The Legend of the Ditto Twins (37 page)

"Well,
you will before long." He passed us the DVD; it was titled
My Mother's Internist.
"That's me. That's who I am now. Biff Brannigan. They flew me up to
Chicago to make that one. Bought this heap with my first paycheck."

We turned
the DVD over, and there he was, balling a big-breasted blonde bimbo in a
variety of positions.

"You
made a fuck film?" In unison.

"Eleven,
so far." He reached under the seat again and produced a second DVD; it was
titled
My Father's
Internist.
In this one, he was
plowing into a big blond bodybuilder. "See, I can fuck anything. Y'know, I
think I may have just found my calling in life." He motioned us closer.
"You guys ever think of
doin
it? Fuckin' for a
living, I mean."

"Oh,
no." In unison. "Never."

"Well,
you oughta. You know how much they pay? Hundreds and hundreds of dollars. And
that's just for the straight stuff. You know what I got for
doin
that gay scene? Double. Almost triple."

"No
shit!" In unison.

"Makes
you stop and think twice, huh?"

"But
we're still minors, and besides, we might not..."

“...be
able to get it up in front of a camera,
y'know
."

Biff
Brannigan nodded proudly. "Yeah, it takes a special kind of guy.
A
special kind of guy." He took a minute to blow a couple
of smoke rings. "Take my word, the right kind of guy can learn to fuck
anything,
any time
, anywhere if the money's
right."

"Maybe."
In unison.

"I
betcha
you could."

We
shrugged evasively.

"Sure
you could. I did. You could, too.
Any time
, anywhere,
anything. See, the real money's in the gay flicks."

"But
we're not gay." In unison.

"Neither
am I. But that didn't stop me." He blew another couple of smoke rings
before he spoke again—very softly this time. "Think you could get it on
with a guy?"

We
shrugged evasively.

He
snickered. "Hell, you could always practice on each other."

"Nah..."
In unison.

"Matter
of fact, if you were willing to do it with each other on-screen, I can almost
guarantee you the
money'd
be a helluva lot more. Why,
you could damned near name your price. Oh, yeah. Twins are kind of—what's the
word? A phenomenon."

"A
phenomenon." In unison.

"See,
I moonlight as a talent scout. Get a bonus for every dude I bring in. So I know
what I'm
talkin
about. Look, you guys ever decide you
want to get into the biz,
come see
me
first. I can get you to the right people.
Be your agent. Make sure you don't get screwed over."

"It's
an interesting thought," I said politely.

“...and
we could always use the money, but..."

“...Mom's
waiting supper for us."

Go-To Guy
aka Biff Brannigan nodded. "I'm around. Don't be strangers." And he
drove off.

We didn't
say a word till we were back in the car.

Clark
spoke first. "Don't even think about it."

"Right.
And if we ever do consider it, the first thing we'll do is call Helmut."

"Mark,
can I remind you? We could be arrested. Remember? We're criminals. Abnormal,
perverted, psychopathic."

"And
don't forget phenomenal," I said, dropping my face into his lap. As he hit
the gas, my teeth found his zipper.

Both
Clark and I were determined not to let our screwed up home life interfere with
graduating. I'm not sure why this was becoming so important to us. We'd never
really talked about life after high school. College was out of the question,
financially—Mom had made that clear again and again—and while we both had a
modest knowledge of auto mechanics, we didn't have enough interest to pursue it
as a trade. And as for the dairy? Not a chance. By then, I think we both knew
we'd spend the rest of our life together. The question was where and how.

We
instituted our own house rules to complete our homework and read a chapter of
Auntie
Mame
each night before we shifted to those extra-curricular activities
that always ended with us drained, asleep in each other's arms. Mom and Dad
still stayed downstairs, and the armed truce seemed to be holding. We played
the CD of
Hello, Dolly!
a lot, too.

And Clay
was right—we always managed to find time, every day, to make love: in our
bedroom late at night, under the basement shower every morning, out in the
country on the hood of the car, once in the changing room of a department
store, and a couple of times in a car wash.

Just
before Halloween, Clay called to say he and Jay were finally coming home.
Extricating our other uncle from his life in Berlin had proved more complicated
than expected, but at last the date was set, and we could hardly wait.

In our
house, crises always erupted over breakfast, it seemed, and this was no
exception. To begin with, Mom had fixed oatmeal again.

"You
boys going to the homecoming game this weekend?" We hadn't been to a football
game the entire season, and she knew it.

"Don't
think so. We talked to Clay last night..."

“...and
he's coming home this week..."

“...so we
thought we'd..."

“...drive
over for the weekend to see him."

"That
is not a good idea."

"Mom..."

“...don't
start!"

"Now,
calm down, you two. My goodness, I just thought maybe we could do something
together this weekend—as a family. Like—uh—how about a picnic?"

"A
picnic? Mom, we..."

“...haven't
gone on a picnic for ten years."

"Well,
now, that's just what I mean. Your father and I have been so busy lately trying
to keep from going under that we haven't paid enough attention to you two. It's
high time the four of us spent some time together. Quality time. Don't you
think?"

"Well,
yeah, sure, a picnic might be fun, only..."

“...not
this weekend. We've already made plans."

"Well."
She scooped up our oatmeal bowls and carried them to the sink. "I'm not
forbidding you to go, of course. But I really do think you should stay
home."

"Why?
Clay's a great guy. We really miss him.
And
..."

“...we
want to see what Jay's like."

"No,
you don't."

"What
does that mean?"

"Nothing."
Vigorously, she began to scrub the dishes, her back to us. "You're home
now. You can't go running off every five minutes to see those two."

"Why
not?" I asked quietly. "You're the one who sent me there in the first
place."

Then
Clark cut to the chase. "Are you ever gonna tell us why you hate them so
much?"

Finally,
she turned around. "You wouldn't understand. Maybe when you're
older."

"Mom,
in six months, we turn eighteen."

"Not
seventeen," added Clark.

"All
right. I made a mistake."

"You
know, come February we can walk out that door anytime we want to. But..."

“...we've
agreed to stay out the year and graduate, okay? That's..."

“...what
you wanted, isn't it?"

"Well,
of course, but it's... It's more complicated than that. You're both still so
young, so..."

We
couldn't hear her last word over the running water and the clatter of the
dishes, but it might have been "impressionable." Clark thought she
said "corruptible."

When we
walked in, Clay and Jay were lounging side by side on their matching yellow recliners
in front of the TV, holding hands. I wondered, in passing, if they'd ever let
go of each other since we'd seen them last. Lily was lying on the floor,
studying the personals column of a local singles rag, and "Jeopardy"
was just starting.

Jay rushed
to hug us; Clay waited his turn.

"How's
the fuckin detente holding?" he asked.

"Mom
didn't want us to come this weekend," I began.

"You
know, the usual crap about this place..."

“...being
an 'unhealthy atmosphere.'"

"You
want to go clubbing tonight?" asked Lily. "You could meet Mario's new
girlfriend. The transsexual. And Tanisha's fiancé. Ulrich. He drives a VW he
calls Uranus..."

"Dear
Heart, shut up." Jay blew her a kiss. "I thought we were going out to
dinner tonight. To celebrate."

"Sure,
Jay. That works," she replied, practically purring. "I'm not meeting
them till midnight. But there's a problem. I have this new blouse, almost
see-through. Can I get by wearing it to the restaurant, I mean?"