"The Not-So-Siamese Siamese Twins"
by: michael g.
The pretty stupid pretty blonde shakes and spreads her cute little ass cheeks in my face and I can't help but notice the dark discolorations that must belong to her bowels. I stare at the little string of cloth preventing me from viewing her entire womanhood. I slip a dollar into the string as if I'm donating money in church.
The stupid pretty blonde stares into my eyes and gives me a wink. "Who's your friend, stranger? And why's he sitting so close to you?"
I ignore her remark and just tell her to keep dancing if she wants any more of our charity. She looks at me funny then turns away and shakes her stupid little ass in front of another customer. I look at my brother sitting next to me and say, "Why do you always have to sit so close to me Gene? She probably would've kissed me if you weren't sitting so close. She probably thinks we're gay."
"Don't worry," says Gene, "I'm sure she can see perfectly well that she gave me an erection with her ass dance. I mean, I'm wearing sweats. And besides...zits on the ass? How hot is that? It's so...real."
The loud techno music bumps and rattles my insides so that by the time I leave, I feel as if my heart is where my left nipple should be.
"Whatever," I tell Gene. "Let's go. I find myself being more generous with dollar bills at strip clubs than at church."
Every where Gene goes, I goes. And vice versa. You could call us best friends, brothers, whatever you want. We're just close. Real close. We're those best friends who seem to be attached at the hip. We're those brothers who seemed to share a heart or a brain because we thought so alike. We always had to do things together as kids.
I remember this one time as kids, we sung a little duet together in front of our family. It was for this wedding and it was such a fun time for Jean and I. We truly were talented singers, but I could tell people in the audience were holding back laughter. I don't understand why. Maybe they're just insecure about their own voices or something. I remember it like yesterday. I sung Michael Jackson's part and Jean sung Paul Simon's part:
"Every night she walks right in my life, since I met her from the start. I'm so proud I am the only one who is special in her heart, the girl is mine, the doggone girl is mine," I sung.
"I don't understand the way you think, saying that she's yours not mine. Sending roses and your silly dreams, really just a waste of time, because she's mine. The doggone girl is mine," sung Jean.
It was such a fun time. We were so...in sync. I'd move to the left, and Jean would move to the left, then we'd shuffle to the right and do our little dance, and we'd just move with the rhythm, perfectly and flawlessly moving together like water and waves. We almost ended up making our own song and dance group called In Sync, but we thought that was just retarded.
Walking down the street, we just look so close. Strangers come up to us and ask, "Are you guys brothers?" And we'll respond with a "What do you think?" Or some freaky little daddy's girl will come up to us and ask, "Are you guys single?" We'll say, "Maybe, why?" And almost invariably, she'll respond, "I always wanted to be the white cream in the middle of an Oreo cookie. I mean, come on, we have Long John Silver standing next to you, and I know white guys like yourself usually have to compensate...orally." And Gene and I, simultaneously we'll look at each other and think, "Definite threesome."
Gene and I, we have what you'd call a special bond.
See, we're like night and day permanently conjoined into a hybrid mish-mash of the best of both worlds. We're proof that opposites attract. We're what you'd call inseperable competition. You see, we're Siamese twins and everytime people say I have a chip on my shoulder, I say don't worry, it's just Gene and he doesn't bite.
We're joined at the torso and everytime we get lost in the city, he looks at the map and I stare at the street signs and scratch my head in confusion.
We share a heart and learning how to hopscotch was a bitch back in third grade.
I hope I don't sound like I'm complaining; being conjoined has its advantages. Know the right people, say the right things, they'll invite to an orgy, and you get all the attention. Well, obviously you have to divide it among your other half, but I figure, either I'm a voyeur or I'm a participant. It just depends on if the girl is in the mood for heavenly white whipped cream or dark mocha latte.
That's the other part. We're interracial Siamese twins. We're just like night and day. Permanently conjoined. A hybrid mish-mash. The best of both worlds. How this happened, I don't know how to explain. Our mother was somewhat permiscuous and had her share of unprotected gangbangs. Let's just say two men of different ethnicities were inside of her at once and they simultaneously triggered.
Imagine being nine years old. You ask your mommy where you came from, expecting to hear the stork tale all your friends told you about, and you hear this instead.
Sometimes life is bittersweet, like when you buy a spacesaver cabinet and you have no room to assemble it.
Sitting in front of the fireplace, I ask Mommy, "If penguins all look the same, why can't God get humans right?"
My mother responds, "Because, Billie, penguins aren't like humans. Penguins conform and do what the other does. They do what's best for the group. They don't make the mistakes that us humans do."
I ask Mommy, "Do you think mine and Gene's conjoinment is a bad thing?"
Mommy responds, "No, Billie. Just think, you'll never be lonely." Our mother quietly probes at the remaining firewood with the medieval-looking poker until the glowing orange embers defy gravity and float to the sky like the ghosts of fireflies. "Billie, Gene, it's time for bed."
~~
Whenever Gene and I get in fist fights, it's looks as if we're best friends who are in a three-legged potato sack race arguing about if we should do the left foot first or right foot first. We struggle to see each other and dodge each other's blows, but it's as hopeless as convincing a pessimist that the glass is half-full and that you're pouring, not drinking.
Gene and I, I guess we're the immature sort. This time we're arguing about whether or not we're half-asleep or half-awake when our mother comes along and says, "Billie! Gene! Break it up! Billie, you can be half asleep. Gene, you can be half awake. Problem solved." What a compromise.
Finally we stop hitting each other, and we realize it's time to practice our dance routine for tomorrow night's talent show. When you're practicing with a partner, the best way to keep your rhythm is to alternate the counts. I say ,"One" and my right foot goes forward. Jean says, "Two" and his left foot goes forward. I say, "Three" and we slide to the left while dragging my right foot. Jean says, "Four" and we pretend to wipe sweat off of our brow and fling it on the mirror, which will be the audience tomorrow night. I start back at "One" and we're supposed to turn our backs, but Gene stands there like an idiot. The music stops and I stare at Jean.
"What the hell are you doing?" I ask. "You're supposed so spin! The show is tomorrow night and we can't even get past one measure!"
"Well, I'm sorry, I'm half-asleep, I can't remember all the steps right away," Gene responds.
"Well you damn well better! Stop being a tumor on my side and move with me!" I scream.
"What? Why am I the tumor? Why can't you be the tumor?"
"Look," I say, "I don't have time for this. How about we go our seperate ways and practice again in say, half an hour?"
"Sure," says Gene. He mutters under his breath, "Racist bastard."
We walk back into the kitchen and find our mother shaking one of those magic 8-balls. "Pregnancy test again?" I ask.
"Yeah," my mom responds, "But for the past ten minutes I've been getting 'Ask again later'. It's frustrating. Just give me a straight fuckin' answer."
Our dad left when we were three (how sad that this sounds cliche) and ever since our mother has been swearing that he got her pregnant before he left, but the egg and sperm have been lying dormant for the past 20 years.
"I've been having mood swings lately, I think some of the sperm may have awakened," says Mom. "Ah shit, nevermind. Ask again later."
~~
At our family reunions, no one really remembers each other, and consequently it's always awkward and we rarely know what to talk about. We have this system where we remember each others' name by relation followed by which channel on television we're addicted to. This usually gives us something to talk about.
"Mom, that's Aunt late-night-Cinemax. Remember her? That would be Nephew Tech TV and Niece Nickelodeon. That over there is Uncle Speed and Aunt ESPN. Standing next to them are Brother-in-law Court TV and Sister Discovery Health. The one half asleep on the lawn chair with dried beer forming crumbs in his chest hair, yeah, that's Uncle TNN. See that huge old lady that just parked her RV and got out? No, the huger one. Well, either way, both of them are Cousin QVC. Or wait, I think the one on the left is Cousin HSN actually. Whatever."
My mother sees someone from afar that she pretends to know and smiles and discreetly waves her over. The young lady makes her way over pushing a stroller.
"Oh, hi!!!" my mother says. "How are you? I'm...I think...Grandma?...Primetime NBC."
The young lady stares at my mother and says, "Mom, it's me. Your daughter. I moved about about three years ago?"
"Oh yeah!!!" says my mother. "That's right, Daughter CNN. How have you been? What's on the news?"
"Oh, fuck you too," says Sister CNN. "Nothing's on the news, okay, but I just had a baby." Sister CNN pulls out a little baby that reminds me of a miniature everything and says, "This is Perry, he's 14 months old."
"14 months old, but your household is so fucked up I bet you call him Baby Spice," I say with enthusiasm for attention.
"Oh just shut up," says my sister, "Can I still call you Brother Lifetime or has that phase worn off? And you, Conjoined Twin, why are you being so quiet? Hit him for me!"
My brother looks at me and says, "Sorry, he and I have made a pact to no get into fist fights in public. It looks too bizarre. But really, we wanna know how you've been. You still a shopaholic?"
Our sister, Sister CNN or PAX or HSC or Noggin or Soap Opera TV or whatever stage she's at in her life is the kind of woman that comes home after a long day of grocery shopping, and the receipt you find in the bag is so long and curly it could easily be mistaken for one of the seven dead sea scrolls.
See, our sister is just nuts. She developed her own version of the zodiac where different periods of the year are represented by sexually transmitted diseases. March 21 through April 20 is syphillis. April 21 through May 21 is gonnorrhea. May 22 through June 22 is venereal disease. And so on.
This makes Gene and me genital herpes.
It's actually quite fun if some ugly bitch hits on us in a bar. She'd say, "So, baby...what's your sign?"
"A severe case of burning red sores on my dick. Now go the fuck away."
It makes my job so much easier.
Oh, and if you're one of the unfortunate souls born between June 23 and July 23, then you had it bad. You were represented by trichomoniasis. Tell a first date that you're a trichomoniasis, and that you're known for your tenacity, persistence, and occasional hints of frothy yellow-green discharge and a strong vaginal odor.
Yes, our sister was the odd one in the family. My sister, the chlamydia. Known for her spontanaeity, frequent impatience, and burning or swelling around the penis.
The great thing about the zodiac is that it only works one way. A taurean may be known for his mood swings, stubborness, and strong will, but one who has mood swings, stubborness and a strong will is not necessarily a taurean. Or maybe it's all just superstitious bullshit, who knows.
But with our sister's version, it feels a lot like we're in middle school doing a presentation on Greek gods. In middle school, we got into groups and each presented information on a Greek god. Group one presented Zeus, group two presented Poseidon, and so on. Only now we're all grown up in the real world, and I present you with genital warts and HIV. Call it character development.
I'd be lying if I said it wasn't fun growing up in our family. Oh God, and Christmas dinners were the greatest. We had the most adorable dog who, during dinner, would perk up its ears and tilt its head in the hopes for any kind of table scraps. Our mother hated this, but the little rat-looking terrier would never listen or obey anything other than, "Okay boy, look ugly! Good boy!"
It was still part of the family, and we really did love the little shit. Our relationship with the dog ended at one Christmas dinner. We were all chomping down on the Christmas meat, greasy bits decorating our chin like flesh confetti. Some mash potatoes here, a couple of green beans there. The only thing missing from this Christmas dinner was our dog. It wasn't begging us for food, or yapping everytime the doorbell rung. The dog never went outside, so it couldn't have been in the backyard. Gene finally asked the question that was on all of our minds, "Hey...where's the dog?" To which our mother replied, "I couldn't afford a turkey this year. Stop complaining and eat your dinner."
And after she said that, we couldn't help but realize that the meat decorating our chins was once our dog. And we quietly wiped our faces clean of his remains and excused ourselves from the table while our mother sucked the marrow from Jackster's arthritic bones.
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©2001 mg
