clone #7
Something strange was happening. It was the early 1990’s and not a time for
luxury purchases. I had created some
great paintings but the work wasn’t selling.
It struck me that I wasn’t making it.
I was falling into terrible debt and failing. I had to learn to do something else in order
to provide for myself. It was in this
dreadful desperation that I borrowed money and bought the clone. It was a leap of faith.
I imagined a twin associate who would do all
my dirty work freeing me to lounge and create.
I would teach the clone to wash my paint brushes, write my bills, send
out query letters and resumes, do my laundry, shop for groceries, keep the
house clean, etc.
I felt anxious, even ecstatic the day it
arrived. I expected it the day before,
ordered it a week ago. It was supposed
to be here yesterday, maybe even sooner, two to five days they said, but no, a
day late. I felt anxious, even ecstatic
the day it arrived.
Hello.
How are you? My clone, my
glorious clone! I unwrapped
it in childlike abandon. Hi. Wow. I
love it! What to do? It’s so confusing. I’m overwhelmed. I left the packaging materials scattered and
strewn all over for days. I salvaged
some of the packaging and made a pile to throw away, then salvaged more, finally
after a week threw the remains out, planting it in someone else’s garbage so no
one would know who bought a new clone.
From the day the clone arrived, everything
changed. It was awkward and
frightening. Even though I’d wanted one
for years, I’d resisted it and argued to myself that I didn’t need something to
complicate my life even more. I’m a
minimalist. I prefer simplicity but
having made the commitment, I felt terrified.
I remember the first time we sat down
together, just the two of us. I felt
sick with my own ignorance; flabbergasted, bored and exhausted. My head ached intensely. I investigated the clone’s responses without
knowing what results to expect or even hope for. The clone was so extraordinary. I nosed around and clumsily began to
familiarize myself.
It occurred to me, how my life would never
again be the same. I didn’t know what to
expect.
My clone opened its eyes peering at me with a
clear, sincere expression and spoke.
"I just want to be good to you.
Please you. Make you happy and
proud of me."
I wanted this relationship to work. I had waited a long time for such profound
intimacy and grasped at the opportunity.
Our living space was shoved in rearrangement,
compressed then expanding, gradually reorganizing to be more inclusive to my
new company. Watching each other’s
responses, staggered by all the options and compelled to engage, we learned
quickly. It copied me at phenomenal
rates of speed and retention.
In several months time, we’d reached a
plateau of knowledge, familiarity and mutual admiration. I’d waited a long time for such profound
intimacy.
At this point, I must digress to explain
certain details. I am or was a
painter. It has been my primary pursuit
for twenty-five years. I was represented
by several galleries. They were damn
good paintings and people bought the work.
I’d accumulated many other job experiences on the side to provide for
myself: bartender, waiter, cook, manager, doorman, delivery driver, drug mule,
thrift store cashier, bartender, house painter, dry waller, framer, music exchange clerk, teacher,
caterer, commodity chartist, writer, editor, layout artist, and bartender.
At some point, my clone and I began to
separate. Maybe it can be traced to the
first day. At some point, I started
withdrawing into my room and closing the door.
People were more interested in the clone. It was becoming increasingly popular, while I
receded into deeper depression. My clone
was being invited everywhere. It was
debonair, diplomatic, playful and engaging, whereas I became detached, out of
context, bitter and impertinent. I was
misunderstood no matter what I said. I
sought recognition but all my efforts were disregarded, my remarks cast aside
as inappropriate. People became
impatient with me. I not only annoyed
them but aroused anger and disgust. I
was too crude and vitriolic. They wanted
the clone, a cleaner, smoother, lighter version of myself.
My clone was functioning quite successfully
in the world while I slumped back into my same old defeat, dragging around
filled with self pity and doubt.
Meanwhile, the clone was so busy with friends and events, it didn’t
notice our abandon. I hid in my room
with unsold paintings. I stared at a
blue self-portrait with all of its imperfections that was my last painting
attempt and never to be completed. My
entire life seemed to be in vain; a waste of breath, money, education and
opportunities. I felt a monstrous shame. I shrugged at the mention of self esteem and
lit a cigarette. I felt weary and
drained. I hid under the covers, then
awoke ambushed by thoughts of suicide. I
wished I had never been born.
My clone became the renowned artist I always
hoped to be, and managed a powerful following.
Critics acclaimed, "The clone was an emerging new prodigy of the
twenty-first century!"
I saw vast sums of money paid to the perfect
representation of me. The clone
gloated. I was astonished.
Naturally I began to express resentment. I told the clone, “All you know is how to
imitate.” I yelled, "Great art is an expression of the
struggle to be free. Don’t mess with my
integrity!"
My clone kept asking, “What can I do to
help?” Not understanding my fear and
frustration, the clone computed my outbursts as my own codependency with abuse.
My clone said, “I think I may have a
solution.”
I reluctantly listened. It suggested, “Explain to me your entire
dilemma and I will adapt it to a tasteful screen play.” It was late and the clone had an early
breakfast with some lawyers and producers.
It advised, “Sleep on it.”
I fried in my own juices. The wretched thought of commercializing the
painful mistakes of my amateurish existence; to expose and popularize the
excess of my self despair. I couldn’t
sleep, weighing the pros and cons in deep deliberation. I decided I would run away to somewhere
obscure where no one would ever find me.
While packing, deciding what to take and what
to leave, the clone returned. It
announced, “The project has been approved.
“We will be paid ten million dollars for the rights to the work. The script will be translated into every
language and be the template for a plethora of versions. I concede to our irreconcilable differences
and agree to a fair and just split.”
I felt surprised and relieved. I agreed.
It occurred to me with the money I was to receive,
I could buy a new clone, one more like myself, more true to my spirit, moods
and unhappiness. One with more speed and
memory upgrade, more options and accessories.
My imagination raced with excitement.
I was anxious even ecstatic the day it
arrived. I’d waited a long time for such
profound intimacy.
***