Thorn in My Side

I chewed back the nasty taste in my mouth as ABBA filled the air. For the last two hours, the chest-thumping bass of Britney Spears and Beyoncé club mixes had been just shy of tolerable, but the brash introduction of the Swedish supergroup was a bridge too far. “Dancing Queen” spun into my good ear like cotton candy at the state fair. Sticky. Sweet. Conjuring the animalistic desire to defecate in public just to stop the insanity.

Kirk was oblivious—moving to the beat, arm occasionally extending into the air in what was clearly a John Travolta move. I have to admit that my brother is an amazing dancer. Somehow, he manages to become one with the music, so that you start to wonder if he’s plugged into a separate jack on the back of the DJ’s table. The way he takes over a song and makes it his own pales in comparison to the look of unadulterated bliss on his face when he’s under the mirrored lights. You can tell he loves what he’s doing. Not many people can say that about anything—their jobs, their families, their lives. But Kirk loves dancing. And people love watching him. And he loves being watched.

Over the last fifteen years, Kirk has graced every nightclub in Atlanta with his dance moves. No matter how many times people see him, it’s always the same. They stop. They stare. Their lips part in surprise. He’s not just the center of attention. He’s the eye of the needle. Even tonight, within seconds of entering the Pink Pony, he’d managed to take over the floor, hips gyrating, foot moving in double time. Women smiled openly, clapping their hands with delight. Men stared in wonder. And then came the inevitable glances at me: Puzzlement. Pity. Disgust.

Such was the curse of being a twin: the younger brother, the less dominant brother, the brother whose hairline receded earliest and whose neck most resembled something a farmer’s ax would bisect any Thanksgiving morn, was always the odd man out. At thirty-eight years old, I’ve come to accept this as my lot in life. Kirk has always been the exciting one. The energetic one. The funny one. The one all the girls wanted to be with. Even as the grating harmonies of “Fernando” filled the smoky nightclub, moving everyone to their feet, I could only stand there with my hand in my pocket, head down, the occasional twitch of my shoulder the only indication that I hadn’t slipped into an irreversible coma.

Delicate fingers traced along the back of Kirk’s shoulder. I felt a shudder come on—a weird tightening in my stomach and groin. I closed my eyes and tried not to hear anything but the beating of my own heart under the sacchariney sweet Swedes telling me that there was something in the air tonight. I had watched this scene play out so many times before that I could guess the conversation:

Woman: “Let’s get out of here.”

Kirk: “How much?”

There was a little back and forth negotiation—Kirk never paid retail—and then I felt a tug like a kickball attached to a tether. Here we go around the pole again. Kirk headed toward the rear exit, pushing past anyone who got in his way. I didn’t have a choice. I followed him.

The air slapped my face with a cold hand. I checked out Kirk. The change had come on as quickly as the drop in temperature. Gone was the beatific smile from the dance floor. His jaw was set. His eyes had narrowed into their more natural beadiness. This was the Kirk that only a handful of people had ever seen. It was the Kirk I knew all too well.

I tried, “We should—”

“This way.” He nodded his head toward our Chrysler Town and Country. The minivan was top-of-the-line. Metallic silver paint. Chrome running boards. Leather seating. Full entertainment system in the back.

Kirk beeped the key fob, and the side door slid open. Suddenly, the woman seemed to lose her nerve.

“What’s the holdup?” Kirk snapped, no longer the charming pseudo-Travolta of the Pink Pony.

The woman swallowed. “Don’t you want to know my name?”

Kirk opened his mouth to tell her that, no, he didn’t give a shit, but I spoke first. “I’m Wayne. This is my brother, Kirk.” I fumbled nervously for words. “Of course, I guess you already know that we’re brothers.”

Her eyes darted back and forth between us. Her pupils were blown wide as saucers. She was either stoned out of her mind or had recently suffered a stroke. Maybe it was both. In the bright xenon lights of the parking lot, I could see she wasn’t as young or attractive as the disco lighting would lead one to believe. The black slinky dress looked worn and ill-fitting. A Pepé Le Pew part in her hair showed she was a couple of weeks late for her dye job. Her skinny arms were more like sticks. Sticks with scabs. I glanced at Kirk. She’d obviously been on the needle at some point. Of course, you didn’t often find a drug-free lady who was willing to go to a stranger’s car outside a run-down club.

“Let’s go.” Kirk got into the van. I nearly whacked my head on the roof as I followed. He was moving fast, anxious to get this over with. He pulled the latch and swiveled the club seat around to face the woman. She hadn’t moved except to start nervously rubbing her arms. Kirk pulled out his wallet and counted out two twenties and a five. “Are we doing this or not?”

She glanced inside the van as if she expected to find plastic and duct tape.

Finally, she looked at me. “It’s extra if he watches.”

“He won’t watch.” Kirk gave me a sideways glance. “Beat it, kiddo.”

I took the headphones out of the console and plugged in the jack to the entertainment system. Kirk waved the money in the air. He didn’t even bother to fan the bills. They were limp and moist from being in his pocket. They lolled over the back of his hand like a Labrador’s tongue.

He said, “Let’s go, sweetheart. Either you want the money or not.”

She looked back and forth between us, weighing the dangers, the odds. Common sense lost out to the lure of cash. The girl climbed up into the van. She stood in the open doorway staring at us both. “This is some freaky shit.”

“Let’s just get on with it.” Kirk waited for her to take another step inside, and then he key-fobbed the van door closed.

The interior lights faded to a soft glow. We’d paid extra to have mood lighting installed, which I’d thought was for ambience, but Kirk had wanted it because it made the women he picked up look much less pitiful and grotesque. At least this one was thin. The big girls made it impossible for all three of us to safely maneuver around. I’d nearly gotten a concussion three weeks ago from slamming my head into the roof of the car.

Kirk fumbled with his buttons, saying, “Ground rules. No saying my name—”

“Oh.” She blinked a few times. “I don’t remember your name.”

I told her, “I’m Wayne, and this is—”

Kirk punched me in the shoulder. “Shut up.” He went back to the buttons. “Just keep to my side,” he instructed. “Only kiss me. Only look at me. And don’t touch the asshole.”

She balked. “Jesus, he’s right there. He can still hear you.”

“No,” Kirk said. “I mean it literally. Don’t touch the asshole. That’s his.”

“His…?”

“The asshole, the left ball, left nipple. Anything on the left side. Don’t touch it.”

“What about…” Her throat worked like an anaconda swallowing a Chevelle. “You know. What about…”

I felt Kirk’s chest rise and fall with visible irritation. “There’s only one dick, sweetheart. Believe me, he’d never get laid if there were two.”

She coughed out a noise that was somewhere between fascination and relief. “How long’ve y’all been…”

“Conjoined twins?” My chest rose and fell along with Kirk’s this time as we both filled each of our lungs with air.

Of all the questions we got asked, this was by far the most ludicrous. I’d long gotten accustomed to the frightened stares and looks of horror. We had a mirror at home. I knew what a strange sight we made walking down the street. Two heads. One set of legs. One set of arms. We grew out of each other’s torsos like spliced branches on an apple tree. Kirk had two shoulders while I had one and a half. We shared one stomach, one heart, one set of intestines, one spleen, liver, pancreas. Our arms moved independently for the most part. We both controlled the legs, but neither of us could explain how we walked in tandem—nor could modern medicine, which we’d given up on years ago. As far as I could tell, it was a matter of wills and whose was the strongest. Which usually meant Kirk got his way. He itched, and I scratched. He farted, and I said, “Excuse me.” He drank, and I started singing hymns at the top of my lung.

It was inevitable that our predicament raised questions. But this one in particular was maddening in its stupidity. How long have we been conjoined?

How long has breath filled my body? How long has wax stopped up my bad ear? How long has the earth turned or clouds waltzed across the sky?

I said, “We were born this way,” before Kirk could give his usual “accident at the nuclear power plant” remark, which I was half afraid this girl would believe.

“Freaky,” she said, her fingers pulling blindly at the zipper on her dress.

“Keep those out of his face,” Kirk warned, an edge to his tone. “You’re with me, not him. Remember that at all times.”

She finally gave up on the zipper and pulled the dress off over her head. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help but glance at her firm breasts, the gentle curve of her stomach sloping into her darker lady regions.

Kirk’s head snapped around, and I pretended to be interested in working out the kinks in the headphone wire. Still, I felt my cheeks flush. I was in the wrong here. We alternated our days—always had. It was the best way to keep the peace, and it made sure no one, namely Kirk, could screw things up too badly. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays were mine. Kirk got Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Sundays we split down the middle so that I got to go to church and Kirk got to do exactly what he was doing right now. Being honest, I think he did it on purpose. Saturday was all his. He could’ve debauched himself silly and given me time to recover. But no, as soon as I got home from church, he was spraying on cologne, greasing back his hair, and ironing our tight, low-rider jeans for his big night out.

“All right!” Kirk clapped our hands together, making me drop the headphones. “Let’s get this party started.”

With no preamble, she mounted Kirk, her leg wrapping around mine by necessity. I felt a quiver in my ball, the tightening of my asshole. I tried to ignore both as I put on my headphones and started the movie.
Little Women
. Not the remake with Winona Ryder, but the original with Katharine Hepburn. Classy lady. Angular, athletic. More my type than the needle freak currently bouncing in my half of our lap like an elasticized jackhammer.

“Yeah,” Kirk groaned, lifting his hips up and down so fast that I got a kink in my neck from trying to keep my head from slamming into the window. “Ride it, baby. Ride it.”

Not for the first time, I wished I’d had the forethought to take some Dramamine. Motion sickness took over as I tried to concentrate on the movie. I would never admit this to Kirk, but his head lined up more squarely with the rest of our body. Mine angled out a bit, which was hell on my neck and made me look more like a thorn growing out of his side. Which was often how Kirk referred to me, and I will tell you right now, if you think that’s funny, then try being attached to a sex-crazed egomaniac whose idea of a joke is to power-slam bran at every meal so that his asshole—an asshole he doesn’t have to deal with, by the way—rages as wild as the Colorado.

“Come on,” Kirk coaxed. “Work it hard, baby. Work it hard.”

Her hand touched my half shoulder as she gripped onto him. I could feel the hard grip of her pinky and ring finger digging into my back. Her nails were long. The skin under my shirt felt almost pricked. Kirk was pumping like a puppy on a bolster pillow. Her thigh tightened around mine as she tried to keep her head from hitting the ceiling.

Boy, I knew how hard that was. But it was none of my business. I wasn’t here to give this woman sympathy, or even attention. This was Kirk’s private time. A deal was a deal. And even though he was going to hell for it, we each had our own lives no matter whether or not they were lived concurrently.

I chewed my lip and stared at Katharine Hepburn. She was dead now. A pity. They didn’t make movie stars like that anymore. They were all celebrities, even if they’d never done anything other than be rich, rail-thin, and peroxide blonde. Even if they had never—

“Oh!”

The gasp had come out of my mouth, not Kirk’s. I tried to turn the sound into a clearing of my throat, but I was no Katharine Hepburn. Or even Winona Ryder. Kirk’s head jerked around sharply. I stared at Jo and Marmee, feigning interest in the comings and goings of the March household. I had to hold on for just a few minutes more. Whatever was going on over there on my right was getting close to an end. My prostate had already started doing that thing that Kirk didn’t know about.

Yeah, there were things Kirk didn’t know about. Lots of things he would know if he didn’t have his head so far up—well, not his asshole, because that was my territory, but the fact remained that Kirk never took much notice of anything to do with me, unless it was to find fault. Of course,
he
was the Big Man on Campus because he controlled the penis. Mr. Six Inches. Mr. Lady’s Man. He was too self-centered to even consider what went on in my side of the body. That I could feel his heartburn when he ate tacos. That his sleep apnea left me feeling tired all day. That my solitary ball could feel the same things his ball felt. That my sexual sensations were a free gift with his purchase.

“Giddyup!” Kirk yelled, slapping the woman on her bottom. “Let’s go!”

A bead of sweat ran down the side of my face. My ball tightened up like taffy being pulled on the boardwalk. I glanced at the woman. She smiled at me. Her hand loosened its grip around my shoulder and started to slide down. I closed my eyes, letting the sensations take over, all the while wondering somewhere in the back of my mind why this was happening. She was so far from my type she might as well have been an orangutan. And yet, I was getting as het up as a schoolboy googling his first porn site. Kirk paid women all the time. Sometimes, they paid
him
if he let them take pictures. Why was this particular woman getting a rise out of me?