Extra Life

by Derek Nikitas

  Horus. Horace. Clever.

  “How come I never knew you had a twin?” Sally asked. “Lemme guess—y’all been playing me, coming in here pretending to be the same kid but I don’t know the difference, right?”

  I shrugged and said, “You caught us.”

  “You boys,” she said, wagging her finger.

  Easy enough, until Savannah stepped forward and studied us in that heart-melting wistful way of hers. “You both have black eyes,” she noted.

  “Mine’s painted on, stage makeup,” I blurted. “It’s part of what we do, pretending to be each other, so Horace Vale can be in two different places at once. We’ve got to keep it authentic.”

  “Why?” Savannah asked.

  “Well, uh, it’s a kind of performance art. We’re prepping for a mockumentary where we fool people with our twin antics. A punking-people-out kind of thing, like Bad Grandpa.”

  Paige snorted.

  “Wait a minute,” Savannah said. “So this whole thing… why aren’t both of you going to Port City Academy? There’s no way you could get away with pretending to be the same guy if you’re both…”

  This wasn’t going well. I’d hoped to just barge in, fix everything in a few seconds, then run off without all the pesky explaining. But I hadn’t even gotten to Bobby yet.

  “You’re right,” I told Savannah. “I’m the home-schooled one. Don’t like crowds, plus the ‘rents can only afford tuition for one kid in private school. Free online education. Wave of the future.”

  While I talked, 3.0 gave me looks like he was holding off explosive diarrhea. Luckily, Savannah was enough of a go-with-the-flow kind of girl that she’d accept just about any cockamamie answer I gave. Already she was on to other things.

  “Ouch,” she said. She raised my wounded hand by lifting my fingers gingerly with her own. Even a gentle touch made the pain throb up my arm. Paige’s towel wrapping was soaked through with blood, some of it drying brownish. Not exactly the ambiance you want in a diner.

  3.0 went pale when he saw it. Imagine knowing you were fated for a painful injury in the next few hours, thinking it was unavoidable. The anticipation could be worse than the aftermath. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Yeah, we didn’t coordinate so good on this,” I said. “It looks worse than it is. Listen, Savannah, I know this is a lot to take in at once, and I’m sorry for the gotcha here, but would you mind if me and my brother have a chat in private for a second? Bobby’s getting lonely over there.”

  “Oh! Sure.” Ms. Lark jaunted back to the major TV star she’d somehow neglected for at least a full minute. Down at the booth, Bobby had lost interest in the twin brother routine and had instead taken to flicking his lighter in agitation again. Not a good sign. Why couldn’t he have a harmless text-checking compulsion like everyone else?

  I kept tabs on Paige every few seconds, trying to assess her mood, how long she’d let me play out this scenario. She was over by the newspaper rack, leafing through a local Star-News, as if in search of a splashier headline than multi-reality clones.

  “Why’re you here?” 3.0 demanded.

  “To stop you,” I said.

  “Stop me what?” He hugged the digital camera against his chest like I meant to knock it out of his hands. I was here to crush his big-time dream, and he knew it. I felt sorry for him—the deepest kind of empathy you could feel because I had been here.

  I said, “What you’re doing to Bobby, you can’t. You’re tapping into some wicked daddy psychology stuff. You—we arranged it that way. It was our plan, but it’s gonna backfire big. This guy, he has the fragile psyche of a lab test animal.”

  “What will happen?” asked 3.0.

  “He’s fixing to crash his car,” I said, pointing outside to the Rapide.

  Just then, Paige ducked under my elbow and popped up between the two of us. “Wait a second,” she said. “We rushed down here so you could prevent some spoiled brat actor from crashing his car? Seriously?” At least she was keeping her voice down.

  She smacked the local section of the newspaper against my chest and said, “Take a look. Here you’ll find reports of important things, like children with smoke inhalation from a house fire and men arrested for assaulting their girlfriends. Y’all could’ve looked up some of the more heinous stuff and, you know, tried to stop that from happening. If you cared.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I can only do so much. The main thing was to save you. I’m sorry for being so selfish.”

  3.0 took a step back from Paige, in case she needed some space to swing her fist. She said to me, “Cleaning up after yourself, is more like it. I think you know more about what happened back at my place than you’re letting on.”

  “What happened?” 3.0 begged. He was bubbling over, and not just because I took control from him. Before I walked into the diner, he believed he was the definitive Russ, the oldest if only by hours, no matter how many leaps he took. Now he had to accept that he lagged behind at least one leap. There was a more experienced version of himself in the house.

  While we argued, Bobby Parker was getting up, ready to leave. The first time this scene played out, Bobby didn’t stop for more than a smoke break until we were finished with the shoot, but this time the interruption and commotion must’ve dispelled the magic he was under. The vibe in the place wasn’t all about Bobby Parker anymore, so it was time for him to split.

  Headed right for us, Bobby didn’t look quite as keyed up as last time. Probably because I just prevented 3.0 from prodding around in his subconscious for another full hour. Chances are, Bobby wasn’t going to drive off and play chicken with a phone pole this time around, but I still had to be absolutely sure he was in the clear.

  “Bobby, Bobby, we’re just getting started,” 3.0 complained.

  A cigarette sagged in the corner of Bobby’s mouth, James Dean-style. His lighter went clink clink clink. He said, “Twins are cool and all, but if y’all’re gonna have a family reunion, I gotta get back to the studio.”

  3.0 said, “No, no. Everything’s fine. We’re ready to roll.”

  My body double couldn’t see he’d lost his lead, so I had to step in.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m Seth Vale. I co-wrote the script. Did Russ tell you that?”

  “Oh yeah?” Bobby said. “Y’all a creative duo, like the Coens?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “And speaking of relatives, I personally feel the ‘father’ stuff in the dialog could be taken too serious, you know? The old dad-as-the-punishing-god routine? It could—should—be played a lot more casually, like the dad is not the real motive behind your stunt. He’s just an excuse for something deeper, you know. It’s really about realizing you’re in love with the girl, that you’re doing this stunt all for her.”

  Bobby did his hundred-thousand-dollar-per-episode eyebrow arch.

  “Deeper?” he said.

  “Deeper, yeah,” I said. “The father’s a red herring.”

  He gave a slow nod, mulling it over.

  “You know,” I said to everybody else. “Maybe Bobby should wind down a bit, and we can pick this whole thing up later if Bobby feels like it. I mean, this is a lot to ask of a big star—doing a short student film for free and all?”

  “Wait—” 3.0 said.

  “I might could use a break,” Bobby said.

  Savannah’s serene grin finally dropped. I was ruining her big moment, too. Her leading man was about to make his exit. She said, “Bobby, you’re not leaving, are you? Just a few more minutes. We’re really putting together something special here.”

  Bobby drew my Cape Twilight Blues script from under his armpit and flapped it a few times. “Been real, folks. This right here is some excellent stuff. I’m going to take a closer look when I get a chance…”

  “Maybe show it to your father?” I suggested. “I think if you really sat down with him and talked it out, man to man, he’ll see where you want to go with the show.”

  Bobby hitched his lip. “And what
makes you so sure of that?”

  “Because I know if you go in there with a clear head, you’ll convince him to let you start making creative decisions. It’s just a matter of talking through it. Never good to keep it bottled up. You’re the star of the show, you know?”

  Star was a stretch. There were three other actors billed higher than him.

  Bobby looked to my co-writer, my twin, who was forced into giving an approving nod. Here I was, this third wheel just rolling in off the street, messing with everyone’s alignment. But I couldn’t let Bobby go without planting a goal in his head, something to keep his focus.

  Finally our TV star said, “Tell you what. How about y’all come down to the studio and I’ll introduce you to my pops? I’ll make a personal recommendation that he look at this script, right then and there.”

  “Me?” Savannah said, inching in.

  “Why not? All y’all. Savannah, the Wachowskis here, even that redhead you came in with, wherever she went.”

  I took a long, dry swallow. The idea of getting into that Rapide wasn’t stellar, but with a carload of people, there was no way Bobby’d pop a fuse and plow into a phone pole. All he’d do was take us to the studio, show us around, talk to his father in a constructive way for once.

  “That’s okay, right? We can do that?” 3.0 whispered to me.

  OUTSIDE, PAIGE leaned against the diner’s aluminum siding and slapped an unsteady beat against her thigh. She watched the others head toward Bobby’s car, but I paused beside her for a second.

  “We’ve been invited to the studio,” I said.

  “Good for you.” She looked at her shoes instead of me.

  “No, all of us. You too.”

  “Didn’t you tell me that car is going to crash?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Should probably get your hand cleaned and stitched up,” she said. “So you don’t get sepsis, yeah?”

  “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Blood on your shirt.”

  I didn’t know if she realized my blood was on her clothes, too.

  “Just a little,” I said. “No big deal.”

  “Well, I guess y’all got this under control. I’m out.”

  “Wait. Not home, right?” I said. “It’s not safe to go back there.”

  I tried to touch her shoulder but she ducked away.

  “I know,” she said. “I got the message.”

  “Then where?”

  “Um, you told me not to tell you, right? So: none of your business.”

  “Paige,” I said, but she was already trudging down the sidewalk. She wasn’t going to turn around. An hour ago, Paige Davis blindsided me with a passionate kiss. But now she was back to the Paige who fished my Schilling baseball card out of the trash and kept it, just because it reminded her what a crap example of humanity I was. Even after I saved her life. If she couldn’t see the good I was doing…

  “Hey,” Bobby called out. “You coming or what?”

  Yes, of course I was.

  The back seat of Bobby’s car was for dwarfs, so 3.0 and I crammed our shins against the blank video screens on the stitched leather seat backs. There was a console between us, twin drink cups sporting identical unopened cans of Red Bull, as if Bobby was contracted to do product placement inside his car.

  Bobby slipped his weird jump-drive key into a compartment in the center of the dash. Turned on, the car revved like the MGM lion. Savannah did a little excitement dance in the shotgun seat. Tweeter speakers rose out of the dash sci-fi style. I expected hip-hop but got a full orchestra instead.

  “Beethoven,” he yelled. “Ninth symphony. Beethoven’s all I listen to. He’s that good.”

  “Okay,” 3.0 and I said.

  Bobby roared out onto the road, pressing us all against our seats.

  We passed Paige on the sidewalk but she didn’t so much as glance.

  Savannah stuck her head between our seats, gave 3.0 a delicate high-five, and mouthed “wow.” I could tell how her attention jacked poor 3.0’s brain. Better that he didn’t know she would’ve kissed him if I hadn’t screwed up their date.

  “Wait a minute,” Savannah said. “Are we like in your twin mockumentary right now? Is this part of it?”

  I didn’t have to say a word because 3.0 ran with it. “We’re still in the conceptual phase,” he said. “Testing ideas.”

  “Like dating the same girl, see if she notices, that sort of thing?”

  “Exactly,” 3.0 told her.

  “So, Seth, have I met you before, really, at school?” Savannah asked.

  For a second, it didn’t even register that she was talking to me. My attention was on Bobby, watching his speed, how often he flexed his hands on the steering wheel. I wanted to be sure he stayed on an even emotional keel.

  So 3.0 answered for me. He said, “He’s never been. I’m the only one you ever talked to before today.”

  What 3.0 didn’t realize was that Savannah’s interest in the “Vale Twins” was totally in proportion to Bobby’s interest in us. If Bobby cared, so did she. And if not? I learned that truth the first time through, when she ditched me for the TV star at her first possible opportunity. Maybe the second run-though ended with a kiss and a phone number, but that was because I choreographed her every move, even her thoughts, really. She’d just been acting her part. And who could blame her? She didn’t want me—she just wanted what I wanted, the Hollywood life.

  All these insights, all these variables, kept taking my mind off the moment at hand, so I didn’t instantly realize what I was seeing out the Rapide’s back window. But then, a quarter block away from the Pastime Playhouse marquee, I bolted to attention.

  The Pastime Playhouse marquee, advertising new movies. Not an empty lot filled with debris, not just a memory up in flames. In this reality, it appeared that the Pastime Playhouse was not destroyed years ago. It was still intact.

  “Did you see that?” I asked 3.0. “The movie theater. It wasn’t burned down.”

  “Was it supposed to be? Is someone going to burn it down?” he whispered.

  I leaned away from him, disturbed, as if he’d turned into someone else. Because, in a way, he had. If this 3.0 came from a reality where the Pastime Playhouse never burned down, then he was not exactly the me who leaped back to seven a.m. He was another me, one who must’ve gone to the movies with Dad way more times than I ever did, for starters. To what degree could something like that change who I was, fundamentally? I couldn’t know how different his path was from mine, but here and now it took us both to the exact same place:

  Silver Screen Studios. Straight North from the city and just a jot from our dinky regional airport. I was riding in style with the prince of the kingdom, and all I could think was how much the entrance to Silver Screens reminded me of Rush Fiberoptics: the high fence, the booth, and the tollgate. Except here the guard was a college girl who swooned as soon as Bobby pulled up. After a light round of flirting, she raised the tollgate bar and we were in.

  The surging Beethoven gave everything an air of triumph. Sacred ground. No cops, no padlocks—just free and clear. Okay, one police car: property of the Cape Twilight Police Department. A TV prop, a fictional cruiser. A glimpse of the fantasy world behind the curtain.

  The lot was mainly pavement dappled with a few tree islands, palmettos and sea pines. The tin-sided sound stages stood in two rows of five, all painted beige. There were no wide open doors revealing all the treasures of movie making. For the outside view, the place might as well have been one of those depressing self-storage compounds.

  Stage Six had the Cape Twilight Blues logo on its door. Under that, a paper taped up that read: Crew Only! Shooting in Progress! Bobby stopped his car just outside. He watched the building, taking long drags on his cigarette. Savannah took the opportunity to pull a compact out of her purse and touch up some blemishes only she could see.

  Finally, Bobby said, “Funny, I don’t know you folks, but I feel like I do, like I met y’al
l in another life or something. You believe in that? Past life experiences?”

  “Absolutely,” Savannah said, tucking her shoulders bashfully.

  “This,” Bobby said, stabbing a finger at my script on the dashboard. “Y’all really opened something in my soul with this. You know, I ain’t really talked to my father in forever. We say crap to each other every day, but never really talk, know what I mean? He thinks I’m some kind of sissy, which is why he did what he did to my character.”

  “Hey, there’s no shame—” 3.0 chimed in.

  “Shut up,” Bobby snapped. “That’s not what this is about.”

  Bobby shook off his nerves, took a few boxing jabs at the steering wheel. His sudden mood change was like a bad fart with the windows up. It made all of us squirm. Savannah, his muse, stroked his arm two-handed. “That’s a good thing, Bobby,” she told him. “You should have more creative control. My agent says that’s important.”

  “Right,” he said. “I deserve some recognition from that bastard. Y’all heard he left my ma when she was still pregnant with me? How sick is that? Pop the glove box a sec.” Bobby motioned to where Savannah’s knees touched the dash.

  She opened it, and a black pistol practically dropped into her cupped hands. Before she could even let out a gasp, Bobby snatched the gun and slipped it into an inside pocket of his jacket.

  “That’s a prop gun, right?” 3.0 said, a second before I would’ve.

  “From the shooting range this morning, remember?” Bobby said. “I told you. Can’t keep the damn thing in the car where somebody could steal it. It ain’t actually loaded, so don’t freak.”

  We chuckled nervously. Bobby had it in him to crash his car against a phone pole, so I didn’t much like the idea of his waltzing around with a concealed weapon. Suddenly the movie magic had gone a little stale.

  Bobby pushed his swan door open and up, and got out.

  Savannah checked her makeup in the mirror one more time while Bobby went around to open her door. I touched her shoulder and said, “He’s making me a little nervous. Maybe it’s better if you stay—”