We were resourceful, and could usually keep our budget under a couple thousand dollars, though Karma Inc. broke the bank at ten thousand. We would beg, borrow, and steal (well, no grand theft larceny) to pay for these productions, which not surprisingly weren’t making us any money in return. We just did it because we loved telling stories, making people laugh, and more importantly, making people think.
We would dip into money we made from our early house flips and a LOT of random jobs* to fund our filmmaking and other interests, like Drew’s sock collection.
*a) That was much later and, b) “mall cop” is more of a calling than a job.
Are unsupervised juveniles walking up the down escalator? Book ’em, Danno!
We worked security at a mid-sized mall. Our uniforms had this belt loaded down with all these attachments that looked very official. In truth we were only issued pepper spray, handcuffs, and a notepad. Drew was actually the supervisor, so he was all about finding ways to make the schedule more efficient.
We’re both pretty social, and while on foot patrol through those mean streets that smelled perpetually of fresh cinnamon rolls, we liked popping into the different shops to chat with the employees. That came to a (possibly screaming) halt after complaints about one of the creepy security guards* prompted the mall to ban any of us from going into the stores.
*(not us)
There were several occasions when we arrested people, but we didn’t have a mall jail, so we made them wait in the office until the real police arrived. Usually it was just shoplifters or kids who were vandalizing, but we also would get perverts trying to streak through the mall. If you’ve ever had to handcuff someone with no clothes on, then you know that it’s a little disconcerting.
We had equally colorful, fleeting careers as busboys, waiters, valet (Drew), shoe salesman (go ahead, look at our feet and take a guess), personal trainer/cougar bait (Drew again), and website designer/computer geek (me).
I’d like to say we killed at whatever job undertook, but the record will show that Drew was the absolute worst waiter. He would talk to his tables for so long that he would forget to put their orders in, including one time when it was twenty people having a celebration of some kind.*
*Haha, I would convince them their meal took extra time because it was special.
“We’re sorry. We’re waiting for the chicken to lay your eggs.”
When they asked me to consider being a host instead . . . I just considered another career path.
I, on the other hand, mastered the art of service. I worked in a restaurant called Red Robin, and could take on a double section more effectively than other waiters struggling with a single four top. I would do balloon animals for kids, magic for special occasions, and could always make my diners laugh. I made far more in tips than I ever made in wages. Not that it was anywhere near as rewarding as the time I worked in a women’s swimwear store.*
*Is collecting phone numbers considered working?
When we were in third grade, Drew and I would get pulled out of class a few times a week and were put into a special program where they were introducing kids to computers. We had those original block-like Apple Macintoshes, and they taught us not only how to use them, but how to program. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world and have been very into computers ever since. In college, I took a few courses on graphic/web design, and I had a few side jobs building computers, designing websites, and doing graphic work.
One of my clients was a swim store that hired me to design their website. The owner was so impressed, he asked me to design the posters and banners for inside the store, too. Then he mentioned that one of his stores wasn’t doing so well, and before I knew it, he asked if I would be interested in managing it. I gave it careful thought for approximately two seconds. Running a bikini shop was a no-brainer. LOL.
I took over the business, created some sales events, and really managed to turn it around. I had no complaints about helping the women who wanted a second opinion on the swimwear they were trying on. Perk of the job. But once I hired new staff and turned the store around, I moved on. Bikini Boss was just a small project for very selfish reasons, but as far as I was concerned, not a career commitment.
Drew got his own eyeful when he took a job at a gym as a personal trainer,* but he was more traumatized than tantalized by it.
*It was basically just women with money to burn that wanted a young guy to fondle them. I mean, who shows up at the gym in full makeup, prom hair, and a thong?!
Luckily, since Drew was going to need lots of therapy, my knowledge of the web and where it was going led to a brand-new money-maker for me. I teamed up with a buddy of mine to create a business where we would buy domains and sell them for profit. This was hard for people to wrap their brains around because there was no physical asset. But we were successfully turning many domains around, and developing a lot of websites. I saw an opportunity to get into web hosting.
Everybody who has a website or email has to host it somewhere, and I had worked out a system where I could undercut the bigger players and offer much more. I had hundreds of clients in the blink of an eye. The business was called $10 Hosting, which was ironic because my product only cost $7.77 a month.
The marketing was slick, the product was solid, but at the end of the day it was too hard to convince the masses that they should go with a small independent provider. When other companies started offering drastically reduced hosting that was ad-supported, it was time to get out. I managed to sell the business for a reasonable profit and began to focus more energy on the flips Drew and I were doing. No matter how many other jobs we cycled through, real estate still held our interest and allowed us to keep chasing our biggest dreams.
And we had every reason to believe we would catch them, as long as we were willing to work hard and stayed true to ourselves.
Proof of that could be found on an Alberta horse ranch in the shadow of the Canadian Rockies, where a pair of dreamers we knew chased theirs with a station wagon full of kids until they finally found the perfect place to park.
When Jonathan and I were small, there wasn’t really an obvious sign of rivalry between us. Mom fondly remembers how we developed a system for sharing toys before we could even speak. If I wanted a turn playing with whatever Jonathan was busy with, I would reach over and give his hair a light tug. He would hand me the toy, find something else to play with, then tug my hair when he wanted something I had. No tears or tantrums. We were very chill little rugrats. Over time, Mom recalls that a revolving sense of tot-tatorship emerged where we each would become “the boss” for a couple of weeks. Then flip for the other one to take control. It happened like clockwork, as though there were a hidden calendar under our cribs, and it lasted for a couple of years.
That continued to evolve after we discovered karate at the age of 6 and our competitive streak came knocking. We let it in and have been feeding it ever since. Jonathan, JD, and I all took lessons at the local dojo, where our father served as a senior instructor assisting the sensei. Dad was already a black belt, and with a houseful of rowdy boys to wrangle, he was counting on the ancient wisdom of the martial arts to instill some self-discipline in us. We were counting on it as a free pass to kick and karate chop each other.
We excelled at karate and were flying up the ranks in no time. We created our own little contests to see who could master new combinations first or beat the other in a little hand-to-hand combat. The goal was to get good enough to enter local—and eventually national—tournaments. It took around a year’s worth of lessons and practice at home before we were deemed ready to pit our skills against other junior Jean-Claude van Damme wannabes. Jonathan and I especially liked to use each other to attempt JCVD’s signature kick to an opponent’s head while doing a 360-degree turn midair—which, for the record, was not part of the sequence of moves 8-year-olds were expected to exhibit at a kids’
karate tournament. No matter. We just wanted to bring honor to our dojo by proving it was the top dojo in the entire world, which we assumed had heard of Maple Ridge and was watching intently to see what we would achieve next.*
*We all feared you would take your ninja skills, defect to the Cobra Kai, and torment the world as an evil karate villain.
The tournaments were broken down into three sections—kumite, kata, and team kata. Kumite, which means something like “grappling hands” in Japanese, is sparring or fighting. Kata refers to form, and competitors are judged by how well they execute different combinations of jumps, kicks, and air punches. In team kata, Jonathan and I usually paired up with our sensei’s son to face down rival dojos, and more often than not we took home the gold.
Karate was the first sport we got into, and it was fun to start at zero and be able to see our practice pay off as we grew stronger and more agile. I’m the type of person who’s always liked clarity and order. Physical challenges appeal to me for the same reason math does: Once you understand each factor clearly, you can reach the logical outcome. There aren’t any maybes after an equals sign. We trained in karate at least three times a week, forgoing other after-school activities and playtime with our school friends to get as good at karate as we possibly could. I didn’t want a gold medal. I wanted gold in everything I tried.
At the end of every tournament, much to my annoyance, it almost always came down to the same two finalists squaring off against each other in kumite and kata.
Jonathan and me.
Since kata is a solo demonstration of technique, scored by judges in an Olympic figure-skating fashion, there was always a clear winner . . . and much to my chagrin, that was usually Jonathan.
With kumite, things got confusing. For starters, the judges couldn’t tell us apart until someone got the idea of putting ribbons on us. Like tagging wolves being reintroduced to the wild. Or flagging a tree to cut down. Typically I wore a white ribbon and Jonathan sported red, and once the judges had that sorted out, I could rightfully claim the victory that was mine almost every time. There should have been a medal above gold for that, because sparring with your identical twin is like fighting your own image in the mirror. We knew each other’s every move and could not only anticipate them, but replicate them.
Even though we each had a forte—and a gold medal to call our own—I still wanted to beat Jonathan in kata in the worst way. It did happen once in a while,* and Jonathan likewise beat me at kumite if I was having a really off day, like fighting off smallpox or something. I didn’t want to just win an occasional match, though, and I didn’t want to defeat Jonathan to tear him down. (To save face, I touted a half-baked theory about our skill levels actually being equal, “it’s just that I have a slightly different technique.”) I knew he was considered the best at kata, so I wanted to hit that mark, then edge past and become a better best.
*Yeah, I think I pulled a hammy that day!
That held true in everything, not just karate. When we were in high school, we were both straight-A students. But if Jonathan had a 98% in English and I had a 95%, that three-point difference would light a fire in me to study that much harder the following quarter. I didn’t want my future obituary to read: Acclaimed Oscar-winning filmmaker and actor Drew Scott, who got an A-minus in English in the 11th grade, finally died of abject shame Thursday at the age of 102.*
*He is survived by his twin brother, Jonathan, who gets to live longer and die happier because he achieved a higher score in the same class.
Obviously the two of us were cast from the same overachiever mold, and I don’t think there was a time in our adult lives when we weren’t trying to outdo each other in something. JD swears it’s genetically imprinted in us to always achieve the next level. I’m not sure whether he’s implying that his younger brothers are cloned genius bots from a distant galaxy, or that we’re just too stupid to stop ourselves half the time. Sometimes what gets us going is just a harmless (Curious George and the Icy Hill and the Superfast Toboggan Race) sense of mischief. Sometimes it’s not as harmless as we thought (Curious George and the Icy Hill and the Superfast Toboggan Race and the Barbed Wire Fence Just Past the Finish Line). Torn clothes and blood in the snow only served to make the contest more exciting; we only had about 10 feet between the finish line and the fence o’death to bail off the sleds. Defeat hurt worse. That same philosophy applied the time Jonathan dared me to shoot an entire bottle of Tabasco sauce.*
*Your eyes instantly bugged out of your head, the tears started streaming, and you dumped a full bottle of Coca-Cola on your tongue. Still can’t believe you actually did it.
Victory requires sacrifice. My taste buds understand that and don’t miss the ability to identify flavor.
On the horse ranch where we grew up, we would challenge each other in cowboy competitions, like seeing who could saddle a horse the fastest and make it across the finish line first. One time, we each grabbed a horse, threw a blanket and saddle on its back, jumped on, and loped toward the finish line. I was in the lead when I felt my saddle slip—I hadn’t cinched it up tight enough. Before I knew it, the saddle (with me still in it) had slid completely under the still-galloping horse. All I could do was hang on for dear life between the horse’s moving legs. (WHOA! is not a command a horse readily responds to from someone riding its belly.)
I still won the race, though.
We’d also race each other climbing massive evergreens at the edge of the forest bordering our farm. The fact that it never crossed our minds as to how incredibly dangerous it was is a complete mystery, because the branches were perpetually slick from the frequent rain or the morning dew. On the rare occasion where we did slip and tumble a good 30 feet, the dozens of bushy boughs below would break the fall and slow us down enough to prevent any broken bones. Then we’d simply brush off and climb again. I’m assuming the light blows to the head prevented us from learning the error of our ways.
If we weren’t testing our speed at something, it was only because we were temporarily distracted by the nagging question—asked only by us—of who was more flexible. Jonathan decided he could settle the debate and prove he was a human Gumby by sliding two desks together in our classroom and doing the splits between them. He was already at maximum wishbone when one of the desks slipped and he pulled a groin muscle. For the next couple of weeks, he walked like a kid desperately in need of a bathroom break, with his knees locked together in some kind of toddler shuffle. That didn’t stop us from concocting other ridiculous competitions.
Adulthood didn’t stop us, either.
If you ask our best buddy of 25 years to describe the most idiotic thing we’ve ever turned into a competition, Pedro will claim we shut our arms in the door of a bathroom cubicle to see who could last the longest. I could see Pedro and Jonathan doing this, but personally I wouldn’t choose a public toilet stall* for any kind of showdown. Jonathan, on the other hand, has been documented wiping his finger across a dirty chandelier and licking it. He’s disgusting. Which isn’t to say I haven’t been party to an embarrassing contest or two—just not this particular one.
*Then I guess *I* win the bruised forearm and surface germ competitions!
My vote for one of the dumbest was during high school, when we both started developing pain in our knuckles and these weird little lumps on the backs of our hands. Could hands even get the mumps? Since it happened to us simultaneously, a reasonable assumption would be that it was genetic, right? The mysterious lumps seemed to pulse with pain, and we waited for the moment when aliens would burst out and Sigourney Weaver would have to save us. But then . . . a moment of moronic clarity.
“That’s vein damage,” the doctor instantly concluded. Had the backs of our hands been subjected to some kind of repeat trauma? We decided not to mention the aliens attempting to escape. Besides, we had a pretty good hunch now what caused our swollen veins: A unique form of intense hand-to-hand
combat designed to test a man’s grit, reflexes, brute strength, and . . . idiocy.
It was a game called Knuckles. It’s sort of like slap-jack using a closed fist and no cards. You stand fist to fist with your opponent, then on the word “GO!” you take turns hitting each other in the knuckles on the back of the other person’s hand. The opponent can’t flinch if you fake a hit. Three flinches and the other player gets a free hit. You play until someone can’t take the pain anymore and surrenders. Jonathan and I played Knuckles obsessively with all of our closest friends at school. The winner never won anything. Pride was the only thing at stake. Pride being relative once you’ve had to admit to a medical professional that you have a Knuckles problem and you and your brother like to see who can deliver the greatest number of sharp, painful knuckle raps to the other in rapid succession.
Don’t judge. It’s a thing—check the Internet. In Russia, it’s a blood sport.
This is the part where it would make sense to just blame our parents for everything. We wouldn’t even have to throw them under the bus—they’d wait patiently at the bus stop, flag it down, and hurl themselves beneath the wheels for us if need be. Actually, they’re so supportive that they’d probably do it for total strangers, too. The ONLY thing that gave me that single-tear feeling of temporary parental abandonment is that I can’t recall Mom and Dad ever actually attending* one of my high school basketball games. My point is, we never felt like we had to vie for their attention, and they didn’t send us to bed without dinner when MIT didn’t recruit us by age 9. Or ever.
It Takes Two Page 5