The Legend of the Ditto Twins (41 page)

Clay took
over. "Jay's right. You'll never be able to run for president—not even for
the local Rotary Club."

I tried
to grin. "Well, that wouldn't be a problem."

Then Jay
was back. "And, trust me, if you live to be a hundred and become a
Trappist
monk or the greatest philanthropist in the history
of mankind, your fuckin' obituary will begin 'Former porn star So-and-So died
today.'"

"It's
just... we really need..."

“...to
earn some money quick."

"It's
never just the money." Jay let that soak in for a moment. Then Clay
slam-dunked it.

"You're
never gonna starve, long as we're alive. You know that." He leaned
forward. "Why do you
really
want to do this? Give us one good fuckin' reason. Then we'll
listen."

The subject
wasn't mentioned the rest of the weekend, and on Sunday night we drove home to
go back to school. It was not a good week. With the first five chapters of
Great Expectations
assigned
for English Lit and a big test in biology, we were so overwhelmed by the
present that we didn't have time for the future. Barely had time to make love.

Friday
morning we overslept and had to rush through our shower without proper
attention to each other. That got the day off to a bad start, and when we came
upstairs to eat breakfast, Dad was muttering over the morning paper.

"Did
you see this?" he asked Mom.

"I
did."

"Who
would've thought?"

She
exhaled loudly. "They're everywhere."

"What?"
I asked.

He turned
the paper for us to see. "Big raid last night out at the rest stop. Cops
arrested fourteen fags."

"Oh,
yeah?" I said as casually as I could. "May we?"

He handed
it over, and Clark and I stared at the three-column photo, trying to seem only
sort of interested.

"Wow!
Look at all those posters! Looks like a parade."

Mom moved
to look over my shoulder. "And there's Rev. Flamm. The one with the
"God Is Love" poster. He came all the way from Kansas to help the
police clean up that awful rest stop. He's such a fine man."

"The
guy you watch on TV?" I asked.

She
nodded.
"The Purity
Hour.
I wish we had the money to send him
a donation." She leaned closer and pointed. "And look, they printed
all those perverts' names and addresses, right there in black and white.
Good." She examined the list again. "Oh, I didn't notice that before.
Caleb Johnson. Isn't he the man who runs the Walgreens?"

"Yup,
the very one." Dad made a
tsk-tsk
sound.
"Poor bastard. He'll never be president of Kiwanis now."

Suddenly,
Mom grabbed the paper right out of my hands. "Oh, my lord. Merle
Riley!"

I grabbed
the paper back. "The track coach?"

Clark
leaned in as I pointed to the name. That's when I noticed the one immediately
beneath it: Biff Brannigan. Neither of us mentioned that we knew him, too, but
I could tell from my brother's quick intake of air that he'd also remembered
Go-To Guy's new name.

"Wow,"
he said. "We used to go out there all the time on our bikes to watch them
building the new highway."

Mom moved
closer. "Did you ever see anything?"

"You
mean, any sexual activity? Nah," I answered.

"Did
anyone every try anything with you?"

"What
do you mean?" asked Clark, making the question sound as naive as he could.
"Try what?"

"You
know—try to touch you—down there."

"No,"
I replied. "Mom, we can take care of ourselves."

"I
hope so. You're the only sons I've got."

I stood
and reached for my backpack. "We're heading out to Clay's right after
school. See you Sunday night."

Somehow,
we got through the day, talked intelligently in class about that poor little
kid named Pip who became a zillionaire, sweated through the biology exam on
human reproduction, and were on our way to the highway by four o'clock. That's
when we saw Go-To Guy—I mean, Biff Brannigan—standing beside his old Toyota at
the side of the road.

"Goddamn!
I can't believe it. That was lucky," he said. "I've been
standin
' here half an hour."

"What
happened?" we asked.

"Who
the fuck knows?" He kicked a tire. "Piece of shit, anyway. Could you
run me back downtown? I'm
freezin
' my ass off."

"Sure.
Get in. You'll have to sit on Clark's lap."

"No
problem. First though..." He took a cheap little Instamatic camera out of
his jacket pocket. "Let me get a picture. Souvenir. My first wheels."

A moment
later, he squeezed in, and I made a u-turn. For ten minutes, we drove in silence
and were halfway back to town before I brought up
the subject of the elephant in the room—well,
actually, in the car.

"Kind
of surprised to find you out here," I said.

"Oh.
You saw me on TV?"

"No,
the morning paper. What happened?"

"
Nothin
. The bastards! I wasn't even
hustlin
'."

"No?
What were..."

“...you
doing?"

The
crooked smile. "Talent
scoutin
'. It's a great
place to chat up horny dudes about
makin
movies,
y'know
?" He held up the camera. "Take their
pictures, if they let me, to show the boss. But that's another kettle of fish.
Long story short, yesterday I hit on the wrong guy. Never should've asked him
how big his dick was. That's what killed me."

"How'd
you get out..."

“...so
soon?"

"Called
my boss. You really do get one phone call. He put up my bail. I should
introduce you to him sometime."

"Well,
sure."

"Sometime."

"I
know he'd like to meet you two. I told him all about you guys—
y'know
, that movie thing we were
talkin
'
about—and he said for me to give you his card." He started to fumble in his
jacket, then looked up. "Hey. Stop." He pointed to the used car lot
on the corner. "This is good. You can let me out anyplace over
there."

I hit the
brakes, and he crawled out.

"Thanks.
You saved my ass. Now, I gotta go buy me a new car." He leaned back in and
handed Clark a business card. "Here it is. Tell him Biff sent you."
He started to close the door and ran his hand over its surface. "Shit, I
wish I could afford
somethin
' like this." He
took out his camera. "Hey,
d'ya
mind if I take a
picture of her?
So's
I can I tell the salesman what
I'm looking for."

"Sure,
go ahead. She likes..."

“...having
her picture taken. So do we."

As we
headed toward the highway again, Clark didn't even ask if we should burn the
card, just stuck it in his pocket. Neither of us said anything, and we drove
maybe ten miles in silence before I jump-started the conversation.

"Okay.
Jay's right, the money's just an excuse."

"Not
totally..."

“...but
mostly."

Clark
didn't argue that one.

"And
Clay's right, too," I continued. "Maybe, it is just some stupid-ass
fantasy, like he said."

"Exactly.
Not every guy tries to make it come true."

"Why
do you think that is?" I asked.

"Most
guys realize they haven't got what it takes."

"Well,
we do."

Clark
grinned. "I'm not arguing that point."

"Okay.
Most guys chicken out. Why haven't we?"

"Because...
we're not 'most guys?'"

"Do
you still want to?"

Clark
looked out the window. "I... I can't stop thinking about people asking us
for our autographs."

"Yeah,
me, too. And about everyone..."

“...looking
at us, watching us loving each other."

I nodded.
"What do you suppose Clay meant when he said give us one good fuckin
reason?"

That was a
tough one, and we still hadn't found the answer by the time we got to
Clay-Jay's. When we walked in, they weren't anywhere in the house, so we
checked the office. Not there either. But the shed was open, and that's where
we found them, examining one of the repossessed cars.

"You're
late." Clay patted the automobile's fender. "Just came in the other
day.
Whaddayah
think?"

"Nice.
I always liked the BMW 2002. What is it? A '76?"

"'77.
It's a beauty."

"In
good shape?" I asked.

"Needs
a lot of work."

Jay joined
in. "That's how we got this idea. See, we decided we've been
vegging
out in front of the fuckin TV too much..."

“...ever
since we got back. Just a couple of old couch potatoes, so we decided to get
off our butts and find ourselves a project."

"You
gonna tell us what?" I asked.

"Doofus,
what do you think?" Clay slapped the BMW's fender. "Get this baby
back in shape."

"It's
not the Corvette," Jay added. "But..."

"Whatever
happened to the Corvette?" I asked.

"Dangerous
fuckin ground," growled Jay.

Clay
looked right at us. "I fucked up. Big time. I let Sissy—and my fuckin
shrink—convince me to sell it."

"You
didn't!" In unison.

"That's
the day I decided to leave for Europe." Jay's voice was raw.