C.C.'ed
Tom Scanlon

 


Who cares, I remember thinking, standing in the damp up to my ankles, waiting for the one-rail, forced to listen to the drippy chatter – did you hear the chop cops busted that pit over in the Knodd? Oh yeah, I heard they had . . . and they chew into their protein buns and yamburgers, secretly imagining sweet calf-liver pastries and bubbling goat stew, buttery salmon stuffed with oysters, salmon stuffed with lobster, salmon stuffed with salmon, juicy cow-on-cow sandwiches and fresh trout sticks, decadently fried ovums and pig pies, and lamb, oh that wonderful, succulent, slow-roasted lamb that Grandma used to make . . .

They’re all hypocrites, of course -- but, really, who cares? After another dreary day of fake work, I stopped on the way home and picked up a couple corn dogs, her favorite. Not just for her, to be honest – I had started noticing a gnawing feeling in my gut that afternoon, even though I filled up at the rice bar for lunch. So I splurged on the CD’s, expecting her to be enthusiastic about this rare dinner.
When I arrived at home, she seemed distracted, and only said “Oh,” when I held up the Dinner-On-A-Stick bag. We sat on the futon, and she did curl up against me, asking me to tell her about the old days, when they weren’t corn at all; but it seemed to be a forced performance, like she was rehearsing lines from a play, and she was clearly uneasy. Though I dreaded confirming it by asking her if anything was wrong, I felt something terrible was going to happen . . . or maybe it was just the gnawing in my stomach, which was hardly relieved by the dense, counterfeit dinner.
“Why does everything have to be so fake?” I remember asking her; or did she ask me? Or did I just think it, then? Or am I just thinking it, now?
I do sharply remember her saying “Who cares?,” but that could have been in response to just about anything, as it was a favorite saying of hers (one I fear I’ve picked up from her).
And of course I’ll always remember that ridiculous knock at the door: tap, tap-tap-tap, (pause), tap. Just like I do! I blushed, thinking, “Someone’s mocking me” – she jumped up, insisting on getting it. As the door is around the corner from where I was lounging, I couldn’t see her open the door, but I heard it, and then some whisperings; I tried to remember if it was my birthday, and hoped it wasn’t a surprise party, then just as I reasoned it couldn’t be that, as I’ve shed most of my friends, she walked into the room, saying, “Allow me to introduce you to . . .” – I started rising to my feet, but apparently didn’t make it very far. When I came to, I was half-way on the futon, half-way on the floor, and she was crouched over me worriedly, and behind her looking even more worried was . . . me!
Better put: A five-to-eight-years younger version of me.
Instantly, I understood: I’d been CC’d. I scrambled to my feet, and, though my legs were wobbly, made a point to pace back and forth to show my fury, as I muttered things like “what the hell!” After she attempted an awkward introduction (“Phil the First, this is . . .”), I somewhat pathetically demanded to know what was going on. She explained that she got the idea about two years ago, when I started growing disinterested with everything; she took some of my DNA (and thankfully spared me the details here) and had “Philip II” set up at the bank. When my disposition showed no signs of getting better, and indeed worsened, she had them thaw “me” out and made a withdrawal.
So you had . . . him on ice for two years?, I spat at her.
She rolled her eyes and turned away. It wasn’t so bad, he said – mistaking my anger at concern for his well-being.
I just don’t think it’s fair, I said, feeling very tiny and isolated – to go around cloning someone without him knowing!
She gave me a mean look; And I don’t think it’s fair to let yourself fall apart and refuse to do anything about it! How many times did I ask you, nag you, beg you to get some help. But no, you were too proud of your existence crisis –
Existential, I couldn’t help but correct.
What-ever, she said, in a tone that I interpreted as “this is why I did this, you fool.”
But you could have at least . . . I couldn’t stand the way she was glaring at me with those ice-eyes, so I turned to him for support: You see my point, don’t you – it’s not terribly fair, is it, to . . .
He looked from me to her, then away from the both of us, a crippled look coming over his hawkish (do I really look like that?) face; Oh, God, I thought, he’s just like me – look at the bastard waffle! I-I really don’t think I-I-I should get involved in . . ., he stammered, finally pulling himself together, surely thanks to her reassuring squeeze of his arm. Anyway, I think I’ll take a hot bath to get the chill off, he said, looking at her for approval.
It’s right over there, she said, pointing down the hall. You can wash and soak but don’t do anything else, I have some things to show you.
He nodded and started to leave the room, pausing as he did so to shoot me a look and give me a wry salute. Good to meet you – or should I say, good to meet me!
Very funny, I muttered, turning away. Very original, I added, knowing it would cut hard.
There was silence, save for the wet pelting at the windows, then I heard the bath water running and him singing my favorite song. A sudden thought: What friends we could be! And then I heard him blowing his nose, and I knew he was doing it right in the water, because I do, and I hated him. A rage pumped through my veins, I wanted to strangle him and punch him in my face until he no longer looked like me! And then I felt distant, like I was watching some movie that started out well, then quickly became dull.
Anyway, it’s supposed to be good for the marriage, she said, distractedly, nibbling on the corn dog she hadn’t finished. And we still have enough that you can C.C. a younger me . . .
I didn’t really mean to hurt her, but I said it: No thanks. I’ll just take a divorce.
Ducking, I avoided the corn dog stub, then watched as she hurried to the window, threw it open stuck out her head and started screaming for a lawyer. From the futon I could see the street was mostly empty, but in moments a big guy in an ice cream suit with a bushy mustache came running to the window. Laser eye surgery?, he hopefully asked.
No, no, I need a lawyer, my husband’s dumping me, she said with a tired wave; I felt sympathy for her, my lethargy must be exhausting.
Boob job? Make him want to keep you? Two-for-one special this month?
Really? How much?
She shot me a glance, and winked. In that moment I understood, I knew of course she had no interest in the procedure, and was just keeping him there by negotiating with him because that was her nature, she loved to bargain just for the art of the deal -- and so he would get a good soak. We connected; how I loved this complex, brilliant, beautiful woman, who could dissect a situation with a sweep of her ice-clear eyes, and communicate the most arcane message to me with not half a gesture. She started toying with him, using her brilliant reverse-sales technique to make him think he was roping her in, about to close the deal . . . yet staying just out of his reach, and in reality controlling the negotiation herself, with her vague “hmmmm”’s and “oh, that’s just a little . . .” Just as she was really working him, there was a gunshot and off the doctor ran, the bloodthirsty devil.
I’m losing it, she sighed sadly.
No, no, I said . . . and let my sentence drift off, unable (or unwilling?) to give her the compliment she so richly deserved.
I took a deep breath and pulled myself together. Standing, I told her it was probably best if I left right away, and she agreed. He would need my clothes, I pointed out, so I would leave them, and as for the rest of everything . . . Well, I think I’ll travel light. I’ve got a few C’s on my card, that would see me through until payday.
She gave an ambiguous uh-huh; her mind already elsewhere. I tried to work myself into anger over her indifference, but it was no good; I suddenly felt exhausted, void of emotion. Who cares?, I muttered to myself. She shrugged.
We saluted, and off I went. Walking down the steps, I felt neither happy nor sad, just a tiny bit empty – the stomach thing, even though I had just eaten two of those bulky, oil-soaked soy dogs. A book I had read as a child suddenly came back to me, an ancient Scandinavian sea-adventure novel in which the author claimed sharks were always hungry, even moments after they feasted.
Maybe my problem was that I had a shark in my stomach? It made sense, at the time. Looking for a cheap-rent hotel, I sloshed through the wet up Dog Hill; I didn’t feel like looking at people, so I forsook the one-rail rumbling over me. The gnawing persisted, and so I smiled when a tangy-sweet odor drifted toward me; surely there was a vendor in that alley, and I could purchase a grilled-potato sandwich, or at least a sack of deep-fried nuts. A few happy steps into the alley, the full smell hit me, and I stopped in my tracks; a few shadowy figures huddled around a fire scattered, others started to run, quickly sized me up as non-threatening, spat and sneered in my direction and returned to their grilling. Rushing out of the alley and back up the hill, I held my breath as long as I could to keep the disgusting, burned-flesh smell out of my nostrils, running my hand along the slippery wall to keep from falling. At last I breathed fresh air, gasping for it and nearly retching with the memory of what I had glimpsed – those were no potatoes they were roasting! Of course I had heard of ratheads, but assumed it was just another urban myth.
Thoroughly repulsive, and yet . . . moments later, I was practically chuckling to myself, a skip to my step. Yes, I was down, certainly, no doubt about that – but how far from the bottom!
With the neon lights of “BAKRY” guiding my way, I celebrated my superiority with gluttony. The look on that young girl’s face as she started to place the chocolate birthday cake in a pink box, when I said, “No, just give me a fork, I’ll have it here”!



 

 

Copyright © 2003 Tom Scanlon
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"