by Rachel Hulin
Did you know American cheese has formaldehyde?
(Horse play in general seems like a bad idea—trucking these massive animals around, and then getting on top of them and going over obstacles! Who the fuck thought that up? It’s much, much crazier even than skiing. And skiing is crazy.)
But I felt glamorous, amongst all that. I did.
The first class was Walk, Trot. A very rudimentary class. I was unremarkable, but I didn’t screw up. The ring was filthy with sandy dust; there were potholes and rocks strewn about. I could hear my horse’s hooves hitting the rocks and him almost stumbling. (Impending almost-doom, the recurring theme of my life.)
I’m not sure I enjoyed myself, I just sort of waited it out until it was over. Fully mediocre.
I got fifth, pink. Pale, petal pink, second to last. A color that did not befit me, but I was pleased.
My second and final class was an obstacle course, on horseback. Walk through orange cones, put a flag in a basket, carry a bucket from one place to another, make your horse back up over some logs on the ground, etc. This one I hadn’t really prepared for at all, but how hard could it be? You didn’t have to jump over anything or go faster than a walk.
Turned out my unicorn horse was really fucking terrified of buckets. As soon as I picked up that white bucket and the little bucket handle slid down against the side of his neck, he went absolutely batshit.
Full-on rodeo-style batshit. Bucking, rearing, eyes rolling back in his head, sweating, shimmying side to side. If they had had video phones back then, the video of this crazy freaking-out horse would have lit up the internet, I’m telling you. The craziest horse freak-out you can imagine, Harry. If he had freaked out any more, he would have thrown himself on the ground and died right there in front of everyone.
The whole goddamned arena was slowly turning in my direction and then was riveted, clearly alarmed, talking to one another (I could see their mouths moving), and then they started yelling something—chanting something at me, slowly, in unison.
I took a while for me to make it out, because the hubbub of almost dying on top of this crazy horse was quite distracting.
“DROP THE BUCKET!”
“DROP THE BUCKET!”
“DROP THE BUCKET!”
“DROP THE BUCKET!”
“DROP THE BUCKET!”
“DROPPPPP THEEEEEEEEE BUCKETTTTTT!!!!!”
Oh right. Drop the stupid bucket. Why didn’t I think of that? So I dropped it.
But Harry, what did you notice about this story? The second class? The second class, when absolute fucking disaster struck—dangerous, life-threatening disaster struck—I was calm. I didn’t fall off that fucking crazy horse. I had FUN, Harry. I held on and smiled during the bucking and the rearing and the eyes rolling back. I was proud. I was invincible. I was fucking great at riding that horse.
It was much, much better than the first class when I was just following the rules and trying to sit up straight enough.
I got last place. Sixth, just for staying on. They made a (slightly patronizing) speech about my bravery when they gave me the ribbon—bright green. Beautiful. And still my favorite color, to this day.
So you see—I’m better in rough times than in calm. I can handle my shit when it hits the fan. It’s the calm times that are hard. It’s the calm times when you’re just sitting there waiting for something to go wrong. And something always will.
When we got back from the horse show, you and I snuck up to the hayloft with a stolen hard lemonade from the groom’s fridge and watched the hazy sun set.
I don’t even know whose idea it was. And it wasn’t even sexual, it was more primal or instinctual, like a puzzle we were figuring out for ourselves. I remember the imprint of the hay on my back and the way you sneezed from the dust, and the way you touched me, first like a ghost, and then like you meant it.
You were proud of me, I think. For staying on that horse like a triumphant motherfucker.
.
Matilda,
Do you know that I have that green ribbon? It’s currently my bookmark in a Proust tome, which I’ve never managed to finish.
.
Harry,
Really? I thought I let Dad throw everything away when I went to college. Because fuck it—time to make new memories. That was kind of stupid.
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Matilda,
I know. I rescued the trophy box.
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Harry,
Oh. Thank you.
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Matilda,
You’re welcome.
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Harry,
It saddens me that the rituals of childhood go out like a light when you come of age. Trophies! Why don’t we get trophies anymore?
We just get drinking and ennui and confusion and then a wedding to probably the wrong person, and then we die. I feel that the celebration of maturation must continue! Surely if our cells are all resurrecting every seven years—surely we become different people, with different needs a few times over.
.
Matilda,
I’m actually sort of enjoying it here right now, despite everything, can you believe it? I feel like things are really possible, I feel alive with the idea of being an adult.
Last night I went out with a friend from grad school. It was raining in the East Village and we drank White Russians and talked about literature.
.
Harry,
You’re rapidly advancing through the stages of life in the city. You’ve gone from embryo to early childhood—mixing with undergrads, drinking glorified chocolate milk.
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Matilda,
You should work on your general tone, you know. You can be extremely dismissive.
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Harry,
I’m in a fucking life crisis, Harry, have you noticed? And you’ve left me to handle it alone!
Now that we’re talking about it, I would like to discuss our strongest personality traits. I’m glad you brought it up. I think mine is:
Aggressive: I go after what I want, once I know that I want it.
What do you think yours is, Harry?
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Matilda,
Patience, I believe.
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Harry,
I think you are way less patient than you think, knocking up your teenager and following her to the Big Apple before her twentieth birthday.
No, I think your number one trait is…hmm, maybe Passive—if only because, because Passive/aggressive is such an excellent way to describe us as twins. Ahem, HALF TWINS.
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Matilda,
I can be aggressive, too.
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Harry,
Mhmm. So is that the reason you’re not here helping me find Mom? The reason you won’t acknowledge that the news we’re only half siblings is real? You’re just being patient?
Or is it delusional? Yes, I think you are a touch self-deluded.
.
Matilda,
We have pictures of us as babies, we have documented proof we’re twins. We have the same birthday. We have the same parents. I mean—what is this really about? I have my own situation here, Matilda.
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Harry,
Pictures can be faked! Birthdays can be massaged! DNA tests don’t lie! It’s science, Harry. Come back home. You’re needed here. Clearly Vera needs space or a foot rub, or something, but she doesn’t seem to want it from you.
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Matilda,
Why don’t we give it a few more days? There must be legitimate explanations for the DNA mix-up, that happens on crime shows all the time. And Vera does want me.
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Harry,
Fine. I’ll just waste away in this nowhere backwater, wondering about my lineage and my future.
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Matilda,
You know how I know she wants me? She just sent me this:
Harry,
I was reviewing the Riemann sphere today—one of
my favorite magical math occurrences.
You see—when you’re just hanging out in two dimensions…parallel lines never intersect. But if you simply make a Riemann transformation and then return to two dimensions, you have gained a whole new fact, a whole new reality, all new capabilities and options, a whole new truth…parallel lines never intersect AND they intersect AT THE SAME TIME!! Both facts hold true even though they leave no room for the other being true at the same time. It’s all I need to know, and it gives my ability to turn whatever I dream up into reality a solid mathematical proof for those people unable to accept my more magical, romantic explanations of my power. Anyone, scratch that, anything has the ability to be anything! Nothing included.
Perhaps we only see this “reality” because the majority of people on Planet Earth are thinking with Euclidean mind-sets, the collective consciousness is forming the reality. What would happen if the planet’s collective consciousness was based off of non-Euclidean geometry?!
Does that make any sense?
—VRPH
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Harry,
No, it doesn’t make any sense.
I want four initials like Vera.
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Matilda,
I know she loves me still.
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Harry,
In more important news, I drove thirty-five minutes to the nearest organic food store today. I was having yuppie-food withdrawal symptoms and was feeling very sorry for myself, right up until I found out that they make organic bologna. So you see—further proof that anything is possible.
I thought none of the folks here would have any taste for the finer things, but the crowd at Whole Foods was like intensely artisanal. As though they had all spent the morning making their own cucumbers. And their choices run far left (green cars and composting)—my gleaming station wagon did not deem me virtuous in any way. I think (because I was wearing clogs) I read more as a fancy lesbian, just here for the weekend. Which is interesting. Do you remember how Mom gave the speech at her college graduation, and the theme was “You Are Who You Pretend to Be”?
Maybe it also works the other way, like—you are who people see you as.
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Matilda,
You are to people as they see you.
I’m sure Mom would be delighted that you still consider her philosophical advice.
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Harry,
I follow lots of her advice all the time, which I’m sure would shock her.
You know what I noticed today, Harry?
Everyone’s fucking cats are dying. I’m getting internet updates on the hour about deceased or diseased felines. I think it’s because everyone got their first apartment eleven years ago and ran straight out and furnished it with a shiny new kitten.
Kittens turn into cats and die in about fifteen years.
It’s interesting to realize there’s an adult generation below us just now acquiring their new pets. Don’t they realize their kitties are going to die eventually?? It’s enough to drive anyone our age mad, honestly.
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Matilda,
I have to say I have noticed the dead cat theme as well. And—about Whole Foods—you should try not to be such a snob. Cities don’t have the lock on culture.
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Harry,
It’s trending, cat death is.
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Matilda,
I’m starting to see what you mean about city living—in the sense that you begin to disconnect a little, turn inward into your own little bubble. I suppose it makes sense, when you’re sharing such tight spaces so often. So odd that on the subway you actually touch people with your legs and arms—at rush hour bodies are pushed up against each other almost intimately. It’s something that would be quite awkward even on a different type of train. It’s all about context, isn’t it?
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Harry,
It is all about context indeed. And circumstance.
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Harry,
Also, everyone in NYC has a panic disorder because they are about to get priced out of their apartment. Also everyone is basically camping for years in temporary spaces, unless you have a trust fund. And then you have to deal with everyone hating you. Which negates the money anyway.
Impermanence + uncertainty = fear.
Are you going to stay in the city?
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Matilda,
Unclear. By the way, Matilda—what’s up with your dermatologist? Gary?
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Harry,
Funny you ask. I think I shall bring him to the country and marry him. He’ll make a perfectly fine first husband, and will be even downright cheery about paying alimony, I can tell already.
When we break up in our forties, I’ll set him up with one of my friends.
He’ll be gracious. He’ll be grateful, even.
.
Matilda,
Come on, be serious.
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Harry,
I am dead serious. I’m going to email him straightaway and invite him here.
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Matilda,
Vera’s gone camping for the weekend. Without me. I’m about to lose it.
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Harry,
Well, pregnancy progesterone is a gnarly thing—it can certainly cause all kinds of abnormal behavior.
But you’re dealing with an element far more volatile than even progesterone, Harry. You’re dealing with a late-stage teenager, for chrissakes. You know, there’s a reason car companies don’t insure people under twenty-five—it’s because PEOPLE’S BRAINS DON’T SOLIDIFY UNTIL THEIR MIDTWENTIES. Until then, humans often make rash decisions and are prone to changing their minds.
You know that avocado meme? It’s kinda like that. Because after the brain forms you get like three still-young years and then you’re old.
NOT YET
NOT YET
NOT YET
NOT YET
NOT YET
EAT ME NOW.
TOO LATE.
—AVOCADO
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Matilda,
I hate avocados.
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Harry,
You know, your mention of camping brings back some memories. Now that’s what I’m talking about—creating some fucking ritual. Camp does that properly. Ritual and memories.
I mean, at camp they make eight-year-olds hold hands around a roaring fire and sing “Cat’s in the Cradle” to the tune of a balding hippie’s guitar while separating those children from their parents for a space of TWO MONTHS at a time. Repeat that seven summers in a row.
I mean, that could be considered torture in some societies. Child abuse! I remember thinking, I am in real emotional pain here! as I looked up at the sky and missed Mom and Dad, tears streaming down my face.
But soon we were hardened. By the end of camp we were sending pieces of wood floating out onto the lake, covered in our markered wishes. Wood that we’d doused in kerosene and lit on fire, as though we were little orphaned pagans.
Let’s work on fifteen, no? I have a feeling you won’t oblige me with your poetry, so I’ll just make a list. That was a fucking banner year, Harry. I think it’s because we had been left alone in Maine to light things on fire and sing heartsick songs for seven summers in a row by that time, so fuck it.
FIFTEEN
1. At the old cemetery after the quinceañera
2. Under the Ping-Pong table in the basement with the fluorescent lighting and the sleeping bags which zipped from two into one
3. The turret, when Mom walked in and pretended not to see
Harry, these balloons are still following me around this house.
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Matilda,
Well, see—you’re not all alone, then.
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Harry,
It’s true, this house has a certain smell, a certain power. I feel I’m being folded into it. If Mom is not back by tomorrow I’m going searching for her, and if I don’t find her I m
ight have to take over the deed. I’m starting to like it here.
.
Hey Matilda,
Thanks. Any news on Mom?
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Hey Harry,
I found a second clue today: an invitation to Dad’s wedding, sitting opened on her desk. That must have stung a touch.
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Hey Matilda,
Yikes, I wonder what possessed him to do that!
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Hey Harry,
Insanity, most likely. That, or delusion (perhaps it’s genetic).
Most common REASONS people ACT STRANGELY
1. Bad childhood
2. Brain not functioning properly (Republican MRIs show low levels in empathy area, e.g.)