outside the concrete office, finishing off a donut,
when Uncle Clay strode up.

"Mark."

I stood.
"Uncle Clay."

"Okay,
first things first: Cut the 'Uncle' shit. Uncles have moustaches a
nd halitosis." He unlocked the door and deactivated the
alarm. "'Clay' will do."

"I
was hoping you'd say that." I followed him into this office. "You
don't seem very avuncular."

"'Avuncular'?
My God, a vocabulary! Are you smart?"

"No,
that's Clark."

"But
you do your damnedest to keep up with him, right?"

"I
give him a run for his money; he keeps me on my toes. It works both ways. You
know?"

"Oh,
I know. Twin to twin, I fuckin' know."

He sat at
his desk and offered me the seat opposite him.

I plunged
in. "Can I ask, where's your brother?"

There was
a brief but noticeable pause before Clay shrugged. "Damned if I know. Last
I heard, he was in Berlin. Long story. Long fuckin story. You got a
cigarette?"

"Are
you allowed?"

"Are
you?"

I
blushed.

"Well,
do you have a cigarette?"

I nodded.

"I'll
bet my left nut your mother doesn't know."

I nodded
again.

"Then
give me one."

"I
don't want to be responsible for killing you."

"Look,
I'll make a deal with you. You don't tell my doctor; I won't tell your mother."

I pulled
out my pack of Marlboros and held it up, just out of his reach. "I'll make
a deal with
you
—three a day."

He
grinned. "Fuck you."

I
grinned. "
Fuck you."

"Deal."

"Deal."

"Now
give me a fuckin' cigarette!"

I lit his
Marlboro, then mine. Seemingly revitalized, he leaned forward, skimmed through
a pile of papers, and tossed me a small pad of yellow Post-Its.

"Okay,
here's how it works. For starters, you assume every fuckin salesman in America
is out to screw you. So when this guy opens up his catalogs and sample cases,
I've got to know what I need
and
what I don't need. Once you know what he's pushing, you get
your ass back into the warehouse and see how many we have on hand—and if
they're exactly the same or just look the same. But don't
tell
me. Make notes on
the fuckin' Post-Its and hand em to me."

I nodded.
"Don't let him know what we know."

"Exactly.
I'd do it myself, but I'm still not in shape to go dragging my sorry ass back
and forth all day. Hell, I'd be on a resuscitator before lunch, and your
mother'd
be back in town. How's that for an incentive?
Don't
fuck
up!"

I didn't.
Every now and then, Clay gave me a surreptitious wink of praise, and that made
me just about as dog happy as I could be without my brother.