I've been struggling with myself as to whether or not I should post this ever since we discussed twins in class. For one, it's a very personal non-fiction piece and I don't do well in vulnerable positions, and posting this would definitely put me in one. For two, I was afraid I would look really self-centered posting a non-fiction piece on a blog that was created for a fiction class. For three, I was wondering if anyone cared anyway. But screw it. I'm proud of it. So I'm going to post it.
Hopefully this turns out to be the non-cliche twin thing I was asked about.
A Twin
INT. CONVIENENCE STORE - NIGHT
My twin brother Mark and I walk up to a cluttered, convenient store checkout counter with our packages of Sour Patch Kids and Gummy Bears. We only hear the beep of the scanner as the cashier turns from left to right and back as he stares at each of us.
CASHIER
Are you twins?
MARK OR ME
Yeah.
CASHIER
Oh man, that’s awesome. I wish I were a twin.
EXT. FOOTBALL FIELD - AFTERNOON
Mark and I walk back to our high school band room after the first practice of the season. An unknown freshman, stumbling with a large sousaphone wrapped around his small body, turns at us and looks confused.
HIM
(with awe)
Are you guys twins?
MARK OR ME
Nope.
HIM
Yeah you are! I always wanted to be
a twin.
INT. DORM HALL COMMON ROOM – NIGHT
A friend playing ping pong sees Mark for the first time. She gives me a look of betrayal.
HER
Wait, are you a twin?
MARK OR ME
(with hesitation)
Yeah.
HER
(loudly)
Why didn’t you tell me? You know,
I’ve always wanted one.
I have never understood the wish to become a twin. At first I would always tell these people that did that they don’t—not really. That they don’t know what it’s really like. But after so many rebuttals I’ve just let it go. It might hurt my brother to admit this, but my twin experience has been more harmful than beneficial. I’m probably just an exception. I don’t know. I’m twenty-one years old and I still don’t think I know who I am.
(Mark and I will say the same thing at the same time without meaning to.)
Our mom drives Mark and me to the orthodontist to get braces glued onto our teeth. Mark’s teeth are more crooked than mine, but I must wear rubber bands inside my mouth to correct an overbite I never knew I had. Two years later, Mark is driven back to have his braces removed while I’m still plucking rubber bands with my tongue in my first period reading class. The next day we are asked by multiple people why we didn’t have them removed at the same time.
Mark is invited to a party by a friend of his. He is asked on arrival where I am and why I am not there with him.
A professor wants to know the name, major, and an interesting fact of each student in the class. My interesting fact is one that produces sounds from the rest of the class that prove that my fact is indeed interesting. When the oohs and aahs and murmurs are over I hear from someone across the room, “So there are two of you.”
(Sometimes I’ll have a song in my head all day and later Mark will be humming the same song.)
“Are you twins? Which one’s older? Do you have ESP? If I hit one will the other one feel it? If one gets sick will the other one know? Who gets more girls? Which one is smarter? What’s your birthday? What’s your brother’s birthday? Oh, right. Did you guys share the same room? Did you guys fight all the time? I fought with my brother. You didn’t? That’s so weird. Did your parents dress you up the same when you were little? Oh, that is so cute. Which one is cooler? Did you guys ever mix it up to trick girls? You didn’t? Oh. Do you guys have the same penis size? Who’s going to get married first? Did you guys ever pretend to be the other one in school? What do you mean it didn’t work? Do your parents get you mixed up? Do you ever mix you up? What if you were supposed to be Mark and you were supposed to be Paul, but you got switched at birth?”
(At restaurants, I always order after Mark so I can make sure we don’t order the same thing.)
Mr. Hollingsworth calls roll for his seventh grade class, notices two Vances on the paper in front of him, and raises his head. He surveys the room with squinted eyes and mouth half open. He spots us and asks, “Are you twins?” The rest of the class answers yes for us and some proudly say, “But they don’t really look alike. See? Paul has the longer hair.” Or “Mark has a mark on his face.” And Mr. Hollingsworth tells us to stand up so he can study us for a few seconds. “Yeah, I see the difference. His eyes are spread out farther. And he has bushier eyebrows. His head is more round and the other’s is more of a square.” And the students that know us say, “And he is goofier than him but he is always mellow and cool.” And this goes on for another five minutes without either Mark or me saying a word. I stand there rocking back and forth from my left foot to my right foot. I stare at them. I wonder what I should do to make people believe this doesn't bother me.
(I once had a massive crush on a keyboard player in my high school band, and Mark started dating her.)
Ms. Garrett hands out our Pre-Calculus test results. I open up the folded sheet of paper. No smiley face sticker. 74.
“Did you get a sticker, Mark?” I ask.
He looks through his test. “Yeah. 95.”
“All right boys, we’re about to leave. Tell grandma you love her and all of that stuff.”
Mark and I walk up to Macher and she leans down to give us both a hug.
“Love you, Macher,” Mark says.
I unwrap my arms from around her and turn away.
“Paul,” she says.
I start to waddle and look away from her face.
“I love you, Paul” she says.
I keep waddling and stare at my feet. “You too,” I say as quickly as I can. I cringe and close the door.
The radio in between Mark and Paul’s beds is singing smooth soft rock and the warm, green glow of the night light gives shape to the boys’ breathing bodies. It looks like they are underwater. Mark begins to lightly snore and Paul begins to cry. Neither of the boys shows any signs of movement.
Mark’s snores diminish and become deep, heavy breaths and Paul starts to sob now. Their mother hears from downstairs. Mark wakes up and shuffles in his bed. Paul still hasn’t moved. Their mother walks to Paul’s bed an picks him up. She embraces him. She speaks calmly.
“What’s wrong, Sweetie?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“Are you hurt? What’s wrong?”
“No. I’m sorry. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“How can you be crying if you don’t know why, Sweetie?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“Come here. We don’t want to keep Mark up.”
She carries him out of the bedroom. Mark listens as they walk down the stairs.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
He falls back to sleep.
(Mark and I were both in a relationship with a Sarah.)
My dad has told both of us that his sperm was so strong that it broke the egg in half. I’ve taken more of his genes though. At least I’d like to think so. I don’t know.
Along with depression, I also suffer through anxiety. My brain is sick. I feel anxious in very calm and mellow social situations. And during classes. And during any type of silence. And during therapy sessions. And sometimes when I’m trying to sleep. Mark gets nervous and sad whenever it is necessary. Like a healthy person.
From what I can tell, Mark isn’t as self conscious as me. He has the normal amount of self-consciousness, such as worrying about his appearance every now and then or making a good impression for a girl or authority figure. I am self-conscious for other people. I can’t attend a play because I’m always thinking “Oh no what if they flub their lines? What if they trip and fall?” I grimace when I think of something I believe I did wrong three years ago. After a conversation, I go over every word I said and figure out all of the different ways it could have been interpreted. I wonder which way it was interpreted. I’ve been like this since I was twelve. Or maybe eleven. Or maybe five. I don’t know.
(Mark has told me that the only reason his favorite movie isn’t Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is because he knew that it would bother me if ours were the same.)
I wanted to make a short film. It would have been Freaky Friday with twins. I wanted to have some fun with the idea.
JIM
Well, everyone’s prediction was correct. They’re the
same size all right.
JOHN
What are you talking about?
JIM
(disappointed)
Out penis size. We are the same it seems.
JOHN
W—Wha…Quit looking at my penis!
JIM
Well, genetically, it’s our penis.
It quickly turned into something darker: No one notices the switch at first so they have to tell everyone about it. And everyone eventually believes them. But no one really cares.
JOHN
I can’t do this anymore, Jim. I need to get away. I look
at you and I just see me. And I don’t know if I can
handle it.
(When Mark and I went to separate colleges, there were the typical “cut the cord” jokes. After one semester, and some transferring, we now occasionally take the same classes.)
It is three days ago. I am lying in bed staring at the wall. Or my pillow. Or maybe the alarm clock. I don’t know. I don’t care. I am having a severe depressive episode. One of my worst. I have work I need to do. I have skipped all five classes today. I am finally considering applying for Students with Disabilities. This makes me cry. For the first time, I want tell my brother what is going on. That I feel sick. That I feel weak. That I haven’t eaten in the past twenty hours. That I haven’t drunk in the past fifteen. I haven’t left my bed since this morning. That I haven’t showered since the last time I saw you. I hope you understand, but I want to feel this way. I don’t know why. Do you think there’s something really wrong with me? Do you think people notice? I’m scared. Why do I want to keep feeling like this? Do you ever feel this way? You have to, right? What do you do when you get sad? How sad do you get? Do you ever get sad like me? Do you really hate yourself sometimes? I never blamed you for dating the keyboard player. I blamed myself. Why do you think I have this problem and you don’t? Do you have a little bit of it? Are you just better at hiding it? Are you able to just ignore it? You have to have this problem too, right? What kind of person am I? What do you think of me?
Perfect pacing. You should send this out. Start with Creative Non-fiction:
ReplyDeletehttp://www.creativenonfiction.org/thejournal/submittocnf.htm