Philip and I never can agree who gets to be the evil one. This has been a major source of contention between the two of us, growing up. I’ve always said whichever twin is older should get to choose. I don’t say that because I’m older. I say that because it’s a fair and logical way to resolve a dispute. Philip says the good twin has to come first or the existence of an evil twin won’t surprise anyone. I know that’s a load of rubbish, and I’ve told Philip it’s rubbish on several occasions. Anyway, since I’m older I’ll have a head start on growing a mustache, and I figure that should pretty much settle it.
The reason this is such an important issue is that it’s the evil one who gets to steal the other’s girl, get her addicted to heroin or reefer, and then dump her, penniless and cold, onto the street; it’s the evil one who gets to kidnap the other’s children and fatten them up and sell them to a third-world zoo; it’s the evil one who gets to empty the other one’s bank account and gamble the money away or use it to buy long-range nuclear missiles or a shotgun; it’s the evil one who gets to cut the other’s throat when he’s least expecting it. Neither one of us currently has a girl, or children, or a bank account, but we do both have throats. In my honest appraisal, I think Philip’s throat would be better at being cut than mine would.
It’s clear that our parents take my side on this, though they won’t come out and say so. They named him Philip Weaver, which is not very good, as far as names go, for someone who is evil. They named me Maxwell Benedict, which as you might have noticed, contains an “X.” But they at least put on the face of impartiality. “Boys,” our mother says, holding us both on her lap, squeezing us. “If you work hard enough, make good grades, and floss every other Sunday, then maybe you can both grow up to be evil.” “Anyway,” says our father, trying to find basketball on TV, “the whole evil twin thing seems pointless given that you two are fraternal.”
But our mother squeezes me a little bit harder than she squeezes Philip, and our father catches my eye and he winks.
Outside in the garage, where the DeSoto used to be, I have my laboratory. It’s here where I draw the plans for my death ray, and where I invent poisons by mixing Miracle-Gro and paint thinner. Philip isn’t allowed there—that is, I don’t allow him without a shout. My mother says it’s okay because he needs to get into the Prius to go to soccer practice, and the Prius is in the garage. But we all know that excuse is total hogwash, because Philip is no good at soccer and the Y is less than a mile away so he could walk.
Philip has his own laboratory in the treehouse, and when he’s off playing soccer I climb up there and trash his things. He doesn’t need a laboratory anyway. I keep telling Philip he should use the treehouse as a private and convenient place to kiss girls, like Carli Turner or Mara Androsova, because the sooner he starts a family the sooner I can betray him. Once, I sent Carli Turner up there to surprise him, but instead of kissing her Philip only put a spider down her shirt. Carli Turner squealed and hurried back down the rope ladder, missing a rung, tangling her foot in it; and she fell and fractured her shoulder blade. When our father got back from taking Carli Turner to the hospital, he said we were both in trouble, that is, Philip and I, even though Philip had been the only one to do anything evil and I’d only been trying to help him kiss a girl.
I got the idea to send another girl up there, this time knowing, evilly, that she’d end up getting broken, but I have yet to follow through with it. It’s on my to-do list. But I’m a busy man with a long to-do list, and also, most of the girls in our neighborhood already heard about what happened to Carli Turner.
Up in the treehouse, up there in Philip’s illegitimate evil laboratory, I stop knocking things over, stop throwing things out of the treehouse and into the yard below. I’ve found a Bunsen, and it’s no use for Philip up there, really, since I’ve already tossed his propane tank. I slip the Bunsen into my pocket. Then I notice a tin chest that I didn’t even know Philip had, and which I have no idea where he got. It has a combination lock on it, and I turn the dial to 27, which is our birthday, but I don’t know where to go from there. I make a mental note to find out Philip’s favorite numbers. I look around for an axe, because I know Philip used to have an axe up there. Maybe I’ve already thrown it down. Maybe Philip keeps the axe locked up inside the chest. I can’t find it.
The lock dial goes all the way up to 35, so there’s no way I can guess the last two numbers. Maybe I can heave it, throw it far enough to hit the sidewalk and smash into a hundred tin pieces. But if there’s something delicate inside, something good enough that I’d rather steal it than break it, that would be a waste. Maybe I can hide the chest and get Philip to pay a ransom.
The Prius is quiet, but I’ve trained my ears and I hear it turn into the driveway. I decide to leave the chest for later, that I’d better go safeguard my laboratory before Philip finds out what I’ve done to his. I kneel in the doorway and slide my left leg down to grab the rope ladder, and my leg shoots back and I almost fall forwards. The ladder’s gone! That twerp Philip booby-trapped the ladder!
Not even a minute later, Philip walks around to the side of the house. “Oh, hello Max,” Philip says, stepping over some of his things. “Are you having a good time up there?” “Let me down, you eggplant!” I holler, and right away I know it’s not my best insult. “Max, I don’t suppose you’d mind if I flipped through some of your comics, would you?” “You damn well better not!” I say, but my comics are locked in my safe. “What’s the combination?” Philip says, “27-12-14?”
I spend the night up there in the treehouse, but I don’t sleep. I concentrate, intently, working to grow that mustache.
Posted April 30, 2010, 7 pm
