The Charmed And Grandiose Life Of A Doppelganger.
Part One
“There is only one corner of the universe you can be certain of improving and that’s your own self.”
— Aldous Huxley.
I had a dream last night. And I only have one style of dream: Walk into a room, look at a mirror, view a reflection of my self I’ve yet to be, hear the voice of someone that will play a part in my next chapter, if I manage to work things out, and wake up to move forward. Because we always go forward, no matter the choice and result. So I choose to keep writing in my notebook, here at The Slanted Door, the Pacific current running south as the sun sets and I don’t pay attention to any of it with my head looking at the page and pen in hand, two whiskeys behind me and a vodka water being prepped by Carey, my bartender of choice in this place. The result I’m looking for is some sort of gain. I know this because of what was told to me in last night’s dream:
“Think back, review, think more, remember, write and review, then act and gain.”
The words came from a female. Like she knew me but didn’t, our beings familiar but lacking the understanding of each other’s formative years. The self I viewed was from not too far into the future. I noticed no grays, recession in my hairline, new wrinkles on my face, or extra weight on my stature. But I was wearing a tuxedo. I woke up with my notebook at my bedside and pen ready. That’s how I’ve gone to bed since I was twelve, seven dreams behind me and, no doubt, seven better results than the one I’m living now — keeping in mind “better” is a matter of framing and preference. But I’m just a dreamer.
Carey has served up my vodka water and I downed half of it in one gulp. Time to think back.
My name is Michael Anthony. Michael for the archangel who bested Lucifer. Anthony from my Black Irish roots. As you can no doubt rationalize, I was given both names on the date of my birth. That happened on February 23rd, 1986. Unlike the charms in my life I’ve yet to get to, the day of my birth involved horrific weather: Thirty centimeters of snow followed by three inches of freezing rain to give it all a pleasure-to-look-at-but-not-deal-with glaze from whatever window you happened to be looking from. “You’re lucky you only put your mother through one hour of labour,” my father always tells me. And I always feel lucky because I was born in the same hospital as Ryan Gosling. But I did not grow up in the same town. Just before I turned one year old, my father landed the job I define him by: Chief of Police.
I was raised in a town like the one you stop for groceries at on your way to the family cottage, witness in feel-good Disney movies with up-and-coming pop music talent in the lead role, and never expect much out of except wholesome values. The town was called Masqueradeville. My parents and I lived at 77 Rickashaw Way. It had a front yard that took forty to sixty minutes to mow (depending on whether it was dad or I doing the mowing), enough floral variety for a Mother’s Day card, and a pool large enough for neighbourhood BBQs in the summer and a constant reminder of warmer and more carefree times in the winter. I loved that house. Still do. It was a charm.
I took my first steps on the lawn.
Got my first cut knee and accompanying water works on the laneway.
Learnt to swim after my father tossed me into the pool. “He’ll be fine,” my father said. I was three years old and tried growing gills in my sleep from that age until I was eleven and when the Dreams didn’t get in the way.
And the home was how I met Betsy.
Betsy arrived with her mother the weekend after my fourth Labor Day Long Weekend, four days after my first day at school. My mother answered the door, greeted the strangers, discovered their names and reason for being on our step, and called for me. Before the interruption, I was trying to find the cookie jar in the kitchen.
“Michael, meet Mrs. Clanigan and her daughter, Betsy,” my mother said with a potato salad from Mrs. Clanigan in her arms like I must have been in my first summer.
I’d already checked three usual hiding places for the cookie jar and was certain my fourth attempt — under the Tupperware containers in the cupboard next to the sink — would provide me the jackpot. So Betsy got a wave and I ran off, leaving my mother to apologize. Then I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
“Michael, get your filthy hands out of there.”
I scurried to the kitchen table like a chipmunk holding off on grabbing a nut in the presence of a squirrel and inspected each of my fingers.
“I washed my hands today.”
“Really? Then why didn’t you use them to act like a gentleman and shake Betsy’s hand?”
“I waved.”
“You were rude. I’m telling your father.”
The belt, backhand, boot, ruler or stick — all were taboo and in the past. Lucky for me. But spanking still existed. And I didn’t want one.
“I’m sorry. I was just hungry.”
“Well, it’s too late. And I bet Betsy was hungry, too.”
It was a trick. But I was four years old. And there was a full cookie jar. All chocolate chip, if you must know.
“I could go say I’m sorry to Betsy?”
“And?”
“Invite her back over for cookies?”
My mother smirked like she always did after my father brought home flowers for her on their anniversary, her birthday, or just because and she told him they weren’t necessary and hadn’t been since before they had me.
“How about I make you up a plate and you bring them over to Betsy?”
“OK. And I’ll say sorry.”
“OK.”
My mother watched from our doorstep and I walked passed a near empty moving truck with a man inside about to lift a chair. Four cookies were on a plate and I carried it in my right hand. Instead of ringing the doorbell — because I thought doorbells were disconnected whenever a house was sold — I knocked.
“Look out, son.”
I moved and almost dropped a cookie. The man from inside the moving truck opened the door and almost hit Betsy.
“Sorry, love.”
“It’s OK, daddy.”
I stood on the doorstep like an altar boy with no clue how the mass was about to go.
“Hi, Michael.”
“I brought you cookies.”
Betsy shrugged her shoulders and Mrs. Clanigan called out to inquire about who was at the door from a room I could not see from the doorstep. Betsy didn’t reply.
“Two of the cookies are for you.”
“Just two?”
“Yeah, I’m sharing.”
Betsy’s father, Mr. Clanigan, walked passed us and took a cookie before Betsy or I could stop him. Then Betsy grabbed the remaining three.
“Hey.”
“Hey what?”
Betsy ran upstairs and I turned around and moved fast to step out of Mr. Clanigan’s way, yet again, almost falling into the bushes with the empty plate in my hand and stomach still craving chocolate chips. Mr. Clanigan stopped.
“Where’d the cookie monster go?”
“Who?”
“Betsy. My daughter. You already putting the moves on her, pal?”
“Moves? No, she’s upstairs.”
I walked back home and my mother patted me on the head once I stepped inside.
“Well, that was fast.”
“She’s a monster.”
“Michael.”
“I didn’t even get a cookie.”
“But I bet you made a friend.”
“I don’t want that one.”
My father always had weekends off and that Sunday taught me how to throw a curveball and the backstroke. So I didn’t think of Betsy until Monday morning on the school bus as I watched her take my seat at the front of the bus behind the driver.
“That’s mine.”
“No, it’s mine.”
Betsy pointed to the nametag above the seat. Her name was there. Mine had been moved a seat back. So I took my seat and kept my legs pressed into the back of Betsy’s the entire drive to school. Betsy never complained.
There were two kindergarten sections and Betsy was put in mine, even though there were already more girls than boys. Betsy made friends fast. I scowled and stuck my tongue out at Betsy whenever I got the chance. And I ended up in the corner three to four times per week in the time leading up to when Mrs. Clanigan arrived at my family’s doorstep and gave my mother an invitation for me:
Dear Michael,
I think you’re swell,
Even though I don’t know you very well.
But that can change OH so soon,
Because I’m having a party with a lot of balloons.
So save the date (October 28th, 1990) and get ready to play,
Because I want to see you on my birthday.
“You must be excited, Michael.”
“She’s not my friend. I never play with her.”
I went to my room, by choice, and coloured a new colouring book my dad brought home for me the previous day just because. I got everything between the lines. And my mother called Mrs. Clanigan and told her I was thrilled to be invited and looking forward to the party.
A cold front had set in by the day of the party. My mother dressed me in a red sweater with a jack-o’-lantern on the front and khakis pants I only wore to church and family birthdays.
“What did you buy her?”
“Not telling.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you’ll tell Betsy so you can ruin the surprise.”
My mother wasn’t wrong. And when Betsy opened the door of her home to greet me, I stuck my tongue out at her the first chance I got as our mothers said hello.
“Betsy, thank Michael for the gift and go introduce him to Troy.”
It took a nudge from my mother but I followed Betsy inside. Mr. Clanigan recognized me when I walked inside and gave me the same speech about putting the moves on Betsy.
“Daddy, I already have a boyfriend.”
“That’s gross.”
“I’m just older.”
“No, I am. I’m already four and three quarters. You’re just four.”
“Whatever. I meant something different. You don’t understand because you’re a boy.”
“Rather be that than a stupid girl.”
“You need to meet Troy.”
Betsy snickered like an evil sidekick in a cartoon on Saturday morning and pointed to the sunroom.
“That’s Troy. He’s my cousin. He’s why I had to invite you. Bye, Stupid.”
Troy was playing with an assortment of toy soldiers but hadn’t separated them into proper sides. I introduced myself and offered to do the separating. Troy refused my offer like Napoleon and Hitler being told not to invade Russia and blew up an imaginary building with all the soldiers inside.
“They’re all dead. I killed them.”
“How old are you?”
“Nine and three-quarters.”
“I’m four and three quarters.”
“I could beat you up.”
“Don’t.”
“I might not.”
“Just, don’t.”
I picked up the toy soldiers scattered in the room so Troy could play with them again. You see, Troy might have been nine and three quarters but he looked twelve and a half.
“I didn’t even ask you to do that.”
“I just wanted to be helpful.”
“I still might beat you up.”
“But I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Mrs. Clanigan walked in with icing on her hands.
“You boys need to come outside so Betsy can unwrap her gifts.”
“OK, auntie.”
Troy ran outside. I walked. And that meant Betsy had to wait to open her gifts.
“Troy, you’ll protect me today, right?”
“Course.”
“I don’t like him.”
Mrs. Clanigan frowned at Betsy’s remark and finger pointing then told her to mind her manners.
I hadn’t done anything and I was like a toy soldier in the other room, laying and waiting for Troy’s next bright idea. Moves had to happen.
“Open my gift first. I really hope you like it.”
“Making moves on my daughter, Mikey?”
My dad hated it (still does) when people shorten my name. But I didn’t say that. I saw Mrs. Clanigan enjoy my sentiment and grab my gift from the pile. Composing myself, I continued acting.
“I really hope you like it, Betsy.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yeah, I do. We’re friends. Really.”
“Says who?”
Mrs. Clanigan told Betsy to change her tone and Mr. Clanigan patted me on the upper-back.
“Did you buy it for me?”
“Yeah. I get an allowance already.”
I was lying but my move meant Troy and I, left alone, was not in the cards for awhile. I urged Betsy to open the gift like I would have done if it was an all boy birthday party and I knew the item inside was something we could all play with. Betsy opened the gift and Mrs. Clanigan laughed.
“You got me an easy-bake oven.”
“Bet he wants you to make him cookies, Betsy.”
I didn’t care what Betsy wanted to make or for who. I could see and sense Troy’s restlessness. He pulled at Mrs. Clanigan’s arm and kept looking inside. I turned to Mr. Clanigan.
“I get to watch Betsy open all of her gifts, right?”
“Want to make sure yours is her favourite, pal?”
“I really do.”
Mr. Clanigan made a look at Mrs. Clanigan and she glared at Troy as if he was her own son. Troy pouted. Safety lasted for over thirty minutes. Then Mrs. Clanigan ushered us all inside the dining room to watch Betsy blow out the candles on her cake.
Mr. Clanigan went to the kitchen and asked for my help.
“What am I doing?”
“Roll up your sleeves like this then grab a seat at the table and help me put on all the candles.”
“OK.”
Even though Betsy was turning four, Mrs. Clanigan had bought enough candles for a thirty-four year-old’s birthday.
“Now go tell Betsy’s mom to turn off the candles and get everyone ready to sing.”
“OK.”
Mr. Clanigan brought out the well-lit cake and everyone sang Happy Birthday. Troy tried interjecting with a crude remix but Mrs. Clanigan grasped his arm and stopped him with a tug. The cake sitting and waiting, Betsy gathered as much air as she could and dispelled it over the candles, leaving one still lit. Mrs. Clanigan released Troy to applaud Betsy’s attempt like the rest of us were doing. Troy took the opportunity to dart for the remaining candle, pick it up, and use my exposed right forearm to extinguish the flame. I shrieked.
“Troy, get over here now.”
Mrs. Clanigan placed Troy in exile in the sunroom with the toy soldiers.
“He’s your sister’s son.”
“Mikey’s a tough kid. Right, Mikey? You’ll be fine.”
Betsy left her post by the birthday cake and took my forearm in her left hand.
“I know where the first aid kit is, Michael. Follow me.”
I reminded Betsy of her birthday cake and party guests but she waved off my remark like a Princess refusing the offer to dance from a commoner. The first aid kit was in the upstairs bathroom.
“My room is that one.”
“Mine is upstairs in my house, too.”
Betsy located the first aid kit, opened it, and took out the Flintstones Band-Aids because they were the only item she knew how to use. Betsy told me so. Then she called her mother who was already making her way upstairs.
“Does it hurt, Michael?”
“Just itchy, I guess.”
“Alright, well, we need to clean it before we put on the Band-Aid. It might hurt.”
I clenched my teeth and Betsy watched.
“You haven’t cried yet.”
“I’m OK.”
“Your skin put out a fire. I’d have cried.”
“You’re a girl.”
“Boys cry, too.”
And Betsy went downstairs.
The largest slice of cake I’d ever had up to that day was waiting for me when I came downstairs with Mrs. Clanigan and a Flintstones Band-Aid on my forearm. I almost ate the entire piece of cake.
“See, tough guys just need cake.”
“I guess so.”
“You should rejoin the party, slugger. I think Betsy’s mom is about to put on a movie for everyone.”
One of Betsy’s gifts was the movie, The Little Mermaid. Betsy and the rest of the girls at the party were excited to watch it. I wasn’t. But my other option was toy soldiers with Troy since Mr. and Mrs. Clanigan both agreed to watch the movie after Betsy made them promise by reminding them it was her special day.
“Can I just go home?”
“Are you OK, Michael?”
“Yeah, but I think my arm might be hurting?”
“Is it hurting now?”
“I think so.”
“OK, just a second.”
Mr. Clanigan brought me to the front door and offered me a high-five for getting out of watching The Little Mermaid with a bunch of girls. I used my hurt arm to complete the high-five as Betsy came to the door with Mrs. Clanigan.
“He’s not hurt anymore.”
“Betsy, behave. You’re going to walk Michael home and thank him for the gift.”
“But the movie just started. I’ll thank him here. Thanks.”
“No, I’m going to pause the movie and tell the girls to wait.”
I recognized the look Betsy got from Mrs. Clanigan. I got the same one from my mother when I didn’t eat my vegetables, left toys near the television, and came inside from the pool to grab a snack before drying myself. So Betsy conceded and Mrs. Clanigan whispered something in her ear.
My mother answered the door after Betsy and I walked over in silence.
“Mrs. Anthony, Michael hurt himself. I’m really sorry. My mom and dad are, too. My mom is going to call you after my party is over to talk about it.”
“Oh, well, Michael seems fine.”
“I think so, too.”
“Thanks, Betsy. Michael, what do you say?”
I thanked Betsy and told her I hoped she liked my gift.
“I do.”
“Good.”
I turned to walk inside and Betsy stopped me by grabbing the exact spot Troy used to put out the flame.
“Ow.”
“Thanks for coming to my birthday, Michael.”
Betsy hugged me. At the time, I knew it was what Mrs. Clanigan told Betsy to do when she whispered in her ear. Now, the remaining half of my vodka water slugged back, I’m not so sure.
