The Legend of the Ditto Twins (15 page)

Repeatedly,
the elf reached up to unbuckle "
Biff's
"
belt, and each time "Biff" would rebuff him with a shove, a slap, or
an epithet, then nod at Clark, as if taking a bow. Before long, of course, he
let the little man unbuckle his belt and in time unfasten the top button of his
fly. That's when the teasing game began all over again.

As one anonymous stranger after
another silently materialized out of the underbrush to observe the free show,
one button after another was popped. At last "Biffs" jeans slid down.
He didn't wear underwear either.

Then
my brother realized the elf was motioning
him closer.

Almost in a trance by then, Clark
obeyed, and "Biff" pointed him to an optimum viewing position, a
front row seat, so to speak. Motionless, my brother watched as the elf ran
through his amazingly extensive repertoire of oral talents. Clark stared,
wide-eyed, amazed that a single blowjob could be comprised of so many
variations.

When "Biff" began to moan,
my brother squatted down as close as he dared to watch the finale of the
performance, and was flabbergasted by the exten
ded
ejaculation that rocketed right into the
gifted elf's open mouth. Even more surprising was what happened next: As if
wakening from a trance the little man stood and spat on the ground as his hands
found a pocketful of Kleenex. Frantically, he scrubbed at his tongue before
turning without a word and scurrying away.

"Guilt," shrugged Go-To Guy
as he buttoned his fly and buckled his belt. "Guess what? He's a shrink.
Go figure."

They caught a ride back to town with Joe,
the guy in the football jersey, and the trip was a revelation. All they talked
about were the Cubs' chances of winning the pennant that season.

While Clark was observing, up close
and personal, the mechanics of oral sex for the first time, I was busying
myself with a minute examination of each vehicle in the shed. Half an hour
later, I had worked my way through fourteen different automobiles, three of
which I felt certain I could get up and running. I'd let Clark choose. I was
about to leave when I noticed one model I'd overlooked. I almost didn't bother,
but it was early yet, so I wandered back and pulled off the tarp.
Involuntarily, my mouth fell open and I sucked in a mouthful of air. Dusty air.
I sneezed for two whole minutes but never took my eyes off my
find. I'm not sure if I said the magic words out loud
or just thought them:
Mazda Miata.
Oh, my God, a
Mazda Miata!

I spent
the next hour examining the baby. Considering her age, the little roadster was
in surprisingly good shape. Okay, she was scratched, dented, and rusting here
and there. One of the headlights was smashed. The white vinyl seats were
yellowing, and the acrylic top had been folded up for so long it was rotting. I
couldn't have cared less.

Next, I
lifted the hood, found a droplight, and hung it up to look at the engine. The
radiator was shot, rusted with holes, and the head gasket was rotted through,
so that oil leaks had spread all over the engine block. Some parts would have
to be replaced, sure, but mostly the job would be labor intensive. I could live
with that.

Finally,
I crawled under the car and instantly saw that the muffler was a sieve, rusted
with tiny little holes as if it had been sprayed with shrapnel. Everything else
seemed to be fixable. Ten minutes later, I eased out from under the chassis,
still finding it hard to believe this miracle. I lit a cigarette and stared at
my reflection in the chrome bumper. That's when I noticed the remains of a bug
smeared across it. I spat on my finger and rubbed its desiccated carcass into
oblivion. The restoration had begun.

About the
time I started out of the shed to phone him, Clark was dropped off at his bike.
He headed directly across the square to the library. As he suspected,
"Blowjobs" was not among the subjects to be found in the card
catalog. Half an hour later, he settled for a volume entitled
Human Sexuality: 100 Frequently Asked Questions.

As for
me, I had spotted an old lawn mower outside the shed, and since I had nothing
better to do, I decided to mow the lawn. It was slow going, since the grass had
not been cut in weeks, maybe months, and by the time I was through, I was
soaked with a coating of sweat that blended with the cobwebs, dust, and grease
acquired earlier. Delaying the call to Clark yet
again, I headed
directly for my room and stripped down to my jockstrap. That's when I noticed a
carton of Marlboros on the night table. On the top of it was a yellow Post-It,
which read, "Another secret. C."

Almost before I could smile, I
noticed a second package and another Post-It: "Everyone should have a cell
phone. Its top of the line, just like you, and I
overnighted
its twin to your twin this afternoon, so you two can stay in touch. Your mother
will have a fucking blood baby! C."

Reeling at how my life had changed so
drastically in less than forty-eight hours, I headed into the bathroom, stepped
out of the jock, pulled back the shower curtain, and climbed into the tub and
under the shower. I was so busy trying to scrub the grit from under my
fingernails; I didn't hear Lily calling me until she barged into the bathroom
and shouted so loudly I jumped, slipped, and nearly fell. I grabbed for the
wall-grip, hastily turned my back, and looked over my shoulder. I could barely
make her out through the translucent shower curtain.

"Lily,
whaddayah
want?"

"I’m taking orders for dinner.
Clay wants pizza. He's not supposed to have it, but I'm not gonna argue with
him. Do you like pizza? I love pizza. Have you called Clark yet? This place we
order from, they deliver. The ticket's waiting at Greyhound. The pizza guy
asked me if I was a virgin. What should I say? He's built like a Sumo wrestler.
Probably uncut. Are you? Don't use all the hot water. I've got to shower too.
Only no anchovies. Okay?"

"Great. Anything but
anchovies." I twisted around a little bit more and squinted, trying to
determine how clearly she could see my naked backside.

"It usually takes em about half
an hour. Is that okay? If it isn't, tough shit. You know, you have a cute
ass."

And she was gone. Not sure whether to
laugh or blush, I gave up on my fingernails, dried off, and called Clark.

My mother answered the phone.
Practically the first words out of her mouth were: "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I called to talk to
Clark."

"Does
Clay know you made this call?"

"Of
course. He told me to. Mom, Clay's the best."

"'Clay'?
You mean Uncle Clay."

"No.
Clay. He gave me my bonus already—the car!"

"Already?
Why? You're not supposed to get that till..."

"That's
what I told him, Mom. But he's very pleased."

"No,
not till fall."

"It's
Clay's decision, Mom."

"Well,
let me talk to him."

"Can't.
He's asleep. Napping. Can I speak to Clark?"

"Well...
don't talk too long. This is costing money."

"It's
Clay's nickel."

"Don't
you be smart with me."

"I'll
have him call you. Now can I talk to Clark?"

Another
long pause, and then Clark's voice. "Hi.

"How
was your day?" I asked.

"Weird.
I... Mom, I smell something burning. Do you have something on the stove?"
He continued after a moment in hushed tones. "She's gone to the kitchen,
but I'll have to talk fast. Mark, guess what I saw today... a blowjob! An honest-to-God
blowjob! I went out to the rest stop with Go-To Guy, and watched this dwarf
psychiatrist suck him off."

"You're
kidding! What was it like?"

"Uh...
interesting... wild... hard to describe."

"What's
hard to describe?" Mom was back.

"The
Simpsons.
Do you mind?" Then, to me:
"More later. See you Friday. What time do you think you'll get here?"

"Give
me that phone." Mom again.

"When
we're done," my brother said firmly.

"There's
been a change of plans," I said. "Clay wants you to come here this
weekend to check out our new car."

"You're
kidding!"

"There's
a prepaid ticket for you at Greyhound."

"Greyhound?"

I
could
hear Mom again in the background. "Greyhound? What about Greyhound?"

I could
hear Clark explaining. "Mom, guess what! Mark and Clay want me to come out
there this weekend and take a look at the car."

Mom's
voice was getting more and more shrill. "Absolutely not. You can't go
gallivanting off every weekend. You can't afford it." I could hear her
grab the phone from Clark. "Mark, what do you think you're doing?"

"Oh,
hi, Mom," I replied as innocently as possible.

"What's
going on?"

"Nothing.
Clay just suggested that Clark come out here on Friday. To check out the
car."

"That
is not a good idea. As a matter of fact, I'm not so sure that the car is a good
idea at all. No, not at all. Besides, I never actually agreed..."

"Not
agreed!" I could hear Clark shouting at her. "You're the one who
suggested it. To bribe us! Remember?"

"Don't
you talk to me like that!"

"It
was part of the contract. You don't get to change your mind in the middle of
the stream." I could hear Clark shouting to me as he retreated. "See
you Friday, Mark! Meet my bus. Ditto, ditto, ditto!"

Mom was
screaming now. "Clark, where are you going? Answer me! What do you think
you're doing? Come back here!" Into the phone, she managed, "You tell
Clay to call me."

And the
line went dead.